THE WONDER YEARS
An Untold Story of the Great War by Taryn “Jnco” Wander’r (tarynw42@hotmail.com)

Dedicated to the memories of the King of Swing, Benny Goodman, and St. Maximillian Kolbe, anti-nazi martyr in Auschwitz.

Previously on “The Wonder Years” "I thought so. I guess I'll have to make the decision for you then, Tommy." He looked at the girls and matter-of-factly shot Majik in the stomach.
"No!" Tommy shrieked as his older sister crashed, bleeding, to the floor. Finally understanding what his social sciences teacher had been trying to get across to him, Tommy outright attacked the soldier. The Overlander simply delivered a blow from the butt of his gun in between Tommy's eyes. The next thing he remembered was the floor of the train car hitting the back of his head hard. And darkness.

PART THREE: NOTHING TO DO BUT WAIT or COFFEE AND PEPTO

I’m drinkin’ coffee, coffee and pepto.
It’s the swingingest drink that you can know.
I’m drinkin’ coffee, coffee and pepto.
It makes the scene and coats my spleen just so.
-HD Radke and the Jet City Swingers, “Coffee and Pepto”


Angie stared down at her brother. Hard. Maybe if she concentrated enough of him waking up, he’d do it. But Tommy remained slumped, open-mouthed and drooling, against her shoulder. Angie shifted slightly, trying to stretch her aching back. She wanted to scratch her face, but her hands were bound tightly behind her back. The young red fox hesitated for a moment, then leaned down to Tommy’s head and rubbed her face there. She glanced her brother over for a moment, wondering if he has slipped into a coma or had a concussion or whatever it was she should have been worried about.
Light from the hot Mobius sun glinted off the black ring that now adorned one of Tommy’s fingers. Ginny had slipped it on moments before the Overlanders had bound Tommy’s prone form and dragged it away. She whispered a spell of safety before plastering the boy with kisses and tears. Angie had watched, where she was kneeling, bound and drenched in Majik’s blood and her own sweat, watched with a growing, throbbing emptiness in her own heart. Flash remained silent, his eyes wrenched shut, across from her. Majik was silent, now, too, after a few moments of murmuring and struggling. She still bled profusely.
Flash and Bruce had been taken too. Led off down the line somewhere. Angie squinted into the setting sun for what seemed like the thousandth time that day, but still could find no trace of them. She sighed and closed her eyes, resting up for whatever might be in store for her.
The long line of bound Mobotropolians did the same, no longer frightened or angry, only sick and tired of the endless wait.

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The setting sun was hot in another part of the continent at that time. Sandy no longer thought about her actions, her mind and body were no longer working in conjunction with each other. During most of the fighting she had kept it that way, taxing her body while running meaningless thoughts through her head, math puzzles, societal problems, anything to keep her mind off the gore and bloodshed before her.
Whatever New Hollywood producer taught her war was glamorous ought to be shot.
Now she simply walked. At her sides were two very bloody, very sweaty, and very exhausted young men.
To her right was a gold colored mountain cat, whose family had come from the rural mountains of Cascadia years before the Great War started. Lysander Julie he had said his name was, and he was a good twenty five years old.
Lysander walked along beside her, drastically fatigued, with a head wound that looked like something out of a tribal blood ritual. He leg the way slightly, knowing she was concentrating on holding James up.
James was almost asleep on Sandy’s good arm. Sandy and Lysander had come upon him the previous day. The two had awoken three days before that, alone and confused. Their company must have been taken hostage, and the enemy left the two, mistaking them for dead. James’ company had been massacres, and James himself lay feverishly amidst the bloody corpses, groaning and twitching, his right leg bent awkwardly. Sandy had made a splint for him and the three had set out on their not-so-merry way, half-dragging a delirious, angst-ridden James in their wake.
Lysander twisted open a warm, decrepit canteen and took a small, precious sip for himself. He then passed the dark green round bottle to Sandy who sipped just as sparingly.
“Here,” Lysander managed to whisper through his parched throat, scratchy despite the water. He led Sandy and her precious cargo over to a felled, molding log and the three sat, Sandy setting James down ever so gently.
One could almost hear the heat of the jungle. The silence was so deep, so wretched and it almost made Sandy ache for the staccato of gunshots and the buzzing of laser beams. Almost. The festering laser wound on her right forearm was a constant reminder of that fateful event.
She feebly held up the warm canteen to James’ unresponding lips. Nudging him a bit with her left arm, she forced him to receive the canteen. Eyelids fluttered open for an instant, glazed and confused.
“Drink it,” She whispered in her thick Southern accent, augmented by her desiccated throat and teary demeanor.
James’ eyes were unfocused as he stared at her, his fevered mind trying to make sense of what she had said. Sandy gently tipped the rabbit’s head back, and a warm, wonderful liquid slipped down his throat.
Lysander now cradled his head in his hands as he listened to the menacing silence of the hot jungle. Slowly his eyes opened and the mountain cat lifted his head, ears twisting to fold back. He looked upwards, at the now-clouding sky and gave a sigh of relief.
“What?” Sandy managed blearily.
“Look,” Lysander nodded at the now-gray sky, and took the canteen from Sandy. He twisted the canteen open and held it up as clean, clear water fell from the Mobian sky, the first rainfall the weary soldiers had seen in weeks.
Sandy looked up at the translucent water falling from the heavens, and let it wash away the blood, sweat and tears that covered her face. Beside her, James nuzzled his face against her neck and promptly fell asleep.
Wake him up,” Lysander said after a few moments. “We should go.”

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Elsewhere in the sweating jungle was a dark green tent. Inside, tossing and turning on a damp military cot a very blonde, very young Overlander girl was burning with fever. A shock of neon blonde hair was drenched with sweat and tears slowly squeezed from wrenched eyelids. She was gaunt and malnourished and her army fatigues hung off her, stinking with sweat, vomit and blood. Her eyelids flickered in her sleep, worry lines bunching over her forehead.
A strong young Mobotropolian fox sat next to her, his one remaining leg propped on the one desk in the makeshift shelter, which was covered in bandages and medicines. His left leg had been blown off about a month before, he underwent a shanty operation but it served it’s purpose at least. The leg of his fatigues was pinned shut over the stump.
He was sleeping, no less peacefully than the sick girl in front of him. It was the first real sleep he had had in nights. It was much too hot for sleep. Heat usually meant battle. And he’d be damned if he let anything happen to Tzipporah, the Overlander girl, whom he had taken into his care.
When the rain started, smattering tiny droplets onto the olive green tent, the fox’s head slowly lifted. Sweat dripping off his greasy red fur, he stared up at the covering until the slight spitting became a torrent of clear, life-giving water.
The fox grinned, casting another look at the feverish Tzipporah, and stood as best he could. Securing a crutch under one shoulder and grabbing a large empty dark green container, the fox slung a rifle over his shoulder and headed outside.
He opened the container, then went back for another, when the sound of a soft female voice stopped him. Before he could think, his rifle was in hand, cocked and poised, pointing straight in the direction of the offending sound.
Out of the thick of the forest emerged three anthro soldiers. Two were young…no more than children. The other was older, though not by much. All three wore the uniform of the King’s army. They were all hurt badly.
Dryden Prower’s eyes lit up when he saw the badge of the House of Acorn and his rifle lay forgotten on the wet grass as he welcomed the wounded soldiers, two young rabbits and a mountain cat, into his shoddy tent.


TO BE CONTINUED


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