Disclaimer: See previous chapter. Alexei Parlov is copyright to Tasker. Don't use without his permission.
Collateral Damage: Part 3
"What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back"
Claude McKay: If We Must Die (1919)
How many could there possibly be? Surely our forces had taken care of some of them. Our forces . . . where are the Cornerians? They're not coming, are they? But they promised they would!
Such were the thoughs of the few who survived the initial attack on the small military base. One could possibly say that those who perished - died in one short, fiery, yet humane moment - were the lucky ones.
The survivors were only prolonging the inevitable.
Shock troops came. They were young, strong, and extremely well trained for their heinous occupation. They rushed from one pile of rubble to another, dragging out anyone who wore Fortuna's colors or spoke their bizzare, eloquent, foreign language. It was odd, really, that their imperial persons found the Fortunians to be odd. It was as if they viewed them to be misplaced strangers on their own icy homeworld that needed to be gotten rid of like rodents.
Months later, the Cornerians would use such propaganda, showing the Venomians as monsters who murdered entire towns without mercy.
Since propaganda is never the full truth, to keep true to the definition, the Cornerians paint themselves as benevolent liberators.
Explosions began to rock the ground around the Fortunian military base. The buildings crumbled a bit with the bombs bursting near them, but most miraculously held up.
The young coyote soldier snapped out of his daze and started running again. He had to get . . . somewhere. He wasn't really sure. His training was to be a sniper and to work in recon. He knew nothing that could help against a large fleet of Venomian ships.
He rounded another corner, pulling out his sidearm instinctively. When he was looking down to ensure that it was loaded, he ran headfirst into another frightened Fortunian.
He quickly opened his eyes to survey whom he had hit. It was a young vixen girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. She was dressed in the clothes mercenaries often wear - gloves, boots, cargo pants, and a black t-shirt. She had dog tags on, however, signifying that she had an allegiance and that he could probably trust her. "Hey!" he yelled at her. "You! Where are you headed?"
She shrugged, stood up, and started to run again. Something caught her eye, however, and she hit the ground, grabbing the coyote's belt and dragging him down with her. Above their heads, a lazer whizzed right past where the coyote had been standing, eventually lancing through a hovercar and its driver.
"Uhh . . . thanks," he said, a bit surprised. He then suddenly seemed to remember that they were still not too terribly safe. "Come on!" he yelled as he pulled her into an adjacent building.
One, two, three. One, two, three. That was how quick and humane the deaths of those who oppose the emperor are. One quick shot to the back of the head and they are disposed of to make them pay for their high crimes.
Alexei Karpov is one of these select feew who are fortunate enough to earn the great emperor's favor and be chosen to carry out this noble occupation. It is a great honor, to say the least, to be judged worthwhile and superior enough to defend the empire against the planets and peoples who would oppose it. At the very least, it far outweighed the benefits of those on the receiving end of the firing squad.
The red wolf watched the firing squad work quickly. He was on break and observing the deaths occur at a quick - yet to the prisoners, agonizingly slow - rate. He looked at his watch as a young boy grabbed onto his ankle. It was a boy soldier from the Fortunian military. He kicked him off with disgust and watched as he was dragged back to the line.
It was six o'clock. Almost time for his favorite talk show, Alexei decided.
"Do you know how to work these things?" the young arctic vixen asked the coyote over the roar of the vicious battle outside. It seemed that every few seconds, the building they were in shook like jello.
"No!" he yelled over the clatter. "But it couldn't be too hard!" With that, he grabbed onto the anti-aircraft gun and tried to manuever it to aim at one of the planes shooting past. Finally, after nearly forty-five seconds of getting used to the jerkiness of the equipment and seat, he fired off a round. It caught the gas tank of one of the Venomian fighters, sending it hurtling down in a trail of flame behind them.
The coyote hooted, a bit surprised by his own aim, and continued firing, every tenth shot hitting a bogey on average. Meanwhile, the young vixen next to him began firing as well, having only slightly less luck since she was smaller and could not manuever the heavy equipment as well.
"Hey!" the coyote yelled again. "I think we might be winning. Keep it up!"
Of course, he could not have worse or more ironic timing. Just then, the jello-like building gave out, and the next thing the two hot shot gunners knew, the two floors above them were caving in . . .
To be continued...
Sorry for the cliffhanger. o.- College is stressful and I have limited time to write...