A blue-skinned soldier sprawled on the floor some fifty feet away from me. Lying where he'd fallen during his fateful charge. His hand twitched suddenly, fingers flexing spasmodically. Just latent nerves flaring I told myself, like a chicken moving after its head is cut off. Then his entire left arm suddenly flopped around, moving like a fish left on a deck in the warm summer sun.

This in itself wouldn't have been so disconcerting had the man not been so obviously dead. So riddled with bullets was his torso that I could literally see through him in places. This lack of life didn't appear to be disadvantaging him as much as you might expect.

The once handsome features on his bald head now hung slackly as dead eyes stared out blankly at the scene around him. His arms wobbled uncertainty as he lifted himself out of the sand.

"There's the pattern again," Sarge muttered, ignoring my polite cough for attention.

"What pattern?" Robinson asked innocently.

"There's a rhythm to the first. The gunners in this section all reload at the same time."

I ignored their conversation; the zombie had staggered to his feet now. The lack of a lower jaw allowed his tongue to lie down upon his chest like an organic tie.

My nanobots kicked into gear, responding to the soldier's visible half-life.

War Zombie

Animated automatons created from a corpse, War Zombies are used as cheap disposable cannon fodder.

Animated by internal nanobots, a War Zombie is incapable of advanced commands and generally preprogrammed with simple instructions such as ‘Kill’ or ‘Destroy.’

One hundred and sixteen planets have signed up to The Galactic Accords which prohibit the use of this weapon within non-compliant subjects.

Great, so apparently, our service to the empire doesn't end with our deaths.

"Sarge?" My voice quavered nervously as I interrupted his conversation.

"I'm counting." He replied, ignoring me.

"Sarge! There’s a bloody zombie over there!" I said insistently as I pointed at the Zombie. It stood openly in the middle of the battlefield. Little puffs of blood erupted from the corpse as bullets thudded through it. Turning, it looked directly at me and then started to move. One of the Zombie's legs was dragging where a kneecap had been blown away. Uncaring it continued it’s slow shuffling advance towards us.

"What the fuck is that?" Robinson asked, his eyes widening as he watched the zombie.

Kuwta was less impressed by the undead. "Fucking primitives," she muttered. "It’s a zombie, obviously. Remove the head. It's the only way to stop them."

"But why?" I asked in confusion, "Why would the Scrael turn us into such abominations. Watching the corpse struggle towards us, I doubted it would have any more success in breaching the bunkers than the living soldiers had.

"Basic tactics. We're conscripted troops. They don't trust us to see the mission through. That is why they landed us on a beach with no escape apart from through the emplacements in front of us. The war zombies are just additional motivation." Sarge's tone was that of a university lecturer educating a particularly slow student. He didn't seem to hold any ill feelings towards the commanders who had placed us in this predicament.

Confident the zombie wouldn't reach us in time to interfere with his plans, he turned away from it. "Get ready to move."

All along the beach, other corpses were rising, many dragging themselves out from beneath the ocean.

"Now!" Sarge shouted, and we rose as one. Leaning forward, I crouched slightly as I moved. My heart raced as my legs pumped beneath me. Behind me, the dragging of dead feet spurred me onward.

The enemy guns were quieter for the first few seconds of our sprint. Probably reloading as Sarge had anticipated. Sadly the quiet didn't last long, and soon bullets began zipping along the beach once again like angry wasps.

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We had spread out to ensure we were harder targets for the gunners. Fortunately for us, the zombies appeared to have no such tactical acumen, and large clusters of the undead were attracting the bulk of the enemy's attention.

On our left, a large group of Zombies was mown down by concentrated sprays of bullets, only for several of them to stagger to their feet again within seconds.

We kept running. Thankful for the continued sacrifice made by the dead soldiers.

Westcott was first to reach the huge metal door at the bottom of the cliff-face. I was still twenty feet away when I heard Robinson grunt behind me. A blood-red rose swelled upon his shoulder where he'd been tagged. Grimacing, he nodded at me and continued his run. He knew that to stop was to die.

Sarge checked each of us over as Robison skidded against the cliff-face. "Anyone hurt bad?" He queried.

Robinson grunted, "I'll live."

The rest of us had somehow come through unscratched so far. Now we stood in the eye of the storm. Above us, the large turrets barked out at regular intervals accompanied by smaller bursts of bullets from gunnery nests. Our position beneath the gun emplacements left us safe for now.

Behind us, the beach we had just left was a deathtrap. Hundreds of bodies were scattered in death along its blood-drenched sands. The undead were still rising and advancing in a futile attempt to achieve in death what they had failed to do in life.

"Peters, help Robinson rig charges on that door."

Robinson had shrugged his pack onto the floor painfully. Blood soaked his shirt where he’d taken more than one bullet during the run. He'd taken Regeneration as his last upgrade and going by the bullet holes in his shirt, that was probably the only reason he was still standing.

I looked at the door. It was huge and imposing, built to withstand whatever was thrown at it by an enemy force.

Light leaked out from the crack in the middle where the two doors came together. They weren't flush together like in a house. These doors were simply reinforced metal slabs intended to secure the bunker. Three large shadows crossed the gap, showing where bars reinforced the metal against impacts. I had my doubts that even C4 molded into its hinges would do more than buckle the metal. That outcome would leave the fortress impregnable .. and us stuck outside with the war zombies.

Pressing my eye against the join I could see clearly into the room beyond. The concrete bunker was undecorated and empty, like a warehouse that was waiting to be stocked. Fifteen feet behind the door, there was a support strut with a large control upon it. I couldn't make out the words upon it, but the large red button was obviously intended to be easily pressed. I figured it couldn't be a self destruct because of this.

"Stop fucking around," Robinson said in an annoyed tone.

I ignored him and focused my mind. So far, I'd only used my Telekinesis for trivial things, picking up items when I was too lazy to get up and undoing Robinson's boot laces. For the first time my life might depend upon it. I imagined a large fist in front of the control, and my brow furrowed as it punched hard upon the control. A grunt of effort wheezed out of my chest as the button depressed.

For a long second nothing happened. Then a siren sounded, and flashing red lights rotated urgently upon the chamber's ceiling.

"Oh, fuck." Robinson stated, echoing my thoughts accurately.

Several seconds later, with the screech of a grave opening the metal door started to inch slowly open. Our boots echoed as we entered the bunker, spreading out against the walls. The vast room was empty apart from a set of cylindrical stairs at its other end.

Urgent shouts came from somewhere above us along with the echoing of marching feet. Company was coming. With quick gestures Sarge moved us under the only cover in the room. Crouching we hid in the underhang of the stairwell.

“When I give the word, hit hard and keep hitting.” Sarge hissed quietly.

My breath sounded loud in my ears as the footsteps grew closer, echoing down the stairwell towards us.

The clanging on the metal stairs ended as the troops entered the room. I shrank back further out of view as the enemy fanned out cautiously holding weapons at the ready.

Sarge held his hand, telling us not to fire yet. There were nearly a dozen of the enemy, each wearing a standard grey uniform which contrasted with the burnt red skin the soldiers had.

As the enemy advanced cautiously towards the open door, I got my first look at them. They were demons, handsome sharp-edged features sat below the small horns growing out of their foreheads.

De’Ath

One of the first space faring races, the De’Ath have no concept of religion or morality. Since achieving interstellar travel they have specialized in trading in illicit items, most commonly slaves harvested from primitive societies.

My blood ran cold looking at them marching towards the door. Generations of instincts bred into me my primitive ancestors told me to run, but I held my ground.

Sarge dropped his arm and we unleashed hell into the backs of our enemies. The demons only managed a few strangled screams as the hail of bullets ripped them apart. Our squad wasn’t the primitive humans they might have once enslaved and it was time for some payback.

We didn’t stop firing until their corpses were sprawled across the floor.

This was war. They had been given no warning and we showed them no mercy.

The only rule of war was to do unto them before they do unto you.