The Maggot Colony

by Grave Blackened

  Copyright © 2019 Grave Blackened. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved under the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, the Universal Copyright Convention and the Berne Convention For The Protection Of Literary And Artistic Works. The author of this book secures all rights to this book, including the right to reproduce this book in whole or in part, in any form whatsoever, and extends such privileges to absolutely no other parties, individuals or companies. Not including eBook exemptions of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, in whole or in part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means including, but not limited to, all existing and yet to be invented information duplicating, storage or retrieval systems, without specific permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages.

  PUBLISHED AND MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  First International eBook Printing: August 2019

  Table Of Contents

  Chapter One - You Made The Right Decision

  Chapter Two - (Not Yet!) Past His Bedtime

  Chapter Three - Dopefiend Soldiers

  Chapter Four - Two Fools Who Laugh At Death

  Chapter Five - A Peculiar Conversation Between Old Friends

  Chapter Six - All Fled, All Done

  Chapter Seven - Hello, Alone

  Chapter Eight - Monk Mode Rhapsody

  Chapter Nine - C-Type

  Chapter Ten - Don't Question The Light

  Chapter Eleven - Girls In White Dresses

  Chapter Twelve - Through A Holocauster, Darkly

  Chapter Thirteen - Aftermath

  Glossary

  Chapter One

  You Made The Right Decision

  call sign: Six-by

  unit type: space marine

  location : The Good Shepherd (launch bay)

  * * *

  “CONGRATULATIONS! YOU WON!” The voice belongs to Hangman and he is laughing when he says it. Yes, the Hangman. Heavy Weapons from Sect Most Vicious, laughing in my face, patting me on the shoulder, welcoming me to the team. It’s the stuff of legend, every puke marine’s dream is to make one of the first line fire teams.

  I’m not kidding when I say I’m sure I don’t deserve the honor.

  Hangman laughs again. There is no mirth in his laughter, but there is camaraderie. Something that is wholly alien to me.

  How I got glad-handed into Most Vicious is a long story and it’s time consuming. The one sentence version is this: my first day in combat everything went horribly wrong, the rest of my unit was killed and my right leg was blown off from the knee down, I had the honor of witnessing the most heroic act I could possibly imagine, then half of Most Vicious got killed and I banded together with the surviving members and we fought our way back to the safety of The Good Shepherd then folded to the other side of the galaxy.

  That was fifteen minutes ago.

  Now, back aboard The Good Shepherd we are anywhere but safe and the fight is anything but over.

  I, with my new teammates, am rushing down a darkened corridor, there is nothing to see but the path forward, slowly revealing itself in the muted blues and soft greens of the guidance lights that twinkle on and off as we rush past. We are heading from the recovery bay that just hauled us out of the shit to the launch platform. I have no clue where we’re being sent next but the voice of Fleet booms from the ship’s squawk box, apprising us of the situation.

  “I will not bullshit you. Our situation is dire, is it ever not?” says Fleet, no hint of humor in his amplified voice.

  “The space fold operation was a mixed success. We have evaded the Krag Subjugation forces and achieved irregular orbit around the target planet of Debron IV. However, the maneuver was not without issue. Our kernel engineers have calculated a significant over usage of energy. Estimated at more than three times the projected energy allotment. Further depleting our already dangerously low fuel stores.”

  Fleet continues, the news, not surprisingly, doesn’t get better.

  “In addition to our pressing lack of energy, the space fold drives cracked and will need immediate repair. A team of kernels is combing the historical databases looking for a restoration procedure. Due to the recent shortages of material even with a valid procedure it is unlikely we will be able to repair the drive. As a last resort we will attempt the cannibalization of the remaining vestigial areas aboard The Good Shepherd.”

  He pauses a moment to let that sink in. We’re outta gas. The engines are broken. We’re not sure we can fix them.

  “We are not without recourse.”

  You gotta love Fleet’s optimism. I mean that. Sincerely. I’m not too far gone that I don’t wish I could muster some myself.

  “Fortunately, Debron IV is an excellent candidate to harvest both material and energy from. The next synchronization opportunity is in five minutes. We are sending down an advance team of vurkers to scout the planet’s surface then construct a base of operations and establish our supply chain.”

  To be honest my balls could use some more pubic hairs but I’m old enough that my days of making sarcastic comments between statements of my superiors are behind me. So I just keep my mouth shut and gimp leg be damned hustle down the dark corridors as best as I can.

  Wasting no more time, Fleet wraps up his broadcast. “To escort the vurkers we are tasking 1st Marine fire team, Most Vicious. Supporting them will be 3rd Marine fire team, That Aggressive. As always, the situation remains both highly fluid and extremely precarious, I will update the Apocalypse with your mission objectives before you jump.”

  And that’s how I made the cut. Not because I was good. Or because I deserved it. But because we had five minutes to sync, and I was still in my pathogen armor ready for combat and already heading towards the launch platform. I didn’t earn my place, I wasn’t chosen by fate, there just wasn’t anybody else available.

  I’m not going to shame myself. The ship is dying. We have no choice. This must be done.

  But I know I’m not the right person for the job. I’m fatigued. Probably traumatized. Just barely able to hobble on this stumpy thing that’s all that remains of my leg. But there you have it. Life sucks and the facts are I’m all out of excuses.

  Nor am I alone.

  A corpuscler dogs my every not-a-step. The little freaky fuck sets my teeth on edge. Yes, he’s human, but doesn’t look it at all. An unnerving glint in his evil damn eye. His white nursing suit still caked gray with ash and gore from the battlefield.

  He is either the bravest, or the stupidest person I have ever met. I know this because the last of the fighting on Tranquility was ferocious. Something big, nasty and extremely violent had gotten very close. Close enough to rip through pathogen armor and tear my leg off. With only minutes before the sync back to The Good Shepherd the corpuscler had detached himself from the lander and at great risk to himself crawled across the battlefield unsupported. His bitch tits–the two enormous white barrels strapped across his chest–bulge where just under half an hour ago I’d seen him stuff my leg after scavenging it from the battleground. Then pick his way back through the carnage and attach himself to the lander scant moments before we sync’d the hell off that shithole planet.

  Now, as I hobble after the rest of Most Vicious, he massages the stump of my missing knee, rubbing it with some sort of clear medical smelling liquid–probably a disinfectant or a painkiller draught.

  “Six-by…”

  The corpuscler looks at me. Then at my knee. Then back to me.

  A strange look on that strange face of his. Those damn eyes of his…

  I am convinced he is trying to tell me something. I’m not the best at reading people, I simply have no clue what
he’s trying to say.

  The moment passes.

  “No good,” he says finally.

  There are certain times in life where you just don’t want to hear those two words. When someone is trying to reattach the bottom half of your leg is near the top of that list.

  “You need to see a traumist,” he says instead.

  The corpuscler continues, telling me he has no choice. My leg won’t set in time, he has to use a substitute. I stop paying attention. We are falling behind the others. I struggle to catch up.

  Following me, the corpuscler spreads a glop of gray goop between his hands and rubs them together. Then smears the medical grease where my knee should be, talking to me in a low, heavily accented tone. His voice calm, reassuring. He never misses a beat. Muttering a stream of medical advice at me that I mostly ignore and entirely don’t understand. He acts as though it’s the most natural thing in the world to snatch someone’s leg from the heat of battle and then follow him down an unlit corridor of a dying spaceship trying to replace it in the hasty moments just before he syncs for the next fight.

  Medical types. Their dedication to the job cannot be questioned. If you can just overlook those off glinting eyes that I’m pretty sure mean something is not right in their head.

  We near the launch bay, where the lander that will send us down to the new theater on Debron IV is waiting.

  The battlefield is still being prepped.

  We have a few minutes while the kernels get the Trumpets up. Until they’re online we’re not going anywhere. Leaving irregular orbit without them would just be jumping to our deaths.

  The launch bay itself is enormous, we are swallowed by its endless darkness. Once again I am humbled at the mammoth size of the The Good Shepherd. A reminder of the glory of another age, and of how far we have fallen.

  Fifty thousand people could easily fit in here. Not that there will ever be that many humans alive again. Almost everyone who isn’t on duty or integral to the sync is here to see us off. Their gaunt, sallow faces greet our arrival. Precious few. We, the sole surviving members of the human race. The men mill about. Aimlessly. A scared, dazed look on their faces, unable to make eye contact.

  I am haunted by a nagging feeling, I should know these people. I should recognize these faces. And though they should be familiar, they are not.

  Men I don’t recognize call out to me. They know my name, but I don’t know theirs. Maybe it’s the blood loss. Maybe fatigue. Maybe the unreal amount of drugs my pathogen armor is surely pumping into me. My head’s not right. I might be traumatized. Have I said that already? I’m not sure.

  Nah, I’m shore of it. I’m traumatized. I know this because even though pathogen armor seems magical they aren’t magic. Dump enough blood in a bucket and even a marine will traumatize. And I lost a helluva lot more than a bucket.

  It has to be the drugs. Every not-a-step I take is an easy reminder something horrific must have happened to me. My suit knows this too, and so it is surely pumping cc after cc of an intoxicating mixture of fucking-no-regrets mixed with with you-won’t-feel-a-thing plus a hundred other chemicals I have no idea the name of through my bloodstream, forcing me to forget the horrors and ignore the pain. My addicted nervous system laps it up, eager to please. Of this there is absolutely no question.

  “Just go down there and make something happen,” a voice calls out.

  “Make something happen!” Someone else repeats.

  “Just make something happen!” A third voice takes up the mantra.

  I get it, they’re scared. We’re all scared.

  Fleet didn’t sugar coat, but he also didn’t spell it out. Humanity is doomed and the ship…

  Man, we can’t even keep the damn lights on.

  We all know this mission is only so much masturbation. Positioning men and material as quickly as possible then hoping a strategy will present itself before the next sync.

  Fuck it. I’ll say it. Since no one else will.

  The truth is–

  “Yo, Six-by! Whatever happens, man.” The shouts continue.

  “That’s all that matters. Just make something happen.”

  It’s like walking the gauntlet. They know I don’t belong here. I know I don’t belong here. Their shouts of encouragement are for their own sake.

  There is not much to see. The lights are off to save power, and it’s cold. I’ve breathed fresher air, but it’s nothing to complain about. In the center of the launch bay is a platform. With a lander. The loading ramps leading up to the lander are alive with a bustle of activity.

  I am neither a vurker nor a kernel and other than the obvious–they are loading heavy gear and cargo onto the lander–I’m honestly not exactly sure what they’re doing. Something to do with miles and miles of cable. And pipe.

  One vurker is hauling massive reinforced steel canisters–frosted so they look like kegs of beer, but sadly are not–one by one up the ramp and onto the lander.

  I see two other vurkers pulling a heavily loaded bulkloader up the ramp, crammed with I couldn’t tell you what but it looked impressive. Industrial shit you use to make cool stuff. The two vurkers have misjudged the weight, the load is too heavy for them, they stagger under the load and take a step back. The hauler they are lugging twists, then tips dangerously. It’s not threatening to fall over, it is falling over.

  Before the bulkloader collapses two men step up and lend a hand. They are quickly joined by two more and working together they right the cargo and help the vurkers finish pushing the over burdened hauler up the ramp.

  Fuck yeah, good looking out for. Never ask if you can help, just do it. Get the job done.

  A lesson I shoulda learned a long time ago.

  “Hup. Hup. Hup. Hup.” There is a huddle of twenty or so vurkers on the platform. They’re piloting multi-purpose construction vehicles. No surprise there. Arms entwined they move in a slow circle, chanting in unison.

  As each vurker finishes his loading duty he joins the huddle. Their circle grows a little larger. The hup-hup-hup chant grows a little louder.

  I assume these are the vurkers we’ll be escorting. Pumping themselves up for the mission to come. None of them carry a weapon. They aren’t wearing armor. They were going to build.

  Third Marine fire team, That Aggressive, comes bumfucking up the ramp. Just a team of space marines and their ethicist, trying to get their shit squared away. It’s not my place to point out I’ve seen monkeys shit fighting at the circus more organized. Nothing to be ashamed of. They’re just sober and scared, they weren’t on Tranquility. They’ll get it together.

  Now. Time for Most Vicious. First Marine fire team.

  First up is Omen, of course. He vaults to the platform of the lander, sleek and graceful. In his fist he holds his holocauster rifle. Wrath scrawled across the barrel, like he didn’t give a damn.

  From the assembled men there is mad cheering. There should be. The guy’s a fucking legend and man does he look the part. Omen has something I haven’t seen in years. Muscle tone. Impossibly broad shoulders. A muscular back that tapers to his waist. This is what human men are supposed to look like. Across the chest of his black pathogen armor a skull is splattered, the color of faded Krag ichor. He is either a world class artist or touched by the gods. Maybe both, he is Omen after all.

  Next, is Hangman. He looks like the rest of us. Emaciated, stunted, hunchbacked. Malnourished. Slowly rotting away on an improper diet of old wounds that won’t heal and nightmares that won’t go away. His pathogen armor is battle scarred, the protective plating bashed and dented from heavy use. Lurking deep in their sockets are two bright furtive eyes that desperately wanted to conceal, ignore and deflect the horror show his life had been.

  Hangman carries an Ouroboros Cannon. The gigantic serpentine gun sodomy locked tight so he didn’t fuck his own ass up. With a dull blade Your. Turn. To. Die. had been hacked into four of the cannon’s five massive firing tubes. The fifth tube… sickening is the only way I can describe what he
’s done to it.

  I’ve never seen anyone carry so many gencels. Duct taped all over him, they cover his pathogen armor. He wasn’t taking any chances, he probably has gencels taped to his gencels. When the techs had run out of power supplies everyone else had pitched in filling any gaps in his pathogen they could find. Or imagined they could.

  Handwritten messages to the Krag are scribbled on the makeshift power supplies. Everything from the traditional Getsome to the cryptic Invade with me to my personal favorite, I hope this hurts.

  On his feet are a pair of pontoon boots, taken to absurd levels even for pontoon boots. You could storm the gates of hell in those things and float home on Noah’s flood, high and dry.

  For a little guy with a big gun he moves quick, scampering up the platform to join the others on the lander. You gotta admire the guy’s style. One big gun and all the ammo he can carry. If he would just do something about those goddamn pontoon boots.

  Following Hangman up the platform is Big Bro, team leader and ethicist of Most Vicious. He doesn’t have a gun and doesn’t need one. There is a reason why Most Vicious is the top rated fire team in the entire force, and he’s it. He bounds across the platform in exaggerated movements. You can read these damn apocalypses all day long and you’ll still never understand until you’re with him. He just has this fucking presence, man. Some men have it and the rest of us are just in fucking awe of it.

  I can only imagine the effect he is having on the others–guys who actually give a shit and believe in being a team player and all that crap. I have it on good authority I’m a pretty selfish, petty and evil minded guy but even I get caught up in the moment a little myself.

  “Hey friends!” Big Bro addresses us all. “Are we having some fucking fun down there or what?”

  The mood in the air begins to turn. Not even I am immune to it. Banishing the feelings of desperation. Letting go from resignation. Replacing them with a primal will to live, to fight, to protect what is ours.