Agent 17
CSF
Hunter
member is offline
The silent hunter - merciless death
Gender: 
Posts: 18
|
 |
Mission reports from the 21st century
« Thread started on: Apr 20th, 2007, 9:34pm » |
|
Just a short story I'm writing which follows Major James stone through the opening conflicts of the 'rift wars', the formation of the CSF and up to the present day.
* * * * * *
Prologue
Darkness.
The birthplace of terrible thoughts and twisted fantasies, the realm of nightmares and the natural home of the terrors and great evil of legend and myth. In the early twenty first century and in the years before the cataclysm children would fear the imaginary terrors that lurked in the darkness – beneath the bed, in the closet, outside the window, in the night. Their over active imaginations giving brief life to the creatures of the abyss.
Today however, in the grim darkness of the present, the terrors of the night are no longer confined to the recesses of our most primitive subconscious. No, today nightmares are a welcome respite. In our dreams, one can escape from the unspeakable blackness of reality, and gain some measure of control over the creatures that plague their turbulent sleep. In the grim darkness of the near future, the abhorrent abortions of the disturbed mind are as real as the very ground upon which we once dared to tread. I have heard it said that death in a dream is a portent of grave misfortune, however, to lose one's life to the nightmares of reality, is to loose one's very soul to the depths of hell.
Chapter 1
Johannesburg – South Africa
Friday January 13th 2090
“Retreat!”
“FALL BACK!”
The unusually emotional voice of the platoon's first sergeant was barely audible above the screams of pain and terror, the moans of the injured and dying, the ceaseless gunfire, and worst of all, the monstrous bellows of the things out there in the pitch black.
“Corporal Roberts, get your men the fuck together! We're being cut to shreds out here!”
“Yessir Sergeant!”
The corporal was suddenly and brutally snapped back to reality as sergeant Tucker pulled him onto his feet and kicked him in the direction of his men. The squad was scattered everywhere. Disorganised, dazed, confused and terrified – you could see it in their eyes. The men looked haunted and pale, almost to the point that they might already have been dead – they were such sallow shades of their former selves.
“KEEP FIRING, TACTICAL WITHDRAWRAL! GO, GO, GO!”
Almost all of the men responded, turning, half standing to fire their weapons through shattered windows and over broken walls into the shifting shadows of the night. Dozens of muzzle flashes illuminated the street, casting the burned out buildings into sharp relief. Awful shapes moved in the darkness in response, though there was no evidence that a single round had found a target. The men couldn't see what they were doing, or what they were supposed to be fighting, but whatever they were, they had taken out the whole of first squad and half of second before the men even knew they were in a fight. Terrible sounds of rending flesh and splintering bone echoed out from the hollow shells of the buildings that second and first squads had occupied, accompanied by wails of terror and cries of agony that were oft times abruptly silenced. The horrific cacophony continued however, like some feral orchestra.
Nightmares? This was hell, and sleep was nigh on impossible. Give me nightmares any time.
* * * * * *
“Sierra 64 this is Romeo 64, contacts sighted bearing due west of your position at 087 degrees, requesting orders, over.”
“Romeo 64 this is Sierra 64, designate targets and request close artillery support. It's good to hear your voice Stone, Sierra 64 out.”
“Golf Alpha Lemur, this is Romeo 64, contacts in the open - coordinates 7-61 West, 3-94 North. Requesting close artillery support, fire pattern Epsilon. Fire for effect, I say again, Fire for effect, over.”
“Romeo 64 this is Golf Alpha Lemur, Your fire mission is inbound, duck and cover, Out.”
* * * * * *
During the relative unease of the late twenty first century, mankind's tools of destruction had advanced considerably. With the US lead NATO invasion of Iran and the Islamic states war (some called it world war three) the technologies of destruction had surged ahead. The US, UK, Russia and Germany gave birth to the Technocracy, an organisation that went on to found FreiCorp – the largest arms development company in recorded history. The Middle East stood no chance, and were wiped out by the fusion warheads developed in America, the gene selective viral pathogens developed in Russia, the rail driver cannons developed in Germany and the self-aware, self-replicating trojan software developed in Britain.
These experimental weapons, however, had been put to task only recently - after the cataclysm. Conventional weapons seemed ineffective against the new enemy, and mankind was loosing ground step by step, but without the weapons of FreiCorp humanity would surely already have been finished.
* * * * * *
A new sound had joined the discordance now, faint but growing slowly louder. It was a high pitched whine, quiet at first but rising in volume as the battle raged on.
“FRIENDLY ARTILLERY INCOMING! HOLD YOUR POSITIONS!”
WHAP
The first shell landed with a deafening crash, casting bluish red light across the skeletal buildings and illuminating the area. Waves of heat and pressure washed over the beleaguered defenders, and the flash of the antimatter shells was too bright to look at directly.
The shells lit up the street again as a second round came in, encircling their position and shielding them behind a wall of coloured fire. The ground charred and melted away where the shells landed, killing anything unfortunate enough the be in the blast radius. It was in the light of the barrage that Private Davies, managed to see with harsh and unyielding finality what had killed his brother and his friends. The first shell lit up the street, casting long, short lived shadows. It was then that he saw it.
Something moved out of the darkness into the unnatural bright light of the artillery and charged straight towards him. The creature was almost thirty metres down the street when it broke cover and charged, and with long, loping strides it covered half of that distance in seconds. The creature was very much like a dog - if that dog had been bred by Satan, and God only knows, it probably had been. It ran on four legs, sheathed in powerful muscles, and these legs ended in clawed feet, each having three razor edged claws. The front right 'paw' however, had one very long, hooked talon that shone black, reflecting the glare of the artillery. Its face was elongated into a muzzle, which peeled back in four corners to reveal a gaping hole studded with teeth and filled with writhing tentacles.
Suddenly the creature disappeared in a ball of coloured fire and fine red mist. Cauterized limbs flew in all directions and boiling blood splashed across the wall of a nearby building. The Private, his eyes wide with terror, fumbled for his sidearm. When he eventually found it, he hurriedly placed the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger, much to the dismay of the sergeant who was stood next to him, who was then covered head to toe in the red ichor that had just moments before been the contents of Private Davies's head.
* * * * * *
|
Logged
