Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes-Chapter 111: Fish In Water

It was strange—or maybe not really.

I was more afraid while I was on the Garay nearing the landing point than I was when I saw the recruit’s corpse with its fresh bullet wound, generously bleeding on the church steps.

The dead and the bleeding were familiar sights. The scent of blood and black powder was no foreign smell. I thrived in the noise and the chaos. As much as I dreaded the idea—thanks to the modern U.S. Army—I was a fish in water in the midst of the battlefield.

Barely a second had passed when I raised my rifle and aimed into the church interior. The five pulajanes fighters had formed a line around the pulpit, their figures silhouetted by the flickering candlelight behind them. The contrast made them easy targets, even if their features were lost to shadow.

My first target was the pulajanes who had just fired—the one who killed the recruit. He was now scrambling to fish a bullet out of his cloth cartridge bag, the barrel of his rifle still exhaling thin trails of smoke. But then I spotted movement from another direction—another fighter already raising his sights toward me.

I shifted my aim and fired.

The sharp crack of my Mauser echoed inside the church, bouncing off the stone and wood. The cultist I hit was behind a pew, but my shot tore through the wood and caught him square in the right shoulder. His upper body jerked back violently, and he fell with a heavy thud. His rifle clattered across the marble tiles, slipping under the next row of pews.

Without delay, I pulled the bolt, chambered another round, and returned my focus to the first man. He was still fumbling with his cartridge like a nervous grandmother trying to thread a needle. He hadn’t even started to reload properly.

I didn’t give him a chance. My second shot caught him in the chest. He let out a groan—pain mixed with frustration—before dropping to one knee and falling sideways like a sack of rice.

Two pulajanes down in about five seconds. Not too shabby.

I immediately ducked back behind the stone doorframe, anticipating return fire. Sure enough, shots rang out from within the church. Stone chips flew from the steps and wooden splinters popped from the nearby panels, but nothing hit flesh.

To my surprise, Mario took the initiative. He was across from me, taking cover behind the opposite wall. While the pulajanes were still likely reloading, he stepped into the open alongside a few of his men and loosed a volley into the church.

The shrieks and groans that followed told me they struck home.

I peeked back inside. Now all I saw were bodies—strewn in the aisle and clustered around the pulpit. Some lay motionless, others twitched weakly. The sight of death in what should be hallowed ground made my stomach turn.

Gunshots erupted again—this time from my right. Roque and his men had reached the convent’s side entrance. A small mound of corpses formed in the doorway, five pulajanes dropped in their tracks. The cadet’s quick action had saved us from being flanked.

"Roque... you clear the convent!" I barked. The cadet pivoted his head toward me and gave a firm nod before rallying his men deeper inside.

"Everyone else... we clear the church interior!" I said to Sargento Guzman, Mario, and the rest of the platoon.

A couple of Mario’s men dragged the dead recruit aside. His body left a long, dark trail of blood over the stone and onto the grass. I averted my eyes.

I was the first up the blood-soaked steps. The church was quiet now. No more shouting. No more firing. But the air felt heavy—still charged with fear and the stench of fresh death.

My finger remained tight on the trigger, rifle raised, as I advanced inside. I scanned the flickering shadows along the pews, the corners near the confessionals, even the choir loft above.

Every creak of my boots echoed louder than the gunfire. I could hear the shallow breathing of the men behind me. Each step forward felt like walking into a trap.

Then I heard it—a faint crumple, like cloth brushing wood.

Instinct kicked in. I took a sharp step back.

A machete blade sliced the air where I had just been standing, the strike whistling inches from my nose. Out of the shadow lunged a large pulajanes fighter. He had eyes wide with fervor, not fear. Around his neck dangled a copper amulet, its surface etched crudely with a triangle and an all-seeing eye, bordered by Latin inscriptions.

Adrenaline surged through me. My body moved before I could think. I drove my bayonet into his gut and charged forward, pushing him backward into the center aisle. He coughed blood—some of it spattering onto my face. His strength didn’t leave him. Not yet. He grabbed the barrel of my rifle, planted his foot, and tried to halt the push.

Then he swung.

His machete came in low and wide, aiming for my neck.

I pulled the trigger.

The blast shook the hallway. Shards of stained glass from a nearby window burst inwards. The fighter gasped and staggered back, clutching his abdomen. His hands slipped, and the machete fell from his grip.

His wide eyes, now finally registering fear, locked with mine.

He collapsed stiffly onto the floor. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

Behind him, the statue of the Virgin Mary at the altar lay shattered. The gunshot had hit it squarely, blowing off the upper half.

"Oh... crap..." I muttered under my breath.

The guilt didn’t last long. It was swallowed quickly by a wave of horror.

I saw something move—reflected in the polished silver of a fallen candleholder.

I spun around just in time.

Another gunshot cracked beside me. A pulajanes fighter, bolo raised above his head, dropped to the tiles at my feet. His blade bounced and slid under the pews.

Sargento Guzman lowered his rifle. Smoke still curled from the barrel.

He nodded silently from the doorway.

I returned the gesture, heart still pounding in my ears.