Douglas swept the sweat from his eyes, but it didn't help his blurry eyesight. After three long hours of patrol, skirmishing was really getting to him. All he wanted was to lie down and sleep. He hadn't slept in two days.
"Open your eyes, soldier!" roared the man next to Douglas. His name was Robert. He had a serious look on his face, despite his prankster personality, and blood was running freely from his forehead. His hair was sticky and matted.
"I repeat, mayday, mayday!" yelled the sergeant into his comm-unit. "All squads near the Vasella market area respond! I repeat, mayday!"
The emergency beacon had been activated. Control had been notified of Epsilon squad's dire predicament, and were sending King Ravens.
At least, Douglas hoped they were.
Corporal Strongman pumped the last shell into his shotgun and popped his head up. Bullets struck the concrete barrier he was covered behind. The corporal fired his shotgun twice, wounding one Locust in the leg and driving another one back, peppering it's chest. The wounded Locust began to crawl backwards, roaring loudly. Lancer fire, concentrated against it's body, turned half it's body into pulp. It died.
Somewhere nearby, another Emergence Hole opened. Douglas could feel it beneath his feet as he stood to fire his lancer, aiming down the sights. He saw the debris and billowing smoke in the air, heard the loud blast that left a ring in his ears. The Locust were using smoke grenades.
"Smoke out!" roared a drone somewhere nearby. Large pillars of granite, once part of a building, hid the speaker. They did not hide the three bolo-grenades that came hurtling over the heads of the men, leaving trails of grey smoke.
"Down!" somebody yelled. But it was too late.
Luckily, only one grenade landed in a position to do damage. A young Gear cried out in shock and pain as the smoke exploded five feet from him. Despite his heavy armor and kit, the concussion from the grenade blasted the man off his feet and across the concrete, before he slammed headfirst into another man. Two other Gears were knocked down like ragdolls. Douglas, just out of the effective range of the grenade, felt the blast hit him. All sound was drowned out by a loud ringing in his ears, as he braced himself against the concrete barrier. He could smell the smoke, he was breathing it, choking on it. Tendrils of it wrapped around him; hammerburst bullets cut through the smoke, dispersing it.
Another smoke grenade went off just on the other side of Douglas' cover. The shockwave stripped much of the concrete away, hurled Douglas two feet back. He grunted, threw himself back into cover. He raised his head to fire, aimed down the sights, but found he couldn't see where the enemy was through the dense smoke. Men were coughing, he could hear them now, despite the steady ringing in his ears.
A third blast went off.
The pressure in Douglas' head told him that he was down. He could feel pain in his arm. He struggled up, coughing and hacking, tried to get to his feet. Hammerburst bullets shot past him. The Locust were inside the fortified area. A man screamed. The dull sound of a man's head being crushed against asphault met Douglas' ears. Still on his back, he struggled to sit up, saw the dim silhouettes of Locust drones, and pulled the trigger on his lancer. Blood splattered on his armor as a drone went down not seven feet from him.
The three quick blasts in succession had turned Douglas' thinking process into mush. He couldn't think straight, see straight, hear straight. His senses were a mess, muddled. Everything happening around him took five seconds or more to register.
Why was there blood leaking out of his armor?
Then, pain in his chest and shoulder. Douglas cried out, pushed with his feet and tried to pull himself backwards. More pain, sparks and blood as bullets punched through his armor and into his internal organs. Still he continued to shoot, until his gun clicked and he realized his clip was dry.
Corporal Strongman jumped forward, roaring. He fired his shotgun, once, twice. On the second try he blasted a drone, flaying it open into three parts. Another drone mantled over cover behind him. He whipped around, but a shotgun to the face was all he got. He stumbled back, and the drone raised its weapon. Strongman was hurled back, his arms flying in two different directions, blood splattering Douglas' face.
The Sergeant revved his chainsaw, stood with a roar, took three steps forward. Bullets plowed into his arm and side. He grunted, his lancer dropping under its own weight to his side. Douglas saw through the now thin smoke as another volley of bullets took the Sergeant full on in the chest. He cried out in pain, fell to his side, and began to drench the asphault in his own blood. He began to crawl, blood spilling, gushing, from his body in a thick stream.
Douglas couldn't reload his lancer. His ammo was in the pack on the back of his belt. His lancer was useless. He could see at least a dozen drones mantling over the barricades, jogging into the fortified area. They began to execute the surviving Gears with practiced ease; bullets, fists, knives. A young man, barely eighteen, held his perforated throat, his asophogus blown open and gushing blood onto the concrete under his head. A drone shoved a shotgun into his face; the drone that had killed Strongman. The man's head exploded, as did the concrete behind it. Another drone flipped a half-conscious man onto his back and drove its heel into his face with such force that the man's brains splashed on a nearby wall.
Douglas pulled his pistol free from its holster.
A Theron guard lifted the Sergeant's head with the blade of its torque-bow. Blood gushed from between the man's teeth, out of his mouth. He began to yell. "Finish me you goddam bastard!"
The Theron held the blade under the Sergeant's neck, put it's foot on his head. With a mighty jerk on the torque-bow, and a rough shove with its foot, the man was decapitated. The spinal cord severed with a CRACK. Blood splashed on the Theron's leg and the asphault around it.
So much blood.
Douglas finally had his pistol aimed at the Theron's back. He pulled the trigger.
There was a flash. But it was into the concrete barriers to Douglas' right. The pistol skittered across the concrete.
A second Theron guard had already kicked Douglas' hand. It's massive boot settled on his neck. He could see the straps on the thick leg armor. Leather? Or was it metal? It was covered in soot and blood; he couldn't tell.
The Theron pushed down. Douglas choked, spitting blood. The Theron pulled a boltok pistol from behind his back.
Already Douglas' vision was going dark, the colors fading. Everything was one big blur by the time the Theron had produced the pistol. It cocked and pointed the weapon, straight at his head, and pulled the trigger. It was a very slow process. Douglas could even see the bullet whistling through the air.
He vaguely remembered not getting any sleep.
He wondered if death counted as sleep.