Ambush

Listening to Signor Martelli's worried whimpers, Francisco, the golden thug, roared with laughter, then spat a scornful stream of tobacco juice onto the muddy ground.

"Signor Martelli, I swear, you've become as timid as a startled rabbit lately! I heard you had a nightmare the night before last, screaming 'Don't kill me!' Damn it, you're too cowardly! Show some of your old spirit, gentlemen! Have you forgotten when you fought valiantly on that ferry, covering Signor Bronte with your very lives? Why have you shriveled into this sniveling coward just by witnessing one battle? What if a few people did defeat sixty? Chasing a train is inherently easy to defend and hard to attack. If we were on that train at that time, we could easily do the same, you cowardly fool!"

Listening to Francisco's arrogant, booming boasts, Signor Martelli shook his head, his face pale with dread.

"No, no, no! You don't understand! If they simply retaliated, that would be nothing, but every bullet they fire can accurately kill a person! That's what terrifies me! Francisco, you arrogant bastard, this means the Van der Linde Gang can easily shoot us dead whenever they please!"

"Nonsense, we can also shoot them dead!" Francisco laughed loudly, his chest puffed out like a preening rooster. "Oh, Mr. Martelli, if you continue to be so timid, I think you—"

"Boom!!!"

A series of thunderous, earth-shattering explosions instantly drowned out the arrogant remarks of Francisco, the golden thug, silencing his smug grin and making his slightly disdainful heart suddenly skip a beat.

"This is bad!" The thought flashed through Francisco's mind, a cold spear of dread. He barely registered it when a colossal impact slammed into him from the side. The explosions were impossibly loud, accompanied by blinding flashes of fire.

Even the very shockwave of the blast was clearly visible, a rippling distortion in the air, tearing through Francisco as he was caught in its merciless embrace.

A massive, unseen force slammed into his side and from beneath him. Francisco felt no pain, not at first; he was already airborne, hurled violently to the ground by the sheer, unbridled power of the explosion. The legs of the horse beneath him simply vanished, vaporized in a sickening crimson spray, and the entire animal was slammed to the ground, whimpering, frothing at the mouth with blood.

Objects, small and insignificant, like pebbles and shards of bone, became deadly projectiles, propelled by the shockwave, shooting towards Francisco. Some merely stung, but others, with terrifying force, directly penetrated his flesh.

"Bang!"

An insignificant tremor sounded in the aftermath of the cataclysm. The arrogant Mr. Francisco, moments ago so full of bluster, lay on the ground, covered in his own blood, his mind a completely dazed and confused wreck by the sheer, brutal shock.

The next moment, amidst the terrified neighing of horses and the anguished wailing of men, a piercing, primal scream suddenly erupted.

"Ahhhhhh!!!" Signor Martelli, already a quivering mess of nerves thanks to the Van der Linde Gang, luckily escaped the worst of the explosion due to his position on the inside of the formation. But the sheer force of the blast completely shattered his remaining courage.

He screamed and wailed, his horse, terrified by the deafening explosion, bolted madly into the nearby swamp, without any urging from Martelli. It vanished from the scene, escaping before the carriage carrying the Maxim gun could even arrive, before anyone could react.

Francisco's mind was a muddled, disoriented mess from the concussive shock. He stared blankly at Signor Martelli's rapidly fleeing back, his brain almost unable to process, completely incapable of reacting. And the very next moment, a carriage, ominously carrying a Maxim gun, rumbled into his dazed line of sight.

"Da da da da da..."

The piercing, guttural roar of the machine gun took over the battlefield, a cacophony of death.

"Hahahahaha, all of you die!!!" Mac shrieked with arrogant glee, operating the Maxim gun on the carriage. He sprayed bullets wildly, indiscriminately, into the terrified, disoriented crowd on the road, who had been thrown into utter disarray by the explosion.

The bullets from the Maxim gun, with their immense, tearing impact, turned the scene into an unimaginably bloody carnage. Even if they merely grazed a hand or a leg, the joints would be directly blown off, causing the person to almost instantly lose the ability to resist, to even stand.

And John, Davey, Sean, and Bill, hidden like silent, deadly specters in the dense bushes, unleashed their own furious fusillade of rifle fire. Night had already cloaked the land, and in this swampy wilderness, the blinding flashes of gunfire and the concussive explosions replaced the light of the absent sun, illuminating the entire scene in ghastly, flickering bursts.

"Da da da da da..."

"Ahhhhhh!!!"

The mechanical scream of the machine gun and the piercing shrieks of dying men echoed through the swamp. Under the brutal, indiscriminate suppression of the Maxim gun, which treated all lives with equal contempt, the few gunmen who had not been significantly affected by the initial explosion dared not even contemplate resistance.

In fact, merely standing still on horseback was an act of profound disrespect and utter disbelief in the terrifying power of the Maxim gun. The sheer, relentless sound of that infernal machine even made them afraid to look back. One after another, they galloped wildly, fleeing in all directions, scrambling desperately into the choking embrace of the swamp.

However, the Maxim gun and the other gunmen of the Van der Linde Gang were not to be trifled with. Those who tried to escape were mercilessly shot dead from their horses by rifle or pistol bullets from behind within a matter of feet.

Perhaps some fortunate, or perhaps truly unfortunate, souls would not be hit in vital areas, allowing them to successfully escape into the swamp. But the inevitable smell of their own blood, attracting the monstrous crocodiles and swarms of mosquitoes, would be enough to cost them the remaining half of their wretched lives.

And the half of the people who had been directly caught in the bomb explosion were nothing more than living targets under the machine gun's relentless hail. Their dazed, confused minds didn't even have time to register fear before their bodies were brutally perforated by the machine gun's relentless bullets.

The piercing, metallic gunfire, like the relentless tolling of a death knell, finally, slowly, agonizingly ceased. The already red-hot muzzle of the Maxim gun, smoking and hissing, declared the immense effort it had expended.

The entire swamp road was a grisly tableau of severed limbs and broken bodies. There was hardly a single complete corpse in sight. Even the horses, innocent victims of this brutal onslaught, were dismembered, their flesh torn and scattered by the machine gun's fury. A thick, cloying stench of blood and decay assaulted the senses, a nauseating perfume of death.

These loyal gunmen and their mounts, painstakingly raised and paid by Signor Bronte, had possessed absolutely no power to resist under the combined assault of the machine gun and Randy's ingenious bombs. They had been transformed, in mere moments, from expensive, professional subordinates into cheap, anonymous flesh and blood.

"Oh, f*ck! This is too bloody, too brutal!" Mac jumped down from the carriage, his face contorted in a grimace of disgust. Even these hardened killers, accustomed to violence, found such a scene truly repellent.

"Alright, gentlemen, don't let your guard down. Seven or eight still got away," Davey said, his voice grim, glancing at the blood-soaked road. He turned to his men. "I don't want to lose any of you because of a moment's lapse in vigilance."

After the brutal baptism of explosions and relentless gunfire, the swamp, now shrouded in the deepening cloak of night, finally fell into an unnerving, complete silence.

Davey shook his head at the gruesome sight, then looked at the weary, masked faces of his gang members. "Alright, gentlemen, this ambush was a perfect ambush. I think Signor Bronte should know what we mean business now! But as good citizens of America, gentlemen," he added, a hint of his usual dry humor returning, "I think we need to clean up the scene. This is in line with the requirements Dutch set for us."

He pointed towards the scattered remains. "John, Mac, you two be vigilant of the surroundings, watch out for those remaining seven or eight people who might counterattack. And Sean, Bill, Lenny, the three of you come with me to clean up these bodies, gentlemen. All these bodies need to be loaded onto the wagon and thrown into the swamp over there. As for the blood," he gestured to the murky waters, "I think the natural flow of this swamp is enough to wash it clean."

"Oh, sh*t, I really don't want to do this dirty work, Davey," Bill whined, his eyes wide with revulsion as he stared at the carnage. He glanced at John beside him. "Marston, how about we swap jobs?"

"No, Bill, your marksmanship isn't good enough to watch the surroundings," John retorted, shaking his head. He didn't want to do this grisly task either. A proper bath was hard to come by in Saint Denis, and every time he dared to dip into the lake, he'd emerge covered in mosquito bites.

"Come on, Bill. These are all men's bodies, ain't they your favorite, buddy!" Mac, that foul-mouthed bastard, roared with laughter, then, with a mischievous grin, bent down and picked up a particularly prominent, severed limb, throwing it playfully towards Bill.

"Oh, sh*t! Mac!" Bill shrieked, his face a mask of pure horror and outrage. "I swear if you mock me again, I'll personally smash your goddamn balls!"