Mischief Mayhem Managed
Malmö lay under a fog of silence, though the sun shone brightly overhead. In this, the tenth summer since the Outbreak, Man had long since fled the old urban sprawls. Even with the Cure, fighting grosslings was no easy endeavor, and the more tightly packed the grosslings, the harder it got.
No, nothing stirred in the slowly crumbling agglomerations of glass and steel and concrete so seemingly bereft of life. Yet a twisted form of life remained, lurking and awaiting its opportunity to strike.
The sun was setting as the Cat-Tank crept into the university green. It would be a warm, dark night, the kind Men had learned to fear as “grossling nights”.
Once the last rays of the sun had vanished, rather than remaining as silent as possible, a set of hastily scavenged loudspeakers deployed, briefly squealing with high-pitched feedback before utterly shattering the usual nightly calm in the derelict city. Thundering, raucous music bellowed out in a tune first created and recorded in this very city, in a defiant challenge to the new rulers of the night.
For long minutes after the song ended, nothing seemed to stir on the green. Silence held sway for nearly an hour, until something shifted, like dry leaves rustling in a soft evening breeze.
The “cat ear” floodlights pulsed briefly,momentarily illuminating a crowd of hundreds or even thousands of grosslings of all shapes and sizes surrounding the Cat-Tank.
It was time.
Suddenly, thick barricades of twisted steel dropped into place, sealing off every exit from the green. The loudspeakers blared out again, but in a short and simple message rather than a song. “Oh, look. NOW YOU CAN’T LEAVE.”
Perhaps whatever was left of the humans in that vast assemblage of trolls and giants understood that message; perhaps the predators recognized an ambush not unlike the ones they tended to lay themselves. Whatever the reason, a shudder of unease rustled through the grosslings, but before any could begin a stampede away from the bait, it began.
Flames gouted in all directions from the crouching little vehicle, matched by fiery jets from the barricades as the edges of the crowd belatedly began to try to escape. This night belonged to Man, as would Malmö once more.
*
That particular trap only worked once, of course; but it had worked, and well enough that Cleansing Malmö, once beyond even the fantasies spewed by wild-eyed men, was virtually assured. In the months that followed, the grossling were pushed further and further back, until the day finally came when a cat could strut from one end of the city to the other without a hint of alarm.
Years only seem short when they’re fairly uneventful. It took many long years to Cleanse the rest of Sweden, Norway and Finland, but finally, and with no little elation, the Nordic Armies were ready to strike south into Denmark.
By this time, Iceland had been forced to open its borders, but only after a renovated Norwegian gunboat squadron had taken a lone ship of the Icelandic Coast Guard--by absorbing all the fire she could dish out until her magazines were empty, and then firing a warning shot across her bow. At that point, the Icelandic captain decided they would talk.
Now Icelander, Dane, Norwegian, Swede and Finn alike were ready to retake Silent Zealand. The Danes, particularly, held it as almost a holy endeavor.
*
After the Battle of Kastrup was won by the combined armies after the headstrong Danes had almost managed to lose it, what an ancient Sage of War had called “Methodismus” was put into play. Bit by bit, plot by plot, sometimes inch by inch was Copenhagen retaken.
Far off in Malmö, the six unlikely heroes who had made it all possible lay in a cenotaph of honor, and every year, the citizens held a Fire Festival in memory of the little band that had saved the city--and brought it a bit of mayhem.
