Prologue

The Order, a theocratic authoritarian state, had been locked in a devastating war with the cryptid rebellion for over fifty years. 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 stench 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 Trenchmen's home. This was Watters' home. 

The once pleasant sounds of birdsong and buzzing bees were replaced by the crack of bullets and thunderous mortar fire. He was in hell. 

A wounded soldier, no older than nineteen, lay before him, tears streaming down his dirt caked face as his guts lay out across the mud. "I-I can't feel my-my legs, Doc!" he gasped. 

Watters's blood-soaked hands shook as he tried to comfort the doomed boy, a victim of stray shrapnel. The reek of blood and mud was suffocating. "Stay with me," Watters pleaded, his voice hoarse, desperately trying to contain the spilling intestines. "Just stay with me!" A bullet zipped through the young soldier's skull. Watters' hands froze, blood dripping from his fingers, the boy's unseeing eyes mirroring a dozen others lost to this crusade. Damn it, Watters thought, his stomach twisting. He was just a boy. The ground trembled with the relentless mortar barrage. 

"Trenchman!" a grizzled voice cracked from afar. Watters scanned the corpse-laden hellscape. "Trenchman! Fall in!" Further down the trench, the Lieutenant Bishop waved frantically, pressed against the slippery mud wall. "Fall in! We move!" he screamed, pointing towards a nearby wooden ladder. 

Watters stared back at the dead soldier. For what? Another boy gone—for the Messiah's glory, or just more mud? 

"Trenchman! Fall In!" The Lieutenant Bishop roared, his voice raspy and muffled by his helmet. 

Watters swallowed his dread and turned to his commander. 

The Lieutenant Bishop's armor, once gleaming white, was now stained gray, caked in blood and dirt. His cape, tattered and frayed, clung to the mud wall. 

Watters slammed against the wall, facing his commander. "We move once air support clears them out. Ready your redeemer!" The commander's voice 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 harsh. 

Jet engines screamed overhead. "Are you ready, Trenchman?!" he yelled as bombs rained down ahead. 

Knocking awakened the doctor. It was a dream. 

A deep, tired sigh escaped Watters's lips as he pinched the bridge of his nose. The knocking persisted. Dawn was breaking, but his first appointment wasn't until afternoon. 

The soft glow of his oil lamp illuminated the narrow hallway as Watters shuffled to the front door. "Okay, okay, I'm up. Hold on!" he called, rubbing his eyes. He opened the door to find, Officer Daniels. 

Daniels looked troubled, as if he'd seen a ghost. "Sorry to wake you, Doctor, but we have a situation." 

"A situation?" Watters asked, rubbing his eyes. 

"There's been an attack," Daniels said, shuddering, his face pale, eyes teary. 

"Where?" 

"In the alleyway, near O'Leary's bar." 

"Another drunk on a fence?" 

"Worse sir, a child." 

"A child?" Watters's stomach wrenched. "What on—at this hour? Who—?" 

"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 settling upon him. "Okay, let's go." He extinguished his oil lamp and grabbed his black wool peacoat. 

Watters was Barrowham's town doctor, and coroner. Nights like this were rare, but when they came, the results were often tragic. Tonight, Watters feared, would be no different.