Captain Marcinko was bowled to the side by one of his men as a Legion marksman on the ridge sighted his rifle at the Captain.
"Thank you." The Captain patted the soldier on the shoulder – Hopkins, one of Cross' guards. Well it was Hopkins - the Captain had to correct himself after he noticed the rather large hole in the back of his head. A blood stain splattered the wall where Hopkins had been standing. So less being pushed to safety by a brave soldier, Marcinko mused, and more being fallen on by a dead guy. Not that it mattered, Marcinko was grateful for any lifesaving actions, regardless of whether the other party was alive enough to mean it.
"How's ammo looking?" He shouted to the others as he rolled the body off him and took up his place.
"Ain't got enough for all of them, sir." Private Wells shouted from his position as he reloaded his service rifle.
"Complain to me once you've ran out then!" Marcinko sprayed another burst into the attackers. It pained him to shoot those in NCR uniform but now was no time for doubt and they could have easily been a Legion ploy to get their own men close to the factory.
The order had been accepted, but not well, by the NCR troops, Blueballs' men had agreed readily enough whilst some of the refugees seemed almost enthusiastic. The patchwork force was bigger than any other the Captain had ever commanded but no-one else would take the job. Boone had gone off to his vantage point in his tranquil fury and Blueballs had admitted that he was far too hot-headed to command any defensive force.
The Legion was drawing closer now; the defenders outside the factory attempted to run to safety and were cut down like animals. A group drew close but were once again cut down by the determined fire of the defenders and, when it was needed, Blueballs' grenade launcher.
"They're pushing up the right!" Someone shouted and the advancing Legionaries felt the full fury of the NCR troops' disciplined fire. They knew the drill, Marcinko thought as he retook his place at the window – noting the dead body of the Legion sharpshooter (Boone's work most likely or Ford and Campbell on the roof). Short, controlled bursts – conserve your ammunition and actually hit your target, a concept that seemed to escape many of the refugees and some of Blueball's less professional mercs. But they were hitting the main formation at least and that's all Marcinko could ask for at the moment.
"I'm out!" A voice from below shouted. "Check the dead for spare." Blueball's voice answered. Marcinko squeezed the trigger and sent more bullets flashing towards the slaver army that drew ever closer. Soon Marcinko expected to hear the thunder of the machine gun crewed by Corporal Spence and the dour duo of Drip and Sunshine but it never came. Another minute passed and still no machine gun.
"Wells!" Marcinko shouted.
"Yes, sir." Replied the soldier, ducking out from his place at the window.
"Go and tell Spence to hurry up with that bloody gun." Ordered Marcinko. The Private nodded and jogged for the door to the roof. Wells grasped for the handle for the door to the roof and instead it exploded inwards, the edge catching him on the jaw.
Blood and teeth sprayed through the air as the soldier was thrown against the wall. Marcinko glanced up in confusion as a group of crimson clad soldiers inexplicably piled through the door. Wells was beaten, kicked and slammed against the wall by one as the rest charged the soldiers. Shouts and war cries filled the corridor, punctuated by the stomping of boots and gunfire.
"For Caesar!" Most of the Legion shouted, others simply roared wordless cries but Marcinko was certain he heard "Boone!" screamed on more than one occasion.
In the tight corridors the NCR troops struggled to bring their rifles to bear as the Legionaries fell upon them, though oddly enough only one carried a gladius. The rest seemingly consigned themselves to beating their enemies to death, something they did with expert skill. One grabbed the barrel of a soldier's service rifle before she could fire and threw it to the side as he launched a rocketing punch into the woman's throat. Sergeant Nieto had let go of his bulky rifle and threw himself at the one with the sword, dragging his knife from its sheath and fell upon him. The man offhandedly parried the blade, lazily if Marcinko had to call it anything, and threw Nieto past him – onto the waiting ballistic fists of the others.
"Legion in the building!" The cry went out. "Legion on the top floor!" someone else shouted as the crimson soldiers scythed their way through the defender. At this range the Legion were in their element, these soldiers more so than most. Marcinko could swear he had seen the man with the sword before and decided to go out on a limb.
"Courier!" He shouted a challenge.
Legate Cato Viator, formerly Courier Sandy Levitt glanced up – and saw the NCR Captain's levelled barrel. Throwing himself the side the Legate narrowly avoided the hail of bullets that instead filled a Praetorian behind him. The others rushed forwards to avenge their comrade.
"Don't kill him." Cato ordered as he got to his feet. Marcinko turned his gun on the next man only to be caught by a haymaker blow from his blindside that made his world flash white. He stumbled into the next blow, this one coming from the man he had aimed at – a hook to the ribs that took the wind from him. Dropping to one knee the Captain felt his rifle drop from his hands. Still defiant, Marcinko went for his pistol, only to find his arm pulled to the side and a blinding pain as one of the Legion broke the arm at the elbow.
Cato stalked over to the man as the Praetorians charged onwards to fresh enemies. Septimus held the captain by the scruff of the neck with one hand as he removed his pistol and cast it aside. Cato towered over the soldier, glaring down at him over his hooked nose. Blood dripped from his gladius onto Marcinko's chest. Cato gestured to Septimus and the battered Captain was pulled to his feet.
"Where is Craig?" Cato asked, trying his best to look magnanimous. Silence was his only answer. "Craig Boone? Sniper? Bit on the stoic side?" Marcinko hawked and spat bloody phlegm at the Legate.
"Fuck you." He growled . Cato chuckled and wiped the spit from his cheek.
"Oh that one never gets old." The Legate muttered before sighing and ramming his gladius into the Captain's chest.
"Fall back!" Blueballs' voice drifted through the walls and into Cross' hiding place – as did the sound of doors being broken down. Legion had broken through the defenses then, the merchant assumed. It was always going to happen, he knew, or did a bunch of barely trained refugees, braggart mercenaries and a handful of soldiers think they could defeat the army that so handily whooped the only other major power just a few weeks ago.
Cross knew better and that, rather than cowardice was why he told himself that he was currently hiding in one of the many custodian's closets rather than outside with a gun. He tried that once – hit nothing over four days of running skirmishes and got a bullet in the side and a knife in the arm for his troubles. Then the NCR had rolled into the area and annexed his village and Cross had learnt an important truth that as a semi-civilised tribal he had never thought of – why fight when you can pay others to do it for you? With this lesson in hand he had never once had to fire his own pistol in over twenty three years of trading.
A crackle of gunfire came from somewhere to his left. Followed by a small explosion straight ahead – that'll be Blueballs he guessed. The gunfire was soon replaced by the tell-tale sounds of close quarters combat, grunting, the clash of blades and the screams as they bit into flesh. Such sounds soon came from every direction as the Legion spilled into the building and any semblance of an organised defence vanished.
Cross knew what he needed to do to survive. The same thing he'd done a half dozen times before in his life: wait until the fighting finished then make any moves to ingratiate himself with the victors. After a few minutes the fighting still did not drop in its intensity as far as Cross could tell from the sounds. The sounds of explosions grew fewer until for the last minute there had been none – so either Blueballs is out of ammo or the Legion are too close to use it.
The answer turned out to be both Cross discovered as Blueballs barged into the room, pistol in hand and with Legion hot on his heels. Cross pulled the door to his closet shut as they closed in on the mercenary, cutting down the few of his followers still with him. Through the door Cross heard the muffled sound of gunshots and war cries.
Creaking the door open slightly Cross peaked out. Blueballs' pistol lay to the side, the hand that had held it was now bleeding profusely with two of its fingers joining the gun on the ground. He faced a group of Legion with only a machete. One Legionary darted in, thrusting with his knife. Blueballs snapped round and slashed at the man. Before the blade hit another Legionary stepped in from the other side and hacked into the merc's back, deftly skipping back to avoid Blueballs' response. This action was repeated three more times. One baited him whilst another struck at his flank. One had not even drawn his sword and instead broke ribs and bones with the Legion Standard he carried.
"Enough!" A voice called and a centurion stepped into the room, a man Cross knew well from his trade route between Novac and the Mojave Outpost: Aurelius of Phoenix. Every merchant who worked that route and didn't want their caravans attacked paid the Legion tribute through him, the smug abrasive asshole that he was.
The Centurion stepped in, waving the others back. Blueballs eyed the newcomer, blood flowing from several deep wounds, the fingers of his good and adjusted their grip on the machete. With a snarl the merc threw himself forwards. Aurelius' free hand shot out, grasping Blueballs' wrist before he could finish the cut then with a disdainful look in his eyes he sent a backhand cut that opened the mercenaries' throat. As he choked on his own blood Blueballs sagged to the floor and died in silence.
The standard bearer walked over and picked up the merc's pistol as all but Aurelius and two other marched from the room in the pursuit of fresh prey.
"What are you waiting for, go and hunt down the others." The Centurion ordered the three of them. "Try killing them quickly this time rather than playing your games in the middle of battle." He added. The Standard bearer looked up from his examination of the gun and regarded the Centurion coldly.
"You were supposed to die in the charge." He said. Before the frown could fully form on Aurelius' face the two others leapt in and pinned his arms as the Standard bearer raised the pistol and shot him three times in the chest. A raspy wheezing sound escaped the Centurion's mouth and he dropped to his knees, only the grip of the Legionary's stopping him from falling on his face.
The Standard bearer took a step closer before putting one final round in his skull. Cross watched this all through the small opening of the doors, barely moving an inch the entire time. The Standard bearer pressed the gun into Blueballs' dead hand and began to search an office room a few feet to the left of the closet. Cross still did not move – here he had witnessed something that could either ingratiate himself with the Legion if he revealed the treason, or get his head taken off. Probably the latter given his current run of luck. The sounds of battle throughout the building began to die down as the Legion made short work of the rebels in the close quarters fighting in which they excelled.
"Legatus." The Standard Bearer's voice brought Cross' senses back into the room. The three Legionaries saluted a new figure, another recognisable face – the Courier, the Traitor, the Wolf of the Mojave all depending on who you asked.
"Spring cleaning?" Cato asked with a sardonic smile on his face, delivering a swift kick to Aurelius' body.
"The infestation is nearly dealt with." The Standard Bearer responded.
"Marcellus' squad is watching the others – you now concern yourself with finding whichever dark fucking corner Boone has scampered off to. Well I mean after you drag out whoever is hiding in the closet." Cross was pretty sure he just pissed himself. Two stomped over towards the door but decided it was better to jump than be pushed Cross opened the door, stepped out and thrust his open palms in the air.
"I didn't take part in the fighting!" He shouted. "I'm just a trader – the rebels commandeered all my goods." The two men stopped, glancing back at their commander for further instructions.
"Aw and here I thought this was going to be fun." Cato seemed dejected. "Kill him quickly; we don't have time for any mucking about." Cross stepped back towards the closet.
"I can help you find Boone." He cried as the men advanced on him with swords drawn and once more stopped in their tracks. Cato crossed his arms and strolled towards the trader.
"On you go then: help away."
"Top floor, men's bathroom on the north side." Cross said. "He and Manny were up there a lot – said it was the vantage point with the best concealment."
"Bullshit – we've swept the top floor, there were a lot of shells in the shitter but sadly no sniper." The Legionaries took a step forwards.
"Wait!" Cross shouted backing away even further until he was almost in the closet once more. One of the men sighed.
"Just shut up let us get it done with." He said, drawing back his arm.
"If he's used his ammo he'll have gone to the tunnels!" Cross cringed back from a blade that never came. His eyes were closed and his arms in the air as he waited for the killing thrust.
"Boone you sneaky bastard." Cato's voice muttered followed soon by the sound of boots stomping into the distance. Cross' eyes opened slowly to see the Legionaries standing in bewilderment.
"Do we follow him?" One asked. Getting only a confused shrug from the Standard Bearer. "That's the Praetorian's task." The other said. "Well what do we do with him then?" The first one wondered – getting another shrug from the Standard Bearer. "Better safe than sorry." The second said.
"No!" Cross cried as the meaning of the words hit him and the sharp blade bit into his jugular.
Cato stepped gingerly through the dank tunnels, gladius held out before him, pistol long since abandoned once he ran out of bullets. He strained to see in the dark, tensing at any movement. He know remembered with clarity the last time he had been here – ghouls screaming and clawing at him from the dark. Movement to his left. Cato spun, his blade slicing through the air and into… nothing.
"Shiting yourself at tricks of the light?" A voice came from an offshoot tunnel. "I expected better from you Sandy." Cato rounded on the source.
"Boone?" He thundered. "Finally stopped running and hiding have we?"
"Nearly." The sniper's voice responded, followed quickly by the sounds of him running further down the offshoot. Cato swore and gave chase, settling into a fast jog rather than tire himself out by sprinting and running headlong into what could easily be a trap. The darkness came to an end as the chase moved into a lighted area. But even this did not help the Legate. Instead of Boone at the end of the tunnel stood a young woman in her late teens at the most instead of the veteran soldier he was expecting.
"Where is Boone?" He demanded, sliding to a stop.
"I'll never tell." She answered defiantly. A rich laughter filled the air.
"What a naïve notion. I'm sure I'll find a way." The Legate advanced on her and straight into the path of a metal door that violently swung outwards. It crashed into him with the force of a heavyweight's punch – knocking his gladius from his hand and sending blood spurting from his nose.
Boone shot out from behind it with a combat knife plunging downwards. Cato's reflexes took over and he stepped inside the blow and delivered two hooks into Boone's ribcage. The sniper felt the wind go out of him and lashed out with his free hand. Cato rolled with the blow and elbowed Boone in the forearm, his reward being the sound of the combat knife hitting the floor. He kicked the blade away before Boone could recover and dragged the sniper into a vicious head butt.
Most other men would have hit the floor but Boone was not like those men. He was a veteran of the 1st Recon and he hadn't come this far to be beaten down in a muck filled tunnel. He ducked under the next punch and delivered an uppercut that sent the Legate back a few steps. Boone did not let up – he stomped on the Legate's foot and rammed his shoulder into the lightly armoured stomach. Cato went down and dragged Boone with him. When he hit the ground Cato bucked his hips and threw his weight to the side, throwing Boone off him. Cato recovered first and was half up when Boone's foot hooked the back of his knee, pulling him back down. Boone leapt on top of him and began to rain blows down upon his skull. Cato threw up his arms as he felt the skin break on his cheeks and the tell-tale pain of one of his eyes beginning to swell. Boone did not let up and threw all his strength into the punches.
Cato jerked his head to the side at the last moment and one of Boone's fists crashed into the concrete floor with an audible crack as some of the bones broke. As he drew back in pain Cato took his chance. He sent a vicious hook into Boone's side where the machete wound that had been Cato's parting gift was. Boone cried out in pain as Cato punched him in the wound three more times before pushing the sniper off him. Boone lay on the ground clutching at his side as Cato rolled away and picked up his gladius.
"It was always going to end this way." Cato said as he drew himself up and stalked over to the sniper. "You really thought you could beat the Legion?" He said as he placed the blade on Boone's throat.
"Jess, no!" An odd answer that bewildered Cato for the half second before the combat knife plunged into his back. Pain shot through his body and the Legate dropped to one knee. Then a snarl escaped his lips and he spun around, the gladius scything through the air. Jess died before she even hit the ground, her neck half shorn off by the ferocity of Cato's swing. The knife had only just pierced the armour and the wound would heal in time Cato considering as he turned back to Boone. The sniper still lay on the floor, doubled up in pain.
"You fuck." He spat through clenched teeth.
"How eloquent." Cato commented as he crouched before Boone. The two men's eyes met, Cato finding it odd to finally look into his eyes rather than those bloody aviators. "It's been fun." He added.
"Go to hell." Boone earned himself a kick to the wound for his defiance.
"Come now is that any way to speak to an old friend?" Cato's mocking smile returned to his face.
"You're scum, the worst fucking dirt at the bottom of the bowl." Boone said. "I should have shot you the instant your ugly fucking face showed itself on the outskirts of Novac."
"Well you'll have the rest of your life to regret it." Cato drew himself up stretched out his arm. "Don't worry I'll make it clean." Boone took the arm and dragged himself up into a sitting position and closed his eyes.
A slight smile played on his lips. He had never before wondered what came after death but now only one possibility filled his mind. Carla would be there and they could be together again. Manny would be waiting for him, Cole and Switch – his brothers who died in a house fire, Ellroy – his first spotter and mentor whose heart had given out one day on a patrol and a half dozen others would all be waiting for him. When it came down to it Boone died happier than he had ever been since Carla was taken and Cato had been left to wonder why the sniper was smiling as the blade had pierced his heart.
Please review - as a writer feedback however brief or harsh is always nice. Plus its getting near the stage where there are more followers than reviews, which seems a tad bizarre to me