This week at Terribleminds, we were asked to use a random song title.

Cornelius remembered the morning’s breakfast all too clearly.

“Bah!” One of the consuls, Gaius Terentius Varro, shot to his feet and stabbed a finger at the other. “You’re as spineless as your beloved Fabius! Give me one good reason why we don’t destroy the enemy of Rome here and now!”

The other consul, Lucius Aemilius Paullus, shook his head, holding his bread firmly in both hands as if to keep them from going for a weapon. “I’m telling you, Varro, every other Roman leader that has smashed into this enemy has brought ruin upon himself and his men. Look to the examples set by those who’ve come before, and think before you act.”

“What would you have me do, Paullus, you old degenerate? Wait for Hannibal to escape from us? Look! Out there are only 40,000 of his men! We have twice that many!”

“Yes. Across an open, flat plain, where his cavalry and beasts have the advantage. We should dispatch at least one legion to the hills nearby, and neutralize the high ground. If you want to capture Hannibal, we should attempt to contain him first.”

“Capture him?” Varro crossed his arms. “You forget, Paullus. I swore an oath to Rome that I would crush Hannibal, not capture him. I would be a poor consul indeed if I took such an oath, and did not back it up with decisive action.” He picked up his cup and raised it to the tribunes assembled in his tent. “To oaths fulfilled! To victory! To Rome!”

Cornelius had toasted with the others, not wishing to antagonize Varro any further, but even then, misgivings emerged in his mind regarding Varro’s plan. However, it was Varro’s day to command, and thus the army was deployed to face the Carthaginian forces. Cornelius noted that the enemy was arrayed with their lighter infantry in the center, advancing ahead of the rest of the army, and as he squinted through the dust, he could have sworn Hannibal himself was at the forefront of that detachment.

“Hah!” Varro pointed, tall and proud in his saddle as he rode with his cavalry on the army’s left flank. “See, the man himself comes to face his doom. Advance!”

The Roman legions packed in closer and closer, as Varro had planned. His goal was to use his powerful, superior numbers to smash straight through the lines of Carthage and fulfill his oath. Cornelius, for his part, drew his sword to do his part in supporting the advance. The battle at Cannae was joined. Varro, Cornelius, and the rest of the Roman cavalry on the left flank engaged the light but nimble Numidians, a cavalry contingent that had long been the bane of supply lines and water-bearers of the Romans.

As the battle began to take shape, spears clashing and thrusting in the dusty morning, Cornelius saw that Hannibal and his center were falling back. They were not fully engaged. Varro called for more pressure on the center, pressing the Roman legions even more tightly to one another and goading their advance. As they smashed into the Carthaginian spears and slings, a cry went up from the rear of the cavalry formation. Out of the dust came heavy Carthaginian cavalry, and Cornelius recognized Hannibal’s brother, Hasdrubal, leading the charge.

It took Cornelius a moment to realize what had happened. While they had been on the left flank of their formation, Paullus and his cavalry had been on the right. Something must have happened to Paullus, Cornelius thought as he wheeled his horse. Suddenly, as the Romans kept advancing into the Carthaginian lines collapsing around them, encircling them, Varro’s cavalry was itself caught between two other forces. As Hasdrubal closed in on one side, and the Numidians on the other, Cornelius looked past them towards the infantry, and what he saw seized his heart.

It had been hours of fighting, and now the trap Hannibal had laid was closing hard on the Romans. Once the cavalry was done with Varro and his horse, they’d wheel into the Roman rear, leaving the legions nowhere to go, so tightly packed now that they could barely swing their swords. Cornelius turned back to Varro, perhaps to suggest they fall back into the Carthaginian heavy infantry and perhaps relieve some of the pressure, but Varro was already galloping from the field, glancing over his shoulder, his face white as the marble of the Roman senate.

Cornelius fought his way through to make his own escape. A Numidian spear found his shoulder, but he struck back at the man wielding it and wrenched himself free, kicking his horse to break from battle. He rode towards the river, intending to follow it to safety, but stopped short at the sight of several men near their slaughtered horses, ready to accept the oncoming Carthaginians. In the center was Paullus, bleeding from a wound in his head.

“Consul,” Cornelius said, “can you ride?”

Paullus shook his head. “I ordered the dismount. I will not abandon our men to suffer and die alone.”

Hasdrubal and his horse were wheeling around as Cornelius had feared. He offered his reins to Paullus. “Please, Paullus. Flee while you can.”

The older man placed his hand on the tribune’s wrist. “Cornelius. Do not waste in useless pity the few moments left in which to escape from the hands of the enemy. Go, announce publicly to the Senate that they must fortify Rome and make its defense strong before the victorious enemy approaches. And… tell Fabius privately that I have ever remembered his precepts in life and in death. Suffer me to breathe my last among my slaughtered soldiers.”

Cornelius clenched his jaw, fighting back tears. The cry went up from the heavy horses of Carthage as they came upon their prey. Cursing, Cornelius kicked his horse hard, leaving the scene behind him with all speed. Cannae was a disaster. Varro had failed in fulfilling his oath.

He had no idea how any of them could save Rome now.

The song “Back It Up” is by Caro Emerald, and has nothing to do with Rome. The Battle of Cannae took place in 216 BCE. Learn more about the Punic Wars here.

Normally, this would be where I share with you the latest story I cobbled together for this week’s challenge over at Chuck Wendig’s Terribleminds. But this week, I can’t do that.

Nope.

Chuck gave strict instructions this week. You can go here to find out what they are, and then hunt down my entry. I believe it’s towards the bottom of page three.

Good luck to everyone involved. The prize is pretty awesome.

Also, it’s a horror theme, so… sweet dreams.

Dark Island by Steve Carter

This week Chuck at Terribleminds had us roll for our titles.

The boat’s small outboard motor lost its place as the only sound when Jessica spoke.

“I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

Carl rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear. But we need you, Jess. You’re the one who looked up the legends in the first place.”

“They’re just legends. I don’t see why we have to come out here.”

“For the truth!” That came from John, who sat by the engine to steer the boat. “You said yourself there are a lot of unanswered questions about Lindsey Swanson and how she died.”

Jessica didn’t say anything. She stared into the fog. It wasn’t uncommon for the vast lake near their town to be blanketed in swirling gray, especially in the morning, but usually strong winds from the hills came down to clear things up, and let those living on the edge of the lake see the faint outline of the small island in the middle of the lake. But today, there was no wind. It was calm. Quiet. And silent.

Jessica felt another chill go through her body.

“It’ll be fine.” Carl gave Jessica a smile. “You’ve got the knowledge, John’s got the boat, I’ve got the gear. Not to mention the military training.”

“You’ve been in ROTC all of a semester and a half, dude.”

“Shut up, John, it’s still military training!”

“Quiet, both of you.” Jessica’s voice was a soft hiss. “We’re here.”

Up close, the island loomed out of the mists. The mound was mostly wooded, and Jessica’s research indicated a cabin sat in the middle of it. John leaned away from the outboard engine.

“Any chance someone’s still living there?”

“As far as anybody knows, it’s been abandoned since the 1880s.” Jessica crossed her arms. “Reports of people coming out here are sketchy, at best.”

“Not so sketchy anymore.” Carl pointed. “Look.”

On the shore of the island, a few boats lay scattered on the rocks. Two were aluminum canoes, one a wooden kayak, the others larger craft like the one they were using. Jessica turned to John, whose face had gotten considerably more pale. Carl pulled out his phone and started taking pictures.

“Instagram,” he told the others. “No way we’re getting lost without a trace, or anything.”

“Stop it.” John eased the motor down as they approached the shore. “There’s nothing here. It’s just trees and stuff.”

Jessica picked up her backpack, which contained a few flashlights, a bottle of water, her camera, and a notebook with her research and notes. Neither Carl nor John had brought much besides the contents of their jeans, as far as she could tell. John guided the boat within a few feet of the shore, and Carl hopped out of the boat to pull it up onto land. The three got out, and Jessica handed out the flashlights.

“Just in case we need them.”

“I’m telling you, there’s nothing here. We should just leave.”

“Come on, John, we’re already here. We might as well take a look around.”

“And if there’s nothing here, there’s nothing for us to worry about, right?” Jessica gave John a smile that belied the creeping feeling under her skin. “Let’s head up the hill and have a look.”

The fog made travelling through the forest slow. All three of them watched their footing more than anything else. As they approached the summit, a dark shape loomed out of the mists. Jessica felt, simultaneously, vindication for being right and an even more pronounced sense of dread.

“Okay. So, there’s a cabin. Great. Can we go now?”

Carl ignored John, reaching under his shirt. “You said nobody’s supposed to be leaving here, right, Jess?”

“Yeah, but…”

Carl produced a pistol and pulled back its slide, checking its action. “Just making sure.”

“What? Carl, why did you bring a gun?”

“I’m being prepared.”

“Jess brings flashlights and water and God knows what else, and all you can think to bring is a gun?”

“Look, your pencilneck…”

“Shut up, both of you!” Jessica wanted to yell, and struggled to keep her voice down. “Let’s just look inside, take some photos, and get out. Okay? Carl, put the gun away.”

“But…”

“Do it.” She walked past him and reached for the handle of the cabin door. It swung open on its own.

“I’m going back to the fucking boat-”

Before John could finish speaking, Carl grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into the cabin. Jessica rolled her eyes and followed. Their flashlights penetrated the gloom, moving over smashed plates, rotted food, animal carcasses, and floors stained with blood.

“Is it just the one floor?” Carl asked. Jessica shrugged. She looked past the threshold within the room to the bedroom, then moved her light over a metal ring set in the floor. A gentle tug opened the trapdoor, and she moved her flashlight to peer into the darkness.

“Looks like a root cellar.”

“I’m not going down there,” John whispered. “You can’t make me.”

“Now, listen, you little-”

In turning to face John, Carl bumped into Jessica, sending her down the dark stairs in a tumble. There weren’t many stairs, eight or so at most, but Jessica still managed to strike her head on one of them. For a moment, everything was dark.

A sharp, loud sound she’d never heard before snapped her back to her senses. She tried to stand, but the ceiling was low. She smelled smoke, like something burning, and looked up to see a thin haze at the top of the stairs.

“John? Carl?”

The sound, again, accompanied by a bright flash of light. Gunfire! It was a lot louder than on TV. Something moved in front of the cellar door – Jessica couldn’t make out what it was, but it almost looked like the hem of a white dress.

John came down the stairs, like he’d been tossed. His face was covered in blood, his eyes wide and unblinking.

Jessica screamed, and the cellar door slammed shut.

Courtesy Panoramio

To conclude The Cooperative Cliffhanger I chose to finish the story started by Jessica called Counting Down.

Time is relentless. The seconds never stop ticking away, inching us closer to our destinies. Anise reflected on this as her mental countdown towards the execution got shorter and shorter. Two minutes, ten seconds. She looked at the back of the man in front of her. Will this make any difference? What will happen next?

The sirens began to sound and the raggedy man broke into the grin she’d seen before.

“Hear that? They finally noticed we’re not where we should be.”

Anise stayed close behind the man her grandfather sent, breathing mostly through her mouth, lest the smell of the drainage pipe crawl up her nostrils. She cast her eyes upward, as if she could see through the stone to the courtyard they now bypassed.

“Does this mean the execution won’t happen?”

“Oh, it’ll happen. Just not now. You’ve bought those men at least another day. See? You’re saving lives already.”

Anise didn’t feel like she was saving lives. She didn’t know how she was supposed to feel. Above her, the hangman’s noose meant for her neck hung empty. Soon, men and dogs would be scouring the prison for her. This was the reasoning behind the man using the drain; the stink of living waste and dead bodies would hide her scent. Or so he thought. Anise wasn’t sure. Dogs had powerful noses. And they knew how to track.

“Just a little farther.”

“How do you know your way through here?”

“This isn’t the first time I decided prison life wasn’t for me.”

It occurred to Anise that it was possible the man was a liar. That he wanted to keep her for his own nefarious purposes. But if that was the case, how would he have known about her grandparents? Or her real name? She shivered, drawing her grandmother’s shawl closer around her shoulders as they walked.

‘Just a little farther’ was another fifteen minutes of slow, careful, smelly trudging before he stopped by a small alcove in the wall. He went first up the metal rungs sticking out of the brickwork, towards wan sunlight filtered through a manhole cover. Gently, he pushed the metal plate up and aside, hauling himself through the hole. Anise followed, finding his hand waiting for her to help her up onto the street.

The city had grown organically which meant the prison was situated in the middle of some residential areas. Anise winced at the full brunt of the sirens coming from the high walls topped with barbed wires. The man beside her took hold of her shoulder, even as the crowd moving to and fro around them looked at them or towards the prison.

“Come along. Let’s get you safe.”

Anise stayed close to the man as they moved through the streets. Everywhere she looked, Anise saw faces of people devoid of hope, dressed in clothing stained and torn by their hard lives, eyes downcast to avoid the posters of propaganda and any sentries on the rooftops. They wove their way through the byways and alleys to reach a ramshackle rowhome several blocks from the prison.

Other men and women waited inside, and they greeted Anise with quiet enthusiasm. None of them were her grandfather, and the more she looked, the more worried she became. Finally, the man who’d freed her pulled her aside.

“I’m sorry he isn’t here. We have to keep you separate for now. It’s too dangerous otherwise. But there’s a way you can help him, and help all of us.”

Anise nodded. She was lead upstairs and sat at the desk. A woman adjusted dials as she waited. When she couldn’t stand it, she looked up at the man and asked.

“What’s your name?”

“Call me Mickey.”

“Mickey… what do I say?”

“Whatever is in your heart.”

She took a deep breath. The woman nodded to Mickey, who bent over Anise to turn on the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt your regularly-scheduled government-mandated programming for a special announcement.”

He looked at Anise and smiled. Anise took another breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she began to speak.

“My name is Anastasia. Six months ago, I was a princess. I lived in the palace on the hill. The one that’s been dark since the Duke and his allies in the military stormed it. My mother and father did not survive this attack. I managed to escape, changing my name, moving from place to place until I was captured and sentenced to die.”

She paused.

“I was sentenced to die because I was born into the family that has looked after this kingdom for 300 years. From what I understand, we were a prosperous people. Not always happy, but prosperous. You were taken care of. Some went hungry but others helped. Now, look around. Look at the kingdom now. More are hungry. Fewer are around to help. Families have been put to death and the streets run with the blood of the innocent in ways that have not been seen in centuries.”

She looked at Mickey and the others in the room. A crowd had gathered. Some were weeping. She went on.

“If you can hear my voice, know that you are not alone. You are not forgotten. In their grab for power, the Duke and his allies have forgotten that the first office of a ruler is to care for the people under their rule. The Duke doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t care if your children starve. I do.

“And mark my words. Your pain will not be forgotten. It will be visited upon the Duke and those that stand with him tenfold.”

Somewhere in the distance, something exploded. More sirens sounded. Mickey took hold of Anise’s arm, but she kept her finger on the microphone’s button.

“Please. For my sake, for the memory of my parents, your king and queen, do not give up. Never give up. We fight for a better tomorrow. All of us must fight. Mother, Father, I’m coming home!”