"Bzzzt...Contact Regimental Command...Guardsman Vance Mer... send...Repeat send reinforcements, we're overrun, they're al... Commissar Helias... awakened in...managed to escape, but I'm not... for long... still rising...hold... much longer... Carlisle Mayf... tore 'im apart, we... help, Commissar Hel... immediate extraction... tombs, they're...bzzzt"
"It's been7 weeks since we landed on this backwater shit hole of a planet". Guardsman Carlisle Mayford winced and flexed his fingers, feeling his hand cramping up again. Looking up away from his torn journal, he rubbed his tired and dry eyes as they began to sting more; fucking sand. Shielding his eyes from the harsh sun, he fought off a creeping sneeze as he tried to use the sun to get a bearing on where North was. He was facing North East. Probably.
"I won't be doing as much travelling today, not towards base anyways. I need food. My flask is nearly out, I need to locate a source of water to top up. Either that or it's my own piss again. Emperor I hope I don't have to do my piss again".
Carlisle sighed and closed over the journal and stuffed it in his pocket. Standing up, he looked on into the distance, scanning the bland horizon of the dusty savannah for any sign of life. Seeing nothing for miles in any direction, he gritted his teeth and moved on.
The sun bore down on the back of Carlisle's neck; he had removed his flak vest and managed to fit it in his pack hours ago to save weight on his body and to prevent himself overheating. Carlisle's hand twitched and reached to his back where his lasgun was slung over his shoulder by its strap; a force of habit by this stage. Feeling a rumble in his bowels, he sighed and crouched down to begin digging a hole with his dirt-encrusted hands, before dropping his trousers and squatting over it. Rummaging through his pack as he did, Carlisle retrieved his copy of Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer and began to flick through its pages.
"252.4 - It is of paramount importance for an Imperial Guardsman to strictly adhere to the following rules when relieving one's self in the field.
1) Dig an appropriately deep hole, approximately 2-3' deep with your standard Guardsman's Entrenching Tool, which a true soldier of the Imperium must always carry on his person.
2) Always be vigilant; carelessness while doing one's duty may cost you and your fellow soldiers their lives.
3) When finished relieving one's self, always remember to bury one's..."
Carlisle stopped reading as he tore the page from the handbook and proceeded to wipe himself with it. Crumpling the sullied page into a ball, he tossed the improvised toilet paper into the pit and kicked the excavated sand back into the hole. Buckling his belt back around his waist, he picked up his gear once again and looked up ahead of him, when something caught his eye.
Seeing the small object in the distance, he squinted to get a clearer view before moving over to it. A minute later, he reached the odd looking plant and crouched down beside it, drawing out his combat knife. The plant was small and squat, with a dark green spherical base that tapered off into a hardened nub at the top, and was covered from top to bottom in hundreds of needles that dripped a virulent poison.
"Perfect" Carlisle thought to himself, before pulling out the journal from his pocket and making a note.
"Box-Blotwart"
Carlisle plunged his knife into the base of the body of the Blotwart and thrust it up towards the top of the plant, before taking out his water flask and holding it up to the tear. Pulling the knife out, he waited eagerly for a few moments before the precious fluid began to drain from the Blotwart, trickling into the cantina. Carlisle pulled his sleeve down over his hand and held it up to his nose; his khakis smelled of sweat, dirt, faeces, and a whole concoction of unknown liquids, but even that was preferable to the horrid stench emanating from the flesh of the plant. Resisting the urge to wretch, he slid the knife out of the plant and thrust it into the plant again in the other side, drawing out more nauseating liquids. Having refilled the cantina, he strapped it back to his waist beside his knife, and looked up to scan the surrounding area. There were bound to be more Blotwarts growing here. There had to be.
It wasn't long before he stumbled upon another one of the putrid plants, although this particular one was a more brownish colour and had a layer of crusty yellowish flakes peeling off its skin. Hoping this one held any water despite its depraved state, Carlisle plunged the serrated blade of his combat knife into its body. Waiting with his flask underneath the wound again, he frowned as he was hit with the familiar stench but no water escaped the plant. Retrieving his knife, he stuck the blade into another point on the plant, but still no precious liquid came forth. Cursing to himself, he hurriedly stabbed the squat dehydrated plant again, but to no avail.
"Come on damn you..."
Carlisle stuck the knife into the Blotwart and slashed across the tough flesh, tearing a gaping wound into its body, muttering to himself; uttering a silent prayer to the Emperor. A few seconds passed, before a tiny trickle of yellowish water dripped from the core of the plant into the open flask. Gritting his teeth, Carlisle closed the lid of the bottle and stood up to stretch out his tired back.
"Oh to Hell with it..."
Carlisle sighed as he sat back down, wiping the clammy sweat from his brow as he slung his pack off his shoulders and let it fall to the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Opening the clasps, he tossed the flap open and grabbed his flak body armour, dropping it to the side as he reached in further. Feeling his fingers brush the weak metallic film, he grasped the item and retrieved it. Sitting back he unwrapped the metal foil and took a hearty bite from the dry, tasteless excuse for food he had been provided. He was almost certain that was the last of it, but he didn't have the heart to double check. Carlisle hated those fucking rations, but if this was the last meal he was going to eat he was going to enjoy it.
Crumbs cascading down his thin under-armour shirt to scatter across the hot white sands below him, he lifted the shirt up to his mouth and hovered up any remnants of the meal. Taking the foil, he looked at the empty film and couldn't hold back a defeated smile.
"You're fuckin disgusting, you know that?" he said aloud, still smiling at the metallic foil.
"If I ever see the Commissar again, I'm gonna slap the shit outta his smug mouth"
Carlisle scrunched up the foil and tossed it off over his shoulder, before falling to lay on his back.
Ting.
Carlisle frowned. Sitting back up, he looked over his shoulder to where the foil had landed but couldn't see it. Lazily getting to his feet, he left his equipment and walked over one of the small mounds in the sand that littered this scorching desert. His eyes immediately saw the silvery soil glimmering in the sun... He wasn't quite sure why he felt the need to investigate.
Taking the journal from his pocket once again as he turned from the sight, he touched the nib to the grubby page and began to write.
"I think..."
Carlisle stopped writing as his eyes locked on to where the metal foil had actually landed. Dropping the journal, he staggered to the foil and picked it up, revealing that it had landed on a metal surface buried in the dirt. Scooping a large handful of sand out of the way, he uncovered more of the strange metallic object. It was round, roughly a foot in diameter from what he could see and there was an oddly shaped hole in the centre of it. Excavating more and more, he revealed a second hole. An eye socket. Carlisle's breath caught in his throat as he recognised the form of a silvered metal skull. Standing up, his eyes flicked over to the other small metal object and realised it was also a buried body part.
"Oh Emperor no..."
He slowly took a few steps back. He didn't feel tired any more. He wasn't hot anymore. There was just cold, creeping dread.
Turning from the horrific scene, he returned his sight to his equipment. It was moving. His pack slumped to the side as the sands parted, a very familiar silvery form rising up from the ground. Struggling under the weight of the sand, the form tore its limbs from the dirt and slammed them down, forcing the rest of its body up.
Paralysed with fear, Carlisle simply looked on as the hollow empty sockets flared to life with a radiant green energy. For a few moments the two stared at each other, neither one moving. Glancing to his lasgun which lay at the Necron's feet, Carlisle weighed up his options. Was the thing fully operational? Was it even aware he was there?
Hearing a series of clicks and gushing sand from behind him, Carlisle sprinted forwards and dove for his equipment. The Necron in front of him immediately flared to life as the green energy spread down to fill its joints and the gaps in its ribs, its taloned hands outstretched towards the Guardsman.
Grabbing the weapon by its barrel, Carlisle fumbled with the gun to reorient it as the Necron's left leg suddenly gave out, the xenos collapsing its full weight on top of him. Grunting as the wind was knocked out of his lungs, he thrust his lower body up into the softly rumbling monsters chest to shove it off him. Gripping his lasgun he squeezed the trigger as the burst of red energy was launched from the barrel and impacted the Necron's head, the laser surging in through the empty socket and blowing out the back of its skull. The skeletal alien froze momentarily, before the light faded from its one good 'eye' and the creature slowly lowered its stiff body to the ground.
Carlisle sighed as he closed his eyes.
"Oh fuck"
Jumping back up to his feet, he raised his lasgun and held his position, the gun scanning the ground in front of him. Seeing no movement, Carlisle slowly moved over to his pack and cautiously began packing his equipment away. Picking up his flak vest, he studied it for a moment before deciding to adorn it. Feeling the familiar weight as it pressed down on his shoulders and waist, he picked up the bag and slung it over his shoulder. Once again he scanned the red sands for any sign of movement.
"Nothing"
Taking out the journal from his pocket, Carlisle sat down and began to write continuing from where he had left off.
"I think I don't think I'm going to make it past nightfall".