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TheGuitarist
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Columbia, SC, USA
Jul 2002
time: 00:21
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BAM! BAM! BAM!
Jacques awoke with a sudden start as the deep bass sounds of pounding on the front door abruptly interrupted his slumber. He jerked his torso upright and peered into the dimly lit room.
Across from his pallet, he saw Jean’s head swiveling around the room in a confused and groggy manner. “Jacques? What? Where… where’s Christophe?” he mumbled in alarm.
Jacques’ gaze flew to Christophe’s pallet, and he saw that it was empty. In an instant, the Frenchman was on his feet and rushing upstairs, Jean close behind him.
Entering the ground floor, Jacques immediately saw that the window to the right of the barricaded door was wide open. He was sure he and Christophe had closed it the night before…
Rushing to the opening, Jean glanced outside and yelled, “It’s Christophe! At the door! And… and Germans coming down the road!” With that, Jean dove outside headfirst.
In a flash, Jacques snatched his epee from where it lay on the shelf. He dashed to the window and dove out, tucking his head to his stomach and bringing his legs up, hitting the ground rolling, his sword safely to one side.
Coming up from his roll, he saw Christophe looking at them, perplexed. “How did you get out?”
Jean replied curtly, “The window was open.”
“Oh.”
The wall next to Jacques exploded outward, splinters flying through the air and a terrific BOOM! reaching Jacques’ ears. Jumping to the side in reflex, he brought his blade to en garde and faced the approaching Germans.
There were three, about thirty yards away, and one was lowering his smoking musket and drawing his dagger. The other two held their muskets leveled at the boys as they sprinted toward them.
“Dive!” Jacques wasn’t sure who had yelled, but he followed the instructions. He came up and dashed, low to the ground, toward his opponents, and sensed Jean at his side. But…Christophe was standing frozen at the door… almost as though… expecting something.
Just then, a loud report split the air once more.
“Aaah!”
Looking over his shoulder, Jacques saw Jean spinning and falling, sprawling on the dirt and clutching the red patch on his shoulder. His cries of pain were agonizing, and Jacques trembled as anger and fear seized him, both at the same time.
A terrible feeling of déjŕ vu struck him as he remembered his mother, falling on the road in Toulouse, a red blossom spreading on her chest, and Jacques standing helpless beside her.
With jaw set firm, eyes narrow with rage, and hand clenched white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword, Jacques charged.
He took a flying leap, spun in the air, thrust his blade out full extension, arm stretched taut, and struck the yielding flesh of the German who had shot Jean. His musket was still leveled and his finger was still on the trigger, but, impaled by the full length of Jacques’ epee, could do naught but groan as he sank to the blood-soaked soil.
His leg muscles burning from his fleche, Jacques tugged and stepped backwards, removing his stained sword from his adversary, and spun to face the rest of the Germans.
He saw one of them lying on the ground like the first, missing a significant part of his torso, and most certainly dead. The other was locked in a close lightning-quick battle with Christophe. The blue-eyed boy held Jean’s sword, using it effectively to tire his opponent. The dagger of the soldier was flashing in the sunlight, but Christophe’s epee was a blur of motion, deflecting the smaller blade and sometimes darting in for a grazing hit.
Darting in toward the German’s flank at full speed, Jacques vaulted over the distracted German and came down facing him on the other side. He struck the German’s dagger once and switched his grip, bringing the blade back around to pierce the German’s side as Christophe deftly disarmed him.
The dagger arced over Jacques’ head and planted itself firmly in the ground, just as the German collapsed and planted his face in the dirt. Withdrawing his sword, Jacques narrowed his eyes at Christophe, who was not even breathing heavily.
Suspicion filled his mind as his eyes moved to Jean’s moaning frame, curled up on the gravel path.
-----
To be continued...
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TheGuitarist
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Columbia, SC, USA
Jul 2002
time: 00:21
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Enjoy.
-----
With an inhuman scream of “Traitor!” Jacques launched himself at Christophe. His blue eyes widening, Christophe made a pitiful last-second attempt to stop the charging Frenchman, but Jacques swept Christophe’s sword out of his hand and sent it sailing into space.
Jacques’ momentum brought both of them to the ground. “You have betrayed us!” he spat.
Shaken, Christophe stammered, “I assure you, I – I have done no such thing! Never would– ” He was cut off when Jacques furiously slammed his fist into his jaw with a vicious French curse.
“How dare you lie to me! Jean lies dying from a German bullet that never should have been fired!” He continued his tirade, shaking Christophe violently by the shoulders. “You deserve to die, German pig! Sneaking out of your own house to lead a patrol back to us! Listen here– ”
“No, you listen!” Christophe grabbed Jacques and pulled him to the side. Rolling on top of him, Christophe pinned his arms to the ground and curled his lip, enraged. “I would never do such a thing! Besides, I saw– ”
THWACK! THUD!
Suddenly, a mud-encrusted boot connected solidly with Christophe’s head and knocked him to the ground. Looking up in surprise, Jacques saw Jean grimacing in pain and holding the red stain on his right shoulder. “Jean! I thought you were dead!”
With a groan, Jean replied, “Nearly, thanks to this turncoat. But I am all right, for now. We should leave, quickly. There are bound to be more Germans on the way.”
Rolling to his feet, Jacques dusted himself off and gestured at Christophe, lying sprawled on the dirt. “What about him?”
“Leave Judas to hang himself.”
-----
They gathered what meager rations they could store in a sack, dressed Jean’s wound, and started off down the road.
They would have to stay within German-held territory since no French cities lay between them and Paris. Thank God they had left the roads intact. Still, it was a difficult journey.
Jacques darted ahead every so often to check for German patrols. If he found one, he would run silently back to Jean and they would hide in the roadside ditch. They managed to evade notice in this fashion, and pitched camp in dense woods a little after sundown.
Jean lit a fire with flint and the steel of his blade. Jean produced a flask of stew from his bag, and they wolfed down a meager helping of warm broth and stringy meat.
Jacques sat pensively staring at the flickering depths of the fire. He knew the only obstacle left in their path was the River. The Germans were bound to be guarding every bridge. They would have to find some way through.
He brought it up with Jean. “If not for our betrayal,” he said gravely, “we might have crossed the Lake instead of the River. But now… we have no chance of rowing over undetected.”
“Perhaps if we did it by night…”
“Jacques! You’ll be the death of us both!”
He would say no more regarding the matter.
-----
It was hours later that Jacques awoke. The fire was long since dead, the ashes a pale gray in the low early morning light. It was a bleak day, the clouds obscuring the sun and lowering visibility even further. Sitting up, Jacques looked around – and had a chilling episode of déjà vu as he realized that the other bedroll was empty. Jean was gone.
Rushing to the edge of the road, Jacques saw a broken branch and a patch of beaten-down grass, lacking the dew that coated the surrounding scenery. Jean must have been taken by force – and might even now be in German possession!
An even more chilling realization struck him. If they had Jean… they knew everything he knew. And that would lead them straight back to Jacques himself.
Barely keeping his panic in check, Jacques sprinted back to their clearing. Gathering all evidence of their brief layover in the forest, he swung the rucksack onto his back and ran off down the road.
He kept up a steady jogging pace, for he knew he was in lethal danger. As time passed, the sunlight grew even dimmer and cloud banks gathered above him.
Jacques had been running for nearly half an hour, but he dared not stop. His nerves were drawn taut with alertness. He knew the enemy was on his trail – not only that, but he could not hope to defeat them alone. He could almost hear the pounding of boots and coarse German shouting behind him.
Wait a minute… he did hear German!
He spared a look back over his shoulder. Six fully armed Germans were no more than fifty yards behind him on the dusty road. He could see the glint of the sun on their bayonets; he could sense their rage. He could never hope to defeat this many musketmen at once.
Panic gripped his gut in a cold vise. Throwing caution to the winds, he took off at full speed. He dropped the bag of provisions but could spare no time to recover it. Drawing his sword, he pumped his legs as fast as he possibly could.
He knew he was barely a quarter of a mile from the River. Turning the next corner, he saw its waters gently sliding by, their color dulled by the dreary atmosphere.
Jacques’ head swiveled, searching desperately for an escape. But there was none; the woods had thinned to sparseness, and there was only one bridge in sight. The soldiers behind him were thundering ever nearer.
Drawing closer, Jacques started to slow as he realized that that narrow wooden bridge was crawling with German soldiers. At least twenty stood on and around it, muskets at the ready, and their commander in the center, with his standard pistols in their holsters. A small part of Jacques’ brain wondered why the soldiers weren’t charging him, but most of his brain was simply filled with terror.
Jacques was merely twenty yards from the bridge by now. His sword began to droop, and his steps became slower. He was ready to surrender; he knew there was no hope. But then he saw something that made his heart stop and his feet stumble.
The German commander’s uniform was a French peasant tunic with a bloody patch over its right shoulder.
“Jean?” Jacques whispered in disbelief.
With a sneer, the commander replied, “You’ve hanged the wrong Judas, my friend.”
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vovan
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Wacky prediction* of the day
Jacques and Jean will fight. Jean will wound his former friend lethally. As Jacques collapses to the ground, emotions and memories will take control over Jean, and he will kneel before his dying friend, and weep. He will realise that the evil germans are not the people he should hang out with, even though he is their commander. Just as Jacques breathes his last, Christophe will come out of nowhere and shoot Jean in the head. He will then perish, fighting the Germans like a lion, and killing six-seven of them at least, before a dozen bullets from the muskets pierce his chest.
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*Wacky prediction © unscratchedfoot 2002
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24-11-2002 23:31
At least I won't have to wait for the next installment, hanging on the edge of my seat, like those who will be checking the forums every day will have to. 
The 6-barrelled gun is fed by a conveyer belt of musket barrels which are loaded by over a thousand barrel loaders - civilians doing their part in the war. The conveyor belt and gun are powered by a row of people peddling on wheeless bikes. The deadly gun spits out 6000 musketballs a minute which turns the brave lot of frenchies into soup (as long as it doesn't jam).
sshhh hey vovy dont tell Tom but if he does not post some goods soon we could send your beast round his house. 
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