2. Alone In The Unknown
"FFFFF-UCK!" Wilhelm screamed, smashing the cockpit door beside him. Why did he do that? He knew better! He was safe up in the sky, in his warm plane. But now, he was gonna die out here.
"STUPID FUCKING...GAH!" He screamed again, slumping backward in his seat. He blinked, and straightened his posture, as thoughts swirled like raging tornadoes in his head.
"I'm all alone..." One thought spoke.
"Nobody except trigger happy Soviets are here..." Another spoke.
"I'm not gonna die out here!" One encouraged. He reached to his left cockpit door, opening it, and standing outside.
"I...I need a weapon..." He thought out loud, as the sight of sprawling forest surrounded him. He always remembered that all Luftwaffe planes had a 20 count box of shotgun shells, 20 count box of rifle cartridges, an M30 Drilling shotgun, and a hatchet. He would need that to survive. He turned around, and spotted a drawer handle under the seat. Bingo!
He pulled on it, and slid out the compartment. There it was. It also came with a backpack, and a sling for the shotgun. But...barely any food. Only 2 meager ration packs of cured meat, bread, vegetables, and water were there. He quickly packed up the rations, but he had to solve the water and food issue.
Attaching the sling to the shotgun, he opened the break action, loading shells into the two barrels and a rifle cartridge into the third one on the bottom. Maybe he could get help at that strange aircraft? No, no...he couldn't...not after he shot at them. Eh...It was better than starving. He packed up the remaining supplies, a cooking kit, and set his direction eastward, to the ship.
He already felt cold, the Ural wilderness wasn't kind to anyone, even the Red Army. He secretly yearned for the safety of his plane cockpit again, flying 10,000 feet in the air. He was daydreaming, as his uniform boots crunched the twins and grass below.
"Okay...just calm down..." He thought to himself, as he gripped his hatchet tightly.
He was trying his best to not hyperventilate and drop into a fetal position right there. He was scared to death, not of the wilderness, but what was in it. That ship could have a man-slaughtering apex predator for all he knew!
He then noticed some small drops of something trickle down from a tree. Being a curious one, he decided to investigate it. Apon placing his hand on the tree to look closer, something dropped down.
"DAAGH!" He yelled, scared shitless. He flinched, and backed up quickly. He looked up, and stood up straight.
It was gruesome. It was a headless body, with cuts and burns all over it. Blood was dripping down from the headless neck, the spine missing. Worst of all, it wore a Red Army uniform. He knew that not even his side were this cruel. Something must have done that to them.
His radio was broken, so he couldn't call for help. In the distance, he heard barking. From...a dog? The Soviets did use war dogs, but those never went past Stalingrad. Maybe those killed that poor sod. Out the forest, a strange and horrifying creature rushed him.
It's face looked like a mutated lion, with the snout replaced by razor sharp teeth. Two tusks grew from the lower jaw, with semi-leathery grey skin covering it's body. It's eyes were yellow, with one expression: hunt.
The hound jumped, as it opened its mouth, ready to bite. Wilhelm's reflexes kicked in. Out of instinct, he swung his hatchet, and hit their neck clean. With a meaty gash and splatter, he cut off the hounds head, severing the spine, muscles, you name it. Their head flew to the right, with their body dropping dead. Blood got onto his uniform, with a red, wet gradient covering the blade of his hatchet.
"D-...did I just do that?" He thought to himself, looking to his hands and hatchet. More hounds came, and rushed him, one biting deep into his calve the other jumping up to bite his neck. He cut that hounds head off also, more blood splattering the blade and uniform. As for the other hound. He swung down, cutting into the hounds grotesque face. He cut deep, then yawing the blade in each direction, creating an open wound. It was dead.
He pryed the hounds jaws off his leg, and tore off a peice of his uniform, the right shirt cuff, to cover it.
"WHO ELSE, HUH?!" He screamed, raising his weapon. Nobody came. He breathed out, leaning back on a tree. As he relaxed, he heard random clicking, and spotted laser sights coming from...somewhere.
Til' Var'dam originally thought Earth came with fellow apex predators, who could provide an ample challenge to him. He was mostly wrong. A majority of the soldiers he hunted were either hypothermic, dehydrated, or starved, only operating on coffee and tobacco to fight off the sensation of hunger. It was the standard affair: send out the hounds to scare them, and then collect their skulls as trophies. A good 350 human skulls, plus 6 Xenomorph adorned his ship's trophy hall.
A rumor had circulated among the Earth hunters that this random group of oomans, who called themselves the "Russians", could be a good challenge. But they weren't. They either hid in their tanks, ran away, or just let him kill them. Easy pickings, something that hurt his ego a bit. The "Germans" weren't that much better. They relied heavily on their firearms, some of them didn't even have bayonets.
They were starving too, but less so than the Russians. Only those special troops, those who operated their crude planes, were well fed. "Luftwaffe", he believed they were called. It was simple: shoot down their planes in the right areas to not injure them, wait for their planes to crash, wait for them to heal, then take the kill. It was easy. Too easy.
So when this ooman got the upper hand, and shot his ship while it landed, surprised and angered him. It was easy to retaliate, though. A shot to the rear engine made it spiral down. He sent his hounds after them, and it should've ended there. Key word: should've.
He witnessed this random ooman sever two of his hounds heads, then kill the other with a brutal attack to the face. Finally, a worthy opponent! But, he felt a bit bored. So, he ticked on his laser sights, and aimed for the ooman's shoulder.
A shot blasted out from the sight, going straight for Wilhelm. He instinctively dodged, landing on the ground beside him, and standing up as the plasma shot blasted a tree out of the ground. With that technology, he'd rather run. So, he did. He broke out in sprint, with adrenaline providing him near limitless energy, as he dashed through the forest. He heard an ominous laugh, daring not to turn around.
Hey guys! Now that I've gotten back into the swing of writing, it shouldn't be more than a month before a new chapter! Peace, and stay safe!
- Lizdo Writing