Stay Out of the Mist

The trench was mostly muck underneath the sagging planks of wood. Mud spurted out from between the wood onto polished leather boots and pressed gray trousers as the troopers of the Second Squad of Third Platoon of Fox Company ran to set up their autocannon on the lower ramparts of the base. Fox and several other companies of the Corlian Ninth Army (detached) had been laying siege to the final rebel stronghold on the planet for the last five days, digging in for a hopefully short action. Third Platoon had only arrived two hours ago to relieve the remainders of First and Second.

First and Second Platoon had dug a decent set of trenches, with good arcs of fire, and Third Platoon was rapidly taking advantage of all that hard work. "First team, lay in here, the rest of you down the line by team. Go!" barked Sergeant Riles.

Firdas and his loader, Aminar, set their autocannon up on the firing port of the unfinished bunker. Firdas slotted the gunshield in place while Aminar loaded the cannon with a clip of large armor-piercing bullets. Firdas crouched behind the gun, swung it by the grips, and then shouted, "Gun one, ready!" The other teams called out ready in the next seconds. Sergeant Riles walked down and then up the line, "Good job, boys. Good job. This is just like the range, except some of these rebel scum may have the temerity to fire back at us. Remember your training, and slaughter these cretins in the name of the Holy Emperor."

Firdas and Aminar crouched at the ready, eager for the order to fire. Aminar pulled out his spectra-goggles, fiddled with some of the dials, and then peered through the goggles at the shattered ground separating the two forces. "Range to that bunker about five degrees off center is only two-eighty-five. We could hit them at that range. Why aren't we firing?"

They could see the enemy positions across almost three-hundred meters of battleground, bunkers and trenchworks. The larger craters still had mist lingering in the muddy holes torn in the previously fertile gardens on the outskirts of the temple-city. The Order of the Illuminated Holy Shroud had sent the emergency beacon about the uprising, but had been unable to withstand a siege by the revolting planetary defense units. Those same units now held a circular line around the temple-city, holding out against the gathering might of the Corlian Ninth.

"I don't know why we aren't firing, but I do know that trying to hit anything at that range won't be easy, Aminar."

"All gun teams, the artillery units will hammer the enemy positions, and then we will provide supporting fire for the infantry assault. Once the trenches on the far side have been taken, we will move out when see marker flags."

"Aye, Sergeant!"

Deafening booms shook the half-built bunker as the guns of the mobile artillery company opened up large bore cans of hellfire on the enemy positions. Aminar and Firdas traded the spectra-goggles, gaping and laughing at the sight of the rebel bunkers exploding, corpses and weapons flying into the air, mounds of earth ejecting from earthly bonds to bury the cowering fools. After several minutes of glorious destruction, the guns ceased.

As their ears adjusted to the new quiet, Firdas and Aminar could hear the lieutenants and captains exhorting their soldiers out of the trenches and across the ragged distance to the now-wrecked rebel positions. Firdas released the safety, and aimed his autocannon. Sergeant Riles gave the command to fire, and the squad let loose on their targets. Firdas could see puffs of dirt, and splintering chunks of wood, but no enemy movement through his sights. "Reload!"

Aminar was ready with the next clip, as Firdas ripped the empty one from the gun. Aminar slotted in the new clip, Firdas racked the slide, and began firing again at anything that looked even vaguely like an enemy trooper. As they loaded their third clip, Firdas saw that the charging infantry had moved into his firing arc.

"Sergeant, I've got friendlies in my field of fire!"

"Squad, cease fire! Cease fire! Loaders grab ammo, gunners be ready to displace!" Sergeant Riles barked his commands, and continued pacing the squad's position. Three minutes later, the squad was running across to their new position on the enemy's former line. Firdas skirted around a large crater, glancing at the mist that still remained there. The mist barely swirled as Sergeant Riles leapt across the crater. "Move, Firdas! We don't have time for gawking!"

"Aye, sergeant!"

As the squad reached the outlying trenches, they could see the ragged bodies of the defenders. Torn limbs mixed with broken weaponry and shattered wood all along the bottom of the trenches and bunkers. Tendrils of mist wafted down from the level of the field above. The bottom of earthworks were almost completely obscured by the carnage and the mist. Firdas scrambled down an artillery-made ramp into a battered junction, as Sergeant Riles said, "First team, set up here, the rest of you down the line. Move! Move! Move!" The mud was deep, and a foul reddish color from the rivers of viscera, but the troopers moved as quickly as they could.

Aminar pulled a corpse off the back wall of the trench, and set the tripod so Firdas could drop the cannon on the swivel mount. Then gunshield, and ammo. "Gun one, ready!" "Gun two, ready!"

Sergeant Riles shouted, "Gun three, status!?" There was no response, and Firdas and Aminar heard the Sergeant's squelching steps, and yelling orders for Team Three to report. Firdas kept his eyes on his engagement zone, while Aminar fiddled with the ammo in his bag. "Hey, Firdas, look at this guy. Looks like he cut his own throat. I'd probably do the same if my belly got torn out by a shell." Firdas glanced down at the corpse Aminar was poking. The man's face was splashed with mud, but the cut on his neck was as clear as the gaping tear in his belly. Firdas looked away, barely keeping his breakfast in his belly. A few feet away, he could see another mostly intact body. The rebel's throat was also cut, and Firdas thought he could see a hole torn in the belly of this one, too. The mist was covering whatever was left of the lower half of the man's torso. "Hey, Aminar, check out this guy, that shell must have landed just right to get both of them in the gut."

Aminar walked over, almost losing his balance as he struggled to free his feet from the mud with each step. He leaned over the second body, and waved his hands at the mist. "Emperor's mercy, this must have hurt. This guy cut his own throat, too. Look here's his knife." Aminar held up a gleaming trench knife for Firdas to see. "Leave it, Aminar. Go check with the Sergeant about orders, see if gun three needs help." Firdas turned back to his gun, as Aminar struggled off down the trench. Firdas could see troopers from the other squads of Third Platoon moving from cover to cover toward the outskirts of the temple-city, but heard no weapons fire, nor any screams, and the only shouts were from the sergeants and officers of the loyal platoons. Where were the defending units? Had they pulled back after the artillery barrage, leaving their wounded to die? Aminar came back with Hikmat, the loader for Team Two. "Seen the Sergeant?"

"How would I have seen him? He went past you to Team Three's position, and would have to pass you again to get to me."

"Right, Firdas, we just thought he might have looped around or something."

Firdas checked his chronometer, "well it's only been five minutes, maybe gun three got jammed or something. Aminar, stay here, man the gun, and keep an eye out. Hikmat and I will go find the Sergeant."

Firdas and Hikmat struggled down the trench to Team Two's position, ten feet around a slight bend. Ramla waved at them from his position on a barrel, keeping his hands on his cannon's grips, watching for targets. Firdas noticed three bodies in Team Two's post, all face down and shoved out of the way for the team. The mist coiled and swirled around the bodies, and the bottom of the barrel on which Ramla sat. The mud clung to their boots, slowing the troopers down. Firdas thought it was worse than a training exercise, and almost felt like the mud and mist was pulling on his feet. Ten feet further around another slight bend, Firdas and Hikmat found Gun Three.

The autocannon was mounted on its tripod, but the gun shield was sticking half out of the mud and mist. "Where are Jibril and Khaled?" asked Hikmat.

"Where is Sergeant Riles?" asked Firdas. "Look around, maybe they had to check something out." Firdas pulled out his laspistol, and checked the charge. Hikmat noticed, and did the same. Team Three had set up on the back wall of gun emplacement, a good position with ample cover from all the sand bags and other materials left from the rebel troops. It was most likely the only obvious fortification that hadn't been hit by the Corlian artillery barrage. Firdas looked for any indication that Team Three had been there, other than the cannon. Mist covered the floor of the position, up to knee height. The bodies of four rebel troops lay seated against the walls of the bunker. These must have been the four unluckiest soldiers in the universe for shrapnel to have gotten them all in the gut without taking direct hit on their position. Something was definitely odd here, Firdas thought. Hikmat was making his way further down the trench when Firdas realized what was bothering him. "Hikmat! Hikmat, come here!"

"What is it?" Hikmat struggled to turn around in the deeper mud of the trench. The mist was almost at his hips, the mud was so deep. Firdas pointed at the nearest body, "did the bodies in your position all have their throats cut, too?"

"Yeah, and their guts were torn out, the poor bastards. I guess they figured that delaying the inevitable wasn't worth it." Hikmat had holstered his laspistol, and was struggling to free his right foot. Firdas knelt in front of one of the corpses, and was about to poke it with the barrel of his sidearm when Hikmat shouted.

"What the? I just felt something moving around my leg. Firdas, help me out here, I am really stuck, and this is a little freaky."

"Right, it was probably just a rat, Hikmat." Firdas turned from the corpse, and schlucked over to the opening of the trench. He stretched out his right arm, trying to stay out of the mess that had Hikmat stuck. Hikmat reached out, and almost caught Firdas' hand. "Hold it, I definitely felt something." Hikmat waved his hands at the mist at his belt. The mist barely moved. Hikmat furiously waved his at the mist to no effect. "Stop fooling around, and grab my hand, Hikmat." Firdas leaned out further, holding a wooden support beam. Hikmat was able to just touch Firdas' fingers when his eyes suddenly went wide. He shouted wordlessly, and jerked backward, flaling his arms at his holster. "What are you doing, Hikmat? What's wrong?"

"Something has me!" Hikmat drew his laspistol as a reddish brown tentacle coiled up around his torso from inside the mist at his legs. Firdas almost let his left hand slip free, but then fell backward into the gun position, as more tentacles wound up Hikmat's torso. The mud and filth slid off the tentacles, and Firdas could see that they were grey, slimy, and oozing blood from red and blue veins. Hikmat's screams cut off abruptly when one of the foul things circled around Hikmat's face. Firdas could see Hikmat's eyes roll up into their sockets, as he scrambled away from the monstrosity emerging from the mist. More and more tentacles flopped up and out of the mist to grab Hikmat's arms, or to wave in Firdas' direction. Firdas stood, drew his laspistol, and aimed at the tentacles surrounding Hikmat's torso. Firdas fired, three quick shots. The only noticeable effect was that several large tentacles undulated up and out of the mist, moving like snakes toward Firdas. He backed away, slowly and then quickly, watching the tentacles moving toward him. Firdas aimed again, and fired one last shot before turning to run back to the rest of the squad. The top of Hikmat's skull exploded as the blast hit. "To arms! To arms! Stay out of the mist! Stay out of the mist!"

Firdas kept shouting as he scrambled up and out of the trench to run along the top of the earthworks. "Get out of the trenches! The mist is evil! Emperor protect us!" Firdas ran to Team Two's position, only to see Ramla being torn apart by four large tentacles that had emerged straight out of the mud of the trench bottom. Firdas heard firing and turned to run to his gun's position.

Aminar was firing his carbine at several tentacles that were trying to grab him. Their gun was bent, and broken into several pieces at Aminar's feet. Firdas ran over to the edge of the trench shouting, "Aminar, get out of the trench! I'll cover you!" Firdas fired his laspistol at the closest of the tentacles. Aminar backed into the wall of the trench, still firing like mad at the tentacles. "Aminar! Get out of the trench now!" Aminar turned to look up at Firdas, shook himself, and then started to climb out of the trench. Firdas fired his pistol until the clip was empty, and then he reached down to drag Aminar to his feet. The two of them backed away from the trench, reloading as they walked along the ridges of the rebel trench system. They could see more tentacles ripping into other squads, but no organized units. Screams and gunfire were everywhere.

"What do we do? Who is in command?" Aminar sounded near panic, sweeping his carbine back and forth.

"I don't know! I don't know! Let's head toward the city, there's no mist and no trenches there."

"But that's where the rebels went!"

"Better a rebel unit than these things!"

The two terrified troopers jogged away from the trenches, weaving their way out from near the center of the trench system, in the direction of the units they saw entering the temple-city. Tentacles burst forth from the dirt behind them, and they were nearly knocked into one of the trenches. The troopers ran faster, leaping the final trench to the hopefully safe ground between the defenses and the buildings of the city. Looking back, Firdas saw a writhing, coiling, spherical mass of tentacles heave itself out of the ground, and begin pulling itself along the ground. The nightmarish mass slithered and rolled, reaching out toward the frightened troopers. Firdas saw more of these hideous monstrosities heaving their way out of the trenches, rolling after fleeing troopers into the city, and back toward their old positions across no man's land. The cannons of the supporting artillery company began firing, and Firdas shouted to Aminar, "we have to get into cover! They're shelling us!"

Firdas and Aminar ran away from the now twice deadly ground into the city. As they rounded the near corner of the outlying building, they saw troopers running in their direction. "Run! Demons! Demons in the city!" Down the street behind the troopers, Firdas and Aminar saw mist pouring from windows and large tentacles snaking out from doorways and windows, snatching people. As they stood shocked, Firdas and Aminar heard the nearest windows and doorway burst open, and saw large tentacles with hideous gaping maws grabbing the nearest screaming trooper. They turned to run back toward the trenches, but were faced with the writhing, globular mass that had followed them.

The shells from the supporting company were landing all over now. Firdas backed away from the mass of tentacles, saw the ground exploding upward as more shells landed nearby, and watched Aminar fire his carbine ineffectively at the tentacled monster which grabbed him with three lightning fast appendages. "Firdas! Help! Augh!" Firdas raised his laspistol, and shot Aminar in the back of his head. Firdas never heard the shell that exploded two feet to his left.

New Content!

I submitted a short story about Typhus, the Herald of Nurgle, to the Black Library for their upcoming compilation, Treacheries of the Space Marines. Since the eight week deadline for contacting the authors they want to work with has passed, I'm going to assume my story idea was not chosen.

I'll just have to finish it, and post it here! I will post my submission underneath this post.

Sample Text from "The Verdant Vile"

The interior of the Thunderhawk oozed, pulsed, and throbbed in time to the throaty roar of its engines. Lord Typhus stood by the assault ramp, braced against the slimy hull, Manreaper hanging easily at his side. The Destroyer Hive swarmed about him in a gloriously pestilent halo, restless and eager for the coming battle. The gunners opened fire on the Imperial rats scurrying for the feeble cover of their fort. Corpulius smiled inside his armor when he heard the braking guns, and stood ready along with his Battle Brothers. He checked the slide on his bolter, and turned to face the fodder.

“You will have the glory of leading the charge with Lord Typhus, worms! Make certain you earn that honor."

The cultists muttered and squeaked sycophantically, but Corpulius ignored them as they swarmed past Typhus to the assault ramp. The Thunderhawk shook as some Imperial wretch hit it with some meaningless ordnance, then came the jarring thud of landfall, and the armored doors of the assault ramp slammed down. Lord Typhus roared out of the craft shouting, “For Chaos, for plague, for disease, for Father Nurgle!"

The cultists charged out alongside their Lord, straight into the teeth of the Imperial defender’s weapon’s fire. The four Death Guard marched out behind the pack of cultists, and Corpulius breathed deep of the clean, fresh, air full of the flavor of a world in full summer’s bloom. “Not for much longer,” thought the Plague Marine. Aiming his bolter, Corpulius fired on the weak fools huddling behind the false safety of an autocannon’s ceramite gunshield. The loader’s arm disappeared in a wet, red burst, and his flailing slewed the gun around, exposing his shocked comrade. Corpulius’ next round detonated in the gunner’s chest, separating his head from the ruins of his ribcage. Corpulius barked, “Squad, advance!” The squad marched over the dead and dying cultists, all the while firing steadily upon the thin, tan line along the bastion’s walls. Any gunfire by the garrison’s troops was met with swift retaliation from the advancing squad of putrescent Death Guard.

As Lord Typhus and the surviving cultists approached the low barrier, each readied the weapons of their choosing. The cultists hurled grenades soaked in the foulest essences, containing the most virulent of pus, the foulest ichors, at the defenders, while Typhus let loose the Destroyer Hive and raised Manreaper aloft. The foul creatures of the Hive clogged mouths, and blinded eyes. The putrid grenades exploded in sickening splashes, afflicting the Imperial soldiers with horridly immediate contagions.

Typhus swung Manreaper in wide arcs, cleaving torsos and limbs with brutal ease. The pathetic soldiers attempted to form a firing line back from the wall, but were overwhelmed by the combined might of the cultists, and the Herald of Nurgle’s swinging scythe. It was over in mere seconds.

“Allow the vox-operator to complete his request for assistance before executing him, Corpulius. We wouldn’t want the Planetary Governor to think us rude.”

Deadlines and Updates

I am honestly attempting to write more than one story for this blog. The usual excuses apply and are just as usually lame. I should have a second story up by Thursday, August 27. It is even oddly topical with GW's recent releases, but that is all I will say at the moment.

I am toying with the Father Justinian story as well. I want to expand it to the original ending I had in mind, and also throw in more combat detail. I felt, and still feel, that it was truncated and rather weak while rushing through the last couple paragraphs. Writing at a public terminal is not conducive to creativity.

In terms of any sort of regular schedule, my early goal of one story a week was wildly optimistic. I can do one a month, with mild discipline, and if I can keep to that, I will be quite happy.

The Faith of Preacher Justinian

The remnants of Company 4 of the 219th Arkady Light Rifles Regiment were suffering a withering barrage from the disintegrating shelter of a habitation tower. Artillery punished the upper floors while autocannon and heavy stubber rounds punctured the walls around the huddled troopers. Captain Ulyaruk crawled from squad to squad, checking ammo and gear. Sergeant Fedoruk had taken three shots to the chest trying to survey the company only minutes before, but the Captain needed a head count and some shred of an idea of his company's fighting strength. The firing outside waxed and waned, occasionally one of the company would return fire and the fullisade would crescendo, usually with a cry of another dead trooper.
"Lieutenant Twersky, how many fighting men have you got?"
The young lieutenant glanced around and shouted, "Last check was 15, maybe 16 if Trooper Podolski ever wakes up! Each man has at least one full clip, and maybe half a canteen!"
Ulyaruk nodded and crawled toward the stairs, but stopped when he was kicked by Lt. Twersky. "Don't bother going up there, Captain! You won't make it back!"
A line of 5 centimeter holes suddenly stitched its way across the wall above the lieutenant, the bullets embedding in the crumbling wall opposite. The building shook and the two officers covered their ears as a mortar or cannon round exploded somewhere on the floors above them. Dust rained out of the ceiling, plas-crete groaned and chunks of ceiling fell onto the cowering troopers. As the dust settled, the two men checked themselves for injuries and then glanced around the squads.
"Anyone hit?" Lt. Twersky shouted.
"Doesn't look like it, sir!" someone shouted back after a moment. Captain Ulyaruk crawled up to the younger officer and whispered, “We can’t stay here, son. We’re going to have to make an attempt to assault one of the buildings across the street or their artillery fire will grind us to powder. These rebel scum must not be permitted to move uncontested.”
As the lieutenant stared at his commanding officer with a mixture of horror and surprise, he saw a large man in red robes calmly walking down the ruined stairwell from the floor above. He was wiping the dust from his robes and carrying his massive chainsaw over his shoulder.
“Preacher Justinian! Get down! They’ll see you!” shouted Twersky.
“What is this? The Immortal Emperor’s finest soldiers cowering on the floor like dogs? Stand up and be proud warriors! The Emperor has shown me the way, we shall win this day!” Justinian walked around the floor, shaking the stunned troopers, and ignoring the rounds flying through the air. “Follow me, brave soldiers! We shall slay the enemy and bring the Emperor’s divine light back to this planet!” Preacher Justinian began singing a devotional hymn at the top of his lungs, as he walked down the stairs to the ground floor.
“Troopers! Follow the preacher! Do not disappoint our Beloved Emperor!” shouted Captain Ulyaruk as he crouched and ran for the stairs.
Two troopers immediately stood and were cut down, spraying the contents of their chest cavities over several others. Lieutenant Twersky drew his pistol and sword, crouched, and ran for the stairs shouting, “Only dead men can stay here!” He was satisfied to hear scrabbling and shuffling as his troopers ran for the stairs behind him.
Justinian was rousing the huddled troopers with song and striding purposefully through the mass of bodies and rubble, surrounded by a nimbus of fire. Bullets and las-fire were smacking into, and sometimes through, the preacher’s holy refractor field-generator. The effect would have been stupefying, if not for the sheer amount of enemy fire cutting through the air. Twersky crouched and made his way to the Captain who shouted, “By the Emperor, men, we will follow our faith wherever it leads! Incinerator specialists to the front!” The company was now more of a large platoon than anything resembling a company, but the men all cheered victory.
Preacher Justinian ignited the spark on miniaturized incinerator attached to the handle of his two-meter chainblade and revved the weapon’s engine. Satisfied that everything and everyone was ready, the priest threw himself through an open window and charged into the deadly street toward the nearest enemy-occupied building.
“GO! GO! GO!” shouted Captain Ulyaruk as he leapt after Justinian. Three troopers were cut down as they ran out of the building but the rest did not waver. They followed the fiery, holy man across the street, leaping piles of rotting dead, chunks of broken masonry, and blood-filled craters. Lieutenant Twersky was clipped by a las-blast, but he kept running, running to the dubious shelter of the rebel position. Preacher Justinian ran straight at a barricaded door with his chainsaw held high over his head. The blade smashed through the barricade, teeth whirring and tearing through wood and rock alike. Justinian’s momentum carried him past the entrance and into the dark interior of the former hab-block. Captain Ulyaruk dove through a hole in the building, as did several troopers. A grenade blew out a window on the second floor. Troopers dropped to the ground, cut down by the fire from the upper floors of the building and from the other rebel positions. Lieutenant Twersky had run across the street in three seconds and was only six seconds behind Preacher Justinian. The preacher had carved a path through the defenders, killing six of them before the lieutenant had crossed the threshold.
One of the specialists armed with an incinerator had survived the charge across the street and was purging the faithless mercilessly. The flames and gunfire lit the building with the fires of the Emperor’s wrath. This is the only mercy for those who would turn from His grace, thought Twersky. Screaming wordlessly, he charged through room after room and killed all who stood before him.
“Regroup! Regroup and assault the upper floors!” shouted Captain Ulyaruk as he tried to match the furious pace of Preacher Justinian.
“I bring the fiery vengeance of the Emperor to His enemies!” the mad preacher screamed before charging up the stairs. Justinian disgorged a torrent of flame from his incinerator unit and ran out of the Captain’s sight. “Follow him, trooper! Let none escape!” Ulyaruk ordered the incinerator-armed trooper. “Lieutenant! Secure this position while we cleanse the rest of the building!”
“Troopers, get some cover, watch for a counter-attack,” ordered Lt. Twersky. He checked his las-pistol clip and cleaned his saber. “Jorn and Gedorsk, search these bodies for clips.” Las-rifle fire and screams from the fighting upstairs were punctuated by the whoosh of the flame weapons. Flaming bodies began to land in the street and smolder, their screams cut short by the sudden stop. Enemy fire started to impact the walls of their new shelter, but none of it was heavy caliber weaponry. Nice change thought Twersky as he picked up a carbine and joined in firing on the rebels in the adjacent building.
Preacher Justinian came thundering down the stairs mere minutes after charging up them. “Lieutenant! Gather your men, we carry our victory onward!” shouted the priest. His robe was bloody and singed, torn and fouled, but the symbol of the Ecclesiarchy was clean. His armed were cut and scorched in places, he bled from at least two wounds in his torso, but still the man stood proud and strong. His refractor field sparked and glowed, despite a lack of incoming fire. The field lit the way for the preacher in the dark interior of the hab-block and all the troopers stared in astonishment, then kneeled for benediction. Preacher Justinian blessed each one in turn. Captain Ulyaruk and his squad joined the men on the ground floor.
“Lieutenant, situation?”
“Small arms fire only so far, sir.”
“The situation, my good captain, is that there are rebels who have betrayed the light of the Emperor and need to be shown the path to His grace!” and with that, the preacher kicked open a broken door and charged toward the next position.
“For the Emperor!” shouted the captain as he ran through the door, followed by his company.
The rebels never stood a chance.

Tales of the Grimly Dark and Farly Future

Wherein I shall describe tales of the mundane and the alien, the beauty and the horror, the individual and the anonymous.  These are not my stories, but the stories we all hear in the trenches between the barrage, whispered in the warp from the voices we all fear, retold near the pyres of burning heretics.

Twice weekly I shall post an entry from the hallowed archives.

Who is The Scribe, you ask? No one of consequence, certainly not an actor in any of these stories, but merely an auto-didact reciting the courage of soldiers long dead, the fear of cowards forsaken, the greed that murders faith, the light of hope daring against the darkness of despair.

(Legally speaking, all intellectual rights previously reserved by Games Workshop and appropriate entities shall be honored but all stories shall be written by Charles Williamson (The Scribe), unless otherwise noted.  The Scribe can be reached at ordoscrivener AT gmail DOT com.)