Chapter 10: Tunnel
Naisha walked slowly town the passage. It was one of the access corridors that linked the abandoned mon-keigh bunker with the outside world.
The Exarch twirled her powerblade and smiled. She could smell them. The rich stench of unwashed humanity filled the dank air. Down here, where there was less oxygen, their vile odour was thick and pungent. They were disgusting, these creatures. Why they enjoyed wallowing in filth and filling their bodies with noxious chemicals she would never know.
The sounds of talking and the click of ammo clips being slammed into weapons echoed from up ahead. She was close; the bunker's control centre was probably just around the corner. She smiled again. Flicking the gemstone, she faded into invisibility and crept closer.
Sergeant Laurel huffed and wheezed. She waddled over to her men, struggling with the weight of the boltgun. Nearly bursting out of her greasy uniform, she resembled a large dumpling with the most hideous face in the galaxy: a face not unlike a pockmarked turnip. A fat cigar was wedged between her rotting teeth, and puffs of black smoke wafted up towards the adamantium ceiling.
'Well, boys, we ready to go out after that Eldar scum?'
The squad of infantrymen stood to attention, casually saluting and straightening their uniforms. Discipline was lax in the ASM: Auxiliary Scylla Marines. One of the soldiers, a heavily browed specimen with long, gangly arms scratched himself ostentatiously, rolled his shoulders back and stood forward.
'We're ready. As much as we'll ever be anyway!' He grinned and a burst of rowdy laughter exploded from the rest of the troopers. They sported a rag-tag variety of weapons: lasguns, las pistols, knives, hatchets and handguns.
'Well said, Private Scot,' Laurel sneered. 'This'll probably be our 'ardest task yet, so listen up team.'
The squad stopped fidgeting with themselves and looked at their leader, expressions of absolute boredom written on their faces.
'I enjoy giving you lot a hard time. Hah, I enjoy giving everyone a hard time. But now I got to push my team a lot harder, 'cos if I don't my neck might be on the line. Got it?'
'When's your neck ever been on the line, Laurel?' Scot laughed, brushing a hand through his short, dark hair. The others joined in, creating an animalistic din.
'Shut up! You just get in line, and you follow my orders, right? I am the sarge, after all.'
'Yeah but since when have you enforced that?' Scot raised his chin arrogantly. 'Look, we're all a team here. You don't have to tell us all this bull.'
'You look 'ere, Private Scot,' Laurel wheezed, chewing straight through her cigar, so that it fell away from her jowls and crumpled to dust on the dirt floor.
'No Laurel, you look' Scot spat, checking his lasgun. 'We've been thinking this for a long time. You don't get results. It's 'bout time for a change of leadership.'
Laurel looked horrified. Her eyes bulged like brown marbles.
'Yea, we've been talking 'bout it, and you don't have it. You don't have the knack.'
'Treason!' Laurel tried to shout, but all that came out was a bit of a cough. 'The immortal emperor…'
'Don't start mentioning that old git,' Scot sneered. He glanced left and right at his comrades. 'Even you don't believe in those lies and falsehoods. The Emperor is nothing. He's dead. We want profit, we want wealth, and you 'ere aint giving it. So stand down, and everythin' will be peachy.' He grinned, nastily.
Laurel nearly exploded. She pointed her boltgun, but the others were already aiming their weapons. She was surrounded on three sides. And their looks weren't friendly.
'Your gun isn't even loaded,' one of the troopers scoffed.
How embarrassing. Laurel's face went a deep shade of red. Holding her podgy arms out wide, she dropped the weapon and fell to her knees.
'Don't kill me, Scot, don't kill me!' She begged, grovelling in the dirt. 'Sergeant Scot, you're Sergeant Scot now, don't…'
Scot looked down, his eyes alight with malice. Slowly, he moved the barrel of his lasgun to Laurel's head. There was a slight ripple in the air, as if something was tearing the fabric of reality. Then Scot's head flew from his shoulders with a spray of blood. Laurel's face was spattered with sticky gore and a scream ripped itself from her fat lips.
But everyone ignored her. They were too busy trying not to get slaughtered.
Laurel screamed and screamed, her eyes flickering left and right, seeing pure horror everywhere she looked. Huge gouts of blood squirted upwards from shorn bodies, like geysers. Arms torn from their sockets flew through the air, leaving trails of crimson droplets. Severed legs skidded across the floor, sending up a mixture of blood and earth. The screams of panicked and dying men filled the air with death. Heads separated from their bodies bounced on the ground in wet patches, coming to rest in pools of filth. All throughout the massacre, something shimmered and shifted through the beams of light. The only indication of intelligence was a pair of glowing red eyepieces.
Suddenly, the last of the screams died with their owners. A tall, armoured alien materialized in front of Laurel as she knelt there, dribbling in terror. Her gun was forgotten as the alien placed its boot seductively on Laurel's shoulder. Muttering to herself as she began to lose her mind, Laurel avoided the Eldar's hellish gaze, praying for a swift death from that gleaming powersword. Such a thing did not come.
Naisha snarled as she shoved the snivelling mon-keigh filth backwards to roll in the dirt. She had not yet encountered a specimen as ugly and wart-encrusted. It was almost inhuman, in its bestial appearance. No matter, it was a mon-keigh, not some unthinking and unintelligent beast. This was a sentient creature that despoiled the Eldar worlds with its stink.
Striding forwards, she grasped the thing and heaved it up against the wall. It was heavy for a mon-keigh, certainly heavier than any other she had fought before. Perhaps it is half mutant, corrupted by the Ruinous Ones. Even more reason to exterminate it, she thought.
As it toppled unsteadily, still babbling in fear, Naisha thrust her blade point first through the mon-keigh's gut. The creature gave a wail of agony as the blade pinned it to the wall. Then it began to squeal, like a pig. The sound grated on Naisha's senses, and she frantically tugged at the sword, willing it to come free. It was stuck fast, so she pulled and wiggled the blade. Each time its edge moved within the mon-keigh, it screamed and shrieked, adding to Naisha's discomfort. This was intolerable.
'Shut up, you bitch,' the Exarch growled, giving another tug on her sword. Feeling it come free, she twisted it upwards further into the mon-keigh's body.
There was a slimy gurgle, and Laurel's entrails spilled out with a splash of scarlet. The powerblade sliced a path up and out of Laurel's chest, spraying the surrounding area in blood. The screaming intensified as the corpse fell to join the ropy guts and Naisha leaned down over Laurel. Raising her fist, her face twisted into a mask of savage hate.
'I said shut your face, volcano breath.'
Naisha's fist slammed into Laurel's head, exploding it with a shower of blood and brain matter.
The Banshee Exarch surveyed the bloody carnage around her. It was a fitting end for the invaders. The bodies would be left here to rot, at least until this world was retaken. Dismissing their deaths from her mind, she cleaned off her armour and sword with a towel taken from the ruins of the mon-keigh locker room. The bunker's corridors were extensive. But she was pretty sure one of the tunnels led to a certain rocky outcrop on the surface. This had been a simple inconvenience.
It was time to get back on track.