Wentworth rushed forward into the ringing dust cloud, trusting the Mechanic to follow. The warehouse was dark, the sleeping quarters pitch; any candles had been blown out by the explosion. He gritted his teeth as he approached the maw, willing his irises wider.
The Mechanic’s footsteps thudded behind him.
Flipping the fire selector onto Automatic, he stepped through the door. Concrete dust floated in the air, and the punch drunk-raiders were yelling. The darkness congealed into a moving form, and he squeezed the trigger. The burst hammered back at his shoulder, its echo banging against his ear drums. He moved over to the next target, the one he’d seen in his weapon’s flash, as Raxx entered and unleashed a volley from his shotgun. The blast bounced from the far end of the room, and back again, as the pellets tinkled against the wall. Wentworth clattered another burst. Their individual weapon sounds began to merge into an ongoing sonic assault.
He was shooting by instinct. Yelling and recoil merged into a continual impact on his senses. His weapon kept panning left, a split second before the confirmed kills registered in his mind. The room strobed with the light, twisting the Hellhounds into broken marionettes. A yell from Raxx, a reload, then the shotgun blasts came again at a steady beat. His own instinct vibrated as his magazine ran low.
The bolt locked back with a dull thud. He dropped into a crouch, yelling “Spent Mag!” His eyes were adjusting. He reached into his pocket. At the far end of the room a grey form was rising. The empty mag had slipped from his weapon, clattering against the floor, and the fresh one was in his hand. The form was taking aim as his new magazine locked into the housing. He thumbed the release and the bolt slammed forward. He took aim. Too slow—
A dual burst of light as the raider’s muzzle, then his, flashed white
The scream of pellet on steel.
The raider fell. His world went silent. It spun
He lived in darkness.
“Wentworth! Snap out of it, man!”
His world slowed from its wild spin and his vision came back in dark splotches.
“They’re dead. We got ’em!”
A wave of nausea swept over him as he reached up to feel his head. His hand met something hard — his helmet. He was wearing his helmet. His fingers traced along a slick groove dug into its side, a channel cut by the raider’s bullet…
Raxx was still yelling, shaking his shoulder. “It’s okay — Raxx, I’m alright,” but he wasn’t; something was niggling, just beyond the nausea. The close call had shook him, the bullet had left him concussed, but his senses hadn’t stopped recording. Something was wrong… the body-count! It was too low, “Raxx—”
At the far end of the room a door was kicked open. Something clattered onto the concrete.
“Get down!”
He tackled the Mechanic, and they fell to the floor as a burst of light polarized his goggles. Hot bile burned against his throat.
Raxx was howling, his shotgun clattered to the ground as he covered his eyes.
Wentworth grabbed him by the back of his armour with one hand, stabilizing his rifle under his armpit. Aiming in the direction of the other door he let go a series of heavy bursts, blowing away half the magazine as he dragged Raxx out to the warehouse. Waves of hollow sickness washed over him.
The Mechanic’s cries had turned from shock to anger. Wentworth’s legs motored backwards, and he threw the man into one of the trenches. He stumbled over to a counter, fell back against it, as a sour self-hatred mixed in his stomach.
He’d fucked up; a stupid, tactical error. Of course the officers wouldn’t sleep in the same room as the troops. He spat, it landed on his leg, and dropped his head back against the counter. Soon enough they’d come out and put a bullet through him…
An angry moan came from the pit where he’d dropped Raxx. His eyes shot open and a sharp chill went up his spine
A bang of light filled over the room as he slid in a fresh mag; then several sets of feet came pounding in.
He’d promised to keep the Mechanic alive.
Chapter 12
The footsteps had come to a halt just inside the warehouse. Wentworth sucked air, imagining them spread out against the back wall. One of them muttered a curse, his weapon rustling it lowered. A second voice barked, telling him to keep his weapon up.
They thought he’d fled.
A grin wanted to stitch across his face, but the odds were still too rough. He thought of throwing a rock to distract them, but the old cliche would only confirm his presence. Better to leave them confused; to stay a terror in the dark.
Seconds passed. His pulse pounded through his fingertips, and he tried to keep his breathing silent, thankful that Raxx had the sense to remain quiet. The Hellhounds began moving. Their footfalls echoed out a cautious trot.
The moment came. He rose with an explosive force, leveraging himself up as he squeezed the trigger. Strafing right, he dropped ammo on the four shadows, reaching the trench before they could react. The first of the return fire passed over him as he fell down into the pit.
The floor struck with enough force to wind him, but he didn’t feel it. Rolling into a kneeling position, he took in his surroundings. The trench ran the length of the vehicle bay, with ladders on either end. It was about two meters wide, and a meter and a half deep, with metal walkways overtop. Debris lay everywhere; he’d been lucky not land on any, but none of it was large enough to serve as cover. Already the return fire had ceased. He was sure he’d caught one of them — maybe two — but now they had the advantage of higher ground.
Raxx lay in the trench west of him.
His heart was beating, and sweat trickled down the side of his neck. He was stretching eyes and ears to their maximum, waiting for the sound of approaching footfalls, when he noticed a rain gutter running through the middle of the trench, hidden under the walkway’s shadow. His neck twitched as he took it in. The depression was half a meter wide, with a tunnel on either side running to the other bays. It was big enough to fit him. It had to be.
He broke into a run as another flash-bang went off behind him. He stumbled — the reflected light had been enough to polarize his goggles, and for a split second he was blind. He found the eastern tunnel by feel, and was already thrusting his rifle down it before his sight returned. It was just big enough — his right arm was stretched out before him, holding the weapon, while his left hand rasped against the bottom, underneath his body. His helmet was pushed down by the ceiling and his shoulders scraped against the walls. Thrusting forwards, he heard a burst of fire impact the trench behind him. Heaving and grunting he struggled against the concrete, dragging and pushing his body forward.
The air smelled of engine oil and mildew, and his hot, spent breath seemed to collect around him.
Cool air exploded as his head shot out the other side. He rolled onto his back, throwing his one free arm against the wall and pushing. The reflected moonlight was like daylight after the tunnel. He wrestled his body free and rolled backwards into a kneeling position, scuttling south.
He got out from underneath the walkway. A seven rounds burst would take just under a second; long enough for him to maybe get them all, but too short for any survivors to react. He stood up, taking his bead on the far end of the far trench.
A submachine gun fired as he fell back. “God
