“They’re getting closer,” said Smithy. The current score was five–three to Smithy. Mass hated to admit it, but he wasn’t as good a shot.
“We’re making it hard for them, and that’s what counts. The more that die out there in the ruins, the less we’ll have to deal with at the walls when the real fighting begins.”
“I feel bad for the poor sods out there in the city. They’ve been fed to the wolves.”
Mass grunted. “We’ve all been fed to the wolves. No one is safe.”
“How you reckon Rick’s getting on? Dude’s like one of the X-Men.”
“I saw light blasting from near the Spinnaker. Looks like he’s made quite the journey.”
Smithy looked towards the bent, broken spire that had once topped the city’s landmark building. “Where’s he going, you reckon? Is he abandoning us?”
“I doubt it. I’m sure he has his reasons.”
A demon leapt out of some rubble and sprinted for the walls. Smithy whipped his shotgun around and hit it square in the chest. “Ha! That’s six for me now. Suck my big hairy balls.”
Mass shook his head and sighed. “I give up. You’re too bloody good.”
There was shouting behind them, men arguing or maybe just voicing their concerns. Mass lowered his shotgun and turned to face the group walking towards the walls. It was Wanstead and his officers.
“Wait here.” Mass patted Smithy on the back and then dropped down off the top of the van. He stepped into Wanstead’s path. “Colonel? What’s up?”
“General Thomas is alive. That man is made of iron.”
“He’s made of blood and guts, I can assure you. So what are you telling me, that he beat the demons?”
Wanstead shook his head sadly. “Alas not. He’s returning home with only a thousand men.”
Mass had to plant his feet to remain steady, suddenly feeling woozy. “And he left with fifteen thousand? Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.”
Wanstead put up a hand. “Let’s focus on action not regret. There are a thousand tired and wounded men stranded outside our walls. We need to go and rescue them.”
“Thomas can die out there for all I care. He fucking deserves to.”
“Perhaps, but what of the thousand men with him? They are guilty of nothing but fighting for our survival. How many of your own friends count amongst them, do you think?”
It was unlikely anyone Mass knew had survived whatever slaughter Thomas had led them to. The bastard would have used the original inhabitants of Portsmouth as cannon fodder in order to protect his own, more loyal men. Even so, those thousand soldiers were innocent men who had just been trying to do the right thing.
“What do you plan on doing?” asked Mass.
“We need to send out a rescue mission. Those men are too valuable to leave stranded.”
“Also, they’re human beings, right? We should rescue them regardless of whether they’re useful.”
Wanstead smirked, obviously finding the questioning of his morals amusing. “Consider yourself lucky that you can still see things in black and white. I need your help, Mr Mass.”
“You want me to take my guys out to rescue the son of a bitch who wants us dead?”
“I realise the irony, but your people know the ruins better than anyone.”
Mass stepped up to Wanstead and looked him in the eye. His guards bristled, their hands moving to their weapons. “You send me out there, and I promise you that Thomas won’t be coming back, you get me? If you want me to risk my neck saving a thousand innocent men, then my answer is yes, but Thomas isn’t part of the deal. I see him in trouble, about to die, I turn my back.”
Wanstead took a step forward, reducing the distance between them to almost nothing. When he spoke, he almost whispered. “Mr Mass, have you not considered that I understand that? Portsmouth needs all the fighting men it can get, which makes those thousand men out there precious. Whether or not Thomas returns is of less import.”
Mass frowned, trying to figure Wanstead out. Slowly, it became clear. “If Thomas fails to return, and we win this fight, Portsmouth has a new leader. You.”
Wanstead nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I’m a good man, Mr Mass. I don’t toy with people’s lives when I don’t have to, and I prefer mercy over pain. Portsmouth could suffer worse fates than my leadership.”
“I think you might be a good man, more or less,” said Mass, “but you tried to shoot me and killed my friend, Tox. I’ll take my Vampires out there to bring back those men, but as for what happens next, you shouldn’t get too comfy on your throne. Still want my help?”
Wanstead cleared his throat and stepped back. He’d turned a little pale in the glow of the spotlights. “It disappoints me to hear you hold a grudge, and yet I do understand it. As it stands, Mr Mass, I would still very much appreciate you bringing those men home. What you do with General Thomas is your choice. No one will shed tears, whatever happens.”
Mass looked down at his shotgun, dirty and battered. “Okay, Colonel. Looks like I’m heading out then. First, though, I’m going to need something from you.”
“And what is that?”
“Guns. Lots and lots of guns.”
The human’s weapons are formidable. Several thousand of Crimolok’s legion already lie dead, torn apart by tiny shards of metal and exploding chemicals. It is no matter, for tens of thousands more will take their place. The massive gate to Hell remains open. The damned spill out continuously, blanketing the Earth. This is the second great flood – the flood of blood and flesh.
Noah be damned.
Crimolok strides onward, footsteps crushing the metal wagons littering the human pathways, but then he pauses. He senses something. Something terrible. Obscene.
He looks down.
There stands his brother. Even inside the diseased meat he is wearing he shines like a star,
