Astrakane City Center, 19:00.
The Crawlers surged across the centuries-old impact craters; their hollow and deep forms a reminder of the destructive nature that Mankind once possessed.
"Still possesses," muttered Colonel Troy, peering at his amassing enemy with the practiced calm of a tried and tested battlefield commander.
A few of his soldiers coughed nervously, or shivered. Their sounds of quietened or masked despair were a shrieking cry in Colonel Troy's mind, but it was too late to make another of his grand speeches. No words would soothe his boy-soldiers, as they stared down at the writhing blackness of sin that was slithering its way towards their positions.
"Easy now fellahs," he said, refusing to take his eyes away from the looking glass he had set up on a pile of sandbags atop a crumbling Old World tower block. "Don't fire until I give the command, our lives depend on it."
Some of the coughs and shivers stopped, but not enough. He could be speaking an alien tongue for all they cared. Luckily, he could count on most of them to obey his command - he was a War Hero after all, lavished like a prized whore with all kinds of shiny medals, courtesy of the President of course.
The Crawlers were getting close, and they would stop as one every few seconds to peer up at Colonel Troy and his men. It never ceased to amaze him how well coordinated they were, as if a single mind controlled them all.
"And a retarded one at that," the Colonel grunted.
"Sir?" one his Lieutenants asked, bewildered by the remark.
Colonel Troy snapped from his reverie like a mouse trap, and eyed the man with his tired stare. "Retarded, Lieutenant Barker, the Crawlers are retarded."
"Yes sir," Barker replied, his youthful smile an uncertain monument to his faith in the man who have saved the Republic a dozen times.
The Colonel paid him no further heed, and went back to tracking the progress of the Crawlers. There were surely hundreds of them, all with their slimy skin, falling over one and other to get ever closer to their prey. Little did they know however, that the Colonel had sent several teams during the daylight to line the rims of the craters with TNT. Furthermore, he'd had several crude anti-personnel mines deployed at the base of the tower blocks. In a matter of seconds, the Crawlers were going to be surrounded on all sides by huge explosions and flying shrapnel.
"Just a little further," he said quietly.
The first Crawler to reach the base of the tower blocks paused as its webbed hand creaked down on something hard and cool to the touch, and then the world became very vibrant and colorful.
An hour later, Astrakane City Center
"Forty five wounded, seventeen dead," Leiutent Barker said sullenly. His youthful features were caked in grime and soot, and his bandaged left hand was generously drenched in his own blood.
Colonel Troy sighed as he kicked over the smouldering corpse of a Crawler, and spat at it. "Nearly half our men, by the Red Pegasus, a few more victories like this and the war will be over in days... though not in our favor!"
Lieutenant Barker nodded, his skin paling with blood loss. "Yessir, but our early estimates put a the Crawlers at a thousand permanent casualties. We haven't won a battle on this scale in nearly a-"
"Year, yes, yes, I know - I was there," Colonel Troy said, giving Barker a warm smile. His eyes fell to the young man's hand, and his brow furrowed. "Lieutenant, I fear you lied when you told me your wounds were superficial."
"Just a flesh wound sir," Barker replied, trying to straighten himself in an effort to appear more energetic.
"Indeed, I've seen many men die from such 'flesh wounds'," Colonel Troy grunted. "Off to triage with you, I will not be spending this evening writing to young Mrs. Barker about how brave her husband was."
Barker smiled sheepishly, and nodded. "As you wish, Colonel." The young Lieutenant staggered away in the direction of a team of waiting medics.
Left alone among the bodies of the Crawlers and the sounds of his men performing a cleaning sweep of the enemy dead, Colonel Troy pondered up at the stars. A warm breeze came in from the north, and for a moment he allowed himself to hope that this time, he could finally drive the Crawlers out of the city and secure the road for his peoples' future greatness.
But he knew it was probably a lost cause. The Crawlers out numbered his men three to one, and the bandits were a cancer that had threatened the western front time and time again. What he needed was more soldiers, and more guns - but where would he get them? His campaigns were bleeding the Republic dry, literally. President Ambrose would not sanction another draft.
"What I need are some mercenaries," he said to no one in particular. A few passing soldiers looked at him quizzically, but soon returned to their tasks when he swept them with his tired gaze.
1st Republican Army Staging Post Alpha, Eastern Front. 21:00.
With the blessing of the President, Colonel Troy found himself sat at an old table. Upon it, was a radio - a new build, no more than a wooden box with a few coat hangers sticking out of it... though the technician seemed enthused about its potential to reach as far as Lindow.
With a cough to clear his throat, he began.
"This is Colonel Solomon Troy of the Republic of the Flaming Sun, based in the ruins of Astrakane. If you can hear this, we are interested in enlisting the services of individuals with combat experience. Prices are negotiable. There will be a Republican checkpoint north of the city, head there if you are interested, and you will be issued orders and the terms of your contract.
Threaten that checkpoint, and I promise that the full extent of the Republic's military power will be turned on you."
He sat back in his chair, cringing internally. He was not so great at speaking to an invisible audience, but the President insisted that it had to be him to make the broadcast. He looked at the technician, who looked back with quiet respect.
"That'll do, stick it on repeat and broadcast it every thirty minutes," he said to the technician. "Inform the President that I will be taking the 1st Brigade to the north immediately."
Going north was a risky move, as it would cut him off from the Republic, but he dared not allow any potential mercenaries into the homes of his citizens. No, instead, he would create a new army in the north, and once it was ready, he would lead it south and smash the Crawlers from both directions. It was a frail plan, but the Republic could no longer afford a protracted conflict with its eternal enemy.
The Crawlers surged across the centuries-old impact craters; their hollow and deep forms a reminder of the destructive nature that Mankind once possessed.
"Still possesses," muttered Colonel Troy, peering at his amassing enemy with the practiced calm of a tried and tested battlefield commander.
A few of his soldiers coughed nervously, or shivered. Their sounds of quietened or masked despair were a shrieking cry in Colonel Troy's mind, but it was too late to make another of his grand speeches. No words would soothe his boy-soldiers, as they stared down at the writhing blackness of sin that was slithering its way towards their positions.
"Easy now fellahs," he said, refusing to take his eyes away from the looking glass he had set up on a pile of sandbags atop a crumbling Old World tower block. "Don't fire until I give the command, our lives depend on it."
Some of the coughs and shivers stopped, but not enough. He could be speaking an alien tongue for all they cared. Luckily, he could count on most of them to obey his command - he was a War Hero after all, lavished like a prized whore with all kinds of shiny medals, courtesy of the President of course.
The Crawlers were getting close, and they would stop as one every few seconds to peer up at Colonel Troy and his men. It never ceased to amaze him how well coordinated they were, as if a single mind controlled them all.
"And a retarded one at that," the Colonel grunted.
"Sir?" one his Lieutenants asked, bewildered by the remark.
Colonel Troy snapped from his reverie like a mouse trap, and eyed the man with his tired stare. "Retarded, Lieutenant Barker, the Crawlers are retarded."
"Yes sir," Barker replied, his youthful smile an uncertain monument to his faith in the man who have saved the Republic a dozen times.
The Colonel paid him no further heed, and went back to tracking the progress of the Crawlers. There were surely hundreds of them, all with their slimy skin, falling over one and other to get ever closer to their prey. Little did they know however, that the Colonel had sent several teams during the daylight to line the rims of the craters with TNT. Furthermore, he'd had several crude anti-personnel mines deployed at the base of the tower blocks. In a matter of seconds, the Crawlers were going to be surrounded on all sides by huge explosions and flying shrapnel.
"Just a little further," he said quietly.
The first Crawler to reach the base of the tower blocks paused as its webbed hand creaked down on something hard and cool to the touch, and then the world became very vibrant and colorful.
An hour later, Astrakane City Center
"Forty five wounded, seventeen dead," Leiutent Barker said sullenly. His youthful features were caked in grime and soot, and his bandaged left hand was generously drenched in his own blood.
Colonel Troy sighed as he kicked over the smouldering corpse of a Crawler, and spat at it. "Nearly half our men, by the Red Pegasus, a few more victories like this and the war will be over in days... though not in our favor!"
Lieutenant Barker nodded, his skin paling with blood loss. "Yessir, but our early estimates put a the Crawlers at a thousand permanent casualties. We haven't won a battle on this scale in nearly a-"
"Year, yes, yes, I know - I was there," Colonel Troy said, giving Barker a warm smile. His eyes fell to the young man's hand, and his brow furrowed. "Lieutenant, I fear you lied when you told me your wounds were superficial."
"Just a flesh wound sir," Barker replied, trying to straighten himself in an effort to appear more energetic.
"Indeed, I've seen many men die from such 'flesh wounds'," Colonel Troy grunted. "Off to triage with you, I will not be spending this evening writing to young Mrs. Barker about how brave her husband was."
Barker smiled sheepishly, and nodded. "As you wish, Colonel." The young Lieutenant staggered away in the direction of a team of waiting medics.
Left alone among the bodies of the Crawlers and the sounds of his men performing a cleaning sweep of the enemy dead, Colonel Troy pondered up at the stars. A warm breeze came in from the north, and for a moment he allowed himself to hope that this time, he could finally drive the Crawlers out of the city and secure the road for his peoples' future greatness.
But he knew it was probably a lost cause. The Crawlers out numbered his men three to one, and the bandits were a cancer that had threatened the western front time and time again. What he needed was more soldiers, and more guns - but where would he get them? His campaigns were bleeding the Republic dry, literally. President Ambrose would not sanction another draft.
"What I need are some mercenaries," he said to no one in particular. A few passing soldiers looked at him quizzically, but soon returned to their tasks when he swept them with his tired gaze.
1st Republican Army Staging Post Alpha, Eastern Front. 21:00.
With the blessing of the President, Colonel Troy found himself sat at an old table. Upon it, was a radio - a new build, no more than a wooden box with a few coat hangers sticking out of it... though the technician seemed enthused about its potential to reach as far as Lindow.
With a cough to clear his throat, he began.
"This is Colonel Solomon Troy of the Republic of the Flaming Sun, based in the ruins of Astrakane. If you can hear this, we are interested in enlisting the services of individuals with combat experience. Prices are negotiable. There will be a Republican checkpoint north of the city, head there if you are interested, and you will be issued orders and the terms of your contract.
Threaten that checkpoint, and I promise that the full extent of the Republic's military power will be turned on you."
He sat back in his chair, cringing internally. He was not so great at speaking to an invisible audience, but the President insisted that it had to be him to make the broadcast. He looked at the technician, who looked back with quiet respect.
"That'll do, stick it on repeat and broadcast it every thirty minutes," he said to the technician. "Inform the President that I will be taking the 1st Brigade to the north immediately."
Going north was a risky move, as it would cut him off from the Republic, but he dared not allow any potential mercenaries into the homes of his citizens. No, instead, he would create a new army in the north, and once it was ready, he would lead it south and smash the Crawlers from both directions. It was a frail plan, but the Republic could no longer afford a protracted conflict with its eternal enemy.
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