Chapter 1

Every culture has its boogeymen, its monsters, its things that go bump in the night. Humans are sight oriented from birth. Humans lack the keen eyesight found in predatory animals. They live in the light, where they can see and survive. Of course they fear what they cannot see. Of course they fear the dark. And when they realize there is nothing to fear, they make monsters so that they have an excuse to fear.

The Locust had started as a myth, a legend. Parents told their kids to go to bed. And the kids, being kids, naturally refused. So the parent's got very solemn and their face grew pale, something that every parents knows how to do. And their parent leaned very close to their child, and told them about the monsters that lived under their bed and under the streets. These monsters couldn't be fought, they couldn't be reasoned with, and they wouldn't flee from the light like the shadows. The only thing a young boy could hope for was to stay absolutely quiet, hidden safe beneath his bed sheets. Gospel was ten the last time his parent's told him that story. That was the last thing they ever said to him. Not "goodnight", not "I love you", but "stay quiet or the monsters will get you. Stay quiet or the Locust will come out and gobble you up." He had stayed quiet that whole night, but the monsters still came.

Gospel thought of his Lancer with a certain amount of affection. Solidly built, high rate of fire, good accuracy even at a distance. And if things got too close, there was always the chainsaw bayonet. Standard CQC didn't work on monsters. Hulking builds and a perfect willingness to fight tooth and nail didn't translate to civilized combat. Their thick skin meant most combat knives didn't puncture anything important, no matter how many times they were stabbed they just kept pushing forward. So the COG converted the old model Lancers from the Pendulum Wars, slapped a chainsaw on its belly, gave it sights.

In his early days, when he was still so eager to fight, he had carved a notch into the handle for each Locust he killed, but he had quickly stopped that, as eventually his beloved Lancer would have been whittled to nothing. He used to take pride in how many Locust he killed, used to brag about it with the other grunts, but it was no real achievement. The Locust, at least the Drones, were fools. They knew to take cover and sweep and flank, but they lacked critical thinking or reasoning. They knew to kill the humans, but nothing beyond that.

Unfortunately, that's all they needed at the moment.

"Watch the flank," Lopez shouted, chewing a cigarette between thick lips. At 6'4" and weighing close to three hundred pounds even without his armor, he didn't need the Lancer's bayonet to survive Locust intimacy. If one were to believe the wild rumors that the rookies in basic recited like a prayer, then Lopez had been known to tear Drone's arms off and beat them to death with it. Of course, that was just a rumor.

What little cover they had was composed of four cars hastily pushed together, a Gear at each. A long stretch of road separated the dozens, what seemed like hundreds, of emergence holes from them, just far enough that land a grenade inside was impossible. The plan was simple: pour as many bullets down the stretch as possible, kill as many as they could before they were overwhelmed. Not a great plan. But they needed time.

Gospel knew he had killed at least twenty three Locust. He had seen twenty three heads pop or chests explode. Lopez had slaughtered at least twice that, with his weapon or with his bare hands. Foley and Simmons had gotten ten or twelve kills each. And yet the Horde just kept coming. At this rate, they would run out of ammunition before targets.

It took Gospel a moment to register the order, "Watch the flank," but as he squeezed heavily on the trigger, he turned to see Simmons on the ground. The cause of death was a sniper's bullet, shot between his brown eyes, the hollow, smoking hole the only evidence that he hadn't just decided to lay down in the middle of a fire fight. A momentary break in the hail of bullets was all the Locust needed. The quarter of the horde that Simmons' had been keeping at bay now had a free run. They were tripping and clawing to make it over the barricade. Gospel revved the chainsaw, bringing it over his head and the sharp teeth down through the back of a Drone, who had been so eager he had leapt onto the hood of the car, but found himself momentarily stuck. The Drone screamed and spazed as the teeth tore through its thick skin. Gospel lifted the chainsaw out of the flesh and thrust, tearing the stomach of a second Drone open.

"Sir, we're getting overwhelmed. We should fall back into the hospital," Foley shouted. He wasn't ready to die here. A veteran yet still just a kid, blonde hair and blue eyes, a pretty boy. A surfer type. He and his friends thought the war would be fun. His wife had just had a baby, and for the life of him he couldn't understand why they were risking their life for a bunch of Stranded who would sooner spit on them than lend a hand. In the time it took him to complain, a Wretch had leapt over the barricade. He lifted his Lancer to slice the thing in two, but the Wretch was already upon him, clawing and swiping, trying to break through the heavy armor. He split it nicely down the middle. Bits and pieces splashed on the ground, blood gushed into his eyes and blinded him as a Drone came forward. From point blank range, it fired a burst into Foley's guts, the thick bullets punching through his armor and digging deep.

It took three bullets to distract the Drone. He didn't have the chance to kill it before it revved its chainsaw and charged, more interested in this fresh, live target than its bleeding one. It was using a Lancer, probably scrounged from a COG it had killed. Gospel revved his own bayonet, and the grating teeth locked in a shower of sparks.

Gospel was not a large man. He wasn't small, but the Drone could overpower him with relative ease. And it did, Gospel felt his knees buckle as the Drone pushed harder and harder, the spinning teeth growing closer and closer to his face. This Drone was a fool though. Gospel shifted to his left, and the Drone stumbled off balance. With his free hand, Gospel drew the Boltok pistol from the holster on his belt. Pressing the muzzle where the Drone's left ear should have been, he squeezed.

He sprayed a burst into the advancing horde and, disobeying orders, Gospel rushed to Foley's side. Blood sizzled in the cold winter air, and somehow he was still alive, still aiming squeezing the trigger, putting down Drones in the endless Horde. Even over the bullets, his mantra of "Fuck, fuck, fuck," burned Gospel's ears.

"Kappa," Lopez shouted. "The Ravens are in flight. Fall back to the hospital."

Gospel couldn't stabilize Foley in the middle of the field. Instead, he handed him his Lancer so that he held one in each hand, emptying round after round, and took Foley by the collar. Lopez was on the stairs giving suppressive fire, as Gospel dragged Foley into the relative safety of the thick, heavy doors.

Foley collapsed. Gospel took a moment to put a fresh clip into his Lancer and strap it to his back, before dragging Foley to one of the tables. The nice thing about Stranded's buildings were they were already heavily fortified. Windows were already boarded up so thick that not even the most determined Drone could get through. The doors were reinforced, and there was always something large and heavy further the barricade. The army outside would be kept at bay for a while at least.

"Control," Lopez shouted. "Control, do you copy."

"Control here," said the soft, gentle voice in Gospel's ear. He didn't have the freedom to push a finger to his ear, but still heard her just fine. It always seemed like women were the handlers. Probably something psychological, it was easier to take orders from a woman than another man, or a soldier was more eager to die for the fairer sex.

"This is Sergeant Enrique Lopez. We need immediate pick up. One of ours is dead, one is critically wounded. Why the hell didn't the Ravens wait for us?"

"I am sorry sergeant. All Ravens are presently in use for Operation Lifeboat. Further, that area is too hot to land in."

Lopez smashed a fist into the wall. "Then what do you suggest we do? I have lost one of my squad and one is on the brink of death. He cannot be moved. The last Raven out was supposed to wait for us. What's the matter, did the Stranded get to jumpy?"

The good thing about digging in at a hospital is that there was so much at hand. Almost all drugs had already been ransacked, but he found a vial of morphine in the back of a cabinet. A scalpel and syringe. Bandages, lace, needles. He took the flask out of Foley's pocket and used the alcohol to sterilize the tools before digging into the blood soaked work.

"You will either have to clear the LZ or move to a lighter location. The soonest a Raven can get to you is thirty minutes."

"We will be dead in thirty minutes!" He sighed, lighting a fresh cigarette.

"The Ravens are going to drop off their passengers, then turn around, you can cut the time by moving in their direction. Our maps say that there is a network of sewers just beneath the hospital. Head east, I'll keep you posted on the Raven's position."

"Go underground to avoid the Locust. Yeah, why didn't I think of that?"

"The Locust are attacking the hospital, believing that you are in there. If you sneak under, you should be able to put some distance between you and them before they realize. I am sorry sergeant, but that is the best that I can offer."

Gospel was trying to remove the last bullet from Foley's gut so that he could suture the wound and stop the bleeding. He must have twitched a nerve, Foley's arm uncurled, his fist caught Gospel in the chest. Even through the armor, he felt the blow. The force knocked him into the farthest wall, and it took him a moment to crawl out of the sizeable hole his impact made.

Lopez sighed. "Keep me informed," he growled, before closing the channel. "Gospel?"

Gospel pushed two fingers to Foley's neck, shaking his head remorsefully. He yanked the dog tags away, dropping them into a pocket, before taking any additional ammunition, canteen, and rations. He saluted. Lopez cocked his head, ordering his subordinate to follow.