War Mice: Sample Chapter

Jan 28

Chapter 1: Lock and Load

White fur shifted as Eaton licked his paw. The mouse pushed up the side of his snout, and pale claws passed through twitching whiskers. Eyes open or closed, he could feel it—the pound of his beating heart. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Concise, the quick beats were clear in his lowered ears.

Soon… he would enter combat. It was only a matter of time. His nose twitched, and he dropped a paw, claws clenching. "I'm not out there yet," he mumbled. "This is still base. I'm still on base."

He picked up a second magazine. Bullets clicked as they entered multiple cartridges. The patter of support mice was barely audible, drowned by the rattle of pellet rounds ferried to the center points of the chamber's ten long tables. Chain-mailed with vest plates, army mice levied slung rifles as they loaded ammo, their legs straddled benches and wiry tails austerely tucked by sides. Wide and low, the hollow's earthen walls cradled a burgeoning capacity of dark-eyed soldiers, support personnel, and observant leadership beyond the company size it was carved for.

Obscurely poised near the southern edge of a middle table, Eaton shifted from a squatted position. One leg on a bench and the other off. Sharp clicks rang out as rifle hammers slammed, the more astute soldiers multitasking function checks with absent conversation. Head down, the white mouse made an effort not to mingle. It was always better to stay quiet. Fewer names to remember made for fewer memories.

Muted glow stones flickered above. Pale in the depressed chamber, the embedded pebbles clustered across the walls like murals. Eaton stared at his magazine. Sharpened claws tapped the plastic in a tremble. The pellet beads were loaded at full capacity. All that was left was to strap the mag in his vest. He glanced at the ammo bucket on his right. Inside was a commingled half of coal and mauve tinted substances. When loaded, the metallic balls shot along a rifle’s inner grooves with the forward slam of the hammer. Spat into open air, the heated fusion of alloys burst a bullet through armor and ripped free flesh and bone. Bloody business.

It’s war, Eaton thought. It's what happens. He blinked. Death… is what always happens.

His crimson eyes shifted and met a superior’s gaze. The mouse looked down, pale whiskers twitching in alabaster fur. Silently, he raised a paw and slipped the magazine over his vest plate of body armor. Pulling on his chest, he tightened a strap and secured it in place.

To forget, he tried not to think. To not remember. To go numb. Numb for the last tour and its bodies. Its blood. The screams that tore around him. The desperation that screeched from his lungs in helpless cries.

To live, to live, to live… he thought, and small teeth clicked with the close of his jaw. I’ll live and live—live again. The mouse rubbed his nose. “That’s all I can do.”

In the expanse of the carved hollow, low light shone over the quiet preparation of Mice Company-D.

“Private,” a gruff voice called.

Eaton stiffened, one ear flew back and the other forward. His paw lost grip on a cylinder cartridge, and the plastic drum hit the floor. Hind claws scrapped the earth, and the vibration rippled out as another mouse approached from behind. Out of habit, Eaton touched paw to snout, a submissive greeting.

“Me, sir?” He asked, deep red gaze flicking up. Beady black eyes looked down at him. Sharp yellow teeth pulled back in a half smile as the hulking mouse appraised him. Puffed around his neck dangled a rank coin threaded by a cord. The albino mouse stared at the three chevron symbol and swallowed. He was outranked.

"Yeah, you, Private Eaton," the Sergeant said, chain-mail jingling. Broad chested with a white underbelly, his fur was darker than night. A pale patch skewed above his left eye and jaggedly crossed down his snout, the remnant of a scar. "What are you doing? You still have a stack of mags. Get your head out of the soil and move faster."

“I’m—I’m—I am… Sergeant Edgar,” Eaton stuttered. He averted his eyes and reached for the plastic drum.

The black mouse snorted, his wide maw clashing absently on chew seed. “You think so, huh?”

"Yes, sergeant."

“Too bad that ain’t what it looks like,” Edgar adjusted the strap of his rifle and let it fall across his chest. “What it looks like—”

“But it is sergeant,” Eaton said, drum in paw. He shifted a foot. “I don’t have much of a stack left.”

Edgar’s eyebrows rose, “Did you just…interrupt me?”

“N-n-no, sergeant.”

"Little pipsqueak Private," The dark buck's mouth worked hard on the pitted chew. "Thinking you got words. That your weed-brain got the right to talk back to a superior?"

“No sir… I—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Private Eaton. I gave an order,” The large mouse folded his arms. “Put the bullets in your mag faster. Now!”

The albino looked down, “Yes, sergeant.”

Edgar pursed lips, and with a grunt, turned head. Spitting, a dark wad smacked the ground. Chew seed remnants swirled, glistening in the low light. Eaton stepped back, disturbed. His nose quivered and a dark paw pushed across the Sergeant’s jaw as he wiped saliva.

“Next I come back, you better not be holding an empty magazine, Private.”

“Un-understood, sergeant.”

Edgar turned, “You’d better.” The male paused, raised snout to air, and walked away.

Head down, Eaton released a silent breath. “Finally,” he whispered.

Leveraging the magazine drum with his paw, the pale mouse fished a pellet bead from the table's ammo bucket. Held tight by his claws, he pressed the ball into the drum. Pre-filled with hybrid ello powder, the tiny rounds' post-fusion impact could often prove fatal. The short soldier followed the first bullet with more, clicking them in place. Gradually, as the drum filled, so too did his thudding heart slow to calm in quiet relief.

The albino glanced at his rifle. Rested against a stool, the dark weapon glistened. Crude oil exuded slightly from pinned attachments, and as a drop welled into a trickle, Eaton pressed a claw against the metal to staunch its flow. It was per regulations for a gun to be well oiled. The more lubrication, the longer it would take for bullet friction and ello powder to jam it up.

Eaton rubbed together slick fingers, "When it jams…" he muttered, "there's no coming back from it." There could be no "should haves" on the field. Second thoughts meant death.

He had seen it and nearly lived it. Eaton lowered his paw, remembering the dig of claws in earth—his claws. He’d reached out in dirt, ears pinned back against an onslaught of enemy fire. Body flat and stretching below the cover of a bramble, white tuffs tore from his pelt by thorns. Still, he snagged metal and drew it in, grasping close the weapon of a fallen comrade. Eye to scope, the frosty lense didn’t deter him. Even after his own had jammed, he steadied it against his shoulder and pulled the trigger.

Despite the inherent functionality of military-grade rifles, their scope's magnified glass didn't narrow accuracy. On the ground, all a mouse could rely on was hope. Prayers that an auto-spray would reach his enemy. Overwhelming firepower was all that gave those prayers a sparkle of fulfillment. Estimate, aim, and pull the trigger. The rest depended on luck.

Eaton shook his head and hoisted his rifle from the stool. Pulling its strap over him, he jammed the drum magazine into its well. "With enough rounds downrange, you're bound to hit something," he said. He bit his lip, "So says the four-star."

"It's taboo to quote the general, Eaton," The quiet reminder drifted by his shoulder. Neck-fur ruffled as his lowered gaze flicked sideways. Round copper eyes stared back. Long-nosed with sharp angular features, the female watched without a smile.

“I—” he began, “I didn’t.”

"Really… that's strange. I clearly heard you."

The rank coin around her scrawny neck hung loosely—three chevrons above one rocker—a staff sergeant. Ears instinctively flattening with the quicken of his heartbeat, a round slipped through Eaton's claws. The bullet struck the floor.

“Hello, staff sergeant,” he squeaked.

Her gaze habitually glanced at his rank coin. A patterned patchwork of beige and cinnamon, the Sergeant, hardly stood at three inches. Her slender body was dwarfed by her snowy subordinate, despite his runt like size. Young for her position, perhaps only a couple seasons his senior, she was less than two cycles old.

“I’ve been here for some time, Private,” Sergeant Bradle said and brushed aside a whisker on her mottled face. The fur around her eyelids was dark, a sign of stress. “I’d advise you to work on your situational awareness.”

Eaton nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”

The doe pointed a dark claw at the ground, “Pick it up.”

Without a word, the pale mouse scooped it quickly and peeked up through lashes. The female moved forward and placed a paw on the table. She glanced briefly at the four soldiers working closely on the opposite side, then her gaze shifted back to him, "How's everything coming along?"

"Well," Eaton pipped and put a paw over his last two empty magazines. "Almost done."

"I see…" The Sergeant's dark eyes passed over the full caches in his vest. "Good progress, but you've been working alone, right? That's why you're not already done. Remember, we work to complete the mission as a team. Ask a fellow soldier to help you and finish up quickly," She paused and re-clasped her vest strap. "The company will report to the briefing in twenty. That means you have five minutes, Private."

Eaton’s paw tightened on the pellet bead, “Yes, staff sergeant.”

“I’ll see you there then,” The female mouse shifted, her chain-mail jingling as she stepped away.

Eaton’s head dipped. Silent, he lifted an empty magazine and pushed his bullet into its top. “Fellow soldiers,” he mumbled. “Someday… we’ll all die out there.” He reached out and fished another round from the bucket, “N-no—no memories are the best memories.”

Hello! We’re D.J. Hoskins.

We are Davena and Jason Hoskins, co-authors of 30+ books and siblings who write under the pseudonym D.J. Hoskins. Three years apart and in our twenties, we have been fascinated by stories from a young age. Davena is a student attending Princeton University, and Jason attends Georgetown University.

Read our story here.