by Aeryn Leigh
The heavy tank battalion was stationed up on the small ridge, next to a grove of saplings, these youngsters only fifty feet tall. Years of bitter fighting meant the men slept where they could, in their tanks, in the rear beds of trucks, or generally, in a small trench under them. The rain hadn't helped those choosing the latter, small lakes at the bottom helping no one sleep but being old soldiers, one could sleep almost anywhere.
With another three hours to go before guard duty, Wolfgang found Haplo snoring whilst sitting upright in their tank. He made his way around each of the tank crews, briefly checking in on each, then the rest of the battalion support, passing out a bottle of schnapps, making the same jokes, then satisfied, trod back to the refinery tower, his feet like lead, and on the second stone landing, fell promptly asleep in a Russian pile of wool.
IN THE MIDDLE of the night, catastrophe struck. Wolfgang bolted upright, from one nightmare to another. Men screaming. Canvas started ripping, long, uncontrolled bursts of MG 42 fire. Halfway up the tower, Wolfgang had two choices - down or up? He chose up.
"What's happening?" demanded Wolfgang as he cleared the final step and onto the landing. The four sharpshooters and twin machine gun crews each pointed in a different direction, the tower located slap bang middle of their defences. The rising panic of men, muzzle flashes popping off at random, pistols and rifles and heavy weapons.
Wolfgang registered the same presence which caused him to fall out of a tree. Heart in mouth, he sprinted over to the equipment piled in the middle, pulled out the flare gun, cocked it, pointed straight up into the air, and fired. The red star flare shot hundreds of feet into the air, then burst, slowly drifting to the ground.
Every man on the tower looked around wildly, using every moment of light they had.
"Four o'clock," said Sergeant Bismarck. "Mein Gott."
Wolfgang swivelled, and his guts turned to ice watching something from the very depths of hell neatly climb up the side of an old Panzer III and drop into its open turret. Wolfgang took the steps three at a time, bouncing off the exterior wall as he spiralled down and ran as fast as he could towards the eastern perimeter.
The star flare cast everything in eerie red light and black shadows. He was halfway to the eastern perimeter when he crashed to the ground with a solid rugby tackle from his right. Wolfgang was reaching for his Luger when he recognised the face. Sergeant Bismarck held an index finger over his lips. With his other hand pointed upwards at the overhead tree canopies.
There were only a few seconds of light before the flare extinguished. The sergeant pointed the direction Wolfgang was running in and shook his head. Further screams of men. Fallen soldiers lay on the ground around the Panzer III, one draped over the edge of the turret, some still, some moving, twitching.
The flare died. A flakwagon quad-barrel opened up, chopping away at the trees overhead, before an officer stopped it.
Stillness.
A muffled gunshot, the brief hum of a generator, and at last the searchlight mounted on top of the observation tower shone its brilliant white cylindrical white onto the scene.
The bodies were gone.
Chapter Thirty-Four
IF IT BLEEDS
TWENTY-THREE MINUTES LATER, order was restored in the ranks, but barely. Wolfgang shone a torch inside the Panzer III he'd seen the – animal – disappear inside. The tanks interior was strewn with blood. Spent brass casings littered the ground around it like leaves after a big storm. Seven soldiers were missing. Four tank crewmen and three panzergrenadiers of the 3rd Mechanised Infantry Battalion. The sergeant called out to him from the tree line. Wolfgang jumped off the stricken Panzer III, and crouched down next to the sergeant.
"What is it?" said Wolfgang.
Sergeant Bismarck took his dagger and with the tip carefully dug out a small glowing green ball of liquid. "Someone hit it," he said.
Major Wolfgang Mauss stood up, his back to the tree, his eyes the blank expression of the thousand-yard stare. "If it bleeds, we can kill it."
Eight minutes later, the Panther and Hanomag supported by the 1st Recon departed. They followed the trail of blood, if it was blood, thought Wolfgang, it was unlike anything he'd ever seen, in total, pitch blackness.
Wolfgang had enough. This time, Mein Gotts, he was going to get answers and find the bodies of his men. By either pure luck or providence, two Vampyr infra-red mechanised units had survived the crossing. Along with half a dozen infantry versions, displays mounted right in the big rifle telescopic sights with big bulky backpacks carrying a damn heavy battery mounted at the bottom. The infrared beam was good for four-hundred yards, allowing them to see in the dark. Absolutely the cutting, bleeding edge of technology.
The infantry IR sights mounted to the top of Stg 44 assault rifles, made them a little bulky, but at this point, Wolfgang was just utterly fucking exhausted. The animal or animals were using the trees as ingress in and out, each green drop less luminous than the one that came before it. The rate of blood loss was decreasing.
One click south, the tracks turned east.
The Panther and Hanomag churned their way up the sodden but solid embankment, spewing black exhaust smoke, then through the wheat field, before finding a smaller road heading right through the ripe fields. They followed the path for a little while, the road gently sloping upwards, and stopped when they reached the crest. A circular row of tall statues was arranged in the middle of an amphitheatre at the bottom of the hill. The infrared light from the Panther just reached the circle.
On the stone path downhill, a dotted line of fading green, almost gone, leading right to the tombs.
And in that amphitheatre, people. People holding guns. People holding guns that were German-issue. MP 40s. People holding German guns, dressed in rags and odd-clothes, their skin white. Their skin black. Or brown.
Partisans. Resistance fighters, the scourge of the German rear-areas. Saboteurs.
Wolfgang gritted his teeth.
WHO LIVES AND WHO DIES? The peals of thunder and lightning would have rattled their bones if the bikes weren't already doing so with vengeance. Merrion feared he may never sit again. They'd been riding for a good chunk of night, making decent progress. At this rate, they would reach the signal tower he was after, a lightly defended refinery just outside the Inquisition industrial zone. The plan was to storm it, and extinguish the fire, drawing attention away from the main port, then continue inland and wreak havoc on similar, soft targets.
Their legion came around the corner, up ahead another Inka religious site, statues of all their previous emperors and their most recent one, or an approximation of him, anyway. Merrion was positive the current Emperor had body doubles, for even with his spy network, Merrion had no idea as to the man's current location or even his image. Religious shrines were scattered around Inquisition territory, utterly verboten unless on sanctified, annual pilgrimages. As trespassers usually encountered a long painful death, it was ironic the safest place to stop for a short break and recover from muscle burning legs and hunger was such a 'holy' spot.
In the small amphitheatre, at the four quadrant ends of a cross, a tunnel bored into the earth and rock housing the blessed tombs of Inquisition saints and martyrs. Between lightning flashes Mary Sue up on point gave the all clear, and Merrion whistled back. Bloody hell his calves were burning on fire. And people on Earth rode these things as recreation? They had to be mad. The 1st Reconnaissance Legion dismounted off their seats and saddles, formed a defensive watch around the statues, and took a well-earned quarter moon segment of a break.
Mary Sue took first watch, and walked up the embankment, just enough to get away from the smelly men. She sniffed her own armpit. Gods, she was just as bad.
She took a bit of dried fish, and munched it. A momentary flash of lightning. She froze. Up on the top of the rise, a outline straight from hell, just for a barest fraction of time, stood, looking down at them.
Mary Sue raised her MP 40.
Three 9mm parabellums blew
her head apart.
Chapter Thirty-Five
ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE
ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE.
The remains of Merrion's doughnut was still falling to the ground when the legionnaire's head sitting to his right exploded, covering him in brain porridge. He heard gunshots from up on the ridge line, deeper, throatier versions of MP 40 fire.
There were under assault by Inka marines. Merrion drove to the ground, smashing the doughnut flat, and was yelling for his company to take cover in the darkness when the woman to his left never got the chance to stand up, her torso being struck by at least a half dozen rounds, all hitting centre of mass. Merrion was momentarily dumbfounded. How on God's name could they be hitting with such accuracy in complete darkness? Instinct made him roll to the right, just as a trio of shots kicked into the cobblestones he just been sitting in. Lying in. His company fired back haphazardly, their restraint starting to slip.
A momentary spark of light.
They were surrounded on both sides of the amphitheatre. They had to get out of this ambush and do it now. Another two bodies dropped to the floor. Around them, laid the four crypt doors, each point of the cross. Marion used the headless body as cover, yelling for his men to fall back, to form on him, waiting for their next lightning strike. One of his men mounted a bicycle and started pedalling back in the in the direction they'd come, only to be mown down. They were good. They were really good. Just when you thought you a handle on the Inka bastards, they came and shat upon you once again.
Another lightning flash, five of them, a chain of spider webs bright in the night. Merrion used the opportunity to examine the four crypt doors, saw three still had their great iron and wood bars, Emperor seals intact. The one right behind, was slightly ajar, Merrion realising that the piece of wood he'd been using formerly as a seat was in fact the door’s crossmember. In the string of lightning flashes, three more of his team fell. As what remained of his recon formed up, Merrion returned the favour. His MP 40s spat thrice. He heard the marine scream, then in the pitch blackness, Merrion froze as something whipped past him, a rush of air billowing by, the creak of metal and wood as hinges folded.
Bullets followed in its wake, tearing into human, the dead and the alive, and wood. Merrion shuffled backwards, incoming rounds hitting his corpse shield with a wet, meaty thud. They were out of choices, couldn't go forward, couldn't go back. You could make suicidal charge straight up the hill, and be cut down where you stood.
That left the crypt tunnel. The tomb was a dead end. Eventually.
He wriggled backwards, as his recon ran past him and into the open tunnel. Who knows what was in here? At least with their drawn-out deaths here in the crypt network, this might give the Republic enough of a distraction. Not believing his own thoughts, Merrion breached the threshold, and with bullets whipping past his ears, made for the depths within.
WOLFGANG FIRED the last of his clip into the departing partisans, looking through the electronic display of red warmth and black death. That prehistoric creature, thing, ripped apart two of his men, right after they fired at the lead partisan, and fled right through the resistance midst, shoving open the wooden door and disappearing into the same tunnel as the firefight erupted. They’d missed it with the IR, somehow. And paid for it.
The Major whistled, and the two mechanised units started their engines and rumbled over to the lip. The big Panther tank stopped at the edge, and the Major yelled instructions to the Hanomag, the five-ton halftrack reared over the edge, then fell onto its front wheels, facing down and with the quad barrel aiming right at the open mouth with the Vampyr system, the gunner smashed the firing foot pedal. Designed for the anti-aircraft role, soldiers on both sides of the war soon realised these weapons were ideal the soft ground targeting. Ground targets. Meat choppers. The four 20mm cannons spat into the tunnel entrance, moments after the last partisan disappeared. The Hanomag generated its own lightning and thunder, pouring explosive hell into the open earthen vessel. Wolfgang banged hard on the side of the Hanomag, and the cannon fire stopped. He wanted at least one survivor to interrogate. Leaving one squad to guard the Panther and Hanomag, the Major and Sergeant Bismarck led the other squad in a tearaway run down the embankment and straight into the tunnel.
ONE OF HIS team lit a torch as they fled into the bowels of the crypt, Merrion chasing the dancing flickers of light. The smooth, square tunnel was an exact twelve feet wide by twelve high, following standard Inquisition architectural design. The Inka small-arms fire halted. He heard the faint call of a whistle.
Christ on a stick. The tunnel entryways sloped gently down, before disappearing round a stone bend twenty yards distant. Inquisition scriptures etched upon every single stone surface. Merrion ran after his comrades, and their trail of blood, and hearing that whistle, ran for that bend like his own life depended on it. Merrion hadn't even reached the inside corner when a wall of explosive carnage smothered the space around him, explosive shells sparking off the ornate marble and granite walls and for the first time in a long while, Merrion shat his dacks. He barely made around the bend, sparks and shells flying furiously past, ricocheting off the perfectly curved corner and into the awaiting wide, open chamber.
In the middle of the wide, circular chamber stood a raised marble tomb. Around its edge, twelve doors, between them, stone recesses containing whitened bleached skeletons of martyrs, and Merrion dived to the floor, knowing there was no way he could reach the safety of the stone altar, as everything happened in slow motion as he fell towards the dusty, granite. The stream of explosive shells ricocheting off the first corner entered the wide, perfect circle of the tomb and raced around its perimeter, chopping, blending everything standing, sitting, crouching or prone. His First Recon Legionnaires, turned into mincemeat. Soldiers tried to take cover under the fallen bodies of their friends only to find shells blowing apart their comrade's stomach and their own. Merrion flattened himself into the granite, smashing his body as hard as he could, trying to minimise his profile at that first bend, as granite chips lacerated exposed flesh, stinging wildly, and with every heartbeat, surprised to find himself still breathing.
The Titan's gunfire vanished. He heard the sound of heavy footsteps, boots in the courtyard outside. Marion was midway putting Amor Fati up to his temple, his other hand holding the MP 40 in the direction of the entrance, ready to take down as many as he could before denying the Inquisition their pleasure of torture, when he heard a strong, clear voice yell out. "Surrender or die."
Merrion didn't understand the language, as he started slowly shaking his head, because you didn't need to understand the language or the intent behind the words. But the language of the voice, now that was all too bloody familiar. He put down his weapons, and stood upright, as the soldiers moved into the tunnel, the torch lying behind on top of the raised tomb casting all their faces in a soft, orange glow.
"Christ," said Merrion, his face bleeding with myriad cuts and scratches, "not more of you."
And then the aliens attacked.
Chapter Thirty-Six
WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?
THE ALIENS ATTACKED. Wood splintered as crypt doors shattered, multi-legged forms from the very depths of hell pouring out into the spluttering light.
They attacked the corpses, falling upon the broken, pulpy, still warm human remains like a pack of wolf pups hungry after a long, cold winter.
Nobody moved from pure shock, as even Sergeant Bismarck froze, his brain unable to process the sensory inputs. But for two. The Englishman in front of Wolfgang shared the same expression with him. Terror mixed with the long acquaintance and easy familiarity of death with just a dash of the thousand-yard stare. Wolfgang recognised a fellow professional when he saw one.
In those three heartbeats which took forever, the Englishman moved his upheld hand ever so slightly, and with his index finger gestured towards the entrance.
These things were huge, coming up to their waist, but not nearly as big as the one they'd been track
ing.
He spoke too soon. The creature slowly eased itself out of the offshoot crypt at their two o'clock, half as big again as the things devouring human meat. Wolfgang stomach lurched. Ten men with him, a full squad, and it wouldn't be enough. No way would it be enough. He curled his left hand into a fist and gave the command to retreat. His squad moved one foot back, crunching stone chips.
The big creature took one six-legged step. It alone regarded them with a twin cluster of eyes, in the pool of creatures rendering flesh.
Corporal Klinger on Wolfgang's left, had seen a lot of horror, and more, for sure, but the mental strain of the last couple of days, two suns in the sky – all this – broke him. His MP 40 started firing short bursts, yelling as he did so, and the others barely got a chance to react before the creature crossed the distance and impaled a five-foot-long limb right through his torso, lifting the soldier clean up into the air, then ripped him in half
Smaller creatures stopped feeding, and swivelled their heads right at them.
A single heartbeat.
To a man, German and English like, they sprinted as hard as they could for the exit. Wolfgang began yelling into his throat microphone as twenty-two boots trampled into the granite ground beneath, the crunch of shattered granite flakes, and as they reached the bend, Wolfgang yelled, "To the sides, to the sides!" and roughly caught hold of the Englishman's shirt and shoved him over to the left side as he yelled fire.
The Panther fired. The high-velocity 75mm HE shell entered the tunnel dead centre, right between the running men. Bouncing off the curve tunnel before smiting the rear cave wall with a huge explosion. Ten metres to go. Almost there. They were almost there.
He looked over his shoulder. It wouldn't be enough. He urged the others on, amidst the screams, high-pitched screeching that felt alien, right at the edge of their hearing. On the opposite side of the tunnel, Corporal Junior Rutger Handley yelled out to the Major, and lifted off a pouch around his neck, and threw it to him. "Go on," yelled Handley. The Austrian corporal spun, dropped to one knee, and fired the Schneisser till it ran dry, and was just reaching for the concrete grenades and the fuses when his body got torn into three, the wet chunks slapping against the walls and sliding down.