Chapter Four – This must be how the Anvil feels
Gunfire erupted from the Back Corridor, the booming report of an M90 shotgun joined in its roaring crescendo by long bursts of MA5C fire. The high-pitched whine of plasma fire answered it, the music of battle building. Seconds later, the Left Corridor was assailed, the din enormously loud in the tight quarters of the apartment block's narrow corridors. He could hear hope muttering a prayer before the inevitable contact.
The Right Corridor was hit, and once those three had been engaged, Larue began to wonder if Caldwell had been wrong – perhaps they had expected the troops to waste their best troops on the Centre Corridor, and they had redirected vast swarms of soldiers to overrun the weaker positions and slaughter the defenders.
"Hope?" he asked, and the big man nodded. "And yours?" he replied.
"Larue." Max answered, his palms sweating a little. It was good to know the man you may be about to die beside. The two shared a handshake, and then their eyes were brought to the front again. Glowing blue energy shields overlapping, a trio of Jackals were advancing at the fore, another trio behind. Behind them, the inevitable cannon fodder; a long triple-column of Grunts yelping and barking and screaming their high-pitched war-cries as they came on, driven most likely by their Brute masters. All told, there were perhaps two-dozen aliens advancing towards them.
"Come on you rat bastards!" Hope shouted, as Larue gave the shout of "Contact!" and then Hope's assault rifle and Larue's suppressed SMG laid into the advancing shield-wall, driving them back, but unable to score any kills due to the rippling barriers. Larue drew a Covenant plasma grenade from his webbing and tossed it along the corridor – it over-cut the shields and glowed eerily beyond the energy shields. There were shouts of alarm as the shield-wall broke and tried to run, allowing the two humans' fore to cut directly into the enemy ranks. The grenade detonated in a cloud of blue death that cooked the enemy infantry well-done. Perhaps a half-dozen lay dead as the tightly-packed Grunts' grenades cooked off, shaking the building with the force of detonations. More detonations sounded as other troops used grenades to thin the densely-packed ranks of attackers.
The plasma-fire intensified, keeping Hope and Larue ducking, lessening their fire. Another four Grunts lay dead since the detonations, victims of precise gunfire, and the enemy had withdrawn back around the corner to regroup. The humans had the prepared positions, and the excessive number of grenades, and as such, they had the advantage.
Then they all heard it-the scream at the Right Corridor. The Covenant had pulled back a little way, having met tougher resistance than they expected, but apparently not there.
"Man down! Man down! Dufrane's hit bad!" Dufrane could be heard, groaning and moaning in pain. Running footsteps – plasma fire was sounding again in that corridor, and Yu and Thrax were moving to reinforce. Human return fire intensified again, and at that moment Hope slapped Larue, who had been looking back towards the nexus, on the shoulder.
"Back in the game, Helljumper! This time Hell's coming to you." And he was right. This time, the Brutes led the way behind the Jackals, two of the big bastards, their personal shields sparking and flaring under Hope's fire. Larue got in the game as he was told, helping Hope hold them back, their plasma fire burning towards them, the other Brute carrying the strange weapon that spat white-hot spikes at them; the two soldiers' fire pushing the aliens' back while Hope's frag grenade detonated.
Another pair of Jackals died gorily, and the Brutes' personal shields faded out, and suddenly dark purple-black gore was fountaining from the beasts as they roared defiance and charged. The bullets seemed to hardly affect them in their rage, but they inevitably collapsed, tumbling to the floor on top of each other, a nice big blockade halfway down the corridor, the walls stained with their blood. Immediately, Grunts began to clamber over the dead, into the Marines' fire, the bullets tearing through flesh and bone and organs; but there were a hell of a lot of them. Larue threw a second grenade, but the vast bodies of the Brutes absorbed the brunt of the blasts and much of the shrapnel, and only a couple of Grunts fell back, and those only wounded.
"Hold the line! Nobody retreats 'till the Master Sergeant says so!" Larue heard Thrax scream. Then Larue realised that once again the floor beneath them was shaking. He guessed what was coming around the corner before he even saw it.
Master Sergeant Caldwell crouch-walked along the dark corridor, rifle up and forward. Epsom was bringing up the rear, and Hicks, armed with his M90, was in the middle. He had been laden down with the bulk of the explosives, and so required the most protection. They moved in a hurry, the din of battle above loud in their ears despite the two floors between them and the fighting. They had only come across little groups of Grunts assigned as some kind of outer picket. They had been easily surprised and overcome. They moved cautiously but quickly, not wanting to attract undue attention. They had deployed two thirds of the explosives on the building supports already, having already been down to the basement. All that remained was to destroy the supporting pillars in the lobby of the apartment block.
"Contact!" Epson called out, opening fire. Caldwell spun, grabbing Hicks and telling him to keep moving. A half-dozen Grunt infantry were approaching along the corridor, plasma pistols strobing green as they approached, wild and inaccurate fir burning in the dimness. One screamed and pitched forwards onto its belly, the one behind it tipping backwards, a cluster of bullets in its sternum. Caldwell crisped off a burst that ripped the head off of the lead Grunt, its brains gushing back through the air to spatter its comrades, who screamed and broke, running. They didn't make it. All were killed by Epsom and Caldwells' hail of auto-fire.
"Move Epsom; they'll divert more troops here before you know it."
The two ran to get up next to Hicks again. The three moved on, rushing through the corridors.
Before they knew it, they were emerging into the hallway. There were six supports, running parallel up the lobby to the back, and the walls were supporting walls. The lobby was cool and confined; and like the rest of the building, darkened by lack of power. Outside, evening was becoming night, a night lit up by a burning city. Caldwell scanned the dim lobby, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, swinging his rifle this way and that. He turned back to the corridor beyond, and gestured for Epsom and Hicks to enter.
"You two start setting the C12, bring me the detonator when you've finished." Muttered Caldwell under his breath. "I'll cover you both." He swung his kitbag of C12 off of his shoulder and tossed it to Epsom, who nodded as the two came back. Hicks looked like he was about to shit himself, but there was a steely determination beneath the fear. He would do alright when the time came. He clapped the officer on the shoulder as he passed, and then got in by the left corner of the entrance to the corridor from which they had entered. High-pitched voices reached his ears. He spoke into his radio.
"We're at the last stop, Thrax. Hold the line, no more than two minutes."
"Good to hear sir." Came the prompt reply, barely audible over the ruckus at the nexus. "They're bringing up the really heavy shit now. Much longer there'll be nobody to extract – " something cut him off, and somehow, Caldwell knew that Thrax, his old friend and comrade was dead. He would mourn him later. Right now, they had something to do. And the Covenant were coming.
He raised his rifle and opened fire at the press of Grunts rounding the corner. He watched them retreat, and then peered behind him. At the bottom of the stairs behind, he could see the two others were rigging the supports. They were almost finished. He looked back and was scorched as a plasma shot passed so close to his face he recoiled, his skin burning and blackened. He yelled in pain and fell back, rolling down a flight of stairs, but not all the way to the lobby. A Grunt howled in triumph believing Caldwell to be dead, and they rushed. Caldwell fragged the corridor, revelling in the enemy screaming as the grenade detonated. He followed it up by running back to his original position, hammering fully-automatic fire along the passage, ripping into the Covenant response forces.
More fire came from behind, and he whipped around. He could see Epsom responding to a threat on the other staircase leading to the opposite wing of the apartment block, ripping off burst after burst. Officer Hicks was fervently and shakily putting the last touches on the final bomb, crouched next to the opposite wall. He turned back to the corridor he guarded to be met by a rushing Brute, pounding along the corridor, various Covies moving up behind him in a loose herd. He ejected his empty magazine, slammed home a fresh one, and opened up on the Brute, its personal shield shimmering. He leapt back as it reached him, rifle blazing. He crouched as the plasma sped over his head, and then the weapon overheated. The Brute howled in frustration and threw it down, then swung for the human. Caldwell jumped back again, his weapon clicking empty.
"Duck!" came a voice behind him, and he did, instinctively throwing himself back down the stairs, his empty rifle leaving his grasp. Automatic fire tore into the Brute's depleted shield, making it spark and fail, something that prompted another roar of anger. Caldwell saw it was Epsom…whose rifle now clicked empty. He dropped the mag, but before he could reload, bright green plasma bolt punched clean through his back, creating a huge exit wound in his stomach. Lifeless, he dropped to the ground, steam rising from his corpse.
A calm came over Caldwell. This was it. He drew the M6C magnum sidearm in his thigh holster and took aim. There was a moment's pause as the Brute looked at him, and then the 12.7mm magnum round punched into its eye socket and blew out the top of its head. It collapsed backwards. A Jackal followed, carrying a long rifle, the Type-51 Carbine he had heard so much about. He killed that too, three rounds bursting it apart.
He continued to fire as more of the enemy rushed over the lip of the stairs towards him.
Hicks heard Master Sergeant Caldwell's sidearm fall silent after a flurry of plasma fire. He looked at the door, blasted open sometime in the recent past. He had always doubted his courage; there had been a time during a raid on a known hive of anti-UNSC radicals in downtown New Mombasa where a man had pointed a gun at him and he had just froze – Officer Lukas two floors above was the only reason Hicks was around to doubt anything. Lukas had told him not to worry about it. "Everyone panics sometime." He had said with his trademark easygoing smile. He had not really believed it, but he truly hoped that the man was alive and well and would remain so. He looked at the door and realised, he had a few seconds. He could make a run for it; he might not get far, but he could try. Maybe he would get lucky.
But what about the guys upstairs? What about the two men who had just died to give him this chance. He knew the answer, even as he thought about escape; about his sister, Mary; about his daughter. About his ex-wife. About his Dad.
He stayed exactly where he was, and finished off the final bomb. He spoke clearly into his radio.
"Caldwell and Epsom are dead. I've set a timer instead. You have three minutes. Get clear, please. Lukas, if you can hear me – tha…" he never finished. The round from the Brute needle gun slammed into his side, and he keeled over, dead, the ghost of a smile on his pallid face.