He was still sitting there, back flat against the dirt, eyes pointed upwards and oblivious to the world they perceived. I hadn’t known him very long, just a few days, long enough to learn his name, a few of his interests, and to exchange a few pleasantries over the week. But now, as the intestines began to ooze past the line in his torso representing where his body stopped, I regretted not talking to him more. Maybe, just maybe, he would have still been alive. Maybe he wouldn’t have been standing when that Thing fired. Maybe I wouldn’t be alone now, in a trench on the front lines of Ziris. Maybe I would be aware of my surroundings.
“SERGEANT!”
I started, scared awake by the sudden voice in my ear. I had already forgotten his name.
“SERGEANT HODULE, DO YOU READ ME?”
I opened my mouth slightly, to trigger the mouthpiece plate so I could respond.
“Yes, this is Sergeant Hodule, I read you.”
“What are you still doing there, Sergeant!? General retreat was sounded an hour ago! Pick up your ass, and MOVE!”
An hour. He had died only minutes ago. How many mistakes had I made in caring for this corpse?
I picked up my coilgun and managed to scurry several meters down the trench to where it connected to the next one down. I had no idea if I was going to get shot at or not; their mechanical Beast must still be reloading or recharging or something. Running at top speed, I managed to reach the next trench without getting shot at.
And there were more of them.
Cut-up bodies filled the trench, some split in half like Johnson, and others severed in odd places. One man had his left shoulder sliced clean off. A woman had had part of her skull shaved off in a clean diagonal line; she must have been looking over the edge of the trench when It fired. These soldiers had hardly bled for the cause they had promised to bleed for. I was reminded of the man I left in the trench, the man whose name I couldn’t recall.
“HEY! Get movin’! Their next wave is already moving out, and the R.I.G. is moving with them! GO!”
I stomped down the trench to the next tunnel to the last trench before no-man’s land. I looked out over the blasted, muddy expanse of equipment and broken bodies. The light from Marmormond and Glatter Kiesel made it easier to see the blackened plain, but it was still nighttime, without the direct glow of a sun. I was unsure whether my comrades would shoot at me, thinking I was a special agent, attempting to infiltrate their ranks while wearing a uniform scavenged from their brutalized friends. They did not know about the titanic warmech approaching, bringing death as its armament. At this moment, I envied Johnson, the peace of death so paralleling his love of sleep. It is a shame I could not remember his name.
“Sergeant, I’ve ordered the line to hold their fire for the next fifteen seconds! Get over here!”
I gave my affirmative, and took off down the muddy crag leading into no-man’s land. The liquid and, frankly, gross sounds of the mud echoed through the cavernous pit, bouncing off the hopes of a swift victory that were crushed under treads or riddled with holes.
At that moment, a glint of light from Marmormond caught my eye. I stopped running and gazed towards what I thought looked like a bunker. My helmet’s computer gave a sixty-eight percent chance that the bunker was from the enemy. They must have dropped it from orbit. In that split second I decided to investigate. Whoever was talking to me must have been curious, too. I never heard from him again.
The door was open. Not open, really, but broken into two large, jagged shards. I began to wonder what weapon in our armoury could have dealt such damage. Then I thought of what certainly did, and almost lost my nerve.
Them.
Such is the nature of war. No one really knows what to call Them or the Thing. The difference is that the Thing certainly has a name, designated by its Vakar creators. They may not.
I pressed on, regardless of my fear. My thoughts returned to the man in the trench I left behind. . . did I leave him to die? He might have still been alive; I checked his pulse, but I haven’t yet completed my Centurion training, so maybe, maybe I did it wrong! I should go back to him, patch him up, and take him back to base!
No.
I had to find out what was in the bunker. Whether any of the despicable oppressors had survived. See the looks on their faces as they saw that I, Sergeant Brianna Hodule, had single handedly captured their puny oppression-bunker! Then, delight in executing every last one of them with a five-centimeter long rod to the back of the head!
I reached the interior compartment. There were no bodies in the outside layer, which had a view of the outside. There was a smell of rot and death and fear and cowardice and I don’t know how I smelled it because my helmet was on but I pressed on. I started to hear. . .noises. Chewing. The wet smacking sound of someone who eats with their mouth open. I turned on the flashlight on my rifle, I don’t know why it wasn’t on until now.
And there it was.
A large, quadrupedal beast, gnawing on the eviscerated corpse of Private Broca Johnson, 458293.
I wanted to run.
My brain told me to get away, but I froze, finger over the trigger, staring at the monster.
I heard a growl behind me.
I-
