Rallying

The taste of metal won’t leave your mouth.

You press your back against the rusted husk of the burned-out car, one hand clamped over the hole in your gut, the other wrapped tight around the rifle Norah just shoved into your hands.

Your head’s still spinning. The ringing’s back. But she’s crouched beside you, eyes burning, hair clumped with sweat and dust, blood streaked across her face like war paint.

You turn to her, breath ragged.

“Thank you-”

She grabs your collar, hauls you half upright, “Shut up.”

You blink.

Then she leans in. “This makes us even.”

A beat.

Then she adds, quieter, “But thank you.”

You manage a cracked grin. It hurts. Everything hurts.

She hands you two mags and a half-empty pouch of grenades. “Won’t last long.”

In the distance, the tank booms again. A deep, guttural, a metallic roar shaking the ground beneath you.

You both flinch.

The blast doesn’t hit near you, but it’s close enough to feel it in your teeth.

You grit yours. “I have to kill that tank.”

Norah doesn’t hesitate.

“Then let’s go kill a tank.”

You both start moving. One broken step at a time. Toward the sound of thunder.

The ground is a graveyard. Twisted metal. Charred limbs. Sandbags ripped apart like rotting fruit. The air reeks of cordite and cooked flesh.

You move through the wreckage, teeth clenched, boots dragging, the rifle heavy in your arms. Norah’s beside you, her stride steadier than yours, but she’s limping too. Favouring her left leg, jaw clenched to hide the pain.

Neither of you speak. There’s no need.

You pass the corpse of a Lion slumped against a wall, still clutching a Molotov in his charred hand. Someone else left a prayer cloth wrapped around his shoulders like a shroud. You nod once.

Norah taps your arm. Points.

Ahead was smoke. Black, oily, and thick.

You both drop into a crouch behind a collapsed garden wall. Through the gaps in the brick, you see it.

The tank.

It’s idling in the middle of the main road, barrel still hot from its last kill. Wagner mercs move around it, bark orders in Russian and broken Arabic. Some are dragging bodies. Others are setting up perimeter defences. The main turret swivels, slow, sweeping the streets.

You breathe through your teeth. The pain in your stomach is a living thing now, every heartbeat driving fire through your core.

Norah leans close. “There’s a blind spot at the rear. Exhaust port. Looks exposed.”

You nod. “Need to get close.”

“We’ll both die if we run it.”

“Then we don’t run.”

You check your gear. Two grenades. One mag. Knife. Your rifle’s chipped at the stock, but the barrel’s clean.

She pulls a smoke canister from her vest. “We throw smoke. Get close under the cover.”

You stare at the beast through the wall. Every second it’s alive, more of your people die. You grip your rifle. “Let’s put this bastard down.”

Norah pops the canister. The smoke floods the street.

Gray and ****, thick enough to blur figures into ghosts. You and Norah vanish inside it, your boots hitting cracked concrete with deadly intent.

Every step is agony. Your gut screams with every jolt, and the weight of the rifle drags at your arms like chains. But adrenaline makes you forget your blood. Forget the heat. Forget the pain.

There is only the tank.

Norah peels left, low and fast, ghosting between a blown-out storefront and the crumbling skeleton of a fruit stand. You stick right, flanking in mirrored rhythm. You can’t see her anymore, but you feel her.

You reach the edge of the smoke just as the tail end of the tank appears. Massive, rust-streaked, its exhaust pipe coughing smoke.

You rip the pin from your grenade, hold it just long enough to taste ****, then hurl it underhand, straight into the rear vent system.

It vanishes into the belly of the beast.

You dive left, behind a shattered pillar.

BOOM.

The tank belches fire from its rear. A panel tears loose and shoots into the air like a twisted wing. The engine chokes. Black smoke erupts skyward, and screams echo from inside the hatch.

The beast is wounded.

But not dead.

Gunfire opens up. Wild and panicked. Bullets chew through the smoke blindly. You roll to cover, chest heaving, ears ringing anew.

You hear Norah scream as she charges from the opposite flank, rifle blazing. She drops one merc clean through the skull, then dives onto the back of the tank as if she’s mounting a demon.

“GO!” she shouts.

You rise, charging forward, ducking rounds, zigzagging. Your hands are slick with blood, but you grip the hull and haul yourself up, your boots finding purchase beside Norah.

She’s already prying at the top hatch with a combat knife jammed under the lip.

CLANK.

It pops.

The smell hits you first. Oil, smoke, blood, piss.

You don’t hesitate.

You drop a second grenade into the dark hole.

Someone inside screams, “Pozhadi!”

You slam the hatch shut and leap off the side, dragging Norah with you.

You hit the ground just as the tank erupts, BOOM. A fiery guttural ****. Flames shoot from every seam. The turret detonates, spinning off like a decapitated head.

The blast knocks both of you into the dust.

You lie on your back, blinking through smoke.

Norah is beside you, coughing, laughing like a lunatic.

The tank burns.

You look at her, both of you soaked in blood and soot.

“You good?” you rasp.

She coughs again. “I’ll live.”

You stare at the flames and smile.

You’re still on your back, when the screaming begins.

War cries.

You twist onto your elbow, pain flaring through your gut like a flare, but you don’t stop. You need to see it.

Through the smoke and fire, through the cracked ruins of Zahiriya’s bones, they come.

The Lions.

Your people. Your fighters. Your family.

Bursting from rubble. From alleys. From half-destroyed homes and market stalls. They were hiding, waiting. Just like you trained them.

Some covered in blood. Some limping. Some missing gear.

They fire as they move, controlled and coordinated. One boy leaps from behind a sandbag and takes out a Wagner gunner with a bullet to the throat.

They surround the stunned mercenaries, and they slaughter them.

Norah helps you to your feet, one arm around your waist, one hand gripping her side.

“Your people…” she breathes, watching the chaos unfold with wide, trembling eyes.

You wipe blood from your face with the back of your arm.

“No,” you correct her, staring into the smoke.

“Our people.”

A Wagner fighter tries to run past you.

You don’t even raise your rifle. A child behind you does.

One shot. Clean.