No Man's Land
Labored, Nathaniel opened his eyes, the sweet, cupreous taste of blood filling his mouth. Everything was spinning before him, and he had difficulty making anything out in his surrounding area. Only slowly he recovered from his long insensibility, yet there was still that nagging, pulsative pain in his temple and most of his body felt numb, as if it belonged to someone else. The next thing he noticed was the silence around him; no hushed voices of his comrades, not the clicking noises, when they reloaded and maintained their weapons, not even the wind. There was only a sweet and yet disgusting stench in the air, the unmistakable smell of rotting flesh. Nathaniel tried to remember what had happened.
He was a soldier of the Imperial Guard, the Hammer of the Emperor. His Regiment had faced xenos forkes; they were called Eldar, nothing like Orks, or insurgents. It was like shooting at shadows, you never knew for certain where they were, from where they attacked and you never seemed to hit anything. And then there was the howling, loud, bone shattering scream; he had reached up to his ears, convinced they had started to bled from the sound. Seconds later his comrades had been cut to pieces by warriors in bone colored armor, as if their own armor and flesh offered no resistance. The pain in Nathaniel's head got worse again, and he closed his eyes. More pictures of the past battle filled his mind; how much time had passed since then? Minutes? Hours? Even Days? He felt how he was slowly fading back into sleep.
Nathaniel knew he could not remain here, so, carefully, he rose into a sitting position, getting dizzy as he moved. Along with the pain, the combination made him feel sick and he took a hand to his mouth as a sour taste overcame him. He couldn't remember ever feeling so weak. With stiff fingers he tried to lift his helmet, but when it moved his temple got worse. He tried a few more times before he felt for his temple, his fingers finding a flat disk with some sort of barbs. Very slowly he pulled it out of his forehead, blood beginning to run down his face and dripping from his chin. For what seemed an eternity, Nathaniel stared at the red shimmering disk; an Eldar Shuriken, powerful enough to penetrate his helmet, but luckily not enough to kill him, considering the graveyard around him exceptionally so.
After a while he threw the Shuriken away, and wiped the blood out of his eye. Yes, he lived, but he was the only one who knew. What should he do? Wait, but for whom to come? Go, but where to? Nathaniel sat there and let his gaze wander over the landscape, as if the answer was somewhere in the distance. So many dead, the burned ground was littered with the bodies of Guardsman, though there were only a few of the enemy. Had he ever seen anything more disheartening? Nevertheless he stood, his legs trembling from the effort of supporting his weight. With short steps he began to head for the base, at least where it used to be before the battle. His eyes were focused on the ground, mindful to avoid stepping on his comrades; most were cut to pieces, or perforated by Shuriken. He saw a Leman Russ Tank in front of him, its hull melted. With a trembling hand he touched the deformed metal. Whatever had taken out the tank had burned a hole into the flank. Even now the disgusting smell of burned flesh reached his nose, though after the battlefield it was not as potent anymore. Nathaniel saw the crew, or what remained; burnt bodies, down to the bones. One of the skulls looked had him, jaw opened like it was still screaming.
The Guardsman turned away and wandered on, nothing stirred around him. How could a place be this bereft of life? He stared up into the brown sky, where the sun was hidden behind a veil of dust and clouds. Smoke rose from additional wrecks scattered throughout the field. Nathaniel remembered that there had been a forest once, but artillery and war machines had turned it into a landscape of earth and mud. After what seemed hours to him, he reached the first trenches, where the stench, the guardsman had almost gotten used to, worsened. They were filled with the dead, several sunken into the puddles of water and blood. Nathaniel knew the trenches stretched for miles in each direction, so he had to climb down in order to cross them. By now he had hoped to see at least another survivor, a squad maybe on patrol, but across the plain there was no movement.
Well beyond the trenches, he had crossed five in total, the first noise apart from his own footsteps getting stuck in the ground, which reached his ears was a hissing, only interrupted by some rustles. A wave of relieve overtook him, boosting him forward, following this wonderful sound. Next to the body of a dead officer, half buried beneath him, laid a radio unit. With no second to lose the Guardsman dropped to his knees and hauled up the body, despite his muscles protesting the movement vehemently. Breathing heavily Nathaniel took the unit and tried to wipe off the mud, so he could work the knobs. He wouldn't die, he would be found! The one thing changing was the intensity of the rustling.
Tears ran down his face, leaving white traces in the dust, as despair clawed its way into his mind. He didn't want to die here alone, he couldn't just be forgotten out here in no man's land. Prayers to the Emperor came over his lips, as he hastily kept working on the radio. No, it had to work, damn it. Before he could grasp another rational though he collapsed, face buried in his hand and just started sobbing. The rustling continued, teasing him, and he just wanted the smash the damnable thing for mocking him.
How long he remained like this, Nathaniel couldn't say and defiantly not care for; there was only this moment of despair and he dwelled in it. What else could he possibly do? He only recovered at another sound in the distance. The Guardsman looked around, his heart dropping as he saw them; those beautiful anti-graph tanks, floating over the earth without as much as a sound. Beautiful and deadly. He remembered again; that crystal like construct had glow brightly, right before shooting something like a laser at the tanks, blowing them up, melting their hulls. It had been horrible and fascinating to watch. How something this elegant was so destructive rung false. At the sight of the Eldar vehicle, Nathaniel had dropped back to the ground, playing dead. It was accompanied by warriors in dark blue armor and white helmets with black face guards, decorated with some sort of black and yellow tufts. Gracefully striding over the battlefield, the xenos appeared to search for their fallen brethren; at least he caught a glimpse of them recovering a fallen warrior in bright green armor. Please don't let them see me, Nathaniel prayed.
He closed his eyes, and buried his face between two fallen comrades. With his face to the ground, he hoped, his breathing and wincing of facial muscles would go unnoticed. And so he waited. He was close to lifting his head and check on the xenos, as he heard footsteps to his left. Resorting to what little remained of his willpower, he ordered himself not to move a muscle and calm his breathing. At least the latter was a lost battle. His heart was beating painfully in his chest, fear tightening his throat. He survived the battle, why should he die now, he couldn't, Emperor protects, please let him protect me, Nathaniel prayed, biting his lower lip, feeling the tears coming anew.
And then they were gone. No footsteps, not the silent buzzing of the anti-graph tank's engine, and he allowed himself to breath out in relieve. Slowly, so very slowly, he turned his head to all sides, making sure he was alone again. There was no sign of the enemy. With trembling arms he lifted himself off the rotting bodies. Had the Eldar really won the battle? The bodies he had passed should have giving it away, but he couldn't accept it. It would have rendered his search for his Regiment pointless, the only thing that kept him going and not picking up the next still functional rifle to make it quick, however the realization overtook him more and more.
Still, Nathaniel continued on, wandering over the once more abandoned battlefield. By now his stomach ached with hunger, and he clawed his abdomen as if it could ease his pain. What wouldn't he give for a meal and a camp bed. When he looked again for the sun he noticed it stood significantly lower; night was upon him. There was no way he could make it to the campsite before nightfall, but he couldn't continue when he didn't see a thing in the darkness, not to mention losing his orientation entirely. With that in mind he looked around; there had to be something he could use as a shelter. Maybe a wreck, a destroyed command post, a rock for Emperor's sake.
Every ounce of air seemed to be punched out his lung, as something hit his back. He was smashed face first into the ground, coughing and spitting. In complete and utter panic, Nathaniel turned his head and saw a warrior in sky-blue armor, white helmet and wings, which seemed to vibrate almost too quickly for the eye to catch. A long, slender rifle was in the alien's hands, the last thing he saw before crossing his arms defensively in front of his face, pressing his eyelids shut. Who knew the last breath would leave not through his lips, but a clean hole in his chest.