Chapter 123: Stupid Order
"They’re shooting at the floorboards!" Estrada shouted in horror, scrambling away from where the floor trembled and cracked sharply beneath the impact of the bullets from the Pulajan fighters below.
A futile attempt. The floor wasn’t made of bamboo, or even ordinary timber. I recognized the reddish-brown planks beneath us: Narra, a native hardwood prized for its density and durability. Dense enough to stop or deflect a bullet—at least for now. That was why I hadn’t considered the same tactic when we were the ones attacking from below.
The real threat wasn’t the floor. It was the only entry point in the room—the stairs. Teniente Medina and a couple of soldiers held the makeshift barricade at the landing. So far, they had held it well. The upturned desks, overturned chairs, and shelves that formed the barricade were all made from solid acacia or molave, providing reliable cover from gunfire.
But we couldn’t hold this position forever.
It was a strange comfort to hear Vicente’s voice from below—shouting, barking orders, alive and near enough for his voice to be heard above the gunshots.
With a weary sigh, I forced myself to set aside the grief clawing at my chest. I had already frozen twice in this battle. Perhaps age was finally catching up to me. My hands trembled more now, and the heart betrayed me more than it used to. Older bones, older wounds—older regrets.
I crawled toward the nearby window, knees groaning against the tiled floor, and placed a hand on the sill as I peered out through the bullet-scarred shutters.
Sure enough, to our left, I saw nothing but rayadillos—our troops—ducking behind corners and fences where Pulajanes had been firing from minutes earlier. They covered two directions, trading fire with the cultists entrenched inside the ground floor of the presidencia and few shooters along the southern flank who had noticed the breach.
It took a while for me to spot Vicente. When I did, I almost cursed again.
I saw him as he sprinted out of the door of a nearby house, cutting across the open ground toward the presidencia, a squad trailing behind. Cristobal remained in the house, leading his men to provide suppressive fire—successive volleys erupting from the windows and doorway like thunderclaps.
It was a risky tactic. We had tried something similar earlier, but now the defenders were more prepared, and Vicente’s men only had single-shot Remingtons.