Part 6

The hanger bay doors opened, grinding metal on metal as the two of them inched outward like weary, drab, sentinels. Dassion sluggishly walked into the dimly lit building and was immediately met with the barrel of a shotgun to his face.

'It's still me, Dar,' Dassion said. 'I'm not one of them yet.'

The large bulk of Dar, a down-city ganger, stood at the end of the barrel, his blue mohawk haircut and tattooed face staring impassively back. 'Yet,' he answered simply, before taking his weapon away.

Dassion liked Dar, even though the stimm-muscled giant spoke little and exuded a violent air most of the time. Dar understood their predicament; he knew that he would die without the survivors helping each other. A new type of gang for him, mused Dassion. 'Anyone else up?'

'Some.'

The veteran pilot nodded and moved passed the ganger, leaving him to his guard duty. Ever since the downfall of the city, of the world even, Dassion had hid within the tight confines of an old, disused airstrip – a quiet outpost of the Tharius city limits. His nightly searches for survivors had slowly populated the hanger bay and living quarters. Nine of them lived here now – nine living souls in a planet of terror.

Dassion walked past the wall where their reserves of food sat in varying boxes and crates – he had spend days looting the city for every scrap he could, piling old Hermia's hold with random foodstuffs, light-units, clothes, scanners, data-slates, and weapons. Lots of weapons. Amstrung had died helping. Young Amstrung…

The door to the kitchen area opened in front of him, breaking his chain of thought. 'Dassion, you're back.'

He found himself looking at Mira. She was already suited out in her battered Arbites armour. Every day she wore her uniform, as if she was holding on desperately to her past, or at least to some form of normality. It was funny, each of the survivours had a uniqueness to them – the way they dressed, the way the handled the stress, the way they remembered, each of them different. 'Yep, I'm back,' he said.

'Nothing?'

'Something,' he replied. His voice sounded coarse, brittle even. The lack of sleep and water was really affecting him. 'I need to speak to you. Who else is awake?'

'Only Vern and Castus.' Mira Yarni was only in her twenties still, and Dassion always felt sorry for her, thinking of how much of life she would not see. He felt as if he had been lucky, living for sixty years, having a wife, a child, but what would she have? A life battling against hordes of undead mutants? At least he had know what a good life was like. He tried not to think such dark thoughts.

Mira had short, jet black hair that always had a ruffled, used look, and pale, yet smooth-looking skin. She had a slender physique that hid her strength and her considerable fighting talents. He would be dead several times over if it were not for her timely interventions. She had striking hazel eyes that he was sure used to shine with the bright, youthful expectation of life, but they were now haunted, dull - yet dutiful.

He worried, also, that she was taking on the mantel of protector too much, but she wouldn't let him bring it up in conversation. He made a mental note to talk to her later about it.

'They'll have to do.' Dassion said. 'Bring them to me in the hanger, I want Dar in on this too.'

Mira looked quizzically at the rugged pilot. 'What's going on?'

Dassion felt the heavy weight of his long night push down on his shoulders suddenly; he felt so tired. But feeling sorry for himself now, during this… this apocalypse would do no good. 'Honestly? I don't know. But something is happening, and I want to find out. Just get the others and I'll tell you all together.'

Mira looked concerned, but didn't push further and turned to find the others that were awake.

'I need something to drink,' Dassion whispered subconsciously to himself, and continued into the kitchen area, looking for something strong to awaken him. What he was about to propose was not only dangerous, but desperate also.

*

Carson looked up at the hab building walls, and a smile crept across his face.

For hours he had been descending from the hellhole hab, slipping and falling down the side of a multi-storey building, every moment a dance with death. Now, after clinging desperately off a Space Marines' stony arm, after holding fearfully onto the Emperors face, and after sliding down the leg of Ancient Dorn, he had made it. He felt the solid, hard ground below his feet and breathed a prayer of thanks to the Emperor. He immediately regretted thanking the Ever-living Being, the acid memories of what had happened to Tharius and its billions of souls over the past few weeks burning into his thoughts. The smile vanished from his face, and he turned away from the hab-building, a bitter taste welling up in his throat.

His moment of peace had passed, and his reality dug its claws deep once more. The street before him looked like a forgotten landscape, as if life itself had suddenly forgotten why it was, what it was meant to be. In its place resided a rotten form of chaos. A silent scream. Life had been all around, and as Carson looked over the city's remains, all he could see was a crazy juxtaposition – staring at where life should be, but seeing its absence. It was horrible.

He had been through this before. He had ran and fought his way across the roads and walkways of Tharius for weeks now, and each time he found himself within the ghostly streets he felt unnerved; he was haunting the streets himself now, a lonely spirit wandering throughout the quiet emptiness left in the wake of an untimely death.

He checked the sun, staring edgily at the grey clouds that threatened to cover its glare. They gathered darkly over the light, like heavy clusters of battle-barges shadowing the stars, readying for war and destruction. He looked at his chronometer, double-checking the time of day, hoping sunset was longer away that it really was.

What was he to do now? From memory, he knew he was deep in the habituation-towers district of the Tharius. It was still early afternoon, but time bled fast these days, he remembered, so he had to think quick.

He had seen the flyer landing towards the spaceport - that was his destination. But it was several days travel on foot, at least. He had to find some way to get to the 'port as fast as possible.

For a while he walked roughly towards the spaceport, travelling past decomposing bodies, rusting vehicles and barren avenues. He started to worry about how he was going to survive this – how he was going to find shelter while the enemy skulked within every shadow in the city. How could he be sure any hideout was safe without a dangerous, slow search of each potential safe-haven? It was going to be a long, arduous journey.

As he walked across the streets, he saw the remains of a tech-factory. He remembered suddenly where he was – The Yarion District. This was old Fractus's work-place. Most factorium's before the fall had many differing types of vehicle being worked upon in them, and he knew Tech-Seer Fractus worked on several projects at once. If he was lucky…

The next leg in Carson's journey was planned out in his mind, and he walked determinedly toward the tech-factory.