“It was the night before Christmas and all through the military base, not a creature was stirring… except that dude on piquet, rubbing his face.”
Tinsel Tom paused, waiting for his companion to say something. When he was met with nothing but a wall of stony silence, he sighed and pulled the smokes from his jacket pocket.
“Yeah, I know the rhyme could use a bit of work. I was an engin-elf, though, not a choir fairy, so cut me some slack,” he said, sparking up and taking a deep puff. “So, Saint Nick,” he continued as he exhaled, “feeling the warm and fuzzies yet?”
The hulking figure beside him was silent, nary a stir in its form as it gazed at the sprawling camp below, the frigid steppe winds kicking the surrounding snow into a frenetic dance.
“Still playing strong and silent, huh? You know people will just assume you’re dumb, right?”
The giant shifted slightly. He might have been looking down at Tom, but the elf couldn’t be sure in the gloom. He took another drag of his smoke, then dropped the butt into the snow, grinding it beneath his toe-curled boot with a faint tinkle of bells.
“But what do I know?” he asked, pulling a miniature hip flask from his coat and gulping down the contents. “I’m just the help.”
*
Kyle Eckhart stood in the guard tower, staring out over the frozen steppe before him. He checked his brand-new Rolex and groaned. It was only the second hour of his piquet, and the steaming hot mug of coffee he had brought with him was now just a distant memory, sleep working away at the corner of his eyes as he followed the spotlight tracks cutting over the snow.
He took off his helmet and rubbed his aching eyes, setting it down on the parapet and fidgeting with his power armour’s shoulder strap.
“Stop playing with it, rookie,” a rough voice said from behind him. Kyle glanced over his shoulder, briefly locking eyes with his oppo, a scarred veteran by the name of Lance Corporal Kazowski. The man was in his late twenties, but looked to be in his early forties. The three jagged scars running from above his hairline, over his milky right eye, and down to his chin, did nothing to help his looks. A souvenir from the war with the Sons of Solomon, so he liked to say. He was sitting at a foldout table in the centre of the tower, munching on a ration pack muesli bar for breakfast.
“This shit’s heavy,” Kyle grumbled.
“That ‘shit’ is the greatest piece of kit issued to shit kickers like us since the dawn of human civilisation. Makes you stronger than three men, can take a demon claw to the chest, and most importantly, lets you fire that cannon without snapping your collarbone in two,” Kazowski replied, pointing at Kyle’s gun with the mangled breakfast bar.
Kyle glanced down at the monstrosity. Standard Humanities Otherworldly Protection Element issue .50 cal drum magazine fed HMG. It had been the mass-produced weapon system of choice for the world’s defenders since they figured out most classes of demonic entity laughed off NATO standard 5.56.
It was effective against Soldier class entities, and would do for a Knight if you put enough rounds into them. Literally blew Fodder class into bite-sized chunks. As for the higher classes, though? Barons and Dukes? Well, you had better hope there was a tank somewhere nearby. Not necessarily to kill the monsters, but while they chewed open the tin cans, you might have time to escape.
“Still feels like it weighs a tonne.”
“Twenty-eight point six kilos, plus a two hundred gram battery pack and four hundred grams of backup power. Good thing the servo skeleton can load bear close to five hundred before you feel it. It’s all in your head, kid. Stop fucking around with it.” Kazowski turned his attention back to his muesli bar and the cleaning rag he was running through his non-issued Desert Eagle, before he added “and keep your damn eyes on the snow!” around a mouthful of sticky grain.
Kyle fought the urge to pout as he turned back to the unbroken white landscape. The Corporal had been in a particularly foul mood today. There was a mysterious secret Santa in the camp, and everyone had awoken in the morning to find a neat little present box settled at the foot of their bed. Whoever the secretive benefactor was, he had an odd sense of humour. Some people, like Kyle, had struck gold with expensive or rare gifts like his Rolex. Others hadn’t been as lucky; Kazowski had gotten a cold plate of roast turkey.
“Like it matters,” Kyle said. “The outpost has dealt with one outbreak since June. One! And it was a half dozen Fodders, by time I got my gear on they’d all been blown apart by the losers on duty.”
“You sound disgruntled,” Kazowski said. If it weren’t for the fact the miserable bastard never smiled, Kyle could have sworn he heard mirth.
“Yeah, I… I guess I just expected there would be more to do.”
“More?”
“You know, defending the world from the ravenous hordes of the underworld? It’s just guard duty for months on end, then blowing all your cash on booze during leave, then right back to duty.”
“Careful what you wish for, kid.”
Kyle turned back to the corporal, waving his hands in exasperation. “I just don’t see why we have to maintain a full complement on Christmas Eve of all nights.”
“It’s not uncommon for Otherworldly activity to surge on religious holidays. Statistically, this is probably the most dangerous night of the year.”
“God willing.”
“Shut your stupid mouth, kid. And keep your eyes on the snow!”
Kyle had crossed the line. Kazowski always sounded vaguely pissed, but the way he said that last bit…
He was furious.
Kyle mumbled his apologies and turned back to the snow, his cheeks burning, though in embarrassment or indignation he wasn’t sure. Probably a bit of both.
A sudden gust of wind kicked up a spray of snow as one of the spotties glanced over it. Kyle frowned and picked up his gun, bringing it to his shoulder and staring through the sights. He trained the four times magnification on the patch of darkness, waiting for the light to do a return sweep. He damn near jumped out of his skin when the blinding light returned and illuminated the decaying skull of a Fodder. It was shrieking at him. He could tell from the way its mouth distended, exposing the broken teeth lining its jaw. One of the eye sockets was empty, the other partially filled with the decaying jelly that remained of its original eye. He had no idea how it could see him, but somehow, he was sure it could.
“Uh… Corporal?”
“Fuck me,” he groaned, lowering the muesli bar from his mouth. “What now, rookie?”
“There’s a Fodder out there.”
Kazowski shot to his feet, sprinting to the parapet with his own weapon in hand, his milky eye glowing with icy blue lines as he activated the prosthetic lense. “Where?”
“Reference TRP Seven, two fingers right, about two hundred out.”
Both men stood in silence, waiting for the spotlight to return. The rookie swore when it finally did, over a dozen demons filling the pool of light. He could tell there were more just outside the illuminated circle.
“Where did they come from?” Kyle asked, panic tinting his voice. It was his first time seeing the unholy beasts, and the sight of the rotting flesh clinging to their decrepit frames rattled him. Another gust of wind bringing the stench to his nostrils was the final straw, and he bent over the railing, expelling the lamb casserole meat pouch he’d had for dinner onto the snow below.
“Steady on, Eckhart,” Kazowski said. “Fods can’t get over these walls by themselves. Get on the radio, let the CP know what’s happening. I’ll keep watch.”
Kyle keyed his radio and raised the command post. He gave the report, receiving a curt ‘ack’ from the watchkeeper and to standby for orders. The alarms started ringing through the camp a second later, followed by a roar as the surge generators booting up, feeding juice to the full battery of searchlights lining the walls. He glanced back over the parapet and blanched.
“Hell,” he breathed as he took in the sight of a horde of Fods, broken up here and there by the larger forms of Soldier class demons.
“Yeah,” Kazowski sighed. “That’s them.”
*
Thunk thunk thunk.
Cartridges hit the tower’s steel floor as Kyle’s sent round after round ripping through the horde. A chopper roared overhead, its nose cannon punching holes in the rippling mass of monsters as its wing mounted rocket pods sent Hellfires into the bigger demons. The garrison’s firepower barely made a dent, the gaps instantly refilling.
“Shit, I’m out!” Kyle shouted over the din, dumping his magazine and slamming another in place.
“Settle down, kid. You’re burning ammo. Make sure you have your target before you pull the trigger,” Kazowski replied.
“Like hell! Are you seeing what I’m seeing? It’s impossible to miss!”
“That may be, but you’re using a half dozen rounds when one will do,” Kazowski replied, squeezing single rounds off to a metronome beat. “We’re still fine. Soldiers and Knights need time to beat down the gates, time we won’t give them. As long as nothing bigger comes along, we aren’t in danger.”
A roar, fierce and deafening, rang out over the snow and set the veteran to shaking his head with a weary sigh. “I just had to open my mouth.”
“Let me guess, something bigger just rocked up?”
There was a commotion in the horde at the light’s limits in front of the gate. Kyle swung his muzzle in the direction as Fod bodies started flying into the light. They were followed by a monster, easily twelve feet tall as it charged towards the gate, scattering lesser demons in its way or trampling them under its massive, clawed feet. Kyle’s breath caught in his throat as he got a good look at the thing.
Its skin was blood red, stretched taut over the rippling muscle that covered its humanoid body. Shaggy black hair that reached halfway down its back hung from its crown, framing a face from his nightmares. A large, sharply arched nose sat beneath a pair of eyes that glowed like embers as it swept its head, scanning the walls. Seeing the humans firing into the horde, its wide mouth split into a grin, exposing an impossible cluster of needle-like teeth longer than Kyle’s fingers. It roared again and picked up its pace.
Kazowski flipped his safety to full auto and unloaded on the Baron, the bullets stitching a path up its torso. It laughed, actually laughed, at the onslaught. An anti-armour rocket fired from another tower crashed into its chest, causing it to stumble briefly before it resumed its charge. It was no longer smiling as it smashed into the gate, out of sight from where the two soldiers were standing.
“Crap!” Kazowski spat, spinning and running the to far side of the tower. He shouted down to the soldiers clustered inside the gate. “Baron’s reached the gate! Standby!”
An officer nodded and shouted instructions to the forces lying in wait. The men and women immediately fanned out, forming a semi-circle around the entrance, guns held at the ready. A troop of tanks rumbled up, filling the gaps between the infantry, their main guns trained on the thick metal door.
Everything froze, the assembled humans waiting with trembling hands for the demon to breach the gate.
Thump.
The soldiers closest to the gate recoiled slightly at the impact before their leaders steadied their resolve.
Thump.
The second impact was louder, accompanied by the screech of torn metal as the gate started to give. The defenders wavered, one coward breaking and fleeing.
Thump.
The final impact was drowned out by the sound of the gate being ripped from its hinges. Less than a second later, it came into view as the Baron hurled it into the mass of waiting fighters. Soldiers screamed as it ploughed through their ranks, its sheer mass crushing the life out of some while the jagged edges eviscerated others. The Baron appeared a moment later, charging through the hole with its axe raised. The tanks fired as one, 100mm smoothbore HEAT rounds evaporating its torso.
Kyle cheered, his voice dying away as Fods swarmed over the Baron’s legs. The mindless drones surged, unheeding of the dead demon they crawled over, nor the wall of gunfire they ran into. The surviving infantry unloaded alongside the tanks as the coaxial 30mm cannons levelled the horde in a cone that extended well past the gate.
“Come on, rookie,” Zakowski said, leaping from the tower. He hit the ground with a loud thump, the power armour absorbing the force of close to a hundred and fifty kilos dropping four metres.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Shouldn’t we stay in the tower?” Kyle shouted back, dithering for a moment before following the veteran. He knew the armour would take the impact, but it still took him a moment to work up the courage to take what would ordinarily be a bone shattering fall. Holding his breath, he stepped off the edge, fighting the urge to seize up as the ground rushed towards him. The jump went off without a hitch, though, and he grinned like an idiot as he straightened up.
“You’re grinning under the helmet, aren’t you?” Zakowski said.
“Maybe a little. Why are we down here?”
Zakowski shook his head and strode towards the gate. “We’ll help evac the wounded, free up the gate crew to hold their ground.”
Kyle dutifully followed his senior to the gate, pulling up short and trying not to vomit when he saw the carnage up close. The Baron had caused more damage than he thought. There was a squad of mangled corpses on the ground, parts of their bodies flattened and leaking bodily fluids through their cracked armour, while other parts were bent at sickening angles.
“Don’t worry about the dead, kid. Help the living,” Zakowski muttered, grabbing a screaming soldier under the shoulders and dragging him away.
The man’s legs stayed behind, cut cleanly above the knees by the edge of the gate.
Kyle nodded, swallowing the bile in his throat as he grabbed another. At first glance, he thought the man was only lightly wounded, but the man groaned as Kyle lifted him, his chest plate shifting the reveal a rent over his belly. Kyle swore and almost dropped the guy in his rush to stop his guts from spilling out.
“Jesus christ…” he muttered.
“Wish he was here, but he’s not,” the soldier said through gritted teeth. “Guess you’ll have the get me to the CCP instead.”
Kyle awkwardly shifted him, half dragging, half carrying, half struggling to keep the man’s innards inside him.
“Just hang on, buddy,” he said as they stumbled through the camp, the sounds of gunfire fading as they passed the prefab buildings. “Just hang on.”
After what felt like hours, but would have only been a minute or two, Kyle rounded a building and spotted the casualty collection point. It was a small field hospital, the double doors chocked open for the stream of people coming and going.
He picked the wounded soldier up and sprinted, bursting through the doors and skidding to a halt. Close to a half dozen fighters laid on hospital beds in various states of disassembly, and he had no idea where to drop his charge. All the bed space was taken.
“What’s the injury?”
Kyle blinked. It sounded like someone was talking to him.
“Hey!” Fingers snapped in front of his eyes. “Pull yourself together, son. What’s the injury?”
Kyle jumped. There was a balding, middle-aged man standing before him in scrubs, glaring over the top of his spectacles.
“Uh, his armour got cut clean through over his belly. His intestines and shit are…”
The doctor nodded and quickly checked the soldier’s wound. “Alright, just set him down in the corner there.”
“I’m sorry, what? On the floor?”
“Unless you’ve got another bed in your pockets?”
“Power armour doesn’t have pockets.”
“Exactly. Drop him and get back to the fight.”
Still feeling a little dazed, Kyle set the man down, gave him a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder, and stepped back out into the night. He took a moment to breathe, trying to quell the shaking in his hands. The thought of going back to face the horde was just… too much for him right now.
Could he run? He was in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night in the Eurasian steppes. There was nowhere to run to! But he couldn’t stay here. The horde would overwhelm the gate defenders in minutes, if they hadn’t done so already, and then they would pour through the camp, ripping apart and feasting on the soldiers.
The thought of an army of Fodders peeling off his armour, cracking him like a walnut and feeding on his insides… they’d probably start with the plating over his stomach, the armour there was thick enough to stop a bullet, but it was fitted to a Kevlar underlay to allow for freedom of movement. The tough canvas would resist the sharp claws of a Fod for a few seconds, maybe, before giving, and then his soft belly would be the hole the demons burrowed into.
What a fucked way to spend Christmas, he thought to himself.
“What’s on your mind?” Zakowski asked beside Kyle. He hadn’t made a sound as he came up, despite being clad in a heavy metal suit. Kyle supposed it must be a sign of shock that he didn’t immediately jump out of his skin.
“Those things… they’re going to get through the gate eventually, aren’t they?”
“Without a doubt. Eventually, the defence platoon is going to run out of bullets. The tanks’ll be able to give them time to withdraw, but then they’ll need to hightail it out, too. The horde will pour through the camp, anyone too slow to flee or who gets themselves trapped in a corner will be torn apart. Those casualties back there? The ones that don’t get a space on the first evac chopper? They’ll wish they died at the gate. If they’re lucky, the doc’ll give them a final mercy.”
“Then what are we even doing here, Corporal?”
The veteran sighed and clamped a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “The party line is that we’re defending the millions of innocents out there from demonic incursions. That the Hellveil has been thin here since the Sons of Solomon summoned the hordes in the war, and that’s why all the NATO countries have to contribute three percent of their GDP to hiring an army of overpaid mercenaries to stand guard year round.
“I’m here because I remember the war, though. I remember what happens when these things get through the thin red line, and the horrors they bring. If you can’t answer the question for yourself, then you never should have joined up, kid.”
Kyle groaned and buried his face in his hands. Why was he here? He had told his parents that he felt it was his duty to the world, to protect the defenceless from monsters. He remembered his mother crying, and the complex look on his father’s scarred face. Part fear, part resignation. A lot of pride. As for himself? Well, he had told himself it would be exciting, an adventure you couldn’t get anywhere else.
Deep down, he’d known the truth, though. The pay was good. Really good, like, retire in five years at the tender age of twenty-four, good. And he had been looking forward to picking up chicks in his hometown bar when he got home, too, using tales of his heroic exploits to get them to drop their panties. Seemed like pretty poor reasons for getting himself torn apart on Chrissie Eve, in hindsight.
“I don’t think I joined for the right reasons, Corporal,” he said, looking up at the vet with eyes brimming with tears.
Zakowski gave him a reassuring pat, disappointment and concern plastered on his face in roughly equal measure. “I figured as much. I’ll do what I can to get you through the night. If we’re alive come morning, I suggest you put in your notice.”
Kyle nodded as a single errant tear fell down his cheek. “How do we make it morning, then?”
“Kill demons. Don’t die,” he replied as their radios crackled to life.
“All call signs, this is the CP. Gate has fallen, I say again, the gate has fallen. One Baron class identified. Several Knight Class brrp… tank troop is gon- brrp… find the nearest bunker. Air strike in two mikes.”
“Ah, shit,” Zakowski muttered, shaking his head. Kyle looked at him, his eyes going wide.
“What are they on about?”
“Bible Belt Barbecue. Half holy water, half napalm. Rips through the hordes and leaves the survivors vulnerable to secular weapons. It’ll be fatal for us too if we don’t find cover though, let’s move!”
*
Five minutes later, the crump of detonating munitions and patter of water on the bunker roof had died down, replaced by an eerie silence. It felt odd after the cacophony. Even before the bombardment started, the horde had reached the bunker, beating on the reinforced concrete and steel pillbox, trying to get at the tasty morsels within. Now there was no sound save that of the wind as it whistled through the camp.
Zakowski cracked the door, gun in his shoulder, peering through the gap.
“Looks quiet, come on.”
“Where are we going?” Kyle whispered.
“Command Post. We should have heard something on the radio by now. The bombardment might have damaged the comms relay though. We’ll know for sure when we get there.”
The two men crept through the base, each bootstep crunching through a carpet of charred Fod, or squelching into a puddle of residual holy water slurry that had somehow survived the heat. In the couple of minutes it took to reach the CP, they saw neither sight nor sound of any living creature, human or otherwise.
“Where the fuck is everyone?” Kyle whispered.
Zakowski shot him a glare that said ‘shut up before I shut you up’ and the rookie obediently shut his mouth. He stacked up behind the veteran as they advanced on the building, rifles up and ready to engage.
The door had been ripped off its hinges and was lying a few meters away, slowly disappearing beneath the flakes of snow falling from the sky. Zakowski crouched beside the hole in the wall, waving his muzzle to signal his readiness to enter. Kyle risked quickly letting go of the rifle with one hand to brush some snow from his visor, then clapped the corporal on the back. They burst into the CP, Zakowski going right, Kyle going left, the flashlights on their guns sweeping through the darkness.
It was a bloodbath, almost literally. It coated just about every surface; the floors, the desks covered in Toughbook laptops, even the ceiling had been painted in great arcing sprays. The blood’s previous containers were strewn about, the command team no match for whatever had busted down the door. Kyle swore and kept scanning the room, his light settling on the base commander.
What was left of him, anyway. The flashlight illuminated a pair of Fods as they worked in tandem to crack open his femur to get at that sweet, sweet marrow inside. He squeezed his lips shut, fighting the urge to puke as his finger curled over the trigger, taking a bead on the larger beast as it turned and snarled at the light.
Zakowski’s hand clamping over his muzzle stopped him from letting off the shot. The rookie glanced at him; the veteran shaking his head and holding a finger up to where his mouth would be under the helmet. Without further preamble, he slung his gun and advanced on the Fods, now snarling and hissing as they protected their meal. He cracked his knuckles and set to work, while Kyle just stared, dumbfounded.
He knew power armour was a fantastic bit of kit, especially when you learned how to move in it properly. He had done the basic training and regularly ran through agility course training to get better. He thought of himself as fairly proficient; he could get through the base obstacle course in just under twice his unencumbered speed, and he was the squad champion at armoured boxing largely due to how fast he could move and react.
But Zakowski was on another level altogether. One Fod bunched its legs beneath it and leapt with the speed of a coiled viper. Zakowski snatched it out of the air by the throat, crushed its neck with one hand, then ripped its head clean off with the other.
The surviving demonspawn screamed and charged, copping a boot to the chest that sent it flying for its troubles. Before it could rise, Zakowski dropped on top of it, and clubbed it to death with its comrade’s skull.
He straightened. “Guns are loud. They’ll draw every surviving demon in the base.”
“And the Fods’ screaming won’t?”
Zakowski dropped the head on the ground and pulled his gun back around, partially racking the bolt to check the round. “Oh, it will. But only the bastards that are already close. We’ve put out the call. Let’s see what comes knocking.”
No sooner had he said the words than a shadow fell across the doorway. Several shadows, actually. The ambient light from the spotlights outside cast the demons in silhouette, and Kyle brought the light back up to properly illuminate them.
They weren’t Fods.
Three Knight class demons stood before Kyle, between eight and nine feet tall each, salivating as they stared at him. The largest specimens was a Wrath demon, judging from its blood red skin and bovine horns, looking like a scaled-down version of the Baron that broke down the gate earlier. The other two, a full foot shorter than the Wrath demon, looked to be Gluttons.
That was bad. Wrath demons would kill you, sure. In their fury, they’d tear you into constituent parts the second they got their claws on you. But Gluttons were a different kettle of fish.
They reminded Kyle of a Homunculus, the cortical ones from school with the giant head, hands and feet, and long, spindly limbs. But if those little statues had looked unnerving, these demons were straight up terrifying. Dark grey skin pulled taught over a skeletal frame spoke of their eternal, insatiable hunger, echoed in the ropy drool spilling from their improbably huge, incisor filled jaws. Despite their emaciated bodies, their strength was almost on par with their angry cousins, but with claws that injected a paralytic venom tipping each nauseatingly long limb, they preferred to snatch victims and retreat from the field of battle, savouring the momentary reprieve they got with every bite of fresh meat.
“Their skin, its steaming,” Zakowski whispered, raising his gun. “They got caught in the holy water.”
“Does that mean we can kill them?”
A dry chuckle. “God, no. But we might be able to hurt them enough to escape. I want you to stay behind me, alright? We’ll back up, draw them in, and then dump everything we have into them. Aim for the face, if you can. When I say, I want you to run for the door, don’t look back, just run. When you get outside, head back to the bunker, lock yourself in, and don’t come out until you hear human voices.”
“Wait…” Kyle was awfully conscious of the veteran’s choice of words.
I want you to run for the door. Lock yourself in.
“What are you planning on doing?”
“Giving them a problem they can’t ignore. Survive, Kyle. Go home. You were never meant for this fight.”
“You can’t- “
Zakowski cut him off by pumping a burst into the Wrath’s head, the demon staggering and clutching its face as it bellowed in rage. The Gluttons didn’t skip a beat, shooting into the CP with unnatural speed. The soldiers opened fire, Kyle cursing Zakowski out with the vehemence of a desperately terrified man using whatever outlet he could to not panic.
The first Glutton tripped as Zakowski put a flurry of .50 cal rounds through its leg, but it barely slowed as it transitioned into a three-legged lope, diving and tackling the veteran. The force picked the power armoured warrior off the floor, and they crashed through a steel desk as they flew.
Kyle was less lucky. He wasn’t as good a shot as the corporal, and his rounds either flew wide or stitched an ineffective line across the demon’s distended belly. The gut ruptured, partially digested chunks of human meat and limbs steaming as they spilled onto the floor, but it didn’t bother the demon in the slightest as it closed the distance and swung a claw into Kyle’s helmet.
His armour reflexively locked up the joints to distribute the force, keeping his head on his shoulders but turning him into a life-sized action figure as he cartwheeled through the air into the wall. The armour released the locks once he had safely bounced off the bunker to land face down in the thin layer of snow carpeting the floor. He tried to struggle to his feet, but a clawed hand grabbed the back of his head and slammed it into the ground hard enough that the helmet cracked.
Kyle groaned. Even through the advanced materials and technical design of his armour, he had felt that one. He tried to resist, to push up and twist to face his attacker, but his body ignored every command he gave it. He realised why as his brain worked its way through the competing stimuli overwhelming it, discovering the Glutton’s pinky slipped up under the bottom of his helmet, the claw nicking his jaw just deeply enough to inject the venom.
No, no! Nonononono! He thought, sobbing internally because he couldn’t sob physically. Of all the ways to die, paralysed and eaten alive by a demon was the worst way he could ever have envisioned. The sadistic monster didn’t start right away, though. Instead, it hoisted him into the air, his feet brushing a drift of snow as it turned him to face Zakowski.
The veteran was still fighting. As Kyle watched, he brought a boot to his chest and kicked the demon straddling him. A blow like that would have collapsed the rib cage of a human, but the monster just chuckled, grasped the foot, and wrenched it to the side. The leg twisted with a loud pop and Zakowski screamed.
How can this be happening? Kyle thought, his mind paralysed by terror as Zakowski’s Glutton grasped his helmet, pulling it off and tossing it aside. The corporal looked up at the demon with hate-filled eyes and struggled as the demon slowly lowered its face, maw opening wide as its teeth inched towards his head.
But the old soldier wasn’t done. He slammed his forehead into the demon’s nose and it flinched, blinking in surprise more than actual pain. The distraction gave Zakowski the opportunity he needed, though, as he drew the Desert Eagle from his thigh holster and jammed it into the creature’s mouth.
“Go back where you came from, bastard!” Zakowski screamed as he pulled the trigger again and again. After the third round, the back of the Glutton’s skull blew out. By the time the hand cannon clicked empty, the light had died in the beast’s eyes. It listed slowly to the side, thudding into the floor with a puff of snow.
The Glutton holding Kyle howled and dropped him. He crumpled to the ground, lying painfully twisted with his face still pointed towards his corporal. The veteran climbed to his feet, leaning heavily against a desk, looking sadly at the weapon in his hand, then tossing it aside. He searched the room until he found Kyle, regret plain on his scarred face.
“I’m sorry, Kyle. I thought- “
The Wrath demon tackled him from the side, the Glutton darting forward and jumping into the fight. Zakowski struggled and swore, but was ultimately helpless as the monsters ripped him apart, legs first, then arms. He was already dead from massive trauma when the Glutton clamped its mouth over his head and crushed it into a bloody pulp.
A tear fell from Kyle’s eye, and he let out a quiet sob as he watched his senior mutilated. The Wrath demon was consumed with ripping Zakowski into ever small chunks, while the Glutton was stuffing parts into its mouth, uncaring of whether it was bone or flesh.
Wait… I sobbed.
The Glutton had pricked him just enough to paralyse him; he hadn’t gotten a full dose of the venom. It was already wearing off! He tried moving his fingers, silently cheering when they sluggishly obeyed. He moved his arms next, pulling and pushing until he had straightened himself out and propped himself against the bunker wall.
Now, for my legs!
He looked down at his feet, willing them to move.
Nothing. He tried again.
Still nothing.
The panic rose again as he heard a massive crack and glanced up to find Glutton staring at him, one of Zakowski’s legs in its hand. It raised the limb to its mouth and took another chunk, accompanied by another loud crack as it sheared through the femur. It licked its lips and dropped what was left of its meal, taking a step towards Kyle.
Oh shit! Oh shitohshitoshit!