The 125 men of Zulu Company of the 7th UNSC Marine Division stood at parade rest. These 125 men were on the Planet Reach, the year was 2552. The Covenant had landed. There they stood, shoulder to shoulder, MA5Bs, M392 DMRs, and BR55s slung over their shoulders, M6Ds and frag grenades holstered or hung in their web belts. They wore drab green camo, some wore glasses. Some were pimple faced teenagers, straight out of boot camp. Others were grizzled and scarred veterans, and others draftees. But they were all Marines. Major Stewart was their commanding officer, and there they stood, 125 humans, men old and young, volunteers and draftees, some had seen the horrors of war, others had not. But war had come to their front doorstep. Half of their planet has been taken over by aliens. But a line had been drawn in the sand. There was no retreat. In the bleachers behind them were mothers and grandfathers, sisters and brothers, young children and old men. Major Stewert gestured to them, "Men of Zulu Company, look around at what you fight for. These helpless people. You, all 125 of you are all that stand between them and death. We are about to enter battle, but you will stand firm, and you will show these alien bastards who they are messing with." Fear was evident of the faces of these men. Realty had set in. They were headed into the jaws of death. Ahead of them was a countless horde of aliens, behind them were their families. Major Stewert looked around at the faces of the men, his men. Some stood straighter, jaws lined tight, eyes cold, holding promises of death and destruction. Some shuddered, tears streaking from their eyes, but they stood straight, Others looked resigned to their fates. But all would do their part in defense of the helpless. "Look around you men. All of those around you are human. I do not care what God they worship, the color of their skin, if they are rich or poor. Those men are your brothers. And you will watch your brothers back and he will watch yours. For we are about to walk into the valley of the shadow of death. I will not be able to bring all of you home, many of you will die. I promise you, I will be the first one onto the field of battle, and I will lead at the front. If my men are going to die, I will die with them, but if you die, you die for them" Major Stewert throws his arm behind him, gesturing to the pregnant women and old men. "You are all they have got. There is no one else. We are alone." The men stood tall, some full of bravado, others full of fear, but they would do their job. Major Stewert spoke again, "There will be no help coming, and there will be no retreat. Men of Zulu Company, we will not go quietly into the night, we will not let Death take us without a fight. We will make the enemy pay in blood for every inch they take from us. And we will show them how Marines fight, we will show them how fathers, brothers, and sons fight. Zulu Company, we will show them how humans fight." Stewert finished his speech, raised his hand to his forehead and saluted not the flag, but his men. Men of war, warriors, soldiers, Marines do not fight for a flag, or country, ideas, money, or land, they fight for the man next to him, his brother. Stewert turned and walked toward the 10 Pelican dropships waiting to take them to the front lines. His men turned as one unit and marched onto the drop ships. There was absolute silence. There was little hope for the men of Zulu Company to return to their families. But there would be no retreat.

The dropships plummeted to Earth. Plasma streaked up at them, 2 dropships exploded into balls of flame and flesh. Major Stewert swallowed hard. The dropships landed and the men sprinted out, he had less then 100 men now. And every second without finding cover, more would die. Stewert charged hard for a line of burned out buildings, leading by example. His men followed him, down to 84. There would be no retreat, there would be no defense. They are taking the fight to the enemy. Zulu company sprinted across the field, bullets spitting from their rifles taking down grunts and Elites. Banshees streaked overhead, discharging fuel rod bombs slaying more men, only to be felled by brave men with rockets. Zulu Company reached the line of buildings, less than 60 remained. In front were the enemy, dug in deep, plasma turrets bristling, Elites barking orders. Stewert addressed the men, the men he was about to send to their deaths, "do you see them out there? They think they can come here and take what is ours, kill our people, and burn our planets. But these motherfuckers forget one thing. We are Marines." Stewert yelled out, "Retreat?"

Every single man screamed out, "Hell."

"Retreat?"

"Hell"

"Retreat?"

'Hell."

"Fix bayonets."

The air is filled with the noise of 12 inch combat knives slipping onto the barrels of their rifles.

Stewert nodded to his bloody and weary men, turned and ran at the enemy, bullets streaking from his gun. Down to 50 men now. 40. 35. Zulu reaches the enemy line and leaps into the trenches. Less than 30 now. The men of Zulu are stabbing and shooting anything not in green. The stench of blood weighs heavy in the air. Cordite and plasma fills the nostrils of the men of Zulu. They clear the trenches leaving bodies of humans and aliens behind. Down to 20. The men of Zulu charge to the next trench and clear it. They are tired, soaked in red, purple, and blue blood. Covered in a thousand cuts and scratches. Some are missing fingers or hands, some have holes the size of fists. Rifles low on ammo weigh heavily in their tired arms. But they climb out of the trenches and see an oncoming onslaught of thousands of Convent. They do not tremble in fear. Magazines are checked, bolts and slides are racked, rifles are shouldered. They have done their duty. The civilians have escaped on transport ships. They exchanged time for blood. Stewert stands at the head of 8 men, all wounded, tired, and bloody. Ahead lay a countless horde of aliens. A line has been drawn in the sand, there will be no retreat. But there is no fear in the eyes of the remaining men anymore. Their eyes hold no trace of fear, only anger. There is silence between them. No words need be said. Stewert turns and begins to walk toward the enemy, a walk turns into a trot, a trot into a jog, a jog into a run, and run into a sprint. They feel no more pain or fatigue. Only anger. Rifles are shouldered and bullets begin to fly. They know they wont make a dent in the enemies numbers. The situation is hopeless. But they are Marines. They sprint at the enemy. 8 turns into 7

6

5

4

3

2

Its Stewert and Private Johansen now. Crouched behind a rock. Not a bullet between the two. Bloodied from a dozen wounds. They clasp forearms, an ancient handshake of warriors.

"Its been an honor, sir."

"Likewise Private."

No more words need be uttered. Drawing combat knives, they charge at the enemy. And they die. Plasma rips apart their bodies, burning them to a crisp while needles puncture their flesh. They perish. Dying with a battle roar on their lips.

Dead. To the last man.