Chapter 26

By the Emperor's blessing, it was a moonless night.

Even when the sky was cloudless and the stars burned brightly, it was difficult to see. Only when a Guardsman's eyes adjusted were they able to see the vaguest definitions of the landscape. Regiments dreaded conducting operations when there was even a slight amount of light, as there was a higher chance of being spotted by the enemy. But on overcast nights, when the moon was hidden and the purple-black sky was devoid of stars, a Guardsman's prayers were answered. While his own vision was hampered, so too was the enemy's.

Bloody Platoon advanced across the bluffs in a staggered, single-file column. Nearly five meters separated each man. Lieutenant Hyram ordered the men to turn off any running lights. Everything from helmet-mounted flashlights and flak armour glow pads to lho-sticks were extinguished. Natural vision adjustment could only let a Guardsman see so far, no more than the length of his arm. Unable to see the trooper in front or behind, they looked down and followed the trail left through the grass.

Keeping his lasgun barrel pointed down, Marsh Silas followed the crushed grass in front of him. Natural instincts urged him to look left and right to observe his surroundings. But doing so would take him off the trail.

Below the bluffs, immense waves smashed against the shore. In the complete darkness, he could see white surf and breakers. Gusts of wind buffeted him. Shivering, he tugged the chin of his tactical hood up over his nose. The hood trapped his breath and soon warmth spread across his face. Letting his M36 hang by the strap, he rubbed his gloved hands together. His fingers were starting to get numb. Once he revitalized his hands, he quickly gripped his weapon and quickly trained the barrel in a semicircle. It was pre instinct; it was pointless at night.

To walk in darkness was disorienting even to seasoned veterans. When one moved in daylight, it was a world of motion. At a sprint, surroundings became an indistinct blur. The environment receded from one's vision. Even with such disorientation, the landscape still possessed definition. In pitch black, details were obscured and the land was not receptive to a Guardsman's movements. All became still and indescribable. Were it not for the firm ground underneath Marsh Silas's feet, he would have thought he was walking in a void.

The micro-bead built into his helmet crackled.

"Halt," came Hyram's voice through the communication link, barely above a whisper. "Changing direction; shift right by five meters on my mark until I issue a stop order. On my mark...mark."

Marsh turned in place then began walking forward, taking careful, deliberate steps, until he heard Hyram utter, 'halt,' over the micro-bead once again. Facing forward once more, the Staff Sergeant and the rest of Bloody Platoon continued forward.

To walk unseen towards the enemy was paradoxically terrifying and exciting. Getting caught was a real fear and the entire plan Barlocke devised could fall to pieces, resulting in the high casualties both he and Marsh Silas wished to avoid. Yet, that same apprehension translated into an addictive, engaging thrill. Not wishing to be discovered meant Marsh was utilizing all his senses. From the taste and smell of salty seas to the stinking scrub grass, the sound of crashing waves and whistling gusts, the interchanging terrain of rock and earth beneath his boots, and the faint shape of ground before him, he could not have been more alert. It was like a game children played, with the majority hiding and one searching for them.

Although he could not see the rest of Bloody Platoon, he knew they were in front and behind him. No longer did he feel like an individual; he was a part of something bigger than himself. Each man in the platoon was no longer himself. They were the platoon, nothing more, nothing less, unified by their mission. As one, they would succeed or they would die trying, but no matter the outcome, they would fight as hard as they could for the Emperor.

It was just as Commissar Ghent said, Marsh recalled: the platoon cannot be beat.

Soon, a mysterious, pale orange glow began to appear ahead. It was off to the left and hardly visible. But as Marsh Silas and his men drew closer, the glare grew brighter and more defined. The blossoming light outlined the terrain; he could see edges of distant bluffs and cliffs. During lulls in the wind, the light would briefly dull and tendrils of smoke slithered skyward. When a gust rolled off the sea, the smoke was dissipated and the glow grew brighter, like when a man breathed gently into a fire to make the flame catch.

Instinctively, Marsh shrank to a crouch and continued to move forward. He clutched his M36 tightly, keeping his finger just above the trigger guard.

Hyram ordered another halt and shift order, this time to keep them from being caught in the ghostly, emanating light. Giving the jagged, interchanging edge of the bluffs a wide berth, Bloody Platoon continued on.

Marsh Silas knew they were very close to the cove. Galvanized yet filled with trepidation, he kept going, wishing they could act instead of prolonging the coming action. On the precipice of battle, he felt all his nerves bundling up. Veins in his temples bulged, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheeks grew sore, and his breathing became far more intense and quick. Just like waiting for the Chimera ramp to lower or the Valkyrie hatch to open, it was the moments preceding the engagement in which he was most scared. All he needed was the first bullet, lasbolt, or explosion, to occur, and he could focus.

Hyram's voice came through the micro-bead once more. "Bloody Platoon, halt at Rally Point A."

It was the staging area for Barlocke's proposed infiltration of the cove. Marsh Silas remembered the Inquisitor tapping the exact location on the map. According to his mysterious asset in the area of operations, it was a bare patch of earth withdrawn by fifty meters from the cliff.

The air remained tense as Marsh moved forward. He pressed on through the darkness, warily glancing at the orange glow on his left. When it brightened, and unable to see the ocean beyond, it seemed to him as if he was on the precipice of a crack or hole in Cadia's surface. One errant step could send him careening downwards, downwards, downwards into whatever fire was there.

When he was parallel to the glow another gust of wind blew in over the coast. It carried a variety of scents; ocean salt, dry rotting seaweed, wet sand, wood smoke, and an acrid, rotting stench. Immediately, Marsh wrinkled his nose and felt his gut curdle. It was a smell not unfamiliar to him, yet he was too preoccupied on preventing himself from gagging as well as staying in formation. As badly as he wanted to look to his left and perhaps sneak a glance into the cove, he kept his eyes forward.

As he moved slightly away from it, he noticed a strange bulk ahead of him. It only took him a moment to realize it was the forward element of Bloody Platoon gathering up.

Moving into the group, he searched for the Command Squad. He found them facing the majority of Guardsmen; Lieutenant Hyram was in the center with Junior Commissar Carstensen to his right and Drummer Boy, Babcock, and Honeycutt to his left. Honeycutt had wanted to stay at the camp with two platoons from Third Company as a rearguard element. Some casualties were still awaiting evacuation and he was hesitant to leave their sides. But when Hyram told him there was going to be a chance, as there always was, another Guardsmen could be seriously wounded. Without their senior medic, what would they do? Honeycutt saw sense then and joined them.

Slightly behind the Command Squad was Barlocke, looking off at the light from the cove rising from the edge of the cliff.

One by one the squads gathered up in front of the Command Squad. When nobody else began to arrive, Hyram pointed at the men. "Squad leaders, give me a head count."

Each turned around and faced their men. In low tones, names were called out and were responded to with an, 'aye,' or, 'here.' The whispered calls and muttered responses continued for several minutes. When they ended, Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, Walmsley Major, and Stainthorpe turned around.

"First Squad, accounted for."

"Second Squad, accounted for."

"Third Squad, ready."

"Heavy Weapons Squads, good to go."

"Special Weapons Squad, accounted for."

Everything was still being issued through their helmet-installed or earpiece micro-beads. Standing orders during a night operation were light and noise discipline. Talking was to remain limited and hushed. In poor weather scenarios, such as rain or high winds, it would be difficult to communicate in such a way. Micro-beads circumvented both issues because a Guardsman only needed to whisper and his voice could be clearly heard by every other platoon member on the frequency.

After each of the squad leaders sounded off, Hyram nodded and twisted halfway around while still on his knee. He was attempting to look at Barlocke, still behind the Command Squad.

"Inquisitor, we're ready."

Barlocke slowly looked back and lingered where he was. With only the glow to illuminate him, it was like looking at a silhouette than an actual person. Wind rippled his trench coat and his hat trembled atop his head. Pressed to his shoulder was the butt of his foreign lasgun. His face hidden, partially from the scarf he pulled over his face.

As Marsh Silas looked at the Inquisitor, trying to and failing to make out any details of his face, he felt as though he was staring into an abyss.

"Let's have a look, shall we?" was all he said over the micro-bead.

The Inquisitor shouldered his weapon, lowered himself onto his stomach, and slithered across the smooth rock surface towards the cliff. Along with the squad leaders, Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen copied his movements. Fanning out, Marsh Silas found himself between his platoon leader and the Inquisitor. Together, the small group formed a line along the edge of the cliff.

Below, the cove was illuminated by a series of stakes driven into the sand with burning torches tied to the top. Nearly two dozen torch stakes were erected in various locations around the cove; some were placed around the water to denote its edge. In the orange light, the inlet's water appeared as black as night itself. Were it not for the wind whipping the water and white breakers crashing over the rocks, it would have appeared as a chasm, a void within a void. Wreckage from the boats and bodies, pushed by the current, littered the edge or bobbed in shallow water. Others were near the entrance to the cove itself, illuminating the grisly, bloody heap of mangled bodies. A few were near the remains of the pathetic shanties the heretics once built while others were scattered on level ground just to light the path. Some of the torches were not properly secured; the fire crept down their shaft and set the stake alight. Seven of the stakes were burning brightly. Just below them, four torches lit up the half-destroyed ramparts defending the cave's entrance. Bodies and bloody, severed limbs still littered much of the ground.

In the center, the heretics dug a deep, wide pit. An embankment of removed sand formed a ring around the pit, creating a slope. All around, the sand was churned by footprints from the earlier battle. A fire was burning in the pit, although it was unclear what was burning. Several flaming logs crossed each other at the bottom but there was a heap on top of them.

Marsh Silas set his M36 down flat on the rock, took the cord for his magnoculars from his neck and over his head, and then raised the field glasses to his eyes. Pressing a key on the left side of the scope, he magnified its vision until it zoomed close enough to make out the obscure details.

The heap on top of the fire was made up of bodies. Flames ate up their clothes and scorched their flesh away. All lay twisted with their heads at irregular angles, arms and hands raised, and fingers curled. Some were on the pile for so long the flesh was gone and only their charred, blackened bones remained. With each gust of wind, the same amalgamation of smells, including the prominent stench, struck Marsh Silas's nostrils.

He knew it smelled familiar.

Movement on the left caught his attention. He focused the magnoculars on it. A group of eight heretics, divided into four teams, approached the pit. Each pair carried a body. Treading the loose, sandy slope, they then tossed the body onto the burning heap and then walked away. Disappearing in the dark lapses between firelight and then reappearing again when they neared a torch, they returned to the cove's entrance to retrieve more corpses. Studying the location with his magnoculars, Marsh Silas could see much of the wall of corpses was removed. Many were still there, but not enough to prevent an individual from exiting or entering the cove.

"I didn't know heretics cared for their dead," Marsh Silas remarked.

"They don't," Barlocke said. "Call out the sentries."

Marsh Silas maneuvered his scope around the cove.

"Two at the entrance. Eight are moving between the entrance and the pit. We've got three at a campfire ahead of the cave entrance barricade, another two at a campfire near the destroyed shacks to our left, and there's a two man patrol at the beach."

"Are there any on the ramparts?" Barlocke asked.

"I can't see'em from this angle," Marsh said.

"Lieutenant, Staff Sergeant, take hold of me," Junior Commissar Carstensen said. She maneuvered in between them, went right up to the ledge, gripped it with her hands, and leaned over slightly. Just as she did, Marsh and Hyram gripped her by her belt with one of their hands and held the strap over the back of her coat with their other. With cautious deliberation, they eased her over the side. Almost when her entire torso was extended over the edge, she raised the back of her hand sharply, then waved it towards them. Quickly, the pair pulled her back over the side.

Carstensen took a quick breath and then held up two fingers. While Marsh, Hyram, and Barlocke watched, she moved to where Marsh was a moment ago and pointed down, then moved a few meters past Barlocke and repeated the gesture.

With a brief wave, the Inquisitor ordered them to return to Bloody Platoon. When they regrouped, Barlocke gathered up the Command Squad and the squad leaders.

"We shall rappel onto the enemy ramparts and eliminate the sentries as quietly as possible. From there, we'll clear the outer area. I'll only need one man to come with me. Volunteers?"

"Me," Marsh Silas said instantly. Everyone looked at him. Hyram leaned closer.

"Are you sure? It will be most dangerous."

Marsh smiled even though he knew the platoon leader probably could not make out his face despite how close they were. He handed his magnoculars over to him and briefly patted him on his shoulder pauldron.

"You'll watch o'er me, sir."

"Very well. Once Silvanus and I have cleared the area, Bloody Platoon shall descend in the same way we did. Once we're prepared to thrust into the cave, Drummer Boy will radio regimental command and tell them to move in. Bullard, Derryhouse?"

"Yes, Inquisitor," they answered together.

"Assist Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen with spotting targets for us. You four shall be our second eyes. If you see something we cannot, sing out."

"Yes, Inquisitor," the four replied.

"Let's get it done."

As one unit, Bloody Platoon quietly approached the edge. Everyone began to prepare. The unit carried rappelling equipment specifically for traversing mountainous terrain or urban environments. It was crucial for Cadian Shock Troops as they could be quickly deployed anywhere on the planet from an alpine climate to a besieged Kasr. Marsh Silas and Barlocke were fitted with harnesses buckled around their upper thighs, torsos, and shoulders. Once they were snug, a sturdy rope with a clip on the end was fastened to the hook on the belt. The tether was checked, double-checked, and triple-checked. Then, the remainder of the rope was uncoiled. Due to the sheer weight of their wargear, both men needed multiple belay teams; Marsh Silas had two, while Barlocke's power armor required four teams. In the end, there were not enough belay harnesses for everyone, so extra rope was tied to the tether so Guardsmen could hold on normally.

Seeing the men line up in the pale glow and taking hold of Barlocke's longer rope reminded Marsh Silas of the day when they yanked the banged up pipe from the trench wall. It brought a ghost of a smile to his lips, remembering hard work with fondness. For a brief moment, he wished they were back at Army's Meadow digging a new communication trench or reinforced an observation post. But he buried the forlorn feeling within, compartmentalizing it with his mounting fear, and concentrated on the task.

Together, he and the Inquisitor approached the locations corresponding to the sentries below them. The platoon sergeant was to the Inquisitor's left.

So focused he didn't realize Barlocke was tapping him on the shoulder until after a few knocks.

He turned to face him. Barlocke held up one of his Ripper Pistols, modified with a suppressor. The Inquisitor grinned as Marsh Silas slowly took it. "You'll need this," he said in a confident tone. Then, he held out a fabric thigh-case which held six separate slots for autopistol magazines as well as a leather holster. Marsh slid the pistol into the holster, buttoned the flap, and attached it to his cartridge belt. Taking the case, he tied it around his left thigh.

"Many thanks," he said.

Barlocke just nodded before going back to his predetermined descent point on the right. Marsh took up his position on the left.

Looking over the edge slightly, he still could not see the heretic sentry below. But he knew the foe was there; he trusted Carstensen's eyes. Hearing a rustling to his right, he watched as Bullard and Derryhouse established their overwatch position. Both went prone; the former propped up his long-las on its bipod and the spotter peered through a magnoculars set.

"Wait, Silas."

Marsh turned around to see his belay team approaching; Hyram, Carstensen, Babcock, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt.

Save for the Junior Commissar, all wore anxious expressions. The platoon leader looked most worried of all. Nibbling his bottom lip, he then opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. He shrugged, as if annoyed with his inability to find something useful to say.

It did not matter if he spoke or not to Marsh Silas. Knowing his commanding officer was trying to bolster his courage was enough for him. But the feeling was not just one of flattering or gratification he was being thought of. Hyram was becoming an officer he thought he could never be, one who wanted to instill bravery in his men. Even if his voice failed him, Marsh Silas knew the leader in him was taking shape. From the encouragement he gave on the battlefield to his own personal actions, the commander he wanted and Bloody Platoon needed was being born.

Marsh Silas held his arm out to the side at waist-level, raised his forearm slightly, and made a fist, just as Barlocke often did. Hyram smiled and returned the gesture, as did all of the troopers in front of him. Then, the platoon leader held out his hand and Marsh Silas clasped it. Carstensen reached over and rested her hand on top of theirs, her fingers on Marsh's wrists. Babcock, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt's hands joined theirs as well.

Carstensen bowed her head and closed her eyes. A gust of wind rolled over them, brushing her orange locks across her forehead. Just moments before, her face was tightly focused; her gaze was firm and menacing, her jaw was locked, and she looked around constantly. Now, her expression was so peaceful she looked as though she was asleep while still on her feet.

Oddly, the breeze which lingered over them did not stink this time to Marsh Silas.

"May the Emperor guide and protect this faithful servant," she said in a stoic voice, "for he goes to depths unknown for the Imperium."

She looked up and her gaze met the platoon sergeant's. "Go with the Emperor, Staff Sergeant."

"The Emperor protects," Hyram, Babcock, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt said in unison.

Marsh Silas nodded and turned back around. He walked up to the edge, so close the tips of his boots were over it. Taking a heavy breath, he looked over at Barlocke. The Inquisitor had taken off his hat and the wind whipped his crop of dark hair.

Looking over at Marsh Silas, the Inquisitor smiled and nodded.

"Silvanus and Barlocke."

"Barlocke and Silvanus."

"Together, let us go."

Marsh Silas held his arms out and stepped over the edge. Immediately, he felt his harness grow more snug as the belay team eased him over. Now horizontal with the face of the cliff, he found himself staring downwards at the ramparts. Already, he could see the sentry below him, looking out towards the sea. It was at least a twenty meter drop to the barricade.

He looked over at Barlocke. The overhang from the cliff provided a long shadow over its face, so the Inquisitor was nearly hidden. But he was able to see Barlocke point downwards with the side of his hand. Together, they each tugged on the rope to signal their belay teams, and then pushed off the rock. In a quick but controlled manner, they each descended by about three meters before their boots met the cliff face again. After taking a few more steps, they repeated the maneuver, covering another three meters, walking another, and then pushed off again.

The wind was still howling and was growing stronger, masking the sound of the rope as it let out. Although uneven, the cliff face was mostly smooth and their boots did not kick off any shards of stone.

Marsh controlled his breath, kept one hand on his harness, and the other extended outwards to the side. He drew nearer to the heretic below him who remained unaware of his presence. As he did, his heart beat faster and louder, so loud he was quite certain the heretic would hear it.

Barlocke's voice came into his mind, cool and clear.

Knives out, Silvanus. Make sure the heretic does not scream.

Marsh Silas reached down and slowly slid his trench knife from its scabbard. Gripping it tightly, he continued walking until the cliff face ended where the mouth of the cave began. The top of the ramparts, and the heretic, were less than two meters below him.

In tandem with Barlocke, he tugged on his rope to order the belay team to lower him down. As his feet just left the rock face, he was slowly lowered downward. With his left hand ready to grab heretic's face and the other clutching his knife, he came closer and closer. He could almost touch his canvas sack hood.

Now!

Clamping his gloved hand over the heretic's mouth, Marsh Silas sank the knife into the enemy's throat. With all his might, he dragged the blade across its neck. As he did, the writhing heretic gurgled into his palm and clawed at his hand. By the time it was the blade was nearly on the other side of his neck, the heretic's arms went limp. Retracting the blade, Marsh pushed the twitching heretic downwards. Then, he quickly undid the clip and dropped into a crouched position.

Drawing the Ripper Pistol, he quickly swiveled to his right. Barlocke's heretic dropped dead and the Inquisitor detached from his rope. Gracefully landing on his feet, he then slid into cover behind the sandbags lining the ramparts. Marsh did the same.

"Infiltration team is in," Barlocke declared over the micro-bead. "Bullard, have any of the sentries taken notice?"

A tense minute passed.

"No, sir."

Marsh Silas sighed in relief. Barlocke lowered his finger from his micro-bead and pointed at Marsh Silas.

Come to me.

Peering over the sandbags before he did, Marsh Silas scrambled over the breach in the ramparts and slid next to Barlocke.

"Can you believe we did that?" Marsh hissed in disbelief, grinning.

"I certainly can," Barlocke said with a smirk, then his expression grew serious. "Focus, man. We'll start with the patrol; the others are in areas too well-lit. Stay in darkness, avoid the light; if you must enter it, do your killing quickly."

Barlocke and Marsh Silas moved to the end of the barricade and quickly darted down the steps. Soon, they were covered in shadows. Moving slowly at a half-crouch, they approached the meandering patrol.

His heart still racing, Marsh Silas was utterly terrified and elated. The contest was still on; infiltrate the objective undetected. So far, they succeeded but one error could disrupt their operation. But he was focused now; he moved just as Barlocke did.

The patrol was walking along the water's edge, their backs to the pair.

Take the one on the left. Use your pistol; feather the trigger once, lest you spray him with bullets. Catch the bodies so they don't fall in the water.

Marsh had instinctively taken his M36 from his shoulder when they descended from the barricade. Slinging over his shoulder, he unbuttoned the holster, and drew the Ripper Pistol. Coming up behind the heretics, who were now ankle deep in the surf, Marsh aimed the suppressed pistol at the back of his target's head. The barrel was nearly touching the heretic.

On my mark...mark!

He squeezed the trigger and the bullet entered the heretic's head with a wet, fleshy thunk. The hood became soaked with dark red blood. Simultaneously, Marsh grabbed the strap of the vest the heretic wore and yanked the heavy body backwards onto the sand.

Barlocke put a round into each one to ensure each was dead.

Good. Let's move towards the entrance, hugging the lagoon.

Marsh let the Inquisitor take the lead. Avoiding the torches bordering the water, they crept along, being sure to keep from stepping into the water. It was slow going; each time the teams carrying the bodies neared the pit, Bullard warned them, and the pair stopped until the heretics left to retrieve more corpses.

Moving around the pit and staying and darkness, they pushed all the way to the high, rocky border that protected the cove. Once there, they began creeping towards the entrance. Marsh Silas switched hands, holding the Ripper Pistol in his left hand and gripping Barlocke's left shoulder with his free hand.

When Barlocke crouched, he did too, keeping his hand there.

Wait until the others leave, then you take the far one.

The heretics dumped the corpses into the pit and then came back for more. After they silently gathered up more dead and departed, Marsh Silas broke from Barlocke and began to approach. As he did, he heard the suppressor of Barlocke's pistol cough. At the same moment, the heretic nearest to them fell. Stepping by him, he raised the pistol, aimed for the heretic's head, and squeezed the trigger briefly. The body crumpled to the ground.

Marsh crouched and turned around, raising his pistol towards the eight-man party. They were in the process of dropping more bodies into the pit.

How shall we deal with them?

Barlocke's reply was preceded by a chuckle.

With ease.

The Inquisitor ordered Marsh to join him back in their original position. Receding into the shadow of the rock wall, they crouched down and waited. The eight heretics turned around and began to return. When they did, the platoon sergeant felt afraid. He would not be able to aim and fire fast enough to kill them before at least one raised the alarm. A round that did not kill one instantly would wound him, resulting in a cry of pain.

Keeping the Ripper Pistol raised, he waited. They approached, none the wiser to their dead comrades. Then, when they were almost to the pile of bodies, they stopped. All eight seemed to tremble where they stood. A few began to gurgle or make very slight, distressed noises. Just as suddenly, they dropped to the ground. Barlocke got up and Marsh looked at him. For a moment, he saw Barlocke's seemed to be glowing a rich, golden color. When he blinked, the light was gone.

Joining the Inquisitor, he stood over the eight heretics. All were writhing and clutching their hooded heads. Others' fingers dug into the sand and their legs slowly moved back and forth. Some were frothing at the mouth so much it came out of the slits of their hoods.

Casually aiming his Ripper Pistol, Barlocke shot each one through the head. When he was done, he pointed to the pair at the far campfire.

Take those ones. I'll take the three in front of the barricade.

Marsh Silas nodded. While Barlocke disappeared into the darkness, Marsh Silas darted off past the entrance. Hugging the rock wall, he followed it all the way to the bottom of the bluffs which overlooked the cove. Changing direction, he moved along back towards the cave entrance, keeping the two heretics at their fire in sight. Although he moved swift he made sure not to step on any of the sheet metal or wooden planks littering the path. Giving the torchlight wide berths, he eventually came to the edge of the darkness near the enemy camp.

One of the heretics was sitting with his back to him. The other was across the fire, looking his way. The fire was dim and its light barely extended a meter. Marsh aimed carefully, lining the sights on the head of the farthest heretic. Using both hands to steady the pistol, he squeezed the trigger. The round struck him right in the head and sent him toppling backwards off the crate he was sitting on. Before the other could react, Marsh lowered the pistol with one hand and shot him three times, twice in the back and once in the head.

Turning, he looked at the final sentries. His heart froze. All three rose to their feet and drew their weapons. Then, the one on the left fell followed by the one on the right. Just as the heretic in the center turned, a pair of hands reached out of the darkness and drew him out of the firelight. Moments later, Inquisitor Barlocke walked out.

"Clear," he said over the micro-bead.

"Clear," Marsh echoed. "Bloody Platoon, outer area secure. Move in."

While Barlocke and Marsh Silas moved back to the ramparts and covered the entrance, Bloody Platoon joined them. Instead of rappelling, they secured several lines with stakes and fast-roped down onto the barricade. The Heavy Weapons and Special Weapons Squads lowered their crew-served armaments by rope before joining the others. Before long, the entire unit was in the cove.

Drummer Boy made his call to the regiment. After he did, Barlocke rallied the squad leaders.

"We know not what waits for us," he said. "It is best if we stagger our entries by squad. The lead squad can then ascertain what is ahead and call up reinforcements quickly or order a retreat."

"Agreed," said Lieutenant Hyram. "Two minutes between entries shall be enough. The Command Squad shall go first."

Marsh Silas saw Barlocke look at Hyram with a surprised, amused smile.

"Are you certain, dear Hyram?"

"Who better to make a tactical decision than the platoon leader?" Hyram responded after a moment. Marsh Silas could only chuckle.

Forming a line, with Marsh and Barlocke in the center, they looked into the cave. Beyond a few more sandbag walls, sharpened stake barriers, supply crates, and torches mounted on the sides, they could not see very far. No sounds came from within nor were there any shadows on the walls they could see.

Hyram raised his hand and then pointed into the cave. In one motion, the Command Squad entered. Maneuvering between the barricades with their weapons raised, they stepped quickly and quickly. Their upper bodies were still, keeping their weapons ready, while their legs remained in motion. After passing the defenses, the cave was barren for several meters until they came to a bend. Bearing right, they followed the torches through the cavern. Overhead, drops of water fell from the tips of stalactites. Moaning wind followed them, winding its way through the passage. Outside, they could hear ocean waves pounding on the shore; each shock reverberated in the cave.

The cave began to grow colder. Moisture on the walls glistened in the dull orange torchlight. Again, the group came to a bend that twisted to the left. Carstensen was on point and she slowed down at the corner. She peered around and then jerked back quickly. Turning around, he held up one finger.

She turned to Marsh, who was standing beside her. With her finger, she ordered him to turn around. Although confused, he obeyed. He felt her hands feeling his rucksack, then she pulled a strap, and pulled his entrenchment tool out.

Marsh turned around to see her holding it like a club. After checking to make sure the sharpened end was facing forward, she turned to the platoon sergeant. She held up three fingers, then lowered them one by one. Making a fist, she darted around the corner. Right behind her, Marsh watched as she took a heretic by his shoulder and brought the sharpened edge of the shovel down atop his head.

As the body sank to its knees, she extricated the shovel from its skull after a few tugs. Looking around, she made sure it was clear, then nodded at Marsh Silas. In turn, he backed up a few steps and motioned for the others to follow. By this time, First Squad caught up and Second Squad was approaching.

The next chamber was very large and open. Everywhere, there were mats on the floor, caches of supply crates, empty weapon wracks, boxes of ammunition, piles of clothing, food waste, refuse, and excrement. Autogun oil and bodily fluids made a sickening smell and once more Marsh felt himself struggling to control his gag reflex. A few of the others, like Drummer Boy and Hyram, also resisted. Carstensen, Babcock, Honeycutt, and Barlocke seemed fine.

What was more unnerving about the chamber was its utter emptiness. Besides the single heretic guard, there was no one else. Slowing down, they progressed through the chamber and took time to search around the crates. Bloody Platoon was swiftly regrouping and by the time the chamber was checked, the entire unit was gathered up. With the Command Squad still leading the way, they went into the next passage.

This one proved to be shorter. At the next bend, there was firelight around the corner. This time, Babcock and Honeycutt took the lead. While the flag bearer drew his deactivated power sword, the senior medic took out his trench knife. Marsh followed closely behind them. After Honeycutt checked around the corner, he held up two fingers and indicated he was going left. After a mouthed count, the two rushed around the corner. When Marsh came around, he saw Honeycutt opening a heretic's throat. Babcock was pushing the other off the long blade of his sword.

Marsh took point and led Bloody Platoon through a tight passage. When he emerged, he was so shocked he stopped. In front of him was another chamber; although larger, it was not as big as the previous one. Assorted just like the first, with a combination of supplies and sleeping areas, this one was filled with heretics. All were lying on mats or on crates, sleeping. Turning around, he signaled to Hyram, Barlocke, and Carstensen they were dealing with a large number of enemies and to tread lightly.

Bloody Platoon slowly infiltrated the chamber. Once they were assembled, they assembled in line formation two ranks deep. Through hand signals, orders were given to hold fire and use bayonets and knives to kill as many silently as they could. As quietly as possible, they advanced into the chamber. Marsh Silas found himself on the far right, holding his knife in his left hand and Ripper Pistol in his right. As he approached the nearest heretic, he prepared to plunge his blade into its throat.

But then, something stirred beside him. He stopped and turned quickly with his pistol. He found himself face to face with a heretic who just rose from their sleeping made. Still bent over, the hooded heretic stared up at him. Marsh Silas, and his comrades behind him, looking back at the heretic.

Marsh Silas grinned.

"Emperor's blessings," he said, then pointed the pistol at the enemy's face, "heretic."

He pulled the trigger and shot the heretic through the head. Despite being suppressed, other enemies were woken by the bullet's impact and the body falling over.

"Open fire!"

"For the Emperor!" Bloody Platoon screamed.

Marsh dropped to his knee, grabbed his M36, and began firing as fast as he could. Lasbolts flew over his head, cutting heretics in two or blowing off their arms, heads, and legs. Many were killed before they could grab their weapons or get up from their sleep mats. So great was their flurry they were tripping and falling over both the living and the dead.

"Advaaance!"

Ejecting the charge pack and stuffing into his pocket, he slid a fresh one in and resumed firing. Over bodies and limbs they marched, shooting heretics attempted to mount a defense and bayoneting any who were still alive. A few managed to pick up their second-rate autoguns and fired back. Most of their rounds struck the Shock Troopers in their flak armour. Others were hit in the arm or leg, and were recovered by their field chirurgeons. Some heretics did not even try to fight back and began falling back towards the opposite end of the cavern. In a matter of minutes, the floor of the cave was covered with dead bodies. So many were laying tightly together they created a second floor.

Marching and shooting over the bodies, Bloody Platoon neared the end of the cavern. A small passage was the heretics' only escape. So many struggled to get through they were stuck. The Cadians closed in, shooting and bayoneting. Clearing the entrance to the final passage, Marsh Silas was about to charge in when he was greeted with a truly, unimaginable horrible smell. It was a stench concocted from vomit and feces, burned and decaying flesh, pus, and infected wounds.

So overpowering was the scent he had to pull his tactical hood down, keel over, and vomit. Many others, including Carstensen and Babcock, did as well. Some were so nauseated they could not stand and fell into the arms of their comrades.

Before any of them could question the smell, they heard a slick, slithering sound. Looking down the passage, Marsh Silas saw a large shadow in the torchlight. As the moist noise grew louder the stench became even more unbearable.

Suddenly, something came around the corner at the end of the tunnel. It was a huge, blob like mass. Two massive, sinewy arms covered in open sores and slick with pus, reached out and pulled the object closer. On its flabby back, half a dozen tentacles swept back and forth, gripping the sides of the tunnel with their opening, sucking, mouths. Warts and white pimples covered its rolls of fat; with each movement, they burst. Putrid, black blood and green-white pus flowed down its pale orange skin. The creature did not have so much a head as it did a huge face on the front of the slug-shaped blob. Jagged white teeth lined the lips of its massive maw. Gobs of saliva leaked from the corners and wet mucus slid from its nose. Two sunken, black eye sockets contained a pair of happy, yellow eyeballs.

Marsh Silas, eyes wide, mouth open, and legs trembling, met its gaze. The monster stopped. Its demented mouth formed into a wide smile, a long, thick wart-covered tongue flopped out, and a deep, slow laugh rose from its belly.

"Daemon!" Marsh screamed as the beast lurched towards him.

Word Count: 6,800

Pages (Google Docs): 16

Original Font: PT Serif

Original Font Size: 11

Original Line Spacing: 1.5