Prologue

The Order, a theocratic authoritarian state, had for more than fifty years been locked in a devastating war with the cryptid rebellion. This holy war, The Great Crusade, had claimed countless lives in their struggle for planetary dominance. Facing a seemingly unstoppable advance, the High Messiah resorted to trench warfare, creating the grim ranks of the Trenchmen. 

Hunkered in the trench, combat medic Watters braced against the muddy wall. The reek of iron and decay hung thick in the damp air, almost a taste. Spent brass crunched underfoot, a grim counterpoint to the unseeing eyes of the dead. This was the home of The Order's Trenchmen. This was Watters' home. 

The once pleasant sounds of birds chirping and bees buzzing were replaced by bullets cracking and mortar shells exploding. He was in hell. 

The wounded soldier before him had tears in his eyes as his guts lay out across the mud, "I-I can't feel my-my legs, Doc!" he muttered, his helmet caked in dirt and blood. 

Doctor Watters' blood-soaked hands shook as he tried to comfort the soldier, doomed by stray shrapnel. The reek of blood and mud was suffocating. 'Stay with me,' Watters cried, his voice hoarse, as he desperately tried to contain the spilling intestines. 'Just stay with me!' The soldier, likely no older than 19, writhed in pain. 'I don't wanna d—' he started, clutching Watters arm, before a stray bullet zipped through his skull. Damn it. Watters thought, his stomach twisting. He was just a boy. The ground trembled with the relentless barrage of mortar fire. 

'Trenchman!' a grizzled voice cracked from afar. Watters scanned the battlefield, a rainy corpse laden hellscape. 'Trenchman!' it repeated. Further down the trench, the Lieutenant Bishop waved frantically, hunkered tightly against the slippery mud wall they crafted just days ago. 'Fall in! We move!' he screamed, pointing towards a nearby wooden ladder. 

Watters stared back at the dead soldier. He was gone. A lump formed in his throat. Another boy dead, and for what, he thought. 

'Trenchman! Fall! In!' the Lieutenant Bishop roared, his voice a raspy and muffled by his helmet. 

Watters swallowed his dread and turned to meet his commander. 

The Lieutenant Bishop's armor, once shiny and white was now stained gray and caked in blood and dirt. The cape adorning his massive shoulders was tattered and frayed, pressed firmly against the mud wall that framed his dreary home. 

Watters slammed against the wall, facing his commander. 'We move once air support clears them out. 'Ready your redeemer!' he bellowed, racking a bullet into his massive sidearm. 'Today we will vanquish those foul beasts and wipe them from the earth!' he screamed, his voice grisly and harsh. 

The sounds of jet engines passed over them, 'Are you ready, Trenchman?!' the bishop screamed as bombs dropped ahead of them. 

The sounds of knocking awakened the doctor. It was a dream. 

A deep, tired sigh escaped the weary doctors' lips as he pinched the bridge of his nose. The knocking persisted as the middle-aged doctor creakily moved from his comfy bed to fetch his slippers. He twisted the adjustment knob on his oil lamp next to his bed and lit a match. Knock, knock, knock! The incessant hammering on the door started to irritate the doctor. It was dawn and the doctor was not due for another appointment until that afternoon. 

The soft glow of his oil lamp illuminated the tight hallway as Watters creakily made his way to the front door, calling out, "Okay, okay, I'm up. Hold on!" rubbing his tired eyes. He turned the doorknob and opened the door to be met by a local police unit, Officer Daniels. 

Watters peered over the man. He looked troubled, as if he'd seen a ghost of some sort. 'Sorry to wake you at this hour doctor, but we have a situation.', Daniels muttered gripping his blue colored police hat tightly. 

'A situation you say? What do you mean?' Watters responded, rubbing his eyes. 

'Doctor, there's been an attack.' Daniels shuddered. Daniels' face was pale, his eyes teary, as if he had been sobbing on the way over. 

'What do you mean? Where?' 

'In the alleyway, over near O'Leary's bar.' Watters remembered the place, a local bar that miners frequented after a hard day, always trouble happening there. 

'Let me guess, another drunk on a fence again?' 

'Worse sir, a child.' 

'A child,' Watters's stomach wrenched as Daniels looked away troubled. But who on earth could it be, he thought. 'What on—at this hour? Wh—' Watters stammered, before being interrupted. 

'You better grab your coat doctor.' Daniels said, pointing to a nearby coat rack. 'The chief wants to see you.' 

The first slice of dawn was creeping over the horizon, painting the sky a brilliant orange and pink. Watters sighed, a deep dread falling upon him. "Okay, let's go." He extinguished his oil lamp and grabbed his black wool peacoat.. 

Watters was Barrowham's town doctor, and only coroner. Nights like this didn't come often, but when they did, the results were often tragic, and tonight, Watters feared, would be no different.