[Imperial Guard 02] - Death World

by Steve Lyons - (ebook by Undead)

  Nor was it just the death of a trooper he had hardly known, to whom he didn’t remember saying a word, a young man who could have become a good comrade, even a hero, had he lived to earn his name.

  The monster—Lorenzo couldn’t think of it as Dougan—could sink into the ground, and rise from it as silently.

  Little wonder, then, it had proved so elusive so far. Little wonder Landon hadn’t seen it coming.

  Lorenzo was feeling the same discomfort, the same restless itch, as he had on the carrier ship. That creeping realisation that the world around him didn’t bow to the edicts of nature, to the physical laws he had thought inviolable. The feeling that nothing made much sense anymore.

  “It couldn’t have been Steel Toe,” Woods had insisted, in the aftermath of the brief fight with the monster, manifestly ignoring the proof that had been there for all to see, in Greiss’ hand. “I don’t care what happened to him, what this planet did to him, he wouldn’t have… He wouldn’t have. Not Steel Toe.”

  “Sorry, Hotshot.” Greiss had said gloomily, “we have to face facts. I’d recognise this hunk o’ metal anywhere. See under the dirt here? Scorch marks from where Steel Toe was bitten by that critter on Vortis. It shorted the circuits, sent a lethal shock across its own mandibles. Steel Toe couldn’t walk for a fortnight, till we got the leg fixed, but he saved our bacon that day.”

  “It wasn’t him,” said Donovits firmly. “It may have been his body, but it wasn’t Steel Toe. He’s dead!”

  Myers had rubbed his chin where the mud-encrusted monster had hit him. “Well, he was sure taking a long time to lie down.”

  “Brains is right,” said Muldoon. “What we just fought wasn’t Steel Toe. It wasn’t alive. It was some kind of a zombie. I looked into its eyes—and I’m telling you, Steel Toe wasn’t in there.”

  Greiss, as usual, had turned the topic to the future, to what they did next, not letting his troopers dwell on what they couldn’t explain. “Right, men,” he had announced, “that means we have a problem.”

  “I can’t see that thing coming back, sergeant,” said Myers, “not minus its leg.”

  “Not what I meant, Bullseye. There’s something on this planet can bring the dead back to life.”

  “Not exactly bring them back.” Donovits had corrected him, “just reanimate them. Without getting a closer look at Steel Toe’s body, I couldn’t tell you if it was host to some parasite, or…” He’d tailed off as he had followed Greiss’ gaze.

  They’d all looked down at Landon’s body.

  Lorenzo let out a sigh, now, and rolled onto his back, accepting that he was awake for the duration—until he could calm the raging thoughts that filled his head to bursting. He listened to Myers, who was on watch, humming a quiet tune as he cleaned his knife. He stared, almost sightlessly, at the plastic sheeting that Muldoon and Donovits had tied around the leafiest branches of the surrounding trees, collecting condensation for the squad’s water bottles. He listened to Braxton’s breathing, beside him, and he knew the Validian was awake too.

  Rogar III was winning. It was beating them—and the fact that it could only do so by changing the rules was cold comfort to Lorenzo.

  He had wanted a challenge. He had wanted to earn his name. But his squad was already two men down, and they hadn’t seen a single ork yet. There would be more casualties, of that, he was certain. More chances to prove himself. Or die trying. Not that Lorenzo was afraid of death, but he thought about the rest of his company, by now no doubt engaged in fierce battle. He wondered if they had scratched the surface of Rogar yet, if they’d learned its secrets—or if the planet was concentrating its forces on this one small squad, the twelve men who had dared try to penetrate its dark heart. Ten men, now. He wondered what those fellow Jungle Fighters would think, upon completing their missions, if they found their bravery had all been for nothing—if there was no word from the squad that had been entrusted with the most important assignment.

  No, Lorenzo wasn’t afraid of death. But he was afraid of failure. And of going to an unmarked grave, with no one left to remember his name or to tell of his heroism at the end.

  They hadn’t been able to cremate Landon. They were too close to the orks now to risk lighting a fire. Myers had expressed the dubious hope that their fallen comrade’s broken neck might prevent his resurrection by the force that had animated Dougan. But Donovits had just shaken his head.

  Greiss had done the deed himself, in the end. He hadn’t let anyone else help, he’d roared at Woods when he’d tried to ignore that order. He had told them to remember Landon as he was in life. Still, Lorenzo couldn’t shake the image from his thoughts: Old Hardhead, driving the butt of his lasgun down into the dead rookie’s arms and legs, over and over again. Until his body was no more than a fleshy sack for the fragments of his shattered bones. Until no force in the Imperium or beyond could have made Landon’s limbs support his weight.

  The sound of a shovel striking the earth had seemed to repeat forever. Greiss had reappeared, at last, with his face dirt-streaked and red. He had reported, in a hollow tone, that it was over, that Landon could rest in peace.

  Lorenzo drifted into a fitful doze, haunted by nightmares in which he was fighting his own comrades, and the bony hands of Dougan and Landon were grasping at his ankles, trying to pull him down into the earth to join them.

  He could hear low voices.

  He opened his eyes, catching his breath at a lingering vestige of some dream horror already fading in his memory. The night had swooped in when he hadn’t been looking. It was dark, and the huddled shapes around him were stirring, preparing. It was time, already.

  He scrambled to his feet, still unsettled by the dream but trying not to show it. He pulled on his jacket and bandolier, checked his pack. Few words were spoken, the Jungle Fighters all concentrating on what lay ahead of them, knowing its import. Mackenzie and Braxton looked especially tired, and Lorenzo realised that each must have slept only half the short rest period. Neither had been placed on the watch rota, but the commissar probably hadn’t dared close his eyes without his adjutant to look out for him. He didn’t trust anybody else.

  Lorenzo hadn’t been placed on watch either. A part of him wondered if it was because Greiss didn’t trust him. Despite his pretence to the contrary. Because of last night. The sergeant’s briefing soon quelled that fear, though.

  Greiss spoke quietly and didn’t say much. Sounds carried further at night. Anyway, the Catachans knew what was expected of them, and Mackenzie and Braxton would just have to follow their lead. He reminded the squad of the importance of stealth: “One ork or gretchin gets sight or sound of us and lives to tell of it, and we’ve not only blown our mission, we won’t be around to explain to Colonel Graves what the hell we thought we were doing.” Then he made the pronouncement that caused Lorenzo’s heart to leap.

  “Lorenzo takes point,” said Greiss. “That’s because we might have more to contend with than just greenskins. Remember, people, those blue lights come out at night. I want you to pair up, keep an eye on your opposite number—first sign he shows of going misty-eyed, you give him a slap. Lorenzo, I’m trusting you upfront alone because you’ve shaken off the effects of the light once. If it comes back, you can resist it, right?”

  “Right, sergeant.”

  Greiss outlined their proposed route, and Lorenzo felt a swell of pride when he turned to him in particular and asked if he was clear on it. He confirmed that he was, and Greiss drew him to one side, and clapped him on the back. “I know I don’t have to tell you to go slow and careful. Hell, if you’re as quiet out there as you are around us half the time, those orks will never hear you coming.”

  Then Greiss gave the order to move out, and Lorenzo drew his Catachan fang and slipped into the jungle, quickly but quietly, staying low, in cover. He used his lasgun to part the vines and creepers in his way, surveying the ground for predators and other hazards. He advanced cautiously, doing his best to leave no trail. The foliage yielded to his
soft but firm touch, but closed in again behind him until he felt like he was travelling in his own green cocoon. He knew his comrades were behind him, but all he could hear of them was an occasional rustle that might have been a lizard or a whisper of the night breeze. They were keeping their distance, in case Lorenzo made a misstep, set off an ork trap and blew himself to pieces. He was alone now, to all intents and purposes. In the most dangerous position, but that was alright. He wanted that responsibility.

  The danger focused Lorenzo’s mind. It sharpened his senses. It blew away the doubts of a few hours earlier, like a strong, fresh wind.

  He maintained a good pace for the first hour or so, but slowed when he knew the encampment was near. He saw no evidence of its presence yet, but he fancied he detected a hint of greenskin stink on the air. Something stirred in a bush beside him, and Lorenzo froze, hoping his camouflage would hide him—but it was only a snake. One of those with the silver triangles on their skins.

  He crept on—but, a few minutes later, he spotted another triangle-backed snake in the undergrowth, and this one had seen him. Its head reared up. It bared its tiny fangs and hissed, but it made no move to strike Lorenzo. It appeared to be watching him.

  He remembered how the birds had stalked the Catachans, how he’d kept spying them out of the corner of his eye before they launched their attack. He remembered Braxton saying that the lizards had done something similar, poking around the edges of the Validian camp for a few days before they’d dared enter it. The silver-backed snake didn’t appear to be a threat right now, but as Armstrong had said, that could change in a heartbeat. Particularly if it wasn’t alone, and especially if a concerted attack on the Jungle Fighters drew the orks’ attention.

  Lorenzo took a step forward, fingers twitching on his knife. The snake tensed, watching him. A lasgun would have done the job more efficiently, but with too much noise. Lorenzo stooped down, holding out his free hand as bait. The snake backed away a centimetre, suspiciously. Lorenzo took another step.

  The snake struck. From further away than he’d expected. As if its coiled tail had acted as a spring to propel it out of the grass. It jabbed at the proffered hand, and Lorenzo snatched it away and decapitated the snake with his fang before it could land and reorient itself. He stamped on its severed head, exploding it in a mass of black blood. He grabbed the twitching body, wrung it until it was still, and tossed it aside into the dark. A quiet, discordant hiss of alarm told him that his message had been received by multiple unseen onlookers. The jungle grass swayed and rustled in a dozen thin paths away from him.

  It was shortly after that that he came across the first trap.

  Lorenzo had known it was imminent, because the undergrowth in this area was flattened, plants and branches broken. The orks had been here, and recently.

  The trap was crude and obvious, like most of their constructs: a cord stretched between trees at knee height, connected to something hidden in the lower branches of one. A grenade, most likely. Still, a Guardsman in a hurry might not have spotted it. It was more evidence of the warboss’ cunning, spreading to his followers.

  Lorenzo stepped over the tripwire carefully, and waited. Thirty seconds passed before Muldoon’s head peeked out of a bush a few metres behind him. He saw Lorenzo, and an inquisitive expression crossed his face. Lorenzo indicated the wire, Muldoon would probably have seen it anyway, but better safe than sorry. Muldoon nodded, then waited for Lorenzo to regain his lead.

  Alone again.

  The second tripwire was higher, and better placed. To its right, the jungle was dense with poison creepers—and Lorenzo knew that that way lay the acid swamp of which Sly Marbo had spoken. To the left: a cluster of red snapper flowers, through which he could see no safe route. Again, his inability to use his lasgun narrowed his options. Bad enough to be grabbed by those intractable petals—but the greater peril would be the flowers’ alarm wail, certain to attract attention.

  He approached the wire, and stooped beside it gingerly. It was too high to step over. He could disarm the trap: cut the wire or retrieve the grenade from the tree. The risk in so doing would be minimal, but actual. If an ork or a gretchin came this way after the Jungle Fighters had passed, it would know they had been here.

  No. Far better, far safer, to take no chances. To go under.

  Lorenzo lowered himself onto his stomach, noting that the ground was a little soft, a little wet. He removed his pack and his lasgun from his back, to reduce his prone height, and pushed them under the wire before him. Then he dragged himself through the mud on his elbows, keeping his head down.

  He had plenty of clearance. So long as nothing unexpected happened, so long as he didn’t get careless, he had nothing to worry about.

  So long as nothing unexpected happened…

  The blue light snapped on like a shipboard lighting panel, just ignited into a glowing ball ahead of him, a few centimetres off the ground. Lorenzo felt his stomach tighten as he craned his neck to look at it without raising his chin. He sensed that it was calling to him, urging him to stand and approach it, and he felt the muscles in his arms and legs tensing to obey.

  He stopped himself, before his back could brush the tripwire.

  He closed his eyes, and immediately felt better. His head was clearer. Lorenzo listened to his own breathing, and he felt the cold of the mud against his stomach. He thought about Steel Toe Dougan. He knew the blue light was still out there, but he was certain it hadn’t entered his mind. He was certain that it couldn’t, so long as he didn’t look at it.

  But what if the blue light wanted that? What if its purpose, this time, was to blind him to something else? To something creeping up on him…

  …something rustling in the undergrowth beside his head…

  Lorenzo opened his eyes, as breathless and disconcerted as he had been after his nightmare. He looked around quickly, but saw nothing. Nothing but the blue light, drawing his eyes in like it was the only thing in the world. The only thing that mattered, anyway. It occurred to Lorenzo that it was closer than it had been last night, that this time he really could catch it, catch whatever it was that was generating it. End its threat. Save his comrades.

  In the blue light, Lorenzo saw Sergeant Greiss’ approval, so rarely bestowed. Yet, in his memory, he heard his voice: “I’m trusting you up front alone… If it comes back, you can resist it, right?”

  Greiss was counting on him.

  “Right?”

  Lorenzo remembered how determined he had been to prove himself worthy of Old Hardhead’s trust, not to let him down again. He knew the only way to do that was to obey his orders, to do what he’d promised he would do… “Right?”

  “Right, sergeant.”

  To resist. That was Lorenzo’s greatest ambition, what he wanted most at this moment, and so—as a part of him was only dimly aware—that was what the blue light showed to him, and in so doing it defeated itself. Lorenzo blinked, and the light was still there, but suddenly it was just a light, and it had no hold over him.

  Still, he stayed where he was for a moment longer, exploring the crannies of his mind, ensuring there was no trace of the blue light left in there. Ensuring that he wasn’t being tricked again. He concentrated on what he remembered, what Greiss had told him—and he reassured himself that, as long as he heeded those words, those explicit instructions, he would be doing the right thing.

  Lorenzo dug his elbows into the mud and pulled himself forward again, until he was clear of the ork tripwire, then he climbed to his feet and collected his belongings. The blue light was gone. Blinked out. As if it had sensed it had no power here anymore. Somehow, Lorenzo knew it wouldn’t be back. Not for him. He realised something else too: that his hands were stinging.

  He looked down, saw that his palms were red and beginning to blister. He had been so wrapped up in his thoughts, in the light, that he hadn’t noticed. The wet ground. Acid. It must have seeped from the nearby swamp. The knees of his trousers had almost burnt through, and the soles o
f his boots had begun to melt. Not much harm done yet, but in time…

  Lorenzo cleaned his hands on a leaf, and waited for Muldoon to appear again. This time, once he’d pointed out the tripwire, he beckoned him forward. Greiss came too, holding up a hand to halt the troopers behind him.

  “I think we need to bear a little further north,” whispered Lorenzo, displaying his damaged boots.

  “That’ll take us closer to the orks.” Muldoon pointed out.

  But Greiss looked down at his own feet, and scowled. “Lorenzo’s right. No point our finding Big Green if we’re all walking on bloody stumps by the time we do.” Then, with grudging admiration, he conceded, “Mackenzie was right about that greenskin. Building his camp on the edge of the swamp, making the best of the natural defences—he’s a clever bastard, all right.”

  The encampment was even closer than Lorenzo had estimated.

  Almost as soon as he changed his course, he found himself at the edge of a clearing, a little smaller than the Imperial Guard’s, crammed with ramshackle buildings of metal and wood.

  He lay and watched it for a while, scrutinising each shadow until he was sure of its nature, until he knew it wasn’t an enemy waiting in ambush. He studied the ork huts, familiarising himself with their layout, with every blind corner from which an ork or a gretchin could spring out at him as he passed. He saw no sentries—which worried him, because he knew there would be sentries. Somewhere.

  At last, Lorenzo glanced behind him, saw his squad waiting, gave them a thumbs-up signal and moved on. He moved on slowly—almost painfully so, knowing that stealth was more imperative now than ever. A single thin line of trees separated him from the orks. He had to make maximum use of the scant cover he had—and he had to be sure he didn’t make the slightest sound.