A Warhammer 40k Darktide Story
Time seemed to pass by in the smallest possible increment. Had it been days? A week? No, only a few hours had passed. The gargantuan manufactorum door, once a decorated and gleaming example of Imperial architecture, lay shattered and twisted shaping the frame into a maw of death and destruction. Steel had been twisted outwards during the explosion, the violence shaping the material into what resembled horns and fangs, foreboding a future yet to come. From the blackness where sounds of prized Leman Russ Tanks could once be heard rolling forth into transport ships, eager to earn glory in battle, now bellowed a cacaphony of unholy drones and screams. A horde was coming, one that sought not just to wipe them from the very face of this planet but consume it in its entirety in an unrelenting wave of rot and decay. All they could do was pray to the Emperor their plan had been found worthy of his blessing on this day. Pray….and shed blood in the name of his glory.
The death toll had never truly been confirmed. From what they knew, millions had succumbed to the infestation on the lower levels. Millions of dedicated Imperial souls already lost to an ever-growing tide of consumption, bodies rotting away from the inside, the plague fouling their minds to push on in the name of their new god. “Here they come again,” Props grumbled while acting as if he was waking from a brief slumber. “I wish just this once they would let me get some good rest in, bloody heathens.”
“It is not in their nature to do so zealot, the enemy is a coward. They know they would not stand against the Emperor’s might in fair fight.” The raspy voice of Motts whispered through the earpiece. His voice was tense, there was an edge to it sharper than any chainsword teeth.
“I don’t need to be a psyker to see the outcome of this one like you,” a smirk grew across Props lips, “Is that nerves I hear mind reader?”
“It is heresy to question my faith and devotion zealot. I am the Emperor’s hand, his thoughts are my actions.” Motts retorted without hesistation.
“So he told you to read the minds of all those governors and steal their money yea? Doesn’t seem like the righteo-“
“OY! ‘ow is an ogryn supposed to fink with you lot chatting about dis an’ dat?!”, the booming voice of Nugget interjected through the comms. “Now, what did she mean by hole out? She want us to go diggin’ or wha’?!”
“HOLD you big idot! She said to HOLD out until extraction arrives. Emperor’s sake you Ogryn’s are thick” Props replied his hands covering his face.
“HAHA! I thought she was mad to ‘ave us dig our way out a dis one! Stupid Inquisitor” The giant ogryn bellowed into the mic, nearly rupturing his squad’s eardrums in the process.
“Keep it down simpleton,” Motts said sighing, “She can probably hear-“
“Enough,” the hardened voice interjected. “They are coming, steel your nerves, and may the Emperor bless us this day.”
“Leave it to Slade to take the fun out of everything.” Props replied with sarcasm, heaving his autogun into position.
***
One way in and one way out. Their previous attempt at extraction lay a burning husk embedded in the side of a looming hab structure several hundreds of meters away. Strangling black smoke still pouring from the remaining engine, accompanied by small bursts of as the remaining fuel supply caught ablaze. Now, the four stood their last at the wrong end of an aerial landing pad jutting from the side of the manufactorum several hundred meters above the lower levels. In an instant their light of salvation was taken from their grasp, snuffed out as simply as breathing on an open flame. They were promised rescue, they knew it was a lie. They were expendable. In that moment whatever dull glimmer of hope and joy remained fell to the cold shadow of fated destiny. Four prisoners destined for execution, now bound in blood to their last chance at redemption, until death eventually claimed them all.
The chorus deep within the manufactorum rose. Sound emanating from the ruined entrance door into the open air bouncing around the ornate spires covered in Imperial sigils, echoing throughout the endless hab blocks, and climbing its way to very top of the Hive City’s spire. It would be said later that the crescendo of this particular moment caused hundreds of thousands more Imperial citizens to take their own lives in an almost zombie like trance. Fear was a powerful weapon of war. It would not be long until the squad’s journey ended. The song was growing. The enemy was hungry, violence and bloodshed the sole sustenance to satiate their appetite. The song grew. The hair-raising sound of claws scraping steel joining the audible mosh pit. The song grew. The sound of men, those left with some past brain function could be heard amongst the clamor, lending their roars to the hemorrhaging vibration. The song grew. It was almost rythmic now, tunes colliding in an endless ebb and flow. The song stopped.
In silence the four awaited their impending fate. It was as if the sound of the entire planet had simply ceased, time moved slower, vision narrowed as senses were driven to overdrive. Sweat and blood dripped from brows, fingers cautiously laying on triggers, mouths silently uttering prayers or unspoken words left unsaid. Suddenly, a booming crunch spat from the mouth at the other end of the gunship landing pad as if something rather large had been dropped. Clang. Armored boots came thudded into the floor. Clang. The footsteps were heavy. Clang. Slow and deliberate, echoing in the darkness. Clang, clang. A symbol of death came to rest.
At the entrance maw to the manufactorum stood a massive being clad in heavy spiked armor. In one hand it held a heavy metal shield, the other gripped a massive chain axe. For a moment he stood frozen, surveying the ramshackle group opposite him with eyes the humanity had been ripped from long ago. A smile revealed fangs and rotting teeth ready to tear flesh from bone if the occasion called for it. The being raised his chain axe, gore and ichor from previous battles so thick upon the teeth, it was wonder if it even still worked. As his weapon reach its precipice a deafening roar burst forth from the maw, causing the group of four to reel back, only slightly in the face of this Chaos.
Thunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunk. In an instant the massive being exploded into ribbons, organs and heavy heaps of flesh strewn about the maw resembling a regurgitated meal. “OY! I can make loud sounds too!” Nugget roared in defiance, smoking crawling off the end of his heavy twin linked stubber. If there was any rise in hope, it was quickly crushed. From the shadow of the manufactorum maw came hundreds of former civilians, mutated beyond all recognition. Claws, fangs, and crude weapons rolled from the opening, some even taking swipes at their own, each being more and more eager to get the first kill.
A crimson beam jettisoned down the walkway, melting the entire half of the lead cultists face upon impact. The body tumbled forward still carrying momentum, rolling to a heap just short of the group’s hastily built defences. “For the Emperor!” Slade shouted into the comms, “We take them all to hell with us!”
*****
The fighting had been fierce throughout their entire mission but paled in the sheer violence of their final stand. For a time, the great enemy were kept at bay, stubber rounds, lascannon bolts, psychic waves, and slugs sending their foes’ corrupted souls screaming into damnation. The expansive bridge to the landing pad lay covered in broken and mangled bodies, blood and ichor flowing like rivers off the edge of the platform down to lower levels. Still, they came in numbers so dense, a blind man could have fired ten shots and not missed a single one. Click. “No,” Click, click. “Well friends, the Emperor has seen me fit to fight the remainder of my fate by hand,” Props’ voice came jokingly through the vox system, “My blade has been hungry anyways.”
Slade removed his eye from the las-rifles’ sight for the first time, “I believe you have another weapon left to you, perhaps we could prolong your death to a better moment….friend“
“Silly me!” Props rejoiced, “How could I ever forget?” Props clawed the butt of his autogun and hurled it a bit too happily, striking the nearest cultist in the chest and sending the being over the edge to their doom. “I suppose this may yet bide us some time.”
A burst of promethium and scorching heat enveloped the bridge, searing flesh in the blink of an eye. Dozens of cultists turned to ash if they were lucky, the others lay writhing in pain if they even felt it, still clawing their way towards the prisoners. A frail cultist rose to his feet, flames still melting the rotting skin removing it in clumps that made a soft splotch on the cold metal beneath their feet as they landed. The creature stepped forward rage consuming plague filled eyes while flames peeled the skin from it’s skull, defiance and strength emanating from the traitor. “Oy, look at dis one! He’s de-, detma-“
“He’s determined Nugget! That’s the word you’re looking for!” Props replied before the Ogryn could form the word.
“Yea! Dat word! Oh look at him trying!”. Whatever joy the Ogryn was about to express was suddenly shuttered as the creature began running towards them, a symbol of unrelenting war incarante. The horde closed on the creatures back, gaining fervor following behind their mutilated brethren. As the creature took a closer step, a small pop of black ash burst from its knee, the holy fire had turned it’s bones to nothingness. The cultists tumbled forwards, catching several others in its grasp as it reached out to find balance dragging them down. The event compounded on itself with other cultists tripping over their brethren soon to be trampled beneath the pounding feet of those behind. The unstoppable horde soon became it’s own demise, as waves of bodies crashed into each other.
“NOW PROPS!” Slade shouted, “LET THEM BURN!”
******
“Why?” There was a deeper bass to Mott’s normally higher pitched voice when he said it. “Why are we here?”
The four convicts sat in the darkened hold of the gunship. Each one bearing marks from their previous near-death experience, each one deep within contemplation and self-reflection. Props face was covered in black soot, prolonged heavy flamer usage had singed whatever light blonde hair he had left on his face from existence. Nugget hunched in the seat bleeding from enough wounds to kill a normal human ten times over, the crew had not mentioned it to him for fear if he noticed them, his Ogryn brain would finally register the pain and he would die. Ignorance was bliss. Motts was bent over in pain, his head pulsing from continuous use of his psychic powers, veins so filled, the others feared them to burst. A small line of blood could be seen leaking from his ear and the others guessed he was covering his nose which was leaking just the same.
“Emperor be praised, those gunships arrived in the nick of time!” Props exclaimed “We’ll geth ose holes in ya plugged mind reader!”, slapping Motts harder than necessary on the shoulder.
“I don’t think the Emperor had anything to do with it,” Slade muttered, his eyes closed, head leaning back against the wall of the compartment. His right hand was fumbling with the tourniquet on his left arm, just above where the rest of it used to be. As the Valkyrie banked upwards, Slade locked his eyes with Props, “There’s only one reason we were pulled from despair, our plan was successful. She’s not done with us yet.”
***END***
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