Shattered Scrapemetal Symphony: Mech Troopers, #4

By Charles Eugene Anderson

In a war-ravaged Texas, where the echoes of a shattered nation ring out like a scrapemetal symphony, Captain Amelia "Frog" Hayes leads a band of elite mech pilots in a desperate fight against the relentless advance of the rebel forces. Amidst the rubble and ruin of once-great cities, Frog and her team must confront not only the enemy but also the ghosts of their pasts and the uncertain future.

From the blood-soaked streets of Waco to the haunted shores of the Gulf Coast, Shattered Scrapemetal Symphony is a gritty, action-packed exploration of the bonds forged in the heat of combat and the sacrifices that must be made in the name of loyalty and duty. As the conflict escalates and the lines between friend and foe blur, Frog and her squad are pushed to the brink, forced to question the very cause they fight for and the price they are willing to pay for victory.

With each mech destroyed and each comrade lost, Frog must find the strength to carry on, even as the weight of her brother's memory threatens to crush her. In a world where the only constant is the deafening roar of mechanized warfare, she must lead her team through the fog of war and the shadows of their own doubts, forging a path to redemption one bullet at a time.

Shattered Scrapemetal Symphony is a must-read for fans of Robotech, Battletech, and Ghost in the Shell. Strap in and prepare for a pulse-pounding journey through a neo-western landscape of mechanized warfare and personal sacrifice, where the only thing louder than the guns is the beating of the human heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mad Cow Press
• Release date: Jan 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224375547

Charles Eugene Anderson

Charles Eugene Anderson lives in Colorado. Chuck is a former teacher. He now spends his time writing, hanging out with his pup, Champ, and learning how to bake. More about Chuck at http://charleseugeneanderson.com

Book preview

ONE

WACO WIPEOUT: THE ATTEMPT TO UN-HOME THE UNHINGED

The sorry sight of Waco looked like the aftermath of a blender mishap - buildings slumped over like they'd given up on standing tall while streets became obstacle courses. The occasional far-off boom was a memo for anyone who forgot this wasn't Mayberry anymore.

From a killer view of the wrecked city, Captain Amelia Frog Hayes scoped out her fixer-upper neighborhood, hawk eyes searching for anything daring to move without her permission. She stood amidst our apocalyptic playground while we tried not to soil armor.

Her shiny pet Mantis squatted behind, ready to go blender blade.

Just then, like a ghost, the Vindicator slipped through the debris, unseen until its sleek form was upon the enemy. Even in the jaws of hell, bandit, ever the jester, delivered his brand of silent havoc. Now you see me, now you don't, he'd quip over comms as his Vindicator's adaptive camouflage snatched silhouettes from sight, a phantom until gunshots spelled out its presence.

Places, folks! Frog sliced the silence. We scrambled to avoid being the slowpoke with Frog conducting her orchestra of destruction.

The baddies swarmed as if gatecrashing our party. Gunfire and mech swords clashed like old friends.

Frog was in her zone, barking orders between bullets. Swing left, park eyes on that sniper! Her voice gave each shot GPS coordinates.

As I steadied my aim for the next shot, Bandit's Vindicator shimmered into existence beside me, its sleek form a blur as the AI-targeting system effortlessly identified and neutralized threats with surgical precision. 'Dance of death, anyone?' Bandit's voice crackled with mischief over comms, the Vindicator dispatching enemies before they could register its presence.

Nearby, Hawkins seemed to be in a ballet of his own, the artillery responding to his touch as if part of him, each shell dispatched with a grace that belied their destructive intent. Jax, silent as the grave, transformed each pull of the trigger into an art form, his targets falling before the echo of his shots faded. Rico, ever the showman, turned the battlefield into his arcade, his machine gun's fire bouncing with unnerving accuracy. And there, in the thick of it, Mantis moved with a knight's deliberate, deadly grace, its armor gleaming even in the dim light, a steadfast guardian among us. Together, our actions interlocked into a dance of survival, each movement, each decision, weaving us tighter into a tapestry of orchestrated chaos, a testament to our bond and determination.

Hawkins manned the artillery with innate skill, each shot as natural as breath. Through his scope, Jax turned each target into a meticulous masterpiece of marksmanship. Rico, with his machine gun, played a deadly game of pinball, ricocheting bullets with precision. Meanwhile, Mantis donned its complex armor and moved with the grace and power of a knight from an ancient tale. Together, they wove through the chaos, a seamless unit, orchestrating survival with the deftness of a seasoned squad.

But even in the best choreography, someone trips. An RPG came at us, vendetta style. Mantis backhanded it like a fly at a BBQ.

Yo, Mantis! How about some fans while you're at it? Gettin' roasted in this heat! Snowman's Frostbite clanked up next to us, sweltering inside. The man loved his AC more than most love oxygen.

Come take point then if you're melting back there, Ice Queen, I shot back.

The good times skidded out when enemy fire took down some Bravos. Their cries were a gut-punch reminder that no one gets out clean.

We're staying put! Frog said with enough volume to wake the dead and give 'em a directive or two. She packed authority into each vowel, rallying the squad.

We scrambled into our off-key orchestra. The rebels thought they had our number, but Frog the maestro had other plans. Front and center, Mantis! Jax, occupy 'em! Hawkins, shine time!

We were the tide about to teach some poor saps to swim fast. And dang if we weren't good teachers.

Eventually, Waco settled into an uneasy peace, like a suspicious cat room full of rocking chairs.

We huddled around Frog, our beacon of not dying, eyeing the price tag of survival.

Frog landed with a metal thud. We stand, she whispered, steady as a tax audit. Everything wrapped neatly in those two words - her silent promise to guide us through hell's backyard barbecue.

As Waco tried tucking away the day's mess, Frog studied victory's sticky price and the buy one, get eight free special on future throwdowns.

Yo Frog, any chance we could get hazard pay for this dump? Snowman muttered, kicking an errant piece of debris. My therapist says I deserve something for puttin' up with y'all.

Frog cracked the barest smile. What therapist?

Okay, fine, my mom then.

We busted out laughing, the release feeling foreign after the chaos. Leave it to Snowman to find humor in a day like this.

While we played hot potato with reports and grabbed shuteye, Frog geared up