# Dead City



## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

THREAD NEWS: Chapter 8 - The Hanger has been posted! Find out who the 'real' enemy is...! All comments welcome, and more coming soon.


*Chapter 1 - Apocalypsed​*

Carson awoke with a start, his consciousness ripping back to reality, away from his dreams. He wished his nightmares away with a mental shrug and sat up from his bed. Faint light pushed its way through a shuttered window, casting faint shadows. He squinted his eyes, even in such faint light, mainly due to his pulsating hangover. Frak, why didn’t the God-Emperor just let me sleep longer, he thought. But that would not happen, he knew. 

It just wasn’t safe to sleep too long. Not even the alcohol could help him sleep. Not since the fall of the city.

He moved away from the sweaty covers of the bed and walked groggily into the adjacent room towards the drinks cabinet, selecting a Glavian wine. There wasn’t many bottles felt he realised grudgingly. He pulled open the bottle cap and took a long swig of the liquid, savouring the bitter taste, and then he put the bottle down and checked his side-arm – dependably clipped to his waist – a rustic, yet reliable, stub-pistol.

He walked over to the shuttered window and pulled it open, warily looking over Tharius as the setting sun cast its final rays over the once sprawling hub of humanity and signed heavily. Nothing moved in the cityscape except a ghostly breeze that swept silently throughout the brittle-looking streets. Dust, detritus and rubbish moved in the wind, but nothing much else. The city stood eerily silent. Many types of vehicle choked the main roadways, from the crashed ruins of orbital launchers to large ore trucks which used to roar down the avenues each day to the manufactoriums. They all lay dormant and decaying across the roads amidst the bodies of rotten animals, be it dogs, rats or whatever, as they lay decomposing in the ceremite pavements. The tall, building sized vid-screens that used to voice the Imperial Creed daily to the populace stood blank, cracked and silent; almost a dark parody of the benevolent God-Emperor Himself.

Several buildings burned in the distance, the smoke obscuring large parts of the city. He wondered if the whole world was going the smoulder until all was ash. The raging fires had passed early on, during the first week of the outbreak, choking the stale air and killing thousands in its fiery tsunami across Tharius. This was a dead city, the apocalypse had came and left a cruel emptiness in its wake. What unsettled Carson the most, apart from the silence, was the absence of people. Amidst the carnage and hollowness of the city, no bodies lay within the ruins and broken streets. They were elsewhere.

The final rays of sunshine for the day vanished and night enveloped the grim scene. Moments later a dry moaning echoed throughout the streets, a coarse, haunting sound that sounded ceaselessly across Tharius. Carson ground his teeth with a weary fear in his heart - the denizens of the city have awoken once more, he mused bitterly.

He moved away from the window and thumbed the activation switch on his pistol on his hip, readying himself for another day or night rather, in the once great city of Tharius, his hangover forgotten.

Soon the suns rays vanished and total darkness blanketed everything. On que, Carson heard the barking again. He was sure it would have died by now, but each night as the sun dipped hauntingly over the city’s sky-reaching spires, the dog upstairs started up once more. There were times he wished to the damned Emperor for it to die, or escape out of its hab above him. But, the hound bayed continually, every night, drawing more of the beasts to it – and to him.

Carson had barricaded himself into a hab-unit, ten stories up, around a week ago. He wasn’t too sure of the actual length of time due the sleep deprivation and drunkenness. Luckily though, he had found a place with a decent supply of food and water – and alcohol, of course. 

A brittle moaning sound, and then scraping and scratching on the hab door interrupted his thoughts. He took a light out from his pocket and aimed towards the exit. The freezer unit and plastek chairs blocking it shook ever-so-slightly as he cast his hand light over them. So, it begins again, he thought. 

He turned away from the kitchen and groggily walked into the front room, amid more frantic barking from his upstairs neighbour. He had grown sick of the small room, with its old soft settee and single, plastek table. And, of course, the large, wide window that looked out into the city. Most of the furniture now blocked the front entrance and the table was covered with empty bottles of Glavian wine. The machine spirits powering the hab block had fled several days ago, and an eerie darkness stole the city sights all around, giving Carson mixed feelings – he was glad he could not see the bleak remains of Tharius, but his basic human fear of darkness smouldered in the back of his mind. In the distance, through the scores of buildings, fires continued to burn and he could see pinpricks of light – not all the power had gone. Each night, more of the fires burnt out and he could see less lights. A dark disease blanketed the world and was slowly consuming the final sparks of civilisation – and hope.

An undulating wail echoed through the hab, followed by frenzied barking. Carson heard wild thumping from above, and a final yelp of a dog. 

Then silence.

So the poor beast had finally been found. For some reason, Carson was suddenly angry. He gripped his gun, his knuckles turning white and he moved back into the kitchen, and confronted the barricaded door, shining his weak light at it. The door suddenly stood still and the moaning sounds ceased. They knew there had been a kill and were joining the feast, he thought. The anger drilled deeper into him, and he was starting to realise why – the dog was another survivor, another being alive in a graveyard city, and its nightly barking had given him some form of companionship. Even that had been taken away from him.

For a moment, he thought of tearing open his makeshift barricade and avenging the poor dog, but the futility of the gesture hit him like a falling mountain – what was the point? He would achieve only death.

The anger faded as fast as it appeared, replaced with the all-consuming feeling of helplessness that sat heavily upon his shoulders. He loosened his grip on his weapon, deciding to find some food instead of killing himself.

A few moments later, he realised he had finished the final, mouldering scraps the night before. In frustration he strode back into the front room and to the drinks cabinet, deciding to drink this reality into another.


*​

He awoke to roaring.

It was still night, and as he struggled awake an empty wine bottle bounced onto the floor. He vaguely remembered downing the potent wine before collapsing on the only seat in the hab. He must have drifted off to sleep. The roaring continued, and his befuddled mind vibrated with confusion – what the hell was going on?

His head throbbed from the wine while his sight was blurred and his mouth dry. Suddenly, an intensely bright light flashed briefly in through the hab window, and the deafening sound increased in volume, before slowly quietening. Carson jumped up and ran to the window, realising what he was hearing: thrusters.

He hastily rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and his heart thumped in his chest. Someone was outside in a flyer, someone else was alive! He saw the blurred outline of an orbital lander – he couldn’t see what make it was, but it didn’t matter, he was not alone!

Unfortunately, the lander was edging away on its hover-thrusters. It looked as if it was searching the street, its lights shining over the roadways and buildings, twin beams of light in eternal darkness. Every now and then, Carson could see figures being lit up by the lights, as they shambled throughout the city like small swarms of insects. The population of Tharius; Walking aimlessly throughout the streets, looking for their next grisly meal.

Carson turned from the scene, trying to find his own light in the soupy blackness of the hab. He swore as he tripped over a collection of bottles, then he dropped to his knees, his hands searching wildly for the light. Seconds later he found it, hastily switching it on as he ran over to the window. The thruster sounds were diminishing and he panicked; what if he had just missed his chance of being rescued? 

He waved the light out toward the fading sight of lander and futilely banged on the window. ‘Come back!’ he cried, ‘I’m here!’

Slowly, the roaring died down to a whisper and the lights vanished into the night as the ship turned away into another part of the city, taking Carson’s hope with it.

Then there was another sound. Not a roaring of engines, but the dry sound that came from a ruined human throat. Suddenly, there was a thumping noise from the kitchen area and entrance to the hab. They must have heard him shout. Damn it, Carson thought, what have I done? They followed the sounds of the living, and he had just given away his hiding area once more to the things outside. Every blasted one of them in the tight corridors out-with the hab would be moving towards him. Maybe this time the door would not hold.

Just as the chance for survival was presented, it had been stripped away and replaced with the cold reality of impending death. Without thinking, he cried out and snatched up one of the bottles and threw it viciously at the window. It hit with a violent crash, breaking into pieces and leaving a precarious crack throughout the pane. 

With a crunching snap, something gave way in the hab entrance and he heard his barricade scrape along the floor. He had run out of time and the plague ridden citizens that were dead, but not dead, had come for him. 

He pulled out his stub pistol, activating it with practiced ease, and shone his small light at the door to the front room, preparing to meet his doom.


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## waltzmelancholy_07 (Sep 30, 2008)

Brilliant!... But there were some typhos.. Nevertheless, it's an amazing piece... REP!...


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

Hey mate, this is one of the stories I have followed for several months however I lost track and could not be bothered to read on other sites, bloody awesome have some rep


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## Commissar Ploss (Feb 29, 2008)

sweet stuff! glad to see you post it! keep it up!

Commissar Ploss


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

Hey,

thanks for the comments and the rep people, a great welcome to the forum indeed!!!

Dark Angel - yeh, cheers. Some older starts to the story have been around - this is a complete update and i've restructured the story into chapters. Still have much work to do, but the story is coming along - been putting many hours work into the characters and the overall plot recently!

Chapter 2 should be posted tonight.

Cheers again,

two lls


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

*Dead City - Chapter two - Nowhere To Go*

*Chapter two - Nowhere To Go*​

The dry, wretched screeching of the plague ridden reached Carson’s ears moments before their rank odour filled his nostrils as he edged towards the kitchen area. He heard the final splintering crash of the cabinets and chairs he had piled around the entrance and gripped his weapon tight while sending a prayer to the Emperor. In his other hand he held his puny light, its thin beam casting dim shadows in front of him, allowing him fleeting glimpses of what lay beyond the failing barricade. 

His heart thumped in his chest as he aimed his weapon towards the entrance, his hands shaking as he waited for the inevitable attack. The stench of the enemy was suddenly everywhere – another putrid contamination of Tharius – and the foul fumes made him gag. Finally, he heard a scraping, dragging sound, and one of his would-be attackers pushed its way passed the doorway. He thought the initial fear and shock would have subsided by now, but the sight of the beastly being made him take a step backwards. The horrible reality of the situation became all-to-clear at that moment: there was nowhere to go. No corner to run around; no stairway to salvation; no vehicle to escape in. This time he had to face his foe; he had run out of hiding places. One way lay the shambling enemy, while the other was a ten-storey fall through a glass window. He didn’t know what was worse.

One of his tormentors came into the faint light. The thing before him had been human once, he knew, but now it was a disgusting, rotting parody of life. It had died of the fatal virus that had spread like a wild fire throughout the city two standard weeks previously - and then it had returned to life a strange, undead monster. Carson would have laughed at such a thing being real before he had seen his friends, his family and his city turn into a warp-tainted landscape of flesh-eating hell. Some had dubbed them ‘Plague Zombies’ and the name was perfect for them. All they craved was the flesh of the living, and they had been ever so hungry over the last fourteen nights, killing and turning most of the population into their brutal kin. 

The zombie before Carson shambled forwards, its throat issuing a jagged gurgle as its movements hastened at the sight of him. As he shone his light at it he saw the decomposing features; yellowing skin hung loose over its angled jaw and dried blood caked its face. One eye had popped out of its socket – long lost in the throes of death, while the remaining one seemed to glare with unearthly menace as it rolled in its socket and looked right at him, a heinous intent shining within. One of its hands reached out for him, grasping with frightening desire.

Carson composed himself and aimed his weapon at the zombie, squeezing the trigger, the shot ripping through its head and pulverising its brain. The decaying body dropped to the floor, crashing through the wine bottles on the table in front of it. Before he could check it was staying down, another appeared, and another. They had evil, hungry looks in their grotesque faces. He fired off three more rounds, aiming for their heads. Both collapsed in mangled heaps and lay motionless on the fluid-stained carpet – a mix of torn flesh and congealed blood.

Yet more of the Plague Zombies filled the doorway and Carson’s heart sank, how could he stop all of them? He had discovered in the aftermath of the outbreak that destroying their brains was the only effective way of killing them for good, but there was just too many to kill them all. He battled a city full of them nightly. Early on, he promised himself that he would not become one of them. He would rather take his own life. And this time, he realised, one of his remaining bullets might have his name on it. In desperation he turned to the window, looking in vain for some miracle way of escape. It was lighter outside than it had been, the first rays of sunshine sparkling off the crack on the window, but other than that, nothing had changed. He turned back and fired off more shots at the zombies. They inched closer, some dying once more, while others tumbled over the fallen – but like a thick, deathly tide, they crawled and dragged themselves ever closer.

A thought punched into his frightened mind – the light! They hated sunlight. Of course! Ever since the plague hit the zombies had shied away from direct sunlight. If he could live long enough maybe the sun would rise and-

Maybe not enough rays would get into the hab? Maybe he would be dead, or un-living, by full sunrise? Frantically he ejected the spent ammo cartridge in his pistol and smoothly snapped another into place. He opened up on the living dead, pushing them back. He looked down at the table beside him, and had an idea. He dropped his light and grabbed hold of the table and with a strength driven by fear he threw it one-handed at the window. With a crash it rebounded off, making the crack in the window larger, but not smashing it as he had intended. He swore colourfully and without thinking fired his pistol at the window, a cry of frustration slipping out of him. 


The window shattered. Small fragments of glass cut his face and hands, while most of the remains fell outwards, showering the streets below. His hand-light on the floor and cast off haunting shadows as it spun slowly to a stop, glinting off glass fragments on the floor. A lingering silence followed. He had emptied his clip into the window – the last of his ammo.

A cold burst of air swept inwards, the wind threatening to push Carson off his feet. As he steadied himself, something grabbed hold of him and he was pushed to the glass-littered floor. He cried out in shock and pain, the sharp glass biting deep into his arms and face. He felt a violent wind blow into his face, and to his horror, he realised he had been pushed to the windows’ precipice, overlooking a fall to certain death. A heavy weight fell upon him suddenly, and he panicked, kicking out. He felt a writhing form slip over the edge and as his eyes accustomed to the gloomy morning light, he saw the falling form of a Plague Zombie. He tried to move away from the edge of the hab window, but as he did so another zombie grappled at his legs, its jaws snapping almost rhythmically. As the sun inched higher in the sky, he saw his adversary with more clarity – this one was more human looking. It had not been dead long. Maybe another survivor who had finally succumbed to the never-ending assaults of plague victims. It was a man, his cheek torn, the ruined skin flapping in the wind, the ugly wound opened to the bone. The same malevolent glare could be seen in his eyes, as the others before, and he crawled over Carson, his teeth gnashing off one another in anticipation of raw meat.

Carson grabbed hold of its bloodied throat as it made for his face, its jaws moving like that of some wild animal gone mad with hunger. With all his might he held the zombie away from him, but the reanimated corpse fought with a supernatural force, and its teeth edged closer and closer towards Carson. It groaned and moaned as it did so, and the sounds were all he could hear – even the wind seemed to have vanished as the horrible fate of being eaten alive descended towards him.

Then the sun rose, its rays beaming brilliantly over the building and into the hab unit.

The Plague Zombie, mere breaths away from Carson’s flesh, howled suddenly, and relented, its arms trying to shade it from the morning sun. Carson kicked into the dead thing, pushing it further from reach. 

He swiftly made sure his whole body was in the sunlight.

At least five other zombies lurched in the shadows, beyond the sun’s rays. Each of them had been moments away from attacking him. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. So close, oh so close!

The zombie that had almost eaten him had backed into the shadowy interior of the hab, out of reach of the light. It has stopped thrashing about now, and with an inhuman calm it stood looking directly at Carson. Every time the sun crept deeper into the hab, it moved inwards with it, along with the other zombies. The sudden quiet and intent stares of the dead unnerved him. But he still had nowhere to go, so had to endure. He sat nursing his cuts and bruises in the sun, the wind now a gentle breeze, while the Plague Zombies glared silently at him in the shade.

He laughed at the insanity of it all, his lonely snorting sniggers breaking the silent dawn. Minutes ago he had been literally staring death in the face, and now he had been saved by the sunrise. He briefly whispered a prayer of thanks to the God-Emperor, but stopped halfway through – what sort of God would save you, and then place you in this impossible situation?

As soon as night came, or the sun hid behind a tall building, or was covered with a cloud for too long, the zombies would attack. He had nowhere to run, stuck in-between flesh-eating mutants and a ten-story drop. It was times like this he really needed a drink, he thought incredulously.

And with a quiet relentlessness, the undead stood silently, waiting.


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## FORTHELION (Nov 21, 2009)

good stuff keep it up. whens the next chapter due?


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## Commissar Ploss (Feb 29, 2008)

really liked it! Keep up the awesome work!

CP

p.s. i changed the color of your "Thread News" from Red to Lime. Red text is reserved for staff and important mod remarks.


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

Forthelion - thanks for reading, the next chapter should be up tonight!

Commissar Ploss - ah, cheers for that, i'll remember for future! and thanks for reading.


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

*Dead City - Chapter 3 - Daybreak*

*I*​

Dassion Way activated the glareshield to dim the cockpit canopy as the bright morning sun rose, threatening to blind him as he flew his lander. It was a small, clunky old Orbital he called Hermia; she barely had enough space in her hold for thirty men, but she was one of the last flyers around these days, something he was very glad of, and so were the others that had been saved by her since the Fall. He squinted as he looked at the auspex reader on the aged control panel and noticed that it continued to blink over multiple moving contacts – it was nothing though, merely the plague twists, who below him moved for cover from the suns rays. Just like every other morning. 

It had been another quiet night for him, once more finding no survivors in the city. He switched off his now-redundant spotlights then eased the control stick backwards; immediately the orbital lander ascended away from the confines of the city towers into the light blue morning sky, her engines and machine spirit complaining faintly. As he flew above the remains of Tharius’ towering buildings he felt the tension in his body dissipate – he had been growing so used to the adrenaline pumping in his veins as he worked his way through the maze-like city spires night after night, he hadn’t realised how wound up he was. He aging body wasn’t what is used to be, he mused. Dassion supposed that’s what living here would be like for the foreseeable future: weary, hard and unforgiving. Yet, until he searched everywhere throughout the city, he would not stop. He couldn’t leave anyone else behind, no matter how he felt.

He took one last look at the auspex, which showed nothing but the itchy, slow movements of the dead, and thumbed it to off, sick of it. It was time to go home, he thought, realising how tired he was. With the buzz of danger gone, the heavy weight of fatigue gripped him. His clothes felt dirty with sweat and his limbs ached after hours of being strapped into the cockpit seat. Dassion gripped the control stick and hit the thrusters, feeling the engines of the lander growl as he pushed them onwards. Hermia bucked as he did so, and he could hear the usual groans of complaint from her rusting hull. Even though she had seen better days she still flew true, whatever quirks she had he knew and controlled. She was too much like him, he mused. Older, grumpier and a little cantankerous.

Under the glareshield, the morning sky looked tainted and dull. He felt comforted by the normality of flying through the morning sky until, through the corner of his eye, he saw a bright flash above him. It sparked brilliantly for a second, and then vanished. He turned his head, straining to see what it was. He turned the auspex back on, tuning it to search the sky around, and moments later he found another signal.

Someone had just appeared above the city from orbit. The signal he was getting was strong, and from the looks of it, it was from a large vehicle. Could someone have here his call for help? His old instincts kicked in, however, and he pushed the throttle downward, banking sharply. Hermia complained violently, her machine spirit crying out as she banked so deeply. Dassion hoped he had reacted quickly enough, aiming to drop out of their auspex sights and back into the crowded cityscape below, masking his whereabouts – he knew he was being overly cautious, as this could finally be the rescue force they had been hoping for. But old habits die hard, and he had not grown old in his line of work for nothing. It could be a saviour, but equally it could be something else.

He expertly weaved his bulky lander through the tops of the city, while keeping a keen eye on the new arrival. It descended rapidly toward the now abandoned and fire damaged spaceport, making a navy-like orbital landing. He increased the power to the auspex, the machine spirit hissing through the static, and he saw a grainy pict of the ship.

He knew immediately that it was no navy ship. Maybe it had been before, but not now. Strange looking symbols adorned its hull and weapons bristled out from it wherever seemed possible. There was something ugly about it – as if the usual symmetrical lines of the flyer’s hull were somehow distorted. A bad feeling slipped into his thoughts.

He turned away from the spaceport, and gunned the Hermia towards the distant mountains, and the rest of the survivors.


*​

The hanger bay doors opened, grinding metal on metal as the two of them inched outward like weary, drab, sentinels. Dassion sluggishly walked into the dimly lit building and was immediately met with the barrel of a shotgun to his face.

‘It’s still me, Dar,’ Dassion said. ‘I’m not one of them yet.’

The large bulk of Dar, a down-city ganger, stood at the end of the barrel, his blue mohawk haircut and tattooed face staring impassively back. ‘Yet,’ he answered simply, before taking his weapon away.

Dassion liked Dar, even though the stimm-muscled giant spoke little and exuded a violent air most of the time. Dar understood their predicament; he knew that he would die without the survivors helping each other. A new type of gang for him, Dassion thought. ‘Anyone else up?’

‘Some.’

The veteran pilot nodded and moved passed the ganger, leaving him to his guard duty. Ever since the downfall of the city, of the world even, Dassion had hid within the tight confines of an old, disused airstrip – a quiet outpost of the Tharius city limits. His nightly searches for survivors had slowly populated the hanger bay and living quarters. Nine of them lived here now – nine living souls in a planet of terror and death.

Dassion walked past the wall where their reserves of food sat in varying boxes and crates – he had spend days looting the city for every scrap he could, piling Hermia’s hold with random foodstuffs, light-units, clothes, scanners, data-slates, and weapons. Lots of weapons. Amstrung had died helping. Young Amstrung…

The door to the kitchen area opened in front of him, breaking his chain of thought. ‘Dassion, you’re back.’

He found himself looking at Mira. She was already suited out in her battered Arbites armour. Every day she wore her uniform, as if she was holding on desperately to her past, or at least to some form of normality. It was funny, each of the survivors had uniqueness to them – the way they dressed, the way they handled the stress, the way they remembered. ‘Yep, I’m back,’ he said.

‘Nothing?’ 

‘Something,’ he replied. His voice sounded coarse, brittle even. The lack of sleep and water was really affecting him. ‘I need to speak to you. Who else is awake?’

‘Only Vern and Castus.’ Mira Yarni was only in her twenties, and Dassion always felt sorry for her, thinking of how much of life she would not see. He felt as if he had been lucky, living for sixty years, having a wife, a child, but what would she have? A life battling against hordes of undead mutants? At least he had known what a good life was like. He tried not to think such dark thoughts, without much success.

Mira had short, jet black hair that always had a ruffled, used look, and pale, yet smooth-looking skin. She had a slender physique that hid her strength and her considerable fighting talents. He would be dead several times over if it were not for her timely interventions. She had striking hazel eyes that he was sure used to shine with the bright, youthful expectation of life, but they were now haunted, dull - yet somehow still dutiful. He worried, also, that she was taking on the mantel of protector too much, but she wouldn’t let him bring it up in conversation. He made a mental note to talk to her later about it.

‘They’ll have to do.’ Dassion said. ‘Bring them to me in the hanger, and I want Dar in on this too.’

Mira looked quizzically at the rugged pilot. ‘What’s going on?’

Dassion felt the heavy weight of his long night push down on his shoulders suddenly; he felt so tired. But feeling sorry for himself now, during this… this apocalypse would do no good. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. But something is happening, and I want to find out. Just get the others and I’ll tell you all together.’

Mira looked concerned, but didn’t push further and turned to find the others that were awake.

‘I need something to drink,’ Dassion whispered subconsciously to himself, and continued into the kitchen area, looking for something strong to awaken him. What he was about to propose was not only dangerous, but desperate also.



*II*​


Carson heard the fiery, booming sound of something thundering into the atmosphere above the city. He turned away from the zombies for the first time since daybreak, and looked to the sky. He saw a thin line of smoke of a flyer that had dropped into the atmosphere above Tharius, and from its bearing he guessed that it was heading for the spaceport.

It felt like years since he had last set foot in the Tharius spaceport. Once a place of work for him, now nothing but a distant memory. Yet, someone seemed to be flying into it. Maybe a relief force had finally reached the city? His previous disappointment at missing the lander during the night vanished momentarily, and a glimmer of hope shined within him. Then he remembered his precarious predicament. There was an ancient terran saying about being trapped between a rock and a hard place, and he laughed to himself as he considered how much it matched his situation. 

The noise he made from laughing immediately aggravated the plague zombies deep within the shadows, and they emitted a gritty, hoarse growl, bringing Carson’s reality sharply into focus. His jailors waited tirelessly for his flesh, it seemed. 

He stood in the sunlight and he considered what to do next. He was out of ammunition for his gun and had no discernable weapon to hand, and fighting his way out with his fists was suicide – as soon as one of them bit you, you became one of them; there was no way he could fend off those hungry, dead jaws with his hands alone. Jumping to safety was out of the question also, being so high up.

What would my father do? he thought with a sudden bitterness. The Imperial hero, Grigarian Leto, would have found a way out of any situation. Even if the dead had risen to claim the souls of the living. 

Carson shook his head, trying to clear his mind. The hangover and adrenaline rush of the fighting earlier still affecting him. An idea struck him suddenly. He edged out over the opening the broken window created, and peered downwards. The wind was still strong, but he was able to steadily hold himself over the ledge. He saw the opposite building, many of its windows were smashed and jagged looking also, and the damage caused to it hid the gothic beauty it once held. All of the hab towers in this area where adorned with ancient architechure and stone gargoyles – portaying creative carvings of Imperial heroes and the mighty Adeptus Astartes. 

If there were ledges on the other buildings, surely there would be some on this one?

There was. A few feet below the window a ceremite ledge lipped around the building. It was reachable. He could make it. But then what? What would he do once he stood on a ledge hundreds of metres off the hard ground, with no discernable handholds?

He heard a shambling sound behind him, and he reacted cat-quick, turning from the dizzying drop, amid the crackling of glass under him. Quickly, he realised that his attackers were only moving around the shadows and that he was still in sunlight. His blood was up though, and he forced himself to calm down, to breath easy. He was reacting badly to his predicament – he had been for weeks now – and it was starting to fray on his sanity’s edges. Hours ago he had almost died – again – and his situation had barely improved.

He needed to escape. He needed to live.

Carson sucked in a deep breath of air, and stood. He holstered his gun and looked around for anything useful, finding only the damaged bottles of wine scattered across the bloodstained floor. He ran a hand through his bushy hair absentmindedly, while looking into the shadows. Only death stared back, with a dark glare.

Carson bent over and picked up a bottle. ‘Frak you, and your dead, bloody stare,’ he said, before throwing the wine bottle at the nearest zombie. It broke over the undead being, and it grunted, before continuing its servitor-like vigil.

Carson shook his head, and turned his back from the dead, ready to take a perilous leap of faith to live. 

If it worked, he could escape and travel to the spaceport, and be saved. But only if it worked - and his chances were slim at best, considering what he was considering to do – dangle over an almost certain-death drop; walk along a thin ledge; break into a zombie-free hab; find his way out of the plague ridden building, then find a way to the spaceport and, finally, be saved.

How hard could it be?


*​

Carson gripped the frame of the window, his muscles straining as he tried to hold himself up at the same time, while missing the razor-like teeth of glass that edged the broken frame with his hands. Fear rippled through him as he hung over the long drop, a now constant companion. In his minds’ eye, he imagined missing the ledge below he intended to land upon, and falling heavily onto the solid ground below.

Away from the deathly stench of the zombies in the hab, Carson now caught a whiff of the air around him, the slight breeze of morning air making him think – his memory grasping at something new to him for an instant. The air that swept past was so fresh, so new…

All his life Carson had been used to the smells of a vibrant, busy city. He used to taste the chemicals and pollutants in the air. It was part him. But now, after weeks of silence, Tharius seemed to change – the fumes and smog had lessened. It was refreshing somehow. However, the deep smell of dead tainted the same air moments later. It was as if he could taste the God-Emperor’s dream of life momentarily, then it was stripped away with the smell of decomposition. Some, he remembered, embraced that smell in the early stages of outbreak, seeing it as a beneficiation of the Emperor – as if the smell of a corpse resembled His Unliving Soul. They were the first to die. The fanatics. The faithful…

His arms burned, and he was pulled out of his reverie. He had to let go. He forced himself to look downwards, hopefully finding a glimpse of the ledge below. He saw it and without thinking, dropped to the ledge metres below. The impact jarred his legs, his knees buckling in pain, and he gripped the sides of the building with his hands, looking to steady his landing…

It worked, and he held his balance on the ledge. The wind rippled across his body, his clothes billowing in the air as it became suddenly stronger while he held on to the side of the building. A determination took hold of him and he focussed on his balance and grip. Ever so slowly, he moved sideways, imagining the platform holding the gargoyle below. That was the plan – to move towards the gargoyles and climb down over their stone, lifeless effigies. Finally he made it to one, and with total relief, he cuddled a stone replica of an Adeptus Astartes, a Space Marine.

The sun dipped behind a cloud in the sky. Darkness snatched away the light, and dullness covered the city.

A shrill screeching vibrated across everything.

Carson panicked suddenly, thinking one of the zombies from above would nimbly jump from the ledge and attack him from mid-air. Seconds slipped away and nothing happened. He took hold of his senses, ignoring his fears and crept across the statue, looking downwards at the next one – some form of Tech-priest by the looks of it – and considered his next move. Realising that there was not much else to do other than climb down, he gripped hold of an arm and descended further. 

He dangled over a cracked window and it exploded outward ferociously with a crash, making him cry out sharply with fright. He immediately caught a glimpse of what turned out to be one of the living dead. It tried desperately to claw at him, craving his flesh, as it crashed out of the hab along with hundreds of shards of glass. He felt it grab hold of his legs with its rotting hands, even as the needle-like pinpricks of glass caught him. One bite and he could turn into one of them, he knew, and so he kicked out violently, his thoughts whipped blind in pure terror at the idea of his life being literally eaten away from him. The heavy weight of the zombie vanished, but in his fearful state, he lost his grip and fell.

Instinct took over and Carson’s mind succumbed to panic and confusion as he watched the building blur before him. His hands fumbled for a handhold, and somehow he caught hold of the tech-priest gargoyles leg, momentum flinging his body roughly into the side of the hab building. Pain flared around him as he held on, trying desperately to steady himself. Moments later, he scrambled up to the thin platform that circumvented the building, and lay across it, catching his breath and sucking up the pain.

He opened his eyes and looked up at the sky, just as the clouds parted and sunlight broke out once more, and he remembered all-of-a-sudden the flyers he had seen a few hours before. Now was not the time to give up or become a frightened foul. He had to focus. He had to remain alive.

Carson controlled his breathing, steadying his nerves, and ignored the throbbing pain in his limbs. He turned his head downwards and looked at the not-too-distant ground, and saw his recent attacker splattered upon the hard ceremite.

That was not him. Not Carson. He had survived again. He hoped it would be something he would continue to be good at until he was able to escape this hellhole, this dead city. He signed deeply, and readied himself for the next step of his downward journey.

The sun cast haunting shadows across the desolate city, and the wind calmed to a whisper.


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## Commissar Ploss (Feb 29, 2008)

Nothing Short of brilliant my friend! keep it up!

Commissar Ploss


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## FORTHELION (Nov 21, 2009)

bravo:clapping: already looking forward to the next chapter
ps have some reps


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## Zodd (Jul 27, 2009)

Marvellous story. Have some rep k:


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

Thanks all, and cheers for the rep Zodd!

Chapter 4 will be along very soon!

two lls


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

*Chapter 4 - Plans*

I​

Carson looked up at the hab building walls, and a smile crept across his face.

For hours he had been descending from the hellhole hab, slipping and falling down the side of a multi-storey building, every moment a dance with death. Now, after clinging desperately off a Space Marines’ stony arm, after holding fearfully onto the Emperors face, and after sliding down the leg of Ancient Dorn, he had made it. He felt the solid, hard ground below his feet and breathed a prayer of thanks to the Emperor. He immediately regretted thanking the Ever-living Being, the acid memories of what had happened to Tharius and its billions of souls over the past few weeks burning into his thoughts. The smile vanished from his face and he turned away from the hab-building, a bitter taste welling up in his throat.

His moment of peace had passed, and his reality dug its claws deep once more. The street before him looked like a forgotten landscape, as if life itself had suddenly forgotten why it was, what it was meant to be. In its place resided a rotten form of chaos. A silent scream. Life had been all around, and as Carson looked over the city’s remains, all he could see was a crazy juxtaposition – staring at where life should be, but seeing its absence. It was horrible.

He had been through this before. He had ran and fought his way across the roads and walkways of Tharius for weeks now, and each time he found himself within the ghostly streets he felt unnerved; he was haunting the streets himself now, a lonely spirit wandering throughout the quiet emptiness left in the wake of an untimely death. 

He checked the sun, staring edgily at the grey clouds that threatened to cover its glare. They gathered darkly over the light, like heavy clusters of battle-barges shadowing the stars, readying for war and destruction. He looked at his chronometer, double-checking the time of day, hoping sunset was longer away that it really was.

What was he to do now? From memory, he knew he was deep in the habituation-towers district of the Tharius. It was still early afternoon, but time bled fast these days, he remembered, so he had to think fast.

He had seen the flyer landing towards the spaceport - that was his destination. But it was several days travel on foot, at least. He had to find some way to get to the ‘port as fast as possible.

For a while he walked roughly towards the spaceport, travelling past decomposing bodies, rusting vehicles and barren avenues. He started to worry about how he was going to survive this – how he was going to find shelter while the enemy skulked within every shadow in the city. How could he be sure any hideout was safe without a dangerous, slow search of each potential safe-haven? It was going to be a long, arduous journey.

As he walked across the streets, he saw the remains of a tech-factory. He remembered suddenly where he was – The Yarion District. This was old Magos Bore’s work-place. Most factorium’s before the fall had many differing types of vehicle being worked upon in them and he knew Magos Bore worked on several projects at once. If he was lucky…

The next leg in Carson’s journey was suddenly planned out in his mind as he walked determinedly toward the tech-factory. The entrance was fairly large; the factory itself took up one whole block of the city. The bulky, ironcrete doors bent inwards, as if something had crashed into them from the outside, or some mighty force had pulled them inwards. Either way, he wasn’t getting in through the front. Not that the idea of breaking into a dark, unsafe building capable of holding hundreds of the living dead was in anyway appealing – but the sun would be down in a few hours and he needed to be out of the city centre by then.

Before the descent into madness, he had come passed this tech-factory many times to get his father’s transports fixed, or run errands for the PDF since he knew the old tech-seer that ran the place well. They were just some of the fringe benefits of having such a famous father. Gregorian Leto, war hero. Carson shook the now distant memories from his mind and walked towards a lane that he knew hid one of the many side doors to the factory.

Several minutes later he was pulling open the door, the mechanical locks useless as the machine spirits seemed to have fled this area also. He hoisted the access open and immediately took a step back – the sun was hidden from here and he was taking as little chances as possible. He already knew his life now sat upon a knife-edge, attempting to enter a lightless, sunless building was pretty much suicide after all.

But what else was there to do? He needed to find a suitable form of transport. He had tried using the ground-cars, the big haulers and even a tank (he barely had it moving). He needed something smaller, nimble and fast.

Nothing stirred from the shadowy doorway. In fact, a deep silence had blanketed the city; even the wind seemed to have vanished. It was as if Tharius had fallen into a deep, depthless slumber.

Carson looked once more to the sky, knowing time was vanishing fast. He took a deep breath and entered the tech-factory.


II​

‘This is a crazy idea, Dassion,’ said Mira. She was pacing across the small kitchen area, her boots scuffing the tiled floor.

‘No, it’s not, Mira,’ he replied. ‘We have to find out what’s going on.’ After he had returned, several of the survivors hiding in the outpost had gathered to discuss what Dassion had seen earlier – the mysterious flier entering the space-port.

Kastus, the scrawny old priest, spoke next, his voice loud and powerful despite his thin frame and age. ‘What if they are survivors like us, but decide to take what we have here? They could be scavengers - that’s why they’re going to the spaceport.’

Dassion thought about it momentarily as he absentmindedly rubbed his chin with his hands. ‘Well, I…’

‘Well what, Dassion?’ asked Mira, her voice demanding. ‘What aren’t you telling us?’

The aging pilot hesitated, then said, ‘I have lived an interesting life, seen many things good and bad, and I think…’ he thought about it once more, ‘the ship was weird looking. Not right. I think they’re trouble.’

Mira turned to face him directly. ‘So why go spying on them and possibly give away our location?’

Vern Finial, the Administratum worker, suddenly took his turn to speak. ‘I agree with Mr Way, we have to go and see what these other survivors are doing – I mean, they could just be like us.’

Mira shot a dark look towards the small, podgy-looking man. ‘We have something good here – food, shelter, relative safety, good people. This just sounds wrong - and too dangerous.’

A thought hit Dassion all-of-a-sudden: Why was the Arbites girl so against finding out what was going on? You would think she would be the first to mount an expedition to figure out who the new arrivals were and what they were up too. Instead she was fighting against it. ‘We have to go,’ he said simply.

‘I’m with him,’ said Vern.

Father Kastus signed and took a sip of his hot caffeine he was holding in both hands. ‘I think we should wait awhile, see if they answer to the transmissions for help we send.’

Dassion turned to Dar who stood leaning at the entrance to the kitchen. ‘Dar?’

‘We go.’

A defeated look crossed Mira’s face. ‘Fine, go.’

‘Mira,’ started Dassion, ‘maybe they’ve heard our emergency transmission already and know we’re here. If we find out more about them now, it could help us.’

She looked at him, her eyes meeting his, and finally there was an unspoken understanding between them. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But I’m coming.’

‘Fine.’

*​
Dassion walked determinedly towards the main hanger bay. He had tried to have a few hours rest, but tired though his mind was, it kept racing with thoughts, keeping him awake. He was troubled about what these new arrivals to the city could be, about the friction the earlier meeting had caused and how shattered he felt before flying, but also something else worried his mind. The signal. He had set up one of his old shifting signals – an SOS put on differing wavebands each day – but he realised now that he could have endangered himself and the others instead of saving them. 

He cast the dark thoughts from his mind. No point in dwelling on what could be – it was time to find the facts. The mission he was undertaking would hopefully allay his fears.

That’s what it felt like – a mission. Like the old days. He had started life in the Planetary Defence Force, flying Aquila Landers for the Officers. After he left, under stormy clouds, he worked for private contractors, shipping cargo throughout the system. He didn’t miss working with Voiders, but he missed the life. After that, well, the Tharactus War broke out, and every available pilot was commissioned. Dassion was sure that he would not have survived the death of his world without the training and experience gained from that experience, and his colourful past, for that matter.

But that was the past, he thought, not the present. He had to find out if the new arrivals were dangerous and how much they posed a threat to his survivors. And that’s what they where – his survivors. He had personally saved each and every one of them; well, except Eli, of course. 

He turned the corner in the walkway and entered the hanger where everyone was waiting. Well, nearly all of them. He shook his head and as he marched towards the others.

Mira and Kastus stood in the centre, the protector and the spiritual leader. Litia Ephese, the Tech-Adept, sat next to them in her scruffy red body-length robes. Her one augmented eye beamed red towards him, like a fake laser. She looked upset. Yessan and Jakes, the two outpost workers, were sitting eating protein bars, murmuring to themselves in dulcet tones. Vern paced in the background on his own, looking worried. Finally there was Dar, resting near the exit, gun in hand, staring impassively at him.

His survivors. His family even.

He stopped before them. ‘Eli?’

Mira was the one to answer. ‘He was still sleeping,’ she said, then added, ‘I tried.’

Frustration welled up in him. Damn it, he needed Eli! His lined face creased in annoyance. ‘_Hermia _doesn’t have any weapons. I need him!’

‘We know, Dassion,’ Father Kastus said, understanding. 

‘I’m going to get him,’ said Dassion determinedly. Eli Cain was an annoying, arrogant young buck, and one of the best Thunderbolt pilots he’d ever known. But at merely twenty, he was almost more hassle than it was worth sometimes.

‘Did someone need my help?’ said a voice from the hanger bay entrance.

Dassion turned and saw Eli: the young fighter pilot was suited out in his combat fatigues and held his flight helmet casually in one hand. He had dark, glistening skin and famously good looks, and he was parading his killer smile. Eli stood at just less than six foot and had a rangy, tight body. The woman all adored him, even if they didn’t admit it. Dassion had to mediate several outbursts already because of him – generally due to his fooling around.

Again a pang of regret hit Dassion, remembering what he was like at twenty standard. Really, he didn’t blame the kid for his actions, but it did upset the balance of things at times.

‘Hurry up Cain,’ said Dassion, ‘you and your Thunderbolt have a mission.’

‘Finally,’ smiled the young pilot, stepping forward.

Dassion wished he had the same confidence. He had to go with Mira, Vern, Dar and Eli to the spaceport and find out what the new arrivals were doing.

And Dassion had a feeling the ship he saw was something foul, something evil, but he had to be sure, he had to know how much trouble they were really in.


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

*Chapter 5 - Bore*

Chapter 5 - Bore​
Carson inched blindly through the inky darkness, hoping for a glint of light. He saw only vague shapes and kept stumbling over random items lying across the floor. This was a mistake, he thought. He shouldn’t have entered the Manufactorum. His emotions pulled towards fear, the determination he felt earlier drained from him. He was about to turn back when he caught the sight of a thin beam of light. It flashed intermittently with a red glow. He suppressed his feelings, and continued to push his way through the darkened room, hoping to find some form of light he could actually use to see more clearly. The glow brightened as he closed, he was glad to find, and soon he saw the faint outline of a doorframe, to which Carson slowly walked towards.

He cracked his knee off what felt like a desk, and cried out in pain and surprise. He grabbed his knee and admonished himself for making noise – if there were any flesh-eaters close by, they would surely be heading this way any moment. With his knee throbbing, he continued onwards, the injury just adding to his earlier cuts and scrapes, and he strained to hear any unusual sounds.

Finally he made it to just outside the room with the red light, and a rotting smell hit his senses. He stopped short and tried to look all around, willing the darkness to evaporate into light. It didn’t, instead it was merely casting phantom shapes everywhere. He held his breath, realising that he could not trust his eyes, and so turned to his other senses.

Seconds past in ominous silence – there were no blundering sounds, or scraping, or any noise at all for that matter. And nothing had grabbed or bitten him. So, where was the smell coming from? Was there a zombie stuck somewhere where it merely lay in wait for an unsuspecting victim?

He decided that standing still would do him no good (he had done enough of that in the hab-flat, and it had gotten him only into more trouble), so he pushed onwards into the dimly lit, blood red radiance of the other room. The smell worsened as he entered, and he immediately saw the reason why:
A decomposing servitor lay upon the floor, curled up in the foetal position. The vague illumination came from the lobotomised servant’s augmented eye, around which a metal skullcap formed over its head. Both its arms and most of its body were covered in metal, one arm ended in a pincer claw, which lay awkwardly by the servitors’ side. The light blinked a few times, on off, on off, then stayed on, staring blindly at the ferrocete wall before it. In the odd gloom, Carson could see that the room was small – maybe a storeroom of some kind – and was filled only with a chair, a desk and an array of wall-cabinets. And, of course, the motionless form of the rotting servitor.

The fact it wasn’t moving was a good sign. Maybe its undead brain had been killed, but the mechanical parts still had power? How else could it not be attacking him while it was still operational and decaying?

Then he saw the hand light. A small blister-light with a fist-sized handgrip. It lay in an open locker close to the body, the locker’s contents being dimly lit by the servitors’ eye. To get to the light, Carson would have to lean over the body and even though the dead servitor looked lifeless, he hesitated. The light was still on. What if it was merely lying in wait – a raw form of intelligence from its augmentations controlling it? Visions of the putrid thing taking hold of him as he closed shot into his mind.

Get over it Leto, he thought. You’ve gone through worse these last few weeks. Grow a pair and move it!

Using the faint light he leaned over the servitor, the stench of it filling his nostrils and making him baulk slightly. He didn’t stop to think this time and reached out, finally grasping the hand-orb. He used the table for support and pulled himself up and away from the dead servitor, grateful to be putting distance between himself and it.

As he backed out of the room, he checked the light was working, thumbing the activation switch he felt on its side. After a brief flicker, it was alight. Relief washed through him, finally some light!

Before continuing onwards, he cast his hand-orb over the area he was in, realising it was some kind of office. Cognitors, logic engines and other contraptions sat on desks, while paper, rubbish and other office equipment littered the floor. Dried blood clung to most surfaces also. It was just like most of the other places he’d hid in since the outbreak and violence.

He absentmindedly closed the storeroom door, shutting off the red glow, and decided to push on deeper into the tech-factory. He remembered that the vehicle works used to be on the lower ground level. He had never been through this way before, however – mainly entering from the front when he had visited; even so, he had a decent idea of where to go.

He walked through the office, zigzagging between the desks towards a door on the far side. The fact he had some light now brightened his spirits slightly: he was finally making some progress. He breathed a sigh of relief, the tension ebbing away.

The wall in front of him burst open, a keening wail sounding as it did so. Instinctively Carson backed away, turning the light off as he retreated and scrambled behind a cognitor station. His world blackened again, darkness consuming light.

Something large and heavy sounding crashed into the office and a throaty, rasping sound could be heard – like wind being torn through tight, rusting grates. Carson heard the violent clang of metal splintering wood and plastek, and the sounds grew closer. The pitch of the breathing changed suddenly, into short, swift inhales, like something was sniffing the air.

Carson’s blood turned to ice and lightning fear gripped him – by the glorious Emperor, was some new monstrosity hunting him? Was it trying to find his scent to chase him out of hiding, only to catch him and eat him? This just could not be happening! It just wasn’t fair, after everything, after…

There was a high-pitched, rusty growl, and the hunter charged.

Carson’s world vibrated with bone-crunching terror. The noise of whatever assaulted him drowned his senses with nerve-wrenching crashes, and the brutal thumping of it moving towards him echoed through the floor.
This was it. The end. Surely, he had finally ran out of luck? He had unleashed some form of defence for the tech-factory, and it was coming for him.
Such thoughts only got you killed, he decided. They were the thoughts of the plague zombies rotting throughout Tharius, not that of Carson Leto. He gripped his fears mentally, like he did since the apocalypse, like he had taught himself to do in his new life. He forced himself to move away from the devastation rumbling towards him, and scrambled through the dark in what he hoped was a safe direction.

He smacked into plastek chairs and tables, random items falling on him, but he ignored the small, sharp snaps of pain as he drove himself onwards to what he believed was safety in the total darkness. He hit the far wall in moments, jarring his shoulder, and he fell to the ground, gasping for air. He missed his brief walk outside abruptly, the unwanted thought breaking through the adrenalin rush. Only tainted dead air circulated here. Not like his afternoon outside, free from the inhabitants of the shadows.

The thing that burst into the room seemed to halt its charge, and the wheezing, sniffing sound could be heard once more. It was definitely hunting him, Carson decided. If it found him before, it would do so again, he thought. May as well find out what I’m about to fight…

With that, he stood and pointed his unlit light in the direction he thought his attacker stood, and with a deep breath turned it on.

The vision of the monster before him stole his breath and almost tore away the last of his resolve. A misshaped bulk stood around nine foot tall in the middle of the room, near to where Carson sat moments before. A deep red cloak tried its best to cover the thing’s body, but many parts of it were shredded and torn, while serpentine appendages snaked outward from underneath its shadow. Each one ended in a different, dangerous looking tool, or metal claw. Most of the monsters face was a wasted, grotesque mass of worm-like tubes, some of which were attached to a mangled respirator. A small percentage of the face was still discernable as human, where dead flesh warped over the remains of bone. 

It was Tech-Magos Bore, the lead tech-priest in the facility. Carson remembered meeting him once – a cold moment, his shocked mind in some way recollected. 

Tech-Magos Bore was a potent being in life, and a terrible presence in undeath. Somehow he was infected like everyone else, his human part now some form of rotten devil, craving living flesh - and Carson’s life. The augmented parts seemed to respond to its inhuman needs, reaching and grasping at any life it found. And Carson was the only heart beater around.

As soon as the light played over plague-ridden remains of the tech-Magos, the tech-zombie growled through its damaged respirator and continued its charge towards him. 

Carson turned from the hideous sight and ran diagonally through the office, away from the beast, toward the hole the tech-zombie had made in the wall earlier, guessing it was his only way out.

Desperately he ran, jumped and scrambled his way out of the room towards the damaged wall, the hand-light casting pulsating shadows everywhere as he did so.

A force gripped him as he tried to leave the office-area, tearing the breath from his lungs as he was pulled backwards. He would have fallen, but something held him up.

Terror shredded through each nerve ending of his being as his light shone on a rusting mechahendrite that had an iron grip on his jumper - from which he dangled helplessly. Slowly, the sinuous mechanical arm was drawing him toward the gaping, gore-encrusted jaws of the undead being. It rasped and bleated in a mechanical miasma of sound, decreeing Carson’s imminent and painful death.

Carson cried out in desperation, his thoughts clouding in panic as he frantically pulled away from the tech-priest with all his might.
A guttural, barely human growl broke from his throat as Carson seized hold of the sharp edges that remained of the wall. His muscles burned as he tried to force himself away from the hideous dead-thing that was now Magos Bore. In reply, the tech-zombie issued an awful mechanical thrumming, as it attempted to pull him closer towards its gore-encrusted metal teeth.

But Bore only had hold of Carsons’ jumper – now a shabby, torn ruin that he had worn for weeks. With the weight Carson had been losing, it looked oversized on him at the best of times. Now, it was stretched and ripping at the seams. 

He determinedly held on to the sides of the wall, the aches and cuts from climbing down the building earlier that day returning in a painful flair. But he held. His jumper could no longer take the strain and tore apart. Cason fell forwards rapidly, hitting the floor in a heap. At first, he didn’t move, the shock of being so suddenly free dumbfounding him, and the pain of it vibrating to his bones – yet more damage to his body. 

Feeling pain meant you were still alive. He remembered a time when life meant something broader, something more. Not now.

He scrambled away, the absence of light disabling his escape. As he crawled forward, he felt cool, metal grating with his ravaged hands, then an iron-like railing. A staircase maybe?

His body was weak, battered and bleeding, but when he heard Magos Bore’s metal limbs crunch over the ruined wall section, mere metres behind him, all such weakness was forgotten. Speedily he found the hand-light in his combat trousers, and turned it on, realising that the tech-zombie would find him easily enough with or without it, and rapidly searched his surroundings. He was indeed near a staircase – the deep shadows cast by the light showing a spiralling set of ironcrete steps climbing above him and descending below.

He pulled himself up with the railing and leapt down the stairs. He was sure he felt the swish of air behind his back as a rusting claw reached for his flesh, but he ignored it, focussing instead on fleeing as safely as possible down the staircase. 

The vehicle bays were in the lower levels, so surely this was the best way to go, he thought. He hoped.

The screech of bending metal made him turn and aim the light upwards: the multi-limbed monstrosity of Magos Bore descended upon him like a starving plague-ridden spider finally catching prey in its web.

Frantically Carson pushed further downwards, and the light played over a door. He charged towards it, pulled it open, and ran blindly into the darkness beyond, instantly stumbling over an unseen obstruction.

The door closed slowly behind him as he snatched up the light once more. He found himself in an area with a high ceiling, and as he cast his light over the room proper, hundreds, if not thousands, of lifeless human faces stared back at him.

Carson stood stock-still as he looked upon the lifeless faces before him, while his feeble light cast weak shadows over their emotionless faces. Some had metal hoods or skullcaps, while others had bald heads with wires, or augmetics, protruding from their skin, looping around their faces and necks.

None of them moved. They stood in lines, frozen in time. Servitors – hundreds of them. He had come upon some form of production line or store room. He realised he had been holding his breath, and finally let out a long, weary sigh before his body took over his mind, taking in deep gulps of stale air. The hall he found himself smelt awful too – clearly these dormant servitors had been closed off in here for a long time, untended to, while the world above descended into a differing form of unlife and madness. What a joke life had become if the closest thing to it he had been confronted with was an inactive servitor!

Something heavy violently clattered against the door, abruptly snapping Carson out of his reverie. It had to be Bore. Luckily the metal frame held, but slight dents appeared with every bone-smashing impact. Carson moved away from the danger, blindly pushing into the mass of statuesque tech-slaves. The banging stopped, and quiet, yet dreadful moments passed before, ever-so-slowly, the door handle turned.

‘No…’ said Carson under his breath. ‘You can’t be serious?’

But whatever fate controlled Carsons’ destiny failed to stop what was happening and the door handle continued to turn, opening the door. Somehow the beastly remains of Magos Bore had memories, or know how, to apply reasoning to a situation. Maybe it was the machine parts helping to control the dead brain, or merely luck. No matter the cause, it was happening, and he had to do something about it.

He turned his back to the entrance, and started to run through the long lines of servitors, looking for some form of weapon, or another escape route. Several hundred metres to his left, he saw a store room of some kind, and he broke out into a run towards it.

As he ran past the final servitor – some power-clawed monstrosity - his luck finally changed. A dark, dangerous looking armoury lay before him. Multitudes of weaponry sat braced in rows upon rows of shelving. What was this place? Some war-room or hidden secret? Or salvation, a gift from the Emperor, a coarse light in eternal darkness?

Who really cares? he thought, running to the first brace of shotguns. He pulled the closest one from its bracing, having to jam his light between his arm and his side while snapping the protective plastek holding it in place. It felt heavy and cold in his grip. Of course, it was unloaded, so he snatched his light and played it across the hall once more, looking for any sign of an ammo locker.

A metal-on-metal scuffing sound came from the direction of the doorway. Carson’s mind flared with images of the multi-limbed Magos snaking into the hall, infecting the servitors and turning them to his control, their gnashing jaws filling with mucus-laden saliva as they prepared to eat his flesh…

‘Focus damn it!’ he swore. He moved deeper into the room, memories of the dead servitor he first found upstairs blinking in his minds’ eye – he hoped no more gruesome surprises waited within. Further down the hallway he found a closed door, though he swiftly realised the deadbolts there positioned so it stayed open. He slung the shotgun under his arm and with the flailing light found a handle and pulled. Slowly the heavy-set door gave way, his light illuminating scores of assorted trays filled with ammo clips, varying bullets and other such supplies.

Now all he needed to do was find the right kind of shell to fit. As he checked several lockers, he found a shock maul – the old favourite crowd control weapon of the Arbites – it still had charge on it, so he clipped it to his belt. As he raked through the room, a familiar rasping echoed sibilantly through the air.

The tech-zombie had found him. And trapped him. A quick search with the light confirmed that there was only one way out – and the rotting and heavily augmented undead monster blocked the exit.

He frantically hunted through the room, looking for the right shotgun shells as Magos Bore pulled himself into the store room, his putrid smell once more consuming Carson’s battered senses. A shell smoothly slipped into the shotgun. He hastily loaded the gun as he moved to the back of the ammo-room, knocking over small crates and tools as he did so. This seemed to anger or excite his enemy, as a dull-metal mechahendrite snaked around the store room door before latching on to the side of the wall, pulling the full bulk of the Magos forwards – filling the entrance.

Carson’s shotgun was smaller and more compact than any he had used before – some drum-fed combat shotgun he’d seen used by the elite enforcer units of the arbiters. More reliable, and powerful, he’d been told.
The ghastly remains of Magos Bores face appeared out of the gloom, his metal teeth gaping in a wide, silent scream as his augmented limbs drove him forwards. With his hand-light held along-side the barrel of his weapon, enabling some form of accuracy, Carson prepared to fight for survival once more.

The Magos suddenly issued his signature metal rasping and charged at Carson.

‘Time to die again,’ he whispered, his heart pounding. Then he opened fire.

The recoil forced him back into the wall, and his light fell to the floor, twirling wildly and turning the tight confines of the room into a weird parody of a low-hive dance-meet. The roaring blast of the weapon deafened him, making him feel like he was suddenly under water. 

After the initial shock, Carson fired again, emptying the shotgun in the general direction of his foe.

Pain trilled through his arm as a rusting mechanical appendage grasped his wrist, pulling him into the air. The shotgun tore out of his hands at the same time, and through the din of his damaged hearing, he heard a metal clang as it hit the floor. His legs struck a nearby table and then rebounded off something hard, yet fleshy. 

The light on the ground shone off of a mirror, or a shiny surface, abruptly lighting the room decidedly brighter, and Carson saw finally realised how bad his situation really was: The tech-zombie had him in its grasp, and although he could see terrible damage rot by the shotgun shells, the beast was still functioning. Slowly Carson stopped swinging in the air, and the arm holding him drew him towards the intact jaws of the Magos.

The shock maul! He realised almost too late that it was strapped to his side. With his free hand, he seized hold of its handle. He saw the Magos open his metal jaws wide, the fetid breath watering Carson’s eyes as acidic bile rose in his throat. Yet he tore free the maul from his belt in a final attempt for survival, and thumbed on the activation switch.

The potent electric field fizzed over the top of the maul in a startling blue haze. Carson brought it round over his head, crying out with animal instinct as he did so, and violently jammed it into the tech-zombies gaping maw.

The effect was instantaneous. Wild blue electricity ripped through the metal exoskeleton and augmented body parts, frying the biometric machine spirit and turning the remaining fleshy brain into crispy meat. Magos Bore died silently, crumpling to the floor in a smoking heap.

Carson fell with the body and his last memory before darkness consumed his thoughts was of smelling roasting flesh…


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

*Chapter 6 - Eli Cain*

Chapter 6 – Eli Cain​

Eli Cain rolled his Thunderbolt to port, enjoying the G’s and the freedom of the open sky. His wooden, hand-carved effigy of Saint Saricine jangled in the cockpit as he righted the fighter-plane, his control firm and true. He smiled as the _Carla_ sailed through wispy clouds. Eli knew each time he took to the sky, that he was born to fly, just like his father and his Grandfather before him. He always felt on edge on the ground, like he was out of tune. But up here, with the thrumming engines of a Thunderbolt under you, well… it was perfection.

He eased the stick, pushing the throttle further, and heard the humming growl of the engines as they fired up, driving the sleek, grey-painted frame of the fighter-plane onwards through the clouds. _Carla_, from what he knew, was the last Thunderbolt active on the planet, and a certain amount of pride slithered through him. I knew I was the best, I knew I’d survive.

The mission the old man had sent him on seemed interesting – finally he might get a chance for some action. For too long, _Carla_ had been grounded, without action. There just had not been any reason to use her guns – it was a waste of ammo ripping apart the plague-ridden. There was just too many of them to make it count.

But now it seemed as if there was another flyer around, possibly hostile, and so old Dassion needed the firepower and backup while he tried to take his hunk of junk over to the spaceport to see what was going on. It surprised Eli every time old Hermia was able to fly – she should have been junked long ago. He checked the auspex, double-checking his location. The Tharius Spaceport was almost underneath, if anything happened, he and _Carla_ would be moments away.

Eli reigned in his flight, turning to starboard, and prepared to circle the spaceport high above the clouds, when bright tracer fire light up the clouds and sky around him. He reacted quickly, breaking from his stable flight-pattern, instinctively rolling to starboard, and he dived away from his linear tract.

Two contacts suddenly appeared on his auspex, chasing his tail.

What in the warp? He thought, struggling to remain calm. What was going on?

In answer, his pursuers opened fire once more.

He banked _Carla_ sharply to port, cutting through the sky at speed and dodging the enemy fire. He heard the engines howl in annoyance as he suddenly pushed them fiercely, looking for some way to find a shot on his attackers. He caught a glimpse of a jagged, red hulled, double-bladed shape powering towards him above the canopy – was the pilot insane? The fighter was being flow with wild abandon and bore down on him, threatening to collide with his flyer.

Somehow they evaded, rushing through the air at dangerous speeds, and still the auspex pinged in alarm, warning him of yet more shots fired. Eli looked up at his small statue of Saint Saracine, and whispered, ‘If I ever needed you, it’s now.’

As more enemy fire burst around him, he just hoped she was listening for once.

His attackers hunted him with such ferocity it frightened him. They tore through the sky at alarming rates – so much so that Eli Cain believed they could not be human, or alive even, for that matter. Could they be undead pilots, hungering for mid-air combat instead of flesh? Could…

A multitude of black dots blurred his vision, panicking him out of the dream-state the power dive seemed to have driven him to. Focus, Cain. Focus!

He pulled the throttle back, his muscles straining through the negative G, as he tried to right his Thunderbolt. She was a faithful machine, her spirit strong, and _Carla_ changed course, pulling out of the dive.

The warp-spawned aircraft were still on his six, tenacious as ever.

Cain blinked, trying to rid his sight of the persistent dots. They weakened, but were still visible. Ignore them, he thought to himself. You’ve been here before, you can survive again. He jinked to port, hoping to confuse his foe into hitting one another – or at least coming so close they’d have to break away. 

It didn’t work. He was losing his self-control and making rookie errors.

He had seen his enemies closer now – both were identical in look and shape, and grim to behold. They had red/green hulls etched with a dark, thorny metal, and evil-looking eight-pointed stars adorned their wings. Both were armed with at least four autocannons, able to fire off multiple hard-round explosive shots per second. They could easily eat through his armour if they got a clear shot.

He had seen picts of them at the flight scholam. Hell Talon. The name gave him a mixed feeling of hate and fear. They had been part of the Tharactus War, warriors of the archenemy. Chaos. His ironclad confidence wavered thinking about what he was now up against. He was too young to be part of that war, but he knew its history inside out. How could they still be operating in this system?

Cain dearly wished he still had some hellstrikes left. But the collapse of civilisation had seen to that.

He felt and heard the next salvo from his enemies, the explosive rounds detonating all around him in dangerous bursts. His canopy darkened, and Carla shuddered violently, but he rode the attack, curving up into a deep white cloud. He knew his assailants didn’t need sight to find him, they were so relentless that he was sure they could smell him. But the manoeuvre bought him valuable seconds.

Cain drained the power to the engines slightly, gaining more control, using his short escape to collect his thoughts. How was he to survive this one? Another thought also occurred to him: What about Dassion and the others? Were they safe?

He had to fend off these hellish machines. He had to complete his mission!

The vox crackled and he jumped in his seat. ‘… ain, where are you?’

Dassion. It was Dassion. Obviously by now Cain was late to call in. They were looking for him. A horrible thought shot through him – could the Chaos fighters pick up the transmission? Of course they could.

He broke into open air, his world turning into a bright blue glare, before catching sight of both Talons, haunting him from above. A wild, blaring wail blurted through the vox, like a hideous victory cry, and one of his pursuers broke off, diving towards the city which lay kilometres below.

Clearly, Cain realised, they had discovered Hermia, and her cargo. ‘No…’ he said, his voice faltering, a dull, useless feeling coating his innards. He was going to fail.

He reached out and hit the transit switch on the vox. ‘Dassion, Dassion!’ he shouted. ‘Get out of the sky! Get out of here. Ther-‘

Static hissed savagely at him through the vox. So much so that he flicked it off, ending the transmission. The warp blasted beasts were jamming him!

Instinct took over. Not the survival kind. Instead, his nature reversed the doubt and fear. He was Eli Cain. The last and best Thunderbolt pilot in Tharius. A sky predator. He would not let the chaos filth kill the last remaining humans on the planet.

Also, he had realised, his enemies had just split their forces, and only one Hell Talon remained in pursuit. 

He gunned _Carla_ forwards with grim determination.


*​

Dassion looked wearily at the central display in his cockpit. Several blips had appeared on his auspex, and Eli was not responding. Was this trouble, or was the young man fooling around again, along with _Hermia’s_ old spirit?

He was flying _Hermia_ close to the ground, hiding her as best he could from any auspex reader. He hoped to fly in on the spaceport as close as he could and drop off Mira and the rest, before retreating to a safe distance to observe the area. The Thracius spaceport was massive – miles long and miles high, so this mission to find the mysterious visitors was tough as best, but he knew that for their future safety, they needed to investigate any unusual events. This was one such event, he reassured himself. He didn’t want to put any life in jeopardy – especially for his own curiosity – but he felt it was truly deserved this time. He knew people, real people, were abroad in the spaceport, he just had to make sure they were either hostiles, or friendly. Just because his tired mind thought the worst, didn’t mean it was true of the new arrivals.

Nothing was ever simple, he thought. The plague victims were probably the simplest beings on the planet now – at least you knew their motivations, their desires: to kill and eat living beings. Easy to understand. But the survivors, the humans… that was a different matter. Especially Cain.

‘Eli, is that you?’ he said into his vox. ‘Cain, where are you?’

The vox merely fizzed. Atmospherics must be at work, he thought.

Still, the auspex was now showing that one aircraft was closing. Finally, Eli was responding.

An ear-splitting cry wrapped itself over the airwaves, drowning the vox-network in dreadful noise. Dassion snapped back in his seat in shock, realising too late what was happening.

Above his shabby, old Lander, the deadly Hell Talon flew frantically downwards towards the Hermia, its autocannons firing on automatic.

*​

The first salvo barely missed the _Hermia_, but the second clipped her hull, gouging out holes all across her back. Luckily, each round missed the engines, and anything vital, mainly due to the swift reactions of the old pilot flyer her as she weaved through the sky.

Dassion Way cursed for the umpteenth time as he turned Hermia’s large rear-end around a bulky reactor-core tower, gripping the throttle fiercely and pushing her deeper into the bulging metropolis of the inner city. The damn thing nearly had the jump on him, nearly! But the rugged pilot had seen the attack just as it started and swerved his ship, and precious human cargo, away from the onslaught. 

Now the enemy ship was hot on their tail, taking pot shots at them at every opportunity. An inhuman wail blocked the airwaves and his auspex fizzed with static – whoever their foe was, they were serious enough to jam them. Dassion’s worst fears gradually picked away at his resolve – could it really be the Arch Emeny? So far he hadn’t had a good look at the fighter chasing them, Hermia’s canopy blocky and square – not meant for fighting, and so limiting sight. But the fleeting glance at it, and his suspicions from before, formed the unhappy realisation that they were indeed knee deep in grox shi-

The building next to the _Hermia_ exploded – the missile fired by the enemy fighter violently impacting it after narrowly missing the rickety lander. Dassion flew his aging bird though the fire and smoke, her broad wings coming within inches of a towering building on her starboard, while dodging falling masonry from the other. Through skill, ability and a little luck, he managed to keep control of his ship, as he continued to weave throughout the miles-high buildings around him. In the confusion and hurry, Dassion had decided the best, and only, way of escaping the chaos fighter was to lose her inside the city.

So far, so good. But Dassion was starting to feel the strain – his reactions were not what they used to be. And though he was now fairly familiar with manoeuvring his ship throughout the city on his nightly searches for survivors, it was not like this – not at this speed and ferocity.

He pulled the lander around another tight corner, hitting the backward thrusters to compensate for the tight turn, hoping he gauged the turn correctly, the momentum pushing them close to hitting. As they rounded the building – a large, burnt-out hab-complex – he thrust the throttle forwards, driving the lander onwards, away from danger.

But still, no matter how many times he tried to evade the enemy fighter, it soon appeared once more, vying for a way to kill them.

Dassion sorely wished for some form of weapon to defend himself with. But the ancient lander was not made for war, only for carrying cargo and people across the world and up to orbiting cruisers. She was out of her depth here, a lame herbivore trying to outrun a deadly carnivore. The only true weapon he had had was Eli Cain and his Thunderbolt. But, he guessed, his weapon must have been destroyed by now.

The tight streets and maze-like bends suddenly opened up into a kilometre square open space – the Grand Plaza of Tharius. _Hermia’s_ only defence and shield had abruptly vanished, and Dassion found himself woefully prone. 

‘Dassion, Dassion?’ said a crackly voice in his ear. It was Mira, no doubt checking their status from inside the cargo hold. ‘What’s happening Dassion?’

Not now, he thought, pulling the internal comms out of his ear. He just couldn’t talk to the poor girl, especially now, as he was fighting for her life. Sweat layered his skin, and dread realisation hit him like punch: he didn’t have enough time to hide from the fighter here. The mighty plaza would be their fiery graveyard. He’d failed.

The chaos fighter burst out of the narrow lane, relentlessly hunting down its prey. It seemed to level out perfectly, putting the _Hermia_ right in its sights. Dassion finally got a good look at his tormentor, the chaos Hell Talon. He had ran out of ideas and space. There was nothing for him to do but wait for death.

Tracer fire from the heavens ripped into the Hell Talon, igniting its fuel tanks and burning its engines. The fighter exploded dramatically, billowing clouds of dense smoke appearing in its doomed wake. Its remains rained over the empty plaza in large, flaming clumps. 

The jammed comms suddenly blazed with broken sounds of Cain’s voice, ‘… one down…’

Dassion turned the Hermia, relief flooding through his very being. The boy was alive! ‘Eli, Eli, status?’

There was a brief static, then: ‘One down, one on my tail. Get out of here old man, get clear.’

A smile crossed Dassion Way’s face. ‘Acknowledged.’ And thanks, he thought to himself. 

With that, Dassion turned his lander towards the spaceport, the mission suddenly so much more important than before: Even though he knew they were up against the worst kind of enemy, all of them needed to know what was truly happening within the city of Tharius. Knowledge was survival.

‘Dassion. Dassion,’ a voice cried from the internal comm bead on his lap. ‘What in the warp is going on? Can you hear me? Dassion?’

Mira would have to wait, he thought, as he slowly gathered his nerves. She didn’t need to know how close they all had come to meeting the Emperor face-to-face.


*​

Eli Cain and his Thunderbolt roared into the dark blue sky. As soon as he left the sprawling towers of the city, his auspex picked up the other Hell Talon. The damn thing was still on his six, still chasing him. But, the others were safe – for a while at least.

Now, though, Cain could turn his attention from one enemy to the other.

‘Bring it on, frakker,’ he whispered. ‘Bring it on.’


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## dark angel (Jun 11, 2008)

I always love this for some reason whilst I re-read it. This was possibly the first fan-fiction I had read not upon this site, on Fan-Fiction.Net, and I would keep going back on every day to check if it had been updated. Awesome, have rep if I can give it to you mate:victory:


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

Thanks Dark Angel - glad you like! I've put more effort into the struture of the story, and the way the characters come across in this re-draft, and I'm only posting full chapters now to keep that momentum going. I've got most of the novel sorted now, with 30 chapters planned, so i just have to get writing it all!!

Cheers for the support, more coming soon (and brand new chapters being written!).

two lls


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

Chapter 7 – Dreams


I​
_‘…Carson… Carson!’ his dad cries. ‘To the left! Watch our flank!’

He is kneeling with his back to a cold, flat wall. Gunfire, explosions, screaming and a cacophony of noise surrounds the hab-unit he finds himself in. Where is this?

Then he remembers. Tarsus City. He’s in the planetary defence force, the Tharius Recon unit. They’re fighting a cult, or was it dissident fighters? Heretics no matter what. 

He’s part of the 51st unit, under the overall command of his father, the glorious Colonel Leto. Their enemies have ambushed them in the massed hab-sector – nothing but miles upon miles of hab buildings, tight corners and kill-zones. A rocket shot detonates in the corridor outside of the ground floor flat he sheltered in. Thick smoke filters passed, and Carson snatches up his rebreather, finding it hard to fix it over his head with his sweaty, shaking hands.

A cold, consuming fear has gripped him. As the smoke swirls majestically through the air, he tries to block out the brutality and death around him.

Vister, the youngest in the unit, drops to the ground in the doorway; he’s missing am arm and blood spills across the hab’s threshold.

Carson is shaken aggressively. He looks up and sees his dad’s eyes through a rebreather mask. His comm-link crackles. ‘Son, are you with us?’

He mumbles something.

‘Take the left street, as soon as the smoke clears, cover us.’

He nods. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to protect his fathers’ no doubt heroic charge. It’s not that he doesn’t love or respect him – it’s just that he does not want to be part of this. He hates the gunfire, the violence, and the death.

It scares him.

‘Now!’ his father yells. ‘For the Emperor!’

Carson remembers turning and looking out of the window through the clearing smoke. The enemy is in the adjacent building. He knows he needs to cover his father and the rest of the unit, but fear has gripped him, froze him.

He sits there, his gun silent by his side.

His father leads the unit into the open.

The enemy open fire…_



Carson’s head throbbed to the beat of pain as he awoke. And it was a beat he realised, a horrible rhythm that danced with his heartbeat and crushed his brain. The thick, pungent smell of decay hit him next and he gagged, pain rippling through his dust-dry throat. He was finding it hard to breathe as well, and at first he thought a lung or something had been damaged, but opening his eyes he soon remembered where he was.

Magos Bore lay across him, his many appendages lying haphazardly across the room. Carson felt weak and ached all over, and if it wasn’t for the sharp hunger pains in stomach, he was sure he would have just lay there longer, drifting back into the blankness of sleep.

But hunger gripped him, along with that panicky feeling of being unable to move. He pushed and pulled with all the strength he could muster, and after long arduous minutes he had freed himself. 

Time became hazy once he escaped Bore’s carcass. 

He hunted in the dark, dingy remains of the Tech-factory for some food, finally finding rotting scraps in what he guessed was some form of workers rest area. A little strength returned and he luckily found re-processed pure water tanks and drunk his fill next; then filled up several bottles water for his continuing journey. 

Soon he turned his attention to the reason he had entered this foreboding place. Transport. He found what he was looking for fairly fast. For years he enjoyed coming to the place and looking at them. How he hoped they could save him. He found several powerbikes in the factorum – fast, lithe modes of transport that could surely be the only way these days to travel through the city. He chose a sleek, black high-end Swifter, its slender body and powerful engine more than adequate for traversing through the cluttered streets. Then he waited for light.





Carson looked out at the morning sun, its rays momentarily blinding him as they crept through the silent city. He could here a couple of birds sing in the sky – a strange, weird occurrence so deep into the city. But he welcomed it. 

Now he stood outside the factorum, holding the bikes handlebars on both hands. Even after the food and water he felt weak, and he could see how thin he was becoming. If the zombies didn’t get him, starvation might. But he knew things were changing – he had seen the flyers in the sky. It was not only he and the hordes of undead that inhabited the city any more. Life had been found.

And he promised himself he would find that life.

Carson hit the activation panel on the bike and its engine roared to life with a throaty growl. As he jumped on and moved into the street he saw two birds – frightened by the sound – fly up high into the morning sky. They became small dots all-to-quickly, disappearing into the wispy clouds and the light blue hue, lost forever.

But Carson would remember them – symbols of hope and survival. Their sight seemed to brush away the nightmares of the previous night.

He turned the throttle on the swifter and rushed through the streets towards the spaceport, hope in his heart.


II​

_He knew exactly what he was doing.

For forty years he had lived oppressed by the lame, rotten and festering High Lords of Tharius. For forty long years he put up with the ruling caste as they controlled the world like harsh Gods – wherever you turned there were Adeptus Arbites and tightening of human morals and rights as they upheld the brutal laws of Terra. Uncountable numbers were now packed into the prisons; innocents caught up in the greedy wiles of an immutable dictatorship, and hundreds – if not thousands – had vanished or been press-ganged into the Guard or PDF. 

No, this would not continue, the true light of the corpse-Emperor would shine within their withered souls. This would make them listen. This would free the world. This would-

Was the guard staring at him? He furtively looked sideways, lightning fear of being caught flashing in his gut as if a rat burrowed within him. No, he’s looked away. Keep moving.

He held a small, non-descript cylindrical tube within his jacket. His sweaty fingers held it tightly within the pocket which he slowly moved between his fingers – at once repulsive and electric to the touch.

This would set everyone free.

He edged closer to the entrance of the stadium, and the crowd thickened with every step. He had a Game Pass, one that should be able to get him into the arena with only a cursory nod from the security, if that.

Either way, he would release the virus. But for maximum effect, he wanted into the Deathball stadium where thousands of people waited for the game to start. He had been told that it had ninety-seven percent commutability, so wherever he let it out it would cause untold damage. But he was unsure of that fact, trusting did not come easy these days, and so he wanted it unleashed where the highest amount of people were in close proximity.

Something scratched within him, however. So many people would – will – die. Was it worth it? Yes, of course it was! This was the only way these days to be heard. When a whole city fell, people would listen. Tharius would be free. He shrugged off the last of his concerns, steeling himself for what was to come.

Maybe even back on Terra they would feel the fallout? he wondered. He was a soldier in a galaxy spanning war now, and that fact pleased him. 

He pushed deeper into the crowds, and finally reached the entrance. At least half a dozen guards were checking passes, and each of them held heavy looking lasguns. He breathed deeply, holding his anxiety in check.

The guard checked his pass, barely looking, and swiftly moved him on. It was so easy! Soon the virus would be out, attacking everyone within the stadium, no, the city!

He slipped easily into the larger corridors that wound up to the higher tiers of the stadium, his head low, his feet determined. Once he made it to his seat he would rest easier and prepare for what would follow.

Minutes later he stood within his box looking over the Deathball field hundreds of metres below. This was a good seat and a good place to let loose the virus, ne mused.

Soon the stadium was packed to the brim with spectators, the loud chorus of their combined voices filling the atmosphere all around. At least a hundred thousand fans filled the stadium, readying themselves for the coming game – the Huson Battlers there taking on the New Terra Raiders in one of the biggest games of the season. It was a sell out crowd.

He could wait no longer, the fiery hatred and itching fear burning in him so deep. He pulled on the top of the tube and popped open the lid, and the strange chemicals within leaked into the air.

He was immediately infected, and those around his box were also moments later. It took only minutes before the virus spread throughout the stadium, infecting thousands. Within hours, millions across the city carried the plague in their bodies.

And it didn’t stop there. He was not the only cultist that day letting loose one of the most deadly viruses known to the galaxy upon the city. Others within scholums, hospilitates and parks opened the deadly canisters, and within the day, the whole world was infected. Billions of people. Death upon everyone.

Except a few, as it turned out..._



The traitor remembered the start of the End vividly. It continued to plague his thoughts ever since it happened. Ever since he had took his stand.

The hate he left before the End still roiled within him, but the realisation of what he had become part of deeply unsettled his convictions. He had been right to do it. He _had_ been right… But where was the reward? He had been promised it would be different, that it would be better. He had been part of something bigger than himself. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

And now he was stuck with the survivors – all lapdog loyalists to the weakling Emperor. What had changed? Yes, most of the world’s population had turned into flesh-eating monsters - but he was still surrounded by fools. He had not perished along with everyone else, as he had thought might happen, nor had the others like him prevailed to take control of the city and world. Instead the plague zombies were after him too - he may have been somehow immune to the disease he spread, but not the foul attentions of what was left in its devastating wake. No, nothing had changed. It had only become worse.

The past had become his warped future, and all that was left was fear and doubt.


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

*Chapter 8 – The hanger*​

A cold, electric feeling crawled sinuously down Dassion’s spine as he looked upon the scene before him, and he clenched his fists instinctively, attempting to dissipate the horrid sensation, while masking it from the others. He hid, along with Dar and Mira, in a small, shaded alcove that led onto a damaged gantry which itself overlooked a large hanger bay. After their escape from the enemy flyer they had landed in the spaceport, and followed their crackly auspex to this position, leaving Vern to look after the _Hermia_. The prickly feeling in his back flared again at the thought of Vern protecting his beloved ship. 

He could taste the arid tinge of differing fuels in the otherwise stale air, and the pungent smell of lubricants and spacecraft engines almost bled from the walls, it was so strong. The hanger was half a kilometre high and was just as wide, the interior damaged like the gantry, with ruined cargo lifters rusting on the floor and dark scorch marks staining the ground and walls from previous fires. Several rotting carcasses lay amongst broken machinery, unfortunate workers or off-line servitors – luckily though, they were motionless and merely dead rather than something worse. 

The chilling surroundings where not the worst of it. What frightened Dassion the most was the bulky troop-lander that sat in the centre of the bay like a bulbous bruise, spewing forth dangerous looking soldier-like figures. He clenched his fists tighter, sweat pulling in his closed palms.

His worst fears had come true. He remembered such monsters from his days fighting in the Tharactus War. A shudder rippled through him at the memories. The Archenemy were the foulest adversaries of the Imperium. Chaos incarnate. More evil than any zombie victim, more callous than any down-hive dealer and more dangerous than any plague. They were slaves to the darkest of Gods. And they had now set foot upon Tharius.

The lander looked like the same one he had seen previously. Upon closer inspection it more resembled an old assault drop-ship, though it had been heavily modified, with extra armour plating haphazardly attached to its hull, along with variously added weaponry which bristled from it like jagged spines. The hull was coloured a mixture of green and black, and red painted symbols adorned its sides. The cooling engines hissed and growled, while fuel and lubricant dripped from rusting hydraulics and various cracks under its distended belly. Instead of landing struts, the ship had jagged landing claws that gouged deeply into the landing pad. The flyer looked sick, he thought, and in a worse state than old _Hermia_. It was a miracle that it flew, he mused. Overall, the lander looked like a cancerous cell that had somehow blossomed and grown into the hanger bay.

The power of chaos was not to be underestimated, he knew.

‘No… oh no…’ a voice stuttered.

Dassion turned from his vantage point, towards the voice. As he did so he heard Mira’s laspistol power up with a soft whine, and Dar’s hefty shotgun being racked and loaded. 

Vern stood before them, his face contorted in fright. When he saw the guns aimed toward him he raised his hands defensively and took a step back, ‘It’s me, Vern!’ he said in a shaky voice.

Dassion fears turned quickly to anger. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed. ‘I told you to stay with the ship!’

Both Dar and Mira lowered their weapons, Mira muttering under her breath harshly. Vern, though visibly shaken, recovered enough to speak. ‘S-sorry Dassion. I just… I just wanted to see what was going on for myself.’

‘What about the Hermia? What if one of these people find her,’ he said, gesturing out over to the chaos lander, ’or if plague carrier’s find her?’

‘I-I didn’t think, I’m sorry.’ 

Dar suddenly put a large hand on Dassion’s shoulder. ‘Quiet.’

Dassion turned from the feeble minded fool, Dar bringing him back into the moment. He glanced over at the chaos troops once more, a morbid curiosity overcoming his emotions. The realisation of why Dar had grabbed him so urgently hit him all–too-quickly: several zombies shuffled towards the lander. What would happen now? he thought, would they attack the chaos soldiers? The answer unfolded before him, and the shock of it hit him like an augmented ogryn…

The enemy soldiers were not firing on the zombies or looking frightened in the slightest, even though they had clear line of sight to the undead beasts. The Archenemy fighters seemed to be heavily armed with a variety of assault guns, rifles and pistols; as well as various wicked looking knifes, swords and clubs. They wore dark fatigues and solid looking body armour. Above all, they were well suited for combat and death. But it did not answer why they were so nonchalant towards the shambling parodies of life that edged towards them.

A small, podgy-looking individual then stepped out of the lander. Most of their features were hid under a matted, dirty-looking hooded cloak that covered them from head to toe, but it did not hide their unhealthy weight or gait. Dassion immediately perceived that they were in charge, and that they more powerful than they looked. His feelings were answered swiftly too, as the hooded figure merely raised their hand to the closing zombies and they stopped in their tracks. Like servitors to a tech-magus, they seemed to be under his command. The hooded figure issued some form of instruction and the zombies and they turned from the lander, shambling back to the exits. The soldiers became animated too, forming around the hooded figure. 
Then, without any hesitation, the cloaked leader turned and looked directly up at Dassion and his colleagues, their crooked hand rising to point to Dassion’s’ location.

Mira sprang to action, rising from her crouch and grabbing Dassion’s shoulder. ‘They’ve seen us!’ she spat ‘move, back to the Hermia!’
The chill fear he had felt moments ago returned and panic momentarily froze him. But Mira’s steely grip tore him out of it and he was dragged to his feet. They scrambled away from the gantry hurriedly, all four of them rushing to escape as the first hard rounds impacted across the walls around them, the sound a shocking, deep cry of violence.

The _Hermia_. They had to reach her or they would die for sure, Dassion though. The _Hermia_ was their only chance with dusk so close and the chaos soldiers pursuing them.

He ran with the others, his old muscles straining with the effort, his thoughts turning dark as he realised just how lucky they would have to be to survive this time.


*​

Darkness shrouded each walkway and corridor. It was no normal darkness either – not like the innocent passing of the day, as the great city of Tharius bade farewell to its sun and embraced the night. No, the darkness and shadow oozed malevolence and promised death – at any moment a plague zombie or Archenemy trooper could appear within the shade, ready to drag them screaming into painful oblivion – that was now especially true as Dassion and the others raced back to the _Hermia_.

He used to revel in the sleek, beautiful silence of night as he flew his ship high in the starry sky, etching out a decent, if not totally legal, life. But times had changed he grudgingly realised, as a clinging pain clutched at his chest while his boots beat wearily off of the metal flooring. The others were ahead of him now – Dar in the lead, his shotgun held at the ready as he loped forwards, seemingly unhindered by fatigue; Vern was next, stress and fear etched throughout his tumbling run, while Mira was directly in front of Dassion. Every few seconds she turned, encouraging him onwards.

Dassion heard the sharp bark of Dar’s shotgun, the noise making him winch. He wished deeply for that calm feeling he always had as he flew Hermia, but the thought vanished as fast as it appeared, the cold reality of the moment gripping him. He cursed inwardly at his worries; it was not always like this. He used to revel in the rush of action. Now so now. What had changed? 

‘Keep moving,’ he heard Mira say, a hint of tiredness in her voice, but the authority of the arbiter still remained and he found himself shaking off his thoughts and continuing forward, even as more shotgun sounds vibrated through the darkness. Something caught his foot and he stumbled and fell, hitting the ground hard, grazing his palms on the rough flooring.

A faint lit-orb lit the corridor, casting an ugly yellow glow that only deepened the shadow. He saw a ragged, dusty hand grab for his flailing legs out of the gloom. Dassion cried out, the sudden shock of seeing one of the living dead up so close cutting through his tough demeanour. A pallid, yawning face appeared, stretching out for the warm flesh of his leg. Then Mira materialized, firing her laspistol on full auto. The zombie’s head was pin-holed by scores of super hot las-beams, stopping it inches from Dassion’s leg.

‘Quick, quick,’ Mira yelled, taking hold of Dassion’s jacket. ‘Get up, let’s move!’

With her help, Dassion pulled himself up and they moved onwards, past more inert bodies of the dead. As they turned a tight right-angled corner, the walkway suddenly opened up into a ground-based landing platform – the one where the Hermia rested – and they caught up with the hive ganger and Vern. Both of them hid behind the opened bulkhead and as Dassion neared, he saw why: several plague victims wandered around the Hermia, as if guarding it. The soft-sounding patter of rain permeated through the air, giving the scene a surreal feel to it as he watched the dead shamble around the ship. 

‘What’s the hold up?’ Mira said.

‘Dar was waiting for you,’ answered Vern with a slight croak in his voice. It seemed the stress of the situation was getting to him.

Dassion rounded him, his face masked with aggression. ‘I told you to watch her, Vern,’ he said with venom. ‘Now look what’s happened!’

‘Shh,’ sounded Dar, racking another bullet into the twin chambers of his shotgun. One of the undead had turned toward them. It had only one arm, with bulging, red crusted eyes from where its blood vessels had burst and dried. Yet, it was not using its eyes to find them, it seemed, as its nose continually twitched, as if it was hunting them through smell alone.

Mira slapped another power pack into her pistol. ‘There’s only four of them, let’s take them before any others get here.’

With that, she burst from cover, dropping the one-armed zombie first, before firing shots at the next closest one. Dar didn’t seem to hesitate either, and followed swiftly behind, blasting the third off its diseased feet with a single shot. Dassion and Vern charged behind them, both intent on reaching the _Hermia_. 

Dassion pulled out his data-key as he ran, punching the icon sequence to unlock the Hermia’s doors. With a hiss, the groaning hydraulics slowly pulled open her hull door. Finally, he reached her and planted a foot inside, his mind already working on the launch sequence. He was brought out of his thoughts and shopped short at the entrance of his ship just as quickly, as a las-beam singed the hull of the Hermia just by his face. He turned, thinking Mira’s stray shot was all-too-close, before he realised that the shot did not come from her.

As he looked back, he saw one of the Archenemy soldiers standing in the platform area, pointing a lasgun at him. Two others were next the soldier, equally armed. The zombies had all been finished by now, and Mira and Dar stood stock-still, aiming their weapons at the new threat.

A tall, unhealthy looking chaos soldier stepped forward, lowering his weapon. He wore a dark green long-cloak that covered most of his body apart from his head, which was covered in what looked to be pulsating green spots. ‘I’m glad I have all of your attention,’ he started, his voice horse and ill-sounding. ‘You must come with us, our father wishes to meet you.’

Dassion guessed the man was used to being obeyed, by the tone of his voice. It didn’t make him want to do as the fiend said, but there didn’t seem much choice, there was no way he could ensure everyone would escape – the soldiers aim looked true and deadly.

Mira looked around at Dassion, a hopeless, yet dangerous look in her face. He knew then that if he didn’t act, she would do something stupid. He put his hands up defensively, and walked out of the Hermia. ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,’ he said. ‘We will obey.’

Dassion had no intention of obeying, but he had to buy everyone time to figure out an escape plan. It was a shame that he had no idea of how to get out of this one.

‘Lose the weapons, now,’ said the chaos leader, gesturing towards Dar and Mira. Reluctantly, they complied, edgily lowering their guns.

There was a silence then, as both sides merely looked at each other. It lasted only moments, but to Dassion it lasted much longer. He felt the rain on his face and the only sound he heard beyond the thumping of his heart was the falling water as it beat steadily off the platform and the_ Hermia_. He almost smiled at the weirdness of it all, before his thoughts were once more interrupted, but this time by a roaring reverberation. He could not picture what made such an echoing, harsh noise until he saw it with his own eyes.

A man riding a sleek black powerbike charged onto the platform, ripping apart the fragile silence. He skidded in-between the imperials and the Archenemy troops, and pulled out a combat shotgun in one hand, rapidly firing it off in the direction of the chaos soldiers. One of them fell violently backwards before anyone could react, blood fountaining from a deep wound in his chest. To Dassion, this seemed to happen in slow motion, his mind shocked and surprised by the turn of events.

The peace lasted only seconds more, as both parties finally opened up their weapons on each other.

The bike was hit several times, while the rider frantically emptied his shotgun. Dar moved towards the rider, his own shotgun picking off the other Archenemy trooper, his head bursting into fragments with the impact of the bullet. Mira aimed for the leader of the group, but to no avail, as he ducked, blindly firing in the general direction of the _Hermia_.

‘Get in here!’ Dassion yelled over the roar of the bikes engines and barking guns, before slippng into his ship and running for the cockpit. Within moments he was in his chair and plugging himself into the machine spirit. Pre-launch seemed to start without his consent – almost as if the _Hermia_ knew they needed to leave in a hurry.

Someone appeared behind him. ‘We’re in, close the hatch,’ said Mira, relief etched in her voice.

‘What about our new friend?’ he said.

‘Him and his bike too. Can we go, we’ll ask questions later.’

‘Indeed,’ was all Dassion said as he pulled on the control lever, lifting the _Hermia_ off of the ground and closing the outer door as he did so. He could see more of the Archenemy, along with plague zombies, fill the platform, and he heard the faint _**** ****_ of their las-weapons hitting the hull.

He turned his ship and fired the thrusters, flying her out of the spaceport.

As they cleared the platform and the shadow of the buildings around, the rain thickened, covering the frontal display shield. In his mind he heard the soft patter once more, and he signed a breath of relief. He was sure the _Hermia’s_ machine spirit did the same.


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## Fumble Tumble (Oct 3, 2008)

da da da da da im lovin' it

your story is magnificent well done mate, just the right consistency of action and tension, along with a great morbid theme

+rep+


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

Thanks for the positive comments Fumble! Makes all the hard work worth it! Cheers for the rep too! more up soon


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## Zodd (Jul 27, 2009)

two lls, this story is good, imho. " Ordinary " people trying to survive in 40k, not yet another hero w/bolter. So, looking forward to more.:good:
+rep


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## two lls (Nov 25, 2009)

Thanks Zodd - I thought the story would be much more exciting if the POV came from ordinary human survivours, and it would make the action more nerve-racking as these common citizens battled to life through an apocalypse, having normal fears. 

Thanks for the support, more coming soon.


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## Legio Custode (May 20, 2009)

Awsommmmmeeeee!!!! A++ keep it coming fella, really enjoying it such smooth writing!


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