Rapid Fire Challenge: Carnage - July 2021

[Race Bannon]

Prompt: Carnage

Maximum length: 500 words

Deadline: 31 July 2021

Where to post submissions: In this thread

Note - please make sure all submissions adhere to the forum rules. Any entry that breaks one or more rules shall be removed.

[5thCompanyDaemonbanes]

Arkhiel could see panic in the human faces as they reacted to the intruder.  The Astra Militarum supply depot was deep behind friendly lines where they and the Angels were engaging the foe on this moon.  They were not prepared for the monster had come for them.  Clad in black trimmed with gold, the chaplain moved silently as his bulk allowed, not wanting to give his position away to the attacker, he followed the weapon fire and screams that were now coming from deeper inside the compound.

 

The depot was in chaos, several of the outer bunkers were collapsed or burning, humans crushed or aflame trying to escape them.  There was the sound of coordinated lasgun fire towards the center of the camp near the armory, Arkhiel could hear the barked orders to fire. The screech of metal and a thunderous crash ended the lasgun fire.  He made his way towards the central armory.  

 

A thick armored door that was the last line of defense to the armory was ripped off of its mechanism and thrown into the nearby wall of the communications bunker, the smell of fresh blood was the only trace of the humans that had been crushed by it.  There was a scream that was quickly silenced coming from inside the armory.  Arkhiel peered thru the ruined doorway and saw what was left of the men and women that had come there for safety, a trail of gore that lead into the buildings depths.  In the middle of the room was a large maglift shaft for moving munitions from their underground storage up for transport, and the platform was not at the surface.  The screams of humans were coming from the pit.  Arkhiel made for it, with only one exit, the monster would have to go through him to escape. There was no more need for stealth.  Drawing his pistol and igniting the power field on his crozius arcanum, he leapt into the void.

 

With a crash he landed on the lift after several dozen meters, metal groaning at his weight, and the remains of humans flying from his impact.  The air in the depths was thick with the smell of fresh death.  There was no need to keep searching for his prey, the monster was three meters down the only corridor from the lift.  The form was covered in human gore and pockmarked by lasgun fire.  The latter being only a minor hindrance.  Arkhiel could feel anger radiating off the beast, he could almost see it.

 

In one hand, it gripped the torso of a human, having plunged its fist through the chest, clenching the spine.  Arkhiel could hear the slow crack of vertebrae as the beast was enjoying this kill.  In its other hand, a finely crafted power sword, its blade immaculate, its cross guard made of golden feathered wings, its pommel held a red crystal, the shape of a blood drop.

 

Arkhiel looked with sadness on his lost brother, this would not be easy.

Edited July 21, 2021 by 5thCompanyDaemonbanes

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Excellent work, 5thCompanyDaemonbanes. So the story is about

a Blood Angel or Blood Angel descendant about to execute his battle-brother for succumbing to the Red Thirst and killing Imperial allies

? Grim, but very appropriate for the setting.

[5thCompanyDaemonbanes]

Yes, brother falling to the red thirst rampaging through an ally supply depot, dark and Blood Angely just like I like it

.

[Dumah]

Go Down Krumpin’

Thunk! Hisss…

 

The bone-clad giant moved carefully among the wreckage, rooting through the mortal remains of similar warriors lying in various states of dismemberment. Thunk…hisss.

 

Red eyes flashed in the dark, regarding the Space Marine as it went about its grisly task, delivering the Emperor’s Mercy and harvesting the seeds of a future generation. Boomsnikka knew the beakiez were ‘ard, but he never expected them to be so cold. The ork boy lay in the shade of a broken Killa Kan, playing dead – which was easy, considering his head flopped over on a broken neck – and bided his time. Each time the white beakie turned its back, Boomsnikka crawled forward another few inches.

 

Patience was a rare skill that Boomsnikka had in spades. That was why he was da best at sneakin’, even among his Kommando brethren. The scores of dead boyz lying in pieces all around him were just further testament to his innate superiority. The ork boy grinned, and then froze when the beakie turned his way.

 

That white helmet’s sweeping gaze passed right over him, lingering on his shattered rib cage, missing arm, and broken neck for long moments before the dark lenses moved away. Boomsnikka’s frozen grin grew wider and he dragged himself a little bit closer.

 

It was nigh on an eternity – at least, it felt like one – before the kommando had drawn within striking distance. The beakie was conveniently distracted, elbow-deep in the guts of a still-living brother who thrashed and bellowed like a stuck squighog. That ruckus provided the last bit of cover Boomsnikka needed as he prepared to strike. He didn’t have a choppa on hand, so he pulled out the humie stabba buried in his chest, wielding the weedy blade like a dagger. With a final, herculean effort, the ork boy lunged for his unsuspecting prey, bringing his borrowed blade down in an overhead plunge-

 

Thunk!

…Hisss…

 

For a solid five seconds, Boomsnikka stared dumbly. The white beakie faced him, nose to nose, the snout of its helmet practically kissing the kommando’s lantern jaw. It held his wrist in an iron grip, pinning the stabba in place where it had sunk its full length into the humie’s chest. Boomsnikka bellowed, finding it difficult to look the beakie in its face, on account of his flaccid neck. The beakie growled something in its ugly, alien tongue and drew back its other fist.

 

Boomsnikka hadn’t noticed the sharp metal rod that transfixed his thick skull. Not until it pulled out and retracted into a boxy housing on the beakie’s wrist, taking most of the ork’s face with it.

 

“Git-face,” Boomsnikka grunted, feeling the strength drain from his body. Still, he considered, watching dark blood gush from the rent in the white beakie’s chest, not a bad way to go. The ork boy fell among the devastation of torn bodies, joining the wreckage of war. But he died happily, seeing at the last that his foe fell with him.

 

Orks is never really beaten.

 

THE END

[Bjorn Firewalker]

Impressive work, Dumah. Does it take place during the Third War for Armageddon, when "Ork snipers" devastated the Celestial Lions Chapter?

[Dumah]

Impressive work, Dumah. Does it take place during the Third War for Armageddon, when "Ork snipers" devastated the Celestial Lions Chapter?

Thanks! Honestly, I hadn't given any thought to the wider context but I like the way you think! Now that we know ork snipers DO exist...

[Urauloth]

(I think this is technically late, but maybe it's still the 31st somewhere...)

 

Awakening

"Captain."

 

My head spins. The pain almost sends me to the deck. I feel like my skull could split open of its own accord at any moment.

 

"Captain Haralmir!"

 

I try to focus. The migraine light and the crushing black void resolves into the briefing room aboard the Shield of Thorns. A generous term; the room is an adapted cargo unit, the ship an armed freighter. It has proved to be insufficiently armed, which is often the way in this war. At every turn, Pariad outshines Gallistav. Pariad; wealthy, influential, close to the sun, blessed. Gallistav; distant, cold, impoverished, neglected.

 

A young adjutant clamours for my attention. Like me, he will die on this forsaken ship. Kill-teams of Pariad's baronial guard have boarded us, merciless men with the best arms their sunlit world can supply. Against them my half-strength company can barely muster enough rifles.

 

"They've taken the gun decks," the adjutant tells me, "they're pushing in force along the dorsal arterial."

 

I draw my sidearm. "We cut them off," I say, "Hold them in the dorsal."

If he wants to ask "until what?" he keeps the question to himself.

 

The corridors are full of smoke that crawls along the ceiling. Like mist. Like ink in water. The pain in my head makes it hard to keep moving. Fireflies dance in my eyes. I hear the roar of shotguns in the distance, the shriek of lascutters biting.

 

They are on us as soon as we reach the arterial. They move so fast in their carapace armour.

"Contact!" yells a trooper to my right. A round decapitates him. We scatter into doorways for cover. Our lasfire blooms in the smoke. It does little but scorch the heraldry of the baronial guard. Their shotguns hammer out a drumbeat of mutilation as they advance, chewing men to shreds of flesh and shattered bone. I empty my pistol at them. I doubt they notice.

I watch them step over the body of one of my riflemen. If I could spit my bitterness at them it would flay them. I see the muzzle of a shotgun. A boom. A flash. 

The pain spikes. 

The world has stopped.

 

There is something else here. 

It is the only thing moving. A shadow. Ink in water. Darker than the void. It speaks without sound in words that are not language. The pain is gone. 

A spray of shot hangs in the air, each metal sphere turning to cinders. Suddenly I can see; I can see so much and so far that I can't imagine how I never had this sight before.

 

Time flows again. Gunfire dissolves into sprays of light around me. I can feel the dismay of my foes. It radiates from them. I reach out for them and they burn; armour, flesh and bone burst into flame. The fire flows like liquid. Like ink in water.

I start to laugh. I do not know if I will stop.

 

[Dumah]

Bravo Urauloth! You pull off some neat world building with so few words.