Rain fell in earnest. The men of Bravo Company were in their defensive positions, having dug trenches at the base of 937, staring out at the exposed ground to where the enemy lay beyond, to where they heard their friends scream for mercy. They shifted uncomfortably in the mud while the rain fell on their helmets, making soft plunk sounds. Fog moved in, shortening their line of sight. They could no longer see the treeline of the surrounding jungle. The men were quiet, waiting for the attack to begin. The silence was unnerving. Something should have happened but it was as quiet as a library. The anticipation was killing them. Some troopers silently talked amongst themselves, the boredom getting the better of them.

As soon as their guards were lowered ever so slightly, it began. A person emerged from the fog. It was a woman dressed in white rags, wearing a black mask with large black holes for eyes and a grotesquely wide smile. The first troopers to see her were the men of the 2nd Platoon. Vanc was the first to line up a shot through the scope of his las-rifle, laying next to Chatterbox and Chaps. The woman stood there out in the open for a moment, not doing anything.

“She’s not armed,” Vanc observed.

“I’mmashootheranyway,” Chatterbox said.

The woman started to laugh, moving her shoulders up and down with each chuckle. She reached down and grabbed something. She held it aloft, revealing the disembodied head of a trooper of the reserve force they had left off 937. Vanc cursed.

“You bitch!”

He shot the woman through the head. She flew back, dropping the head. As soon as she hit the ground, came baying from the fog beyond. Then came the las-shots out of the fog. A few of the troopers were hit. The cultists had pinpointed their position. They fired back, not even knowing what they were shooting at. Then they came. Dozens of shadows emerged. They all wore the sinister dark masks, their bodies covered in purple and pink swirls of paint. The cultists let out ear curdling shrieks as they ran at the defensive positions.

The troopers let loose. A storm of lasers flew in both directions. People on both sides were struck. Vanc patiently aimed shot after shot, aiming for the chests. They fell one by one. Chatterbox next to him lobbed grenades. Groups of enemies flew through the air, even clearing up parts of the fog from the concussive blasts. It was only for a moment as more fog moved in. Chaps, on Vanc’s left, fired at the cultists. Their assailants did not cry out in pain when shot, but in ecstasy. It was more unnerving than if they had yelled in pain like the troopers around him suffering from las-wounds. Chaps sang to himself.

“We all will meet the Emperor’s light. We must keep striving to achieve the peace, if we just keep believing, we shall all be free.”

Over him, he heard the barking of his platoon commander.

“Keep fire on the left, they’re trying to overwhelm that side,” Thayer yelled while firing his las-rifle from the hip.

His shots made the cultists stumble before they were killed by successive shots to the body.

Next to him, Sergeant Fairburn ran down the line, directing the men to focus their fire.

The enemy fell by the dozens but they kept coming. 2nd Platoon began to take casualties. Despite being in their entrenched positions, a few shots were lucky. Men were shot in the face, dying instantly. Others got hit by a barrage of shots to the body. Medics ran to and fro, administering emergency aid. A few of the cultists managed to throw grenades into their positions. The medics could do little for them. Thayer stood tall above the trench lines, continuing to fire when he felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder. Immediately, the left side of his body felt numb. Then came pain. He leaned over in pain. Sergeant Fairburn, returning from the end of the platoon’s defensive line, spotted him.

“Sir!”

Sergeant Fairburn ran to him. Thayer fell onto one knee. Fairburn looked him over, noticing a large needle sticking out of his shoulder.

“Medic!” he shouted.

Thayer fell over, his body convulsing. His veins were visible. It looked wrong; the veins were purple. Fairburn had seen enough combat to recognize a poisoned needle. Fairburn grabbed the needle and yanked it out of Thayer’s body. Around them, more and more men were falling, suffering the same fate. They were overwhelmed. The enemy baying continued all the while.

“Sergeant, t-take them to the second line,” Thayer managed to let out.

Fairburn stood up, nodding. Behind him, Vanc cursed.

“What about sir?” he asked, turning his head back.

Chatterbox and Chaps kept their attention forward, firing their weapons. But they were still listening. Fairburn looked down at their platoon commander. They exchanged a look. It was already too late for him.

“I’ll hold them off!” Thayer yelled. “Fall back!”

They men scrambled out of the trenches, their hands and feet slipping in the mud while las-shots and needles hit the ground around them, spraying mud into the air. The enemy was close. They could see the color of the pupils in their ecstasy filled eyes. They ran back, leapfrogging. Some would stop, fire their weapons to provide covering fire, then head up while their compatriots did the same for them.

“These bastards!” Vanc cursed as he ran past Thayer, heading up 937.

“I’llkillthemallforyousir,” Chatterbox said, firing on his knee next to the laying Thayer before moving back.

Chaps leaned over him and prayed for him but a las-shot hit the ground at his feet, interrupting his prayer. He ran away while finishing the prayer.

They took the wounded that could still move with them, but the ones that couldn’t stayed behind, fighting the enemy as long as they could.

Thayer was able to sit up, unholstering his las-pistol. He shot two cultists through the head, making them fall into the trenches. His left body completely limp yet searing with pain, his aim began to waver. A cultist hopped over the trench. He had on a black cloak along with his black mask. He had a needler sniper rifle cradled in his arms.

“I got an officer. I got an officer,” he crooned.

Thayer fired his las-pistol at the man. Nothing came out. He was out. The man laughed. Other cultists leaped over the trench line. There were at least a hundred spread out along the defensive line. They swarmed like ants. They stood over the others paralyzed like him, brandishing knives.

“The pain. The pain,” they chanted.

They dug the knives into their skin. The men wailed in pain. They began to drag them away, out into the clearing. It pained Thayer. They weren’t just taking Vanquishers, they were taking his Vanquishers.

“Did you think you’d die? Just like that?” the man before him said. “No, no. You must experience the beauties of Slaanesh first.”

He took out his own curved knife, stepping closer to Thayer. Thayer in response took out a grenade, pulling the pin out with his teeth.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“You and Slaanesh can suck it!”

The crazed man laughed as the grenade enveloped them both.

***

Meanwhile, Cadet Waino was trying to relieve himself. 1st platoon was on the other side of 937, hearing the las-cracks. Waino had stepped away from 1st platoon’s defensive perimeter for privacy. He was beside a tree, crouching into a bush with his pants down. It was bad. His fecal matter came out like water.

“They don’t put this part of war into the histories,” he grumbled to himself.

Despite being thirsty, hungry, and dirty, he found the situation humorous. How many heroes had to do the same thing? Did Ciaphas Cain or Ibram Gaunt ever have to relieve themselves like this? The only men that didn’t were probably Space Marines.

He finished when suddenly a needle embedded itself into the tree inches from his head, causing splinters to fly from the impact. He jumped back, falling into his waste. He frantically pulled his pants up and rose. He could hear las-cracks ahead of him. He ran, quickly joining the platoon. They were firing at the dozens of cultists that advanced at them. They ran while uttering a distressing discordant chant. When Waino got there, two troopers got shot. One by a las-shot through the stomach, the other with a needle through the eye. Waino crouched down, firing his weapon. He took three down. Their bodies lurched back from the shots, groaning.

“How many of these bastards are there?” Jenkins said.

He was about a dozen feet down the trench line from Waino, firing. Rogers chuckled beside him.

“The more the merrier,” he said.

Their las-shots swarmed the enemies, making them take hits no matter where they moved. They flew back into the fog, being kept at bay.

“We’re doing it aren’t we babycom?” a voice asked him.

Waino turned his head, finding trooper Rodriguez. The trooper shot down four of the enemy with a single burst of his las-rifle. He was a good shot. Waino nodded.

“Keep it up.”

Rodriguez smiled at him when the trooper’s head exploded. Blood sprayed onto Waino’s face, covering half of it in blood.

“They’re flanking us!” a trooper called out. A hail of las-shots and needles hit 1st platoon from the left, catching them off guard.

Verro was behind the main line, yelling into his local comm-bead.

“And you tell us now!?” he yelled.

“Fall back!” he ordered.

The troopers the furthest on the left had no time to move. Shots pelted their bodies, driving them into the mud. Rodriguez’s body fell, limp. Despite the shots going over Waino’s head and landing mere feet from him, he couldn’t help but stare. He shook himself out of it just in time to blast away a group of charging cultists.

He climbed out of the trench, running as troopers nearby fell, convulsing from needles that found their way into their skin.

Waino got next to Verro, both sprinting. Behind them, they heard screaming. Verro stopped and turned round, spotting a group of cultists pulling his men away from the battlefield. Enraged, he fired. He took out a group of four that were trying to pull a trooper away. He shot them all down but there were a dozen more being taken. Meanwhile, the other cultists were moving in, their shots becoming more accurate the closer they got.

“We gotta move!” Waino yelled, grabbing Verro’s shoulder.

Verro ignored him, shooting down another group. Troopers began to follow Verro’s example, stopping in place to fire at the abductors.

“We can’t save them! Don’t forget the plan,” Waino said.

He wanted to save them too but he could see for himself it was impossible. There were too many. They would all die in the attempt. What he had to do made him feel sour. He punched Verro.

The punch made him stop firing.

“We need to leave!” Waino told him.

Before Verro could respond, a las-shot hit the ground right before their feet. Without a word, they moved. The other troopers followed suit. Up 937 they went.

***

Bracer stood in the back of 3rd platoon, watching his men fire into the fog. He groaned. Why couldn’t he be anywhere but here? He rolled onto his stomach, aiming his lasgun.

“Everyone pull back to the second line!” he heard in his comm-bead.

He grimaced. Of course he’d have to move. Right after he’d gotten comfortable. Bracer heard a noise to his right. He rolled onto his left, instinctively aiming his gun up. A cultist had tried to sneak up on him, aiming a needler at him. Bracer gave him a burst of laser.

“Everyone fall back! This position is compromised!” Bracer commanded. He hefted himself up. They were being enveloped from both sides. His men fired in all directions. The cultists fought with no sense of hesitation or sense of preservation. It was like they wanted to be shot. Bracer ran back, his men dropping smoke grenades at their feet. They worked their way up to the second defensive line. They provided covering fire as 3rd platoon ran to them. Cultists flipped through the air from the impacts. He saw the XO amongst the men ahead.

Bracer zig zagged to avoid the fire from behind. His men tried to do the same but even then some got hit. They were dead before they hit the ground. Bracer made it to the XO, who promptly pulled him down to the ground. The rest of the forward element of 3rd platoon jumped behind the second line.

“Sir there’s too many of them!” he reported.

“Yeah, that’s why we were saving the big guns,” Knight reminded him.

Across 937, everything fell into place. The cultists were moving up from all sides, their movements now hindered now that they were stuck in the mud. The very same mud the Vanquishers had to struggle through to take 937 in the first place. The heavy stubbers revealed themselves. Having hid themselves in the foliage, they unleashed flashes of light. Streams of bullets rained down. Their bodies became minced meat. The Guardsmen added their lasguns to the cacophony of shots, spraying down waves of cultists.

By then all the platoons had retreated to the second line of defense, the heavy stubber nests. They’d done their part. They were tasked to hold them off as long as possible, then retreat to give the impression they were in route. They sacrificed many to accomplish it but it made watching the bullets rip the cultists limb from limb all the more enjoyable. Eventually, the cultists began to pull back. They got no respite. The Vanquishers fired into their fleeing foes, relishing seeing their lasers burn flesh.

Waino watched from the position they had fallen back to, staying in the same holes that had ambushed them just a few hours before. Verro was beside him, firing into cultists, his face as set as stone. Waino could feel the anger emanating from him. Waino joined him. He now understood just how vile the archenemy truly was. There was no room for negotiation with them. They only wanted the destruction of the Imperium and everyone in it. They had to be cleansed. It felt good to end them. The enemy eventually fled 937. Rain continued to fall. It was heavy now, creating puddles in the mud and getting into their eyes.

“Did we do it?” Jenkins asked, sitting in a hole with his back to the wall.

“That was only the first wave,” Verro spat, wiping his spectacles.

Waino reloaded his lasgun.

“What’s the plan now?”

“If they come again, we kill them. We keep killing until none are left.”

***

“How’s it looking?” General Bane asked.

He stood in the operations center of Firebase Macharius. Before him were dozens of picts and holographic displays on the walls. Servitors sat at cogitators, managing the hundreds of messages coming in asking for status updates. Other staff members walked about the large room, all in a bustle. Behind the general was Commissar-General MacArthur, leaning back in a chair, smoking a cigar, his eyes covered by black tinted glasses.

“We can’t reach Bravo Company. The comms are still jammed,” an officer reported.

“Enemy numbers?”

“Despite the bad weather, picts show a brigade’s worth moving in.”

“They’re outnumbered more than 10 to 1.”

“Yes sir.”

“So they’ve done it. They must have found their base.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” MacArthur said. “Looks to me like you fell for a classic trap general. They goaded you to send Bravo in, then once they were there, they unleashed their major ambush. All of those minor skirmishes these past few months? They were all in the same area on purpose. They wanted you to send men out there.”

General Bane gritted his teeth. He had been desperate for a major engagement. He got his major engagement all right. Only it wasn’t on his terms.

“We can recover from this. It’s only one company,” Bane said.

MacArthur took a puff of his cigar.

“So you’re going to leave them out there?”

“Of course not!”

He turned to his staff.

“Send the rest of the Vanquishers along with the 50th Volpone and Catachan 9th. Send in as many birds as we can, the weather be damned.”

“And do you think your communication problems are just because of the bad weather? Seems too coincidental don’t you think? It was supposed to be a sunny day.”

“Are you saying-”

“Yes I am. You got yourself some psykers.”

MacArthur took another puff of his cigar. His cadet was having a trial by fire. This would either make or break him. Good luck boy, he thought.