The Nighthawk Chronicles: White Death

6,000 dead in less than six hours. Another 14,000 in the next ten. The periphery planet of Kenton has kept a lethal secret within its ecosystem for thousands of years, and in the most unsuspected of times, it emerges like a biblical plague. Shadows emerge to utilize it in the worst possible way: the perfect weapon.

Upon a maze of hidden enemies, conspiracies, and post-apocalyptic chaos, the Nighthawks have to make their stand against inhumanity as countless lives hang in the balance. The past, present, and future all turn to dust in the wake of the White Death, so prepare yourself. The end is near.

PROLOGUE

The doorway was only two meters away, but it began to stretch, farther and farther until his arms couldn't reach it. Another few steps… Time seemed to slow down, his heartbeat ticking the rest of his life away. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.

One hand on the wall at all times for balance, he managed to stumble his way through the hall and into the lobby, where his aide was waiting for him. He was already sitting against a column, slumped over with near black colored blood oozing from his eyes and ears, the same stuff drooling from his mouth into his lap.

"Patrick…!" he said, struggling to get a full breath out to carry his voice over. And with that is aide painfully turned his head in his direction, one bloodshot eye caught his movement. He landed next to the other man and welcomed the relief from the pain of walking. Every muscle in his body burned, every nerve screamed. Looking outside he noticed how wrong this was, to die on such a nice day. The clouds had cleared for the most part, and a light breeze graced the complex. Two Bushwacker battlemechs stood outside, unmoving. The glass of the lobby was just tall enough to encapsulate the full view of both of them, reflecting the sun with their pristine shine.

But his adoration for the scene outside was cut short as his transmission started playing over the PA system, the message he recorded twenty minutes ago and just finished transmitting to the corporate command offices on Melissia.

"PSI Logistics Command, this is Colonel Richardson, militia command, Kenton. Approximately five hours ago several wounded civilians entered the compound perimeter requesting medical attention…"

"I did it," he said to his aide, like something was accomplished this day. But he was more trying to convince himself than his friend. Such a friend he was, volunteering to help him to the command post to get the message out. But he wasn't fooling anyone. He knew he was going to die.

His aide slumped his head back down and replied through heavy breaths, "I knew… you would."

Richardson set the message up over the PA so all the men left alive here would know that it got out. It was the last thing he could do for them, though he knew their time was short.

"…within four hours. It bypassed all our filters and masks. The level five quarantine shelter was completely ineffective…"

Just then one of the Bushwacker pilots came in over his radio. "Colonel, I hear the message. Should I proceed to outpost three now?"

With all his energy Colonel Richardson lifted the radio to his mouth and pressed the transmission button, "That's affirmative. Go quick."

One of the Bushwackers took off out of the complex while the other stayed where it was.

"Didn't you hear me Private? Get out of here cough! cough!…!" His arm went numb and dropped to the ground. He noticed his aide pull his sidearm from its holster and weakly drop his hand into his lap with the weight of the weapon.

"Sir…", the remaining pilot kept his fear inside, trying only to speak with calmness. "It hit me already. I can feel it. I can't leave the base."

Richardson figured out that the 'mech cockpits were sealed completely, prepared for zero-atmospheric environment and space combat if need be. With their own source of oxygen, any pilot found inside during the initial few minutes of this catastrophe would be alright. Only one was inside his 'mech at the time, the other jumped in as soon as he heard the word to do so. Apparently he was too late.

"What should I do now, sir?"

Richardson just replied, "Whatever you want."

His aide spoke up finally, blood almost pouring from his mouth now, "Kirsa will do… a good job. This isn't it… for them."

He knew he was just trying to cheer him up before the final moments. Kirsa was a native civilian who enlisted in the planetary militia and damn near defied every order he gave her. She had the good of the people in her heart as opposed to the good of the company on her mind. His position was clear, but he lacked men, so her leadership got her where she is. In truth, she was the last person he wanted to give command over to, but in the bottom of his heart, after walking the doorsteps of hell today, he was glad the people had her to lead them. Funny how things changed in the final few hours.

"… I don't know how many have been infected outside, but communications is out through the entire region. Any parties that land need to coordinate with Lieutenant Kirsa Lindemann for safe landing coordinates..."

His aide lifted the gun and tried to place it to his head when his body spasmed violently from his central nervous system reacting to blood clots throughout his brain and spinal column. Any words he had hoped to spout out were literally drowned out by the bursted capillaries in his throat. He dropped the gun and produced a painful whine from his throat, a deep, gurgling one.

Richardson took the gun from him and placed it to his head, and relieved the man of another moment of this torment in the most violent way. It was instant, the way he wanted it.

The flash inside the lobby alarmed the pilot outside, "Sir! What's going on in there? Sir?"

Richardson had no words for him. It all happened so quickly. No one saw it coming, no one had a chance of surviving it. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. Then lifted the gun to his chin with the arm that still had feeling and squeezed the trigger.

"… We were prepared for everything. Everything but this. They're all dead. Every one of them…"

Several million miles away, a man who technically never existed entered one of the most advanced communications chambers in the galaxy. He sat down and laid his palm on the glass sensor in the arm of the chair. Watching the light crystals flash around him, his seat illuminated from beneath while a hologram shimmered to life less than a meter from his face. It was the upper body of his commander, in a uniform concealing his facial features, no background, distorted voice.

"We have a Code Green in sector 48B106. Reports indicate a pandemic engulfing the local populace, projected 100 fatality rate. We want you to assemble your team and land. The target is Kenton. Your mission will be available for download momentarily. You are authorized full oversight of the operation. Use any means necessary to achieve said objectives. Full details are on the way."

The man looked down and saw his transfer screen flash indicating his orders. They would be downloaded to his neural implant for decryption and destroyed.

"May the blessed Blake light your path, and enshroud those of the impure."

Then the hologram dissipated and a message floated in mid air, foretelling the future in levels not yet seen.

-- END TRANSMISSION --