HIT POINTS: GETTYSBURG GENERALS
by Jacob Lindaman
Hit Points: Gettysburg Generals by Jacob Lindaman
This book or the parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form stored in retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise – without prior written permission of the author except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual people, organizations, and/or events are purely coincidental.
ISBN: 9781310718984
Copyright © 2013 by Jacob Lindaman
All rights reserved
A dry heat blew through the parched land. Pillaged farm fields and wasted villages roasted in the noonday sun. Gettysburg lay ahead. A welcome relief to most travelers, but not to soldiers engaged in battle.
The army of two waited just outside the city. Their plan had worked thus far, but now they needed to rework their strategy.
“They're in there somewhere, Grant, waiting for us. Just waiting.” Sherman’s mind was poised upon his enemy’s position.
“I’ve noticed,” Grant added, “the weather is impermissibly hot.” He dabbed sweat from his brow with his handkerchief.
“I know what you mean. I wish I had a sweet tea.”
“I wish I had a bottle of whiskey.”
“You always seem to enjoy the lesser things in life, Grant. Not to mention you're prone to complaining.”
“Hypocrisy is your greatest virtue, Sherman. Should you survive our doomed foray, I should think you’ll make a fine politician.”
“Shish, there is some action going on in the town.”
“Let me see,” Grant said. “Give me the spectacles. Blast you, Sherman! Let me see!”
“Fine. But you won't like it.”
Sherman handed Grant the looking glass. He saw the shadowed movements of their opponents. They were setting up their defenses. It seemed to Grant their plan was to hole up deep in the middle of town. “This’ll force us to march through debris in open daylight,” he said. “We’ll be sitting ducks and I don’t like it.” But Sherman brushed him off.
Contemplating the forthcoming firefight, Sherman inquired, “What have you got for weapons?”
“I’m equipped with the finest officer’s saber and pistol.”
“That’s all you have? How did you survive the last round with such a paltry stock?”
“Oh, and I’m full up on armor.”
“Armor? Where on earth did you find armor in a place such as this?”
Grant tossed his arm up in wobbly fashion sufficiently confusing Sherman. He was about to comment on Grant’s lethargy when another idea sprung to mind.
“Let me inspect it,” Sherman demanded.
“No,” Grant said. “Get your own.”
“Grant, please now. Let’s behave like gentlemen.”
Grant refused and pulled his blue Union pea coat away from Sherman's prying hands. Some distance away, he took up a new position underneath the shade of a formidable aspen.
“You're not a good teammate, Grant!”
He watched as Grant disappeared on the other side of the tree. Then he began struggling with something, moving back and forth. What is it? Sherman thought. Is he being attacked?
“Found it!” Grant yelled.
“Found what?” Never mind. He ran to Grant's side. There sitting beneath the tree was an open chest. It had been filled with all sorts of beneficiaries until Grant hogged them.
“Have you any objections to sharing with your team?”
“What?”
“This cache of supplies you found would have profited us both, but I see you desired them all for yourself.”
Sherman sat down on the other side of the tree and crossed his arms.
“Here.” Grant handed him some rifle rounds. “Take these.”
“What am I going to do with those? I haven’t a rifle.”
“Here, take this.” Grant removed an extra plasma cannon from his pack.
“Where the devil did you get that!”
“From the last round. It dropped from one of my kills. I have ammo for it, too, if you're in need.”
“As I recall, Grant, you specifically stated you were only equipped with your saber, pistol and newfound armor. And this only after my prodding. Have you any other assets I ought to know about?”
“Sherman, be a sport and kill something today will you? Preferably not your invaluable teammate.”
“Let us return to business shall we?” Sherman gawked at the impressive piece of machinery in his hands. “How does it work?”
Politely, Grant fastened the strap around Sherman’s shoulder and instructed him how to hold the gun. He showed him where to load the plasma, how to aim, and where the ammo count indicator was.
“This is great. We will win—once and for all! I'm sure of it.”
His newfound excitement distracted him from the responsibilities of the weapon. Accidentally, he fired a shot. A black metal tube shot through the air towards town. It landed—tink—and exploded into a red inferno.
“What the devil—?”
“The secondary function. I should’ve mentioned it.”
Sherman looked at the town. The east quarter was engulfed in flames.
“That ought to smoke the scoundrels out,” Grant said.
“What was it?”
“The indecentry bomb.”
“You mean incendiary bomb." Sherman grinned. "I like that.”
“Well, there’s only one, and you just used it. You’ll have to make due with what you’ve got now.”
Puffs of dirt shot up around them. Then the loud bang of a large caliber rifle rolled through the air.
“They’re shooting at us. Take cover, Grant!” Sherman ducked behind the aspen.
“Dang.” Grant assessed their situation.
“What is it now?”
“They must have a sniper rifle. They could pin us down for days.” Grant thought for moment. “Here’s what we're going to do. You crawl along the tall grass until you get to the pile of dirt over there. Once you're secure, start firing. Provide me cover so I can make it to the brick building on the edge of town.”
“That’s genius. Grant, where did you learn such a maneuver?”
“Such a what?”
“Never mind. Let’s go.”
Grant watched Sherman crawl to the dirt pile. He readied himself to begin sprinting once he saw the yellow balls of plasma flying. He was duel-wielding pistols; he could handle just about anything within twenty paces. Beyond that, he depended solely on Sherman’s suppressing fire.
Boom, boom, boom. He began what looked like a haphazard, drunken stumble. He tripped over the root of the tree and slowly found his footing while remaining under cover. Then he set out through the grass and down a hill. He was in open view, but the Gray team was sufficiently distracted. He fell again, but no one noticed. Sherman was having a day firing the cannon.
Finally, he made it. He walked quietly through town, keeping his eye out for anyone on the Gray team. They were holed up in the church’s spacious steeple. From there, they could see just about all of the town. But Grant was keen. Sherman had distracted them long enough for him to get close.
Quietly, he crept inside the church and started a fire. Within fifteen minutes, the sanctuary was ablaze. He ran back to motion for Sherman to advance.
“Well done, Grant! I see you flushed the fox from his hole, but where has he gone?”
“Be careful. This town looks sleepy, but it’s alive with activity. Half a click that
way, there's a motion-activated gun turret. Main and Market are lined with land mines and there's not a single weapons cache around town not already raided.”
“What’s a click? And where in these United States did you learn such vocabulary?”
Ignoring the questions Grant continued, “This, my friend, may be our last hurrah.”
“Nonsense! I'll have none of that.”
“Shish, they’ll hear you.”
“We've come so far. Look at us. We've taken town after town, map after map; and we have but one more left on our list. We're so close to victory I can taste it.”
Boom.
A shot struck Sherman in the chest from the other side of town. Grant pulled him back under cover.
“No! No! I don’t want to die. Not now. I’m not ready.” Sherman coughed up blood as he spoke.
“Not ready to die? What is there to be afraid of?”
“I haven't made amends with my Maker. I' am a sinner, Grant. A sinner! Do you know what that means? I'll go to Hell and burn for eternity in the everlasting lake of fire. Oh, Grant, I'm a wretched man. Pray for me. Pray for me now, in the name of Jesus, pray for me!”
“I don’t see what all the commotion is about. Take it like a man.”
“I did the catechisms. I prayed the prayers, but so long ago. Was it enough? Was it enough, Grant, to get me in? I’m not so sure now. Oh, Grant, you must help me. You must!”
“You blabbering idiot. Shut up.”
“You can have all of my equipment. Here, take them. Will that be enough generosity to tip the scales?”
“Your empty pistol will help no one.”
“You’re welcome, Grant. You always were my favorite despite your miserable countenance and sloppy manners.”
“Hmph. A fine compliment for your only teammate.”
“No, no, Grant, I don’t care anymore. I don’t care who wins. I don’t care if it's Blue or Gray, North or South. It doesn’t matter. Give me back my pistol. I only have four hit points left.”
“Well, if you’re gonna die, then just die. And do it quietly before you get me killed, too.”
Grant got up and walked away, but not before taking Sherman’s plasma cannon.
“Grant! Grant, don’t leave me! Only three hit points left.”
Grant hadn't seen where the shot originated, but he knew where the Gray team would likely hide: The Mayor’s House. Every town had one and they were great places for stakeouts.
It was not far from Sherman’s body…his would-be body. Grant passed two streets then spotted the Mayor’s House. Just his luck—his adversaries were still setting up shop on the top floor, breaking out windows. Good.
He made his way around back and quietly walked over the creaking wood floors. He took his sweet time doing it, too. A full twenty minutes passed since he had entered the building. But he knew where he was going. He moved up the stairs with vigilance; his heart pounding in his chest.
There before him stood a solid walnut door mounted on iron hinges. White beams of light sprung forth from the crack underneath the door. His courage rose. With the plasma cannon in one hand and a pistol in the other, he let out a tremendous yell and burst through the door with a barrage of bullets. His plasma cannon...failed to fire. Sherman had exhausted the magazine. And just as he got the attention of his enemies, Sherman came running up behind him yelling and firing.
Too many rounds were fired for any mere soldier to keep track of who shot whom. But Grant was no mean solider; he was a general. Despite the distraction from his rear, Grant took down both Lee and Jackson with the pistol. Yet he too lay on the ground clutching his breast in pain. Sherman approached unhurt.
“Curse you, Sherman. Curse you to Hell!”
“Grant, are you okay?”
“Do I look okay to you? Of course, I’m not okay. I’m dying and it's all your fault. Your friendly fire cost us. Again.”
“Don’t worry now, big fella. Just go to sleep. Soon it will all be over.”
“Confounded! Sherman, you worry about that Jesus hullabaloo every time you're about to die. And every time, you respawn back at base just like I do. Leave me alone. Or better yet, make yourself useful and search a Gray body for a first-aid drop. Confound you, Sherman!”
“Shoosh, soon you'll respawn in a celestial place filled with angels and singing and it will be the most glorious place your earthly eyes have ever seen.”
“That sounds awful. Forget the first-aid pack. Just put a bullet in my head now. I’ll meet you in Antietam. They better have whiskey there.”
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