 |
|
|
|
|
PREVIOUS CHAPTER INDEX NEXT CHAPTER Dark Crimson By Nick P. As more time passed that night, more people ran around aimlessly, many panicking, gathering belongings and things. Some, the ones that had no way to escape, sunk into the outpost’s corners, hiding in closets and cabinets. They quietly receded and hid there, expressionless but fearful. Others screamed and shouted, some fought and many died. One was the man with the tea set. No one would’ve ever known about his death had it not been for me. They were there, as I rounded the corner that led to the buggy parking area. One was held up against the wall, fearful and clutching a metallic box, the other held a standard-issue blaster at his face. His angry voice was tinged with a British accent. “Hand it over,” said the man simply. “You Americans, all you know is to take and suck everything of its resources. It’s your fault we’re in this shithole in the first place! Give it back now!” “Ok, ok,” said the frightened man whose shadow seemed to only grow smaller in the dim light. “Here, I don’t want no trouble, alright? Just let go, here you go, just take it and I’ll go, alright?” “You’re that Thorpe lad, now aren’t you?” The British man said, setting his tea set down and besides his feet and lifting his gun with his shaking hand again. “Yes, I remember you. You’re the bloody bastard that turned and ran, didn’t you? Remember, the Vagga province, a week ago?” The American was silent. The owner of the tea set pulled the trigger. Simple as that. The streak of energy blazed through the night and into the other man’s head. Splattered it over the wall. That was it, it was over. The headless body slumped backwards and fell to the floor, leaving a bloody streak as it did. It was partially an incident. The man who had pulled the trigger looked around frightfully. I edged further behind the corner. “Shit,” he murmured and started dragging the body away, looking cautiously to and fro, temporarily leaving his tea set there on the ground, next to the reddened ground. Even in the near darkness, I could see the orange ground that had turned into a dark, lustrous crimson. Soon, the man ran back, reciting regrets under his breath, his eyes glassy and fearful. He looked around for a last time, picked up his tea set, and jogged away. I came from behind the corner and looked at where he had gone. The man had dumped the body over the fence. It would never be found. There were Stroggs marching this way and soon a bloody slaughter would ensue and this soldier would only be buried under layers of other corpses. There were not enough buggies and ships to escort all of the men away and there was no time for additional units to be dispatched from Earth; the intelligence reports had come in too late. The Stroggs outnumber the humans greatly so there were not nearly enough men to work together and fight off the biomechanical freaks. It was hopeless for the fearful, tangled bodies of the pale men that were without a ride, hiding in cabinets and closets and bunkers. Soon they would be nothing more than an addition to some Strogg’s chest or leg. Or food. Or whatever the hell the Stroggs did that we didn’t know about. Whatever it was, it was too sick and wrong to think in whatever case. In this war, you hoped that you die on the battlefield, on your feet. Many suicided after their ammo ran out, there in the war zone, while Strogg soldiers and tanks slowly edged onward, surrounding them. There were some not as cowardly. They would stay there and fight with their fists. But they never laid more than one frail punch on steel Strogg armour before they were dragged away. Their screams would be heard from the passing bombers overhead. But after a few days, everything quiets down. It is then that the soldiers are either dead or driven to insanity, mumbling and stumbling and crawling about aimlessly over the bloodied floor of their tiny, rusting prison cells. Who’s the coward then? They are insane, too insane to shudder with fear. Too insane to scream when the Plexiglas cell door lifts open to reveal a disgusting, filthy Strogg and their horrible new fate that just showed up along with the flesh and metal. Not long after the war had started, I had stumbled over another military absurdity, one that even surpassed the tea set incident. A week after the first and second waves of marines had been dispatched, came the third wave. The day after they had arrived on Stroggos, holographic screens headlined everywhere, flashing messages of great success and glory. ‘Strogg Warehouse Raided¾Coalition Success!’ they read. That was the one particular headline I remember. After the bold letters had flashed on the screen, an anchorman went on to explain how the third wave (167th squadron) had infiltrated a warehouse that held innumerable weapon supplies such as missiles that were being fired at our bombers. Of course, it wasn’t mentioned that the missiles were, in fact, human design smuggled to the Stroggs by inside agents. I also remember how a military spokesman that had been interviewed added at the end of his quote, “So remember this success soldiers and fight with glory. More work like that and this war is bagged.” I had just become a Captain and had access to many records and reports. Strange enough, there were no official write-ups or reports on this extraordinary victory. There was a small mention of it in another record that held conflicting information and had actually appeared several days before the raid itself. So what did this mean? The event was staged. The pictures shown on the holo-TVs were indeed made on Stroggos, but the hazy background was a tiny human compound. They had lied. And why? People were being shipped off across space, and they all died. They all failed. Morale was down, and even civilians that, through connections, had eluded the war or women and children were also in despair. The military had to announce something, and they wanted it to be good news. They wanted to glorify the senseless slaughter of people. Since this was a military operation so far from the prying eyes of most civilians, they had amazing control over the flow of information. And now, as I jogged towards the buggy, I wondered how they’d warp the slaughter that was coming this way, how they would mask the truth. They would gladly admit defeat in battle, but what was coming was not a battle. It was embarrassing, the fact that there were not enough transports to ship out all of the soldiers. It was horrible, the few soldiers that would be left behind in a not beneficial martyrdom. It was not war. It was the slaughter of cattle. Buggies were already loaded up, carrying more that the usual crew of people. Some had friends and had hitched rides on buggies. Others didn’t. They were the ones helplessly running around breathlessly, their eyes swollen with fear, begging to be let on the leaving transports. Many jumped up and clung on to the sides while soldiers above used the butts of their blasters to break their grip. Helpless soldiers fell off the sides and down on the ground. Several were run over in the chaos. Some, however, managed to get further and were being beaten to death by other fellow soldiers. Some were shot. Their bloodied corpses were left behind in the reddish dust that had been flung up by hundreds of spinning buggy wheels. I jumped over dead bodies and circled around the racing buggies to find my own. In the back, I found them, eyes scanning. All of my fellow soldiers were already there, looking out for me. It seemed that none of the helpless souls had yet found our transport. Quickly, I climbed up the ladder and threw myself besides them. “Man, what took you so long, Captain?” I gazed at them breathlessly. “Sorry. I got caught up.” I turned to the Chief who was staring back at me with an iron gaze. “Get the buggy started, Phillips, we shouldn’t have gotten caught up in this mess.” Soon, we joined the snaking line of buggies that trailed out through the open gates and into the open, barren, and empty Stroggos terrain. Over the distance, I could see the Stroggs coming. They were a black sea of death, engulfed occasionally in reddish light as a flare or two zoomed overhead. They were pulsating, drawing closer, flesh strapped to metal in many forms. Their tanks hovered nearby, trailing behind the front wave of monstrosities. It was those gigantic guns, those cannons that would bring down the magnificent station built behind us. And it was those claws on the Stroggs that would finish the rest. Meanwhile, the doomed soldiers now started giving our buggy a try, jumping upwards and clinging on to panels and tubes and whatever their jerky hands caught hold of. Helpless eyes gazed up at us. My young soldiers looked at them with pity and then at me with question. But I knew that we couldn’t take any more. Our mission was top secret, highly sensitive, and it did not permit for any additional men to join our group. Were it not a classified mission, I would’ve wanted to save them. But I had my orders, and I had to carry them out. So I reluctantly raised my blaster and, using its butt as a club, pried the whitened hands from metal. The young soldiers besides me looked at me for a second before they too unholstered their blasters and did the same. |
|
All content and images are copyright © Quake 4 Portal / Quake IV Portal 2002-2006 |
