Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘No,’ he said, pawing at his mouth. It felt as if his lips were peeling.

  ‘Keeps you alert, though. And keeps you from getting hungry.’ She took a swallow and rolled it around in her mouth. He watched the crude ritual tattoos on her face flex and squirm. Similar patterns adorned his own flesh. He tapped his cheek.

  ‘Akel do yours too?’ Akel had been their brotherhood’s rite-keeper. He was dead now. Something had twisted his head off in one of the southern junctions. Skeda nodded.

  ‘Just before we left Pergamon.’ She touched her cheek. ‘The Blessed Ones watched. Akel said it made the ink flow smooth.’

  Hasht nodded. That sounded like Akel. ‘Never seen them this close,’ he said quietly. ‘Never realised…’

  ‘How big they are?’

  ‘How badly they smell,’ he said.

  Skeda snorted and clapped a hand over her mouth. Hasht smiled. She shook her head. ‘They’d kill you, if they heard you.’

  He shrugged. ‘They heard me. They don’t care. And they smell like rancid meat and spoiled blood. Like a battlefield.’

  ‘Or a charnel house,’ she said. ‘Akel used to say that some of them rub fat and incense on their armour, to keep it shiny.’ She took another swig. ‘Feel that – they’re calling up the hunters from deep places.’

  Hasht shivered. The ritual had been going on for days, and would for several more, if the others were to be believed. ‘Never seen one up-close. You?’

  She nodded, her face tight. ‘Once.’ She stuffed her flask back into her armour. ‘Didn’t like it. Don’t like it.’ She looked at him, and he saw fear in her eyes – and something else. ‘Come,’ she said softly. She held out her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it.

  She led him away from the others, back towards the processor chutes. The heavy, chimney-like structures bled a welcome heat, and the clangour of their function drowned out the sounds of the ritual. The servitors were still at their stations, hard at work. They didn’t stop, even when Skeda kissed him.

  Her lips were rough against his, and he could taste the alcohol on her breath. There was fear there, and loneliness too. They were afraid all the time. Sometimes Hasht wondered if there’d ever been a time he hadn’t been afraid.

  These little moments were all any of them had. A few minutes to forget the fear and the worry. To think about something other than attracting the ire of the Blessed Ones and the Dark Gods. Just a few precious moments of peace.

  Skeda pushed back from him, panting slightly. He made to speak, but the words turned to dust on his lips as he saw it. Something black and terrible rising over the lip of the chute above, its form steaming, its eyes red as blood. Glaring down at him, glaring right through him, and he thought, just for a moment, of shouting. Of crying out a warning.

  But the moment passed.

  And then, it was too late to say anything at all.

  Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world

  The interior of the gunship shook as it dropped through the atmosphere. Warning lumens bathed everything in a warm, red light as pressure valves clicked rhythmically. Amatnim ducked through the bulkhead separating the pilot’s compartment from the rest of the ship. ‘You wanted to see me, brother?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ The pilot was hooked snugly into his control throne, conduits and cables connected to numerous feed ports on his armour. Over the centuries, those ports had begun to take on a disturbingly organic texture, and they seemed to pulse and twitch in time to the pilot’s movements. The rest of the crew were servitors, or had been. Now they were part of the gunship – semi-sentient synaptic nodules, their restraint cradles grown into hard, scabby tumours that hid all but their slack features.

  The pilot had no name, save that which he shared with his vessel – Golan. For all intents and purposes, man and machine were one and the same. When the pilot spoke, so too did the guiding machine-spirit of the gunship. Amatnim was sure only that both were loyal to the Legion – and to him, in particular. ‘One moment please,’ he said.

  The reinforced viewscreen showed the upper atmosphere. Flickering ident-runes spun across the screen, marking the locations of the other gunships and troop landers dropping towards the city. Explosions tore at the already ravaged air. Ground flak, rising from the upper reaches of the city. Apis winced as the edges of an explosion washed across Golan. ‘That was close.’

  The pilot spoke up. ‘No. It wasn’t.’

  Another explosion followed. The glare of it momentarily filled the viewscreen. The gunship shuddered and veered. Apis stumbled, and Amatnim steadied him. ‘That one was,’ the pilot added, with an unpleasant chuckle.

  The city spun beneath them, spreading to fill the viewscreen. Slabs and stretches of white and grey spilled among the brown of the crater mountains. The explosions came faster and larger the lower they went. Flak-towers hammered at the sky as tracer-fire spun and spiralled. A troop carrier was pierced clean through – a lucky shot. The great vessel listed, spewing smoke and gouts of flame. The pilot murmured a command, and the servitors replied in hissing, static-laced voices. The gunship banked away from the burning vessel.

  Amatnim leaned forward, watching the troop carrier plummet towards the city like a newborn comet. ‘How many were aboard that one, do you think?’ he said.

  ‘A few hundred,’ Apis said. ‘Only mortals, though.’

  ‘No loss there, then.’ Amatnim turned. He recognised some of the ident-runes on the screen – the atmospheric cutters employed by the pirates in their raids. Ganor was making good on his part in the strategy. Some of the cutters disintegrated in mid-descent, cut to ribbons by the flak. But others streaked downwards, thrusters firing.

  The pilot grunted a curse as tracers skidded past Golan’s prow. He thumbed an activation rune on his display and the gunship’s assault cannons roared. Targeting runes spun across the display as he returned fire, attempting to silence the closest flak-tower. A burst of flame and smoke from below spoke to his skill in such matters. ‘There. Ought to buy us a few moments.’ He glanced at Amatnim. ‘We will be entering the city’s airspace within the hour, my lord,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, we are suffering a distinct lack of safe landing zones within reach of the designated target area.’

  He gestured without turning from his viewscreen. A hololithic schematic flickered into view above his throne. For a moment, it resembled a nest of squirming snakes. Then, it resolved itself into a plan of the city.

  Augur-sweeps and information provided by Ganor and the other pirates had given the Word Bearers a wealth of valuable information. Amatnim had identified at least half a dozen sites at which they might set down just from a cursory glance. These were all illuminated on the schematic. ‘There are three options,’ the pilot said. ‘None of them good.’

  ‘What about these?’ Amatnim gestured to several of the other illuminated areas on the schematic.

  ‘Long-range augurs detected concealed weapons points and thermal readings that can only be explosive charges. We land at any of those, we won’t be in one piece for long.’

  Amatnim grunted. ‘Smart. Give us three doors that all lead to the same choke point. And all the while, they’ll be stalling Dusep.’ He shook his head. ‘Imperial Fists. Stubborn and infuriating to the last.’ He gestured, and the schematic rotated. ‘The key to any victory is to force your opponent to react to your choices, rather than the opposite. So let’s avoid those poisoned chalices they’ve so kindly left out, and choke them on their own hubris.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Apis asked.

  ‘We’re going to enact a rapid assault drop.’ He looked at the pilot. ‘You know how to make a controlled crash, I trust?’

  The pilot looked up at him. He was silent for a moment before answering. ‘I know enough to know that I would rather not, my lord.’ The gunship seemed to shudder in agreement around them.

  ‘Sometimes the gods ask that w
e take the hard road, brother. Contact the other gunships. I want you to plough right through whatever defences they’ve erected – carry us right into the heart of them.’

  ‘Bold – especially since we might not survive,’ Apis said. ‘And we won’t be able to extract ourselves if we scrape these birds across the road.’

  ‘We have plenty of gunships. And as I’ve said before, brother… the gods love a gambler.’ Amatnim leaned over the pilot’s shoulder. ‘Take us in, brother. And sing them a hymn of fire as you do.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  95:15:40

  Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world

  Ord stood at rest, his heavy bolter hanging loosely from his hands. The metal of its barrel pinged softly as it cooled. He and his brothers were spread out among the mortal soldiers. Geert stood to the rear of the bulwark, ready to lend support where needed, while Caln was crouched atop the gate itself, warding the fire-teams positioned there. Ord had the honour of the centre, where his arc of fire would not be too badly hampered.

  Thus far, they had encountered little more than chaff. Chanting lunatics, clad in stolen fatigues, carrying weapons outdated even by the standards of a backwater world like this. They showed little discipline and little inclination to do anything more than rush to their deaths, singing foul hymns. Ord suspected that had he and his brothers not been there, it might have been enough. Numbers counted for more than most would admit.

  Geert made a sound. Not quite a cough. Ord glanced at him but said nothing.

  ‘We have not heard from the lieutenant in several hours,’ Geert said after a moment. There was a brief hesitation before the word ‘lieutenant’. Only a Space Marine would have noticed. Only an Imperial Fist would have known what it meant.

  ‘So we hold,’ Ord said. ‘Those are our orders.’

  ‘Places us to the back,’ Caln murmured. ‘Takes his own kind forward.’

  ‘There are less than fifty of us to cover the gates to the upper city. He commands the defence of the main thoroughfare, as is his right as our commander.’ Ord turned slightly, looking up at Caln’s yellow form standing atop the gate. ‘Or do you question his strategy?’

  ‘Not his strategy,’ Geert said.

  Ord snorted. ‘At least you have the sense to keep your murmurings to the vox.’ It would not do for the mortals to hear such things.

  ‘I am not a fool, brother.’

  ‘Only a fool claims not to be a fool,’ Ord said. ‘Save your muttering for afterwards, brother. It will make entertaining listening at the victory feast.’

  ‘You’re assuming we’ll survive.’

  ‘I always do.’

  ‘The odds are not in our favour.’

  ‘When are they ever?’ Ord glanced up at Geert. ‘I have no intention of dying, do you? If so, please let me know so that I might adjust our strategies accordingly.’

  Geert’s reply was lost in a haze of static. Ord was about to ask him to repeat himself, when he heard something amidst the crackle.

  ‘–blasted atmospheric disturbance,’ Geert’s voice broke in, suddenly.

  ‘Quiet,’ Ord snarled. ‘Listen.’

  He heard it again. Not across the vox, this time, but out in the open. On the wind. A sharp, slithery sound. And then the clop of hooves – many of them – racing through broken streets, faster and nearer with every moment. An unsettled murmur ran through the red-clad soldiers as the air took on a greasy tang.

  Ord heard a hiss. He looked down. The blood that coated the street was bubbling. Fat orbs swelled and burst, releasing a fragrant stench. Things like plump, red maggots writhed within them, twisting and stretching. A sound like claws scratching at stone echoed across the street, as the clop of hooves grew louder and louder.

  A nearby vox-caster gave a squeal, and laughter emerged from it. A guttural flood of brutal obscenities followed, until a panicked soldier switched it off. Ord grunted. ‘Something new.’

  ‘Daemons,’ Geert said. The word sent a chill through Ord. Not fear, not exactly, but uncertainty. As if he stood on a crumbling ledge, with no sign that it would take his weight. Daemons… Some of his brothers thought them mere psychic phenomena – murderous phantoms conjured by witches. Others thought them something else entirely. Regardless, they knew neither fear nor fatigue. Even orks would eventually flag and retreat, if you killed enough of them. But daemons didn’t. They just kept coming. There was only one way to effectively resist them, and that was to lay down enough fire to keep them at bay. His hands tightened on the grips of his heavy bolter.

  ‘Yes. Many of them.’

  Caln grunted. ‘I can smell them from here. Like sour blood and verdigris.’ He paused. ‘Should we withdraw?’ He asked the question hesitantly.

  Ord didn’t reply. His auto-senses fuzzed and wept, unable to acclimate as the air twisted and steamed. The blood on the street was climbing the walls somehow, painting an improbable crimson corridor up to the edge of the Pilgrim’s Gate. In the red steam of its boiling, he saw phantom shapes twist, as if in agony.

  ‘I hear something… like… like chains, or blades, or…’ Geert began.

  ‘Ignore it,’ Ord said flatly. ‘A witch’s tricks. Have faith, brother.’

  ‘Faith is the wall of the soul, and the gate of the mind,’ Caln recited.

  ‘Every shot a prayer, every blade a hymnal,’ Geert added.

  ‘We are his fists, clad in mail, and our blows are his,’ Ord said softly. ‘Ready yourselves, brothers. They want our gate. I do not think we will let them have it.’ He raised his heavy bolter.

  ‘Not easily, at any rate.’

  Almace, Primus asteroid facilities

  Reyes was frightened.

  Not the familiar sort of fear, the kind you got when you were hanging over a shaft, your harness slipping and the lumens too dim to show you the bottom. This was more visceral. The air tasted wrong. Like poison.

  She wasn’t the only one who was afraid. Desh was too. The enforcer had practically sweated through his uniform, but like her, he kept firing. She glanced at him, and he met her gaze. He wasn’t so bad, for an enforcer. Better than Galba. He gave her a smile – a quick, weak thing, but comforting nonetheless. She tried to muster her own, but it didn’t come.

  The ore-processing chamber echoed with the sounds of battle. The sounds of dying. She heard a roar and saw a red-armoured warrior hurl one of her miners against an outcropping of machinery. The Traitor Space Marine turned as a fusillade of boltgun fire struck him, driving him back against the wall. He staggered forward a few, uncertain steps before slumping, and toppling over. The sight gave her some hope. If monsters like that could die then maybe they could win. Maybe.

  ‘Reloading,’ Desh said, dropping down behind the bank of industrial cogitators they were using as cover. Reyes fired over the top of the bank, covering him as he reloaded his combat shotgun. Around her, miners and enforcers moved up through the chamber, but slowly. Hesitantly. They could all feel it.

  Something was coming. She felt it on her skin, like the hint of rain. Her autogun clicked and she dropped to her haunches. ‘Reloading,’ she said, ejecting the ammunition drum. She reached for another as Desh took her place in the firing line. She fumbled at her gear-belt, her fingers tracing across her plasma-cutter before she found what she was looking for. The drum was covered in passages from the Lectitio Divinitatus.

  It had seemed only fitting, given the enemy. Old Father Zebus had done it for all of them, every miner, even a few of the enforcers. The missionary was too old to fight – had been too old to fight for a decade or more – but he knew his scripture.

  As she clicked the new drum in place, she peered around the cogitator bank. The chamber had been desecrated. That was the only word for it. Bodies were stacked in the corners, and blood slathered everything. The walls and floor stank like nothing she’d ever smelled before. And something else
. There was a sound – faint, under the roar of gunfire and the screaming. But it was persistent.

  Like metal, scraping on stone. Or laughter. It was getting louder, no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise. Something was coming.

  At the centre of the chamber, the air had taken on a watery tinge. One of the traitors stood there, his hands raised, his voice echoing hoarsely over the sounds of battle. Nearby, one of the Raven Guard hung from a web of chains. The Space Marine – Spiros – was dead. Reyes hoped he was, at least. His chest had been torn open, the black carapace hanging in bloody tatters and the thickened ribcage split.

  The Traitor Space Marine had plucked something from his chest, and was holding it aloft. As if it were an offering. Beyond him, she could see Karros and several other Raven Guard fighting their way towards the centre of the chamber.

  The air convulsed. She felt her stomach twist. Desh cursed. ‘Did you feel that?’

  ‘It’s happening,’ she said. She didn’t know what it was. She didn’t understand. But she knew it had to be stopped.

  Before Desh could argue, she darted into the open, ducking past combatants. Las-rounds plucked at the floor around her feet. She could hear Desh cursing as he hurried after her. The air had turned thick. She could feel things moving through it, just out of sight. Something giggled in her ear.

  One of the traitors lurched into view, roaring. She ducked past the giant, not stopping. She raised her autogun, taking aim at the chanting legionary. She knew her autogun wouldn’t hurt him, but she had to try. Immaterial claws scratched at her, and the giggling became urgent whispers. She saw him lift something glistening and wet, and a light grew, shining, spiralling, an ugly light, too bright, and the whispering became a roar–

  She fired. There was a sound like a bell, tolling in the deep. For a moment, the air turned to fire and she couldn’t breathe. She heard screaming, not human but something else. She saw the traitor staggering, smoke rising from him, as if he’d clutched a grenade to himself and it had gone off. He turned and for an instant, their eyes met.