"This is fine."
// Outer Wastes, Zone 4C of the Rim
// Wednesday, June 4th, 2453
// 19:38
A warm glow beckoned behind closed eyes, tempting them open. Salt and dust suggested otherwise. As consciousness crept forth, my eyelids stuttered, fluttering apart. A blurred horizon welcomed me, complete with an entourage of dirt in the eye. I blinked rapidly, tearing up from the reception. My nose crinkled as the sudden brightness ignited an itch to sneeze. I stifled it. Dry pain shot from my throat as its parched walls slapped against one another, ribs complaining sharply.
“This is fine,” I breathed.
This is fine.
A globe of tumbleweed, the thought lulled across the arid steppes of my mind. Complacency easing discomfort—go figure. I smacked my lips and peered ahead, drinking in the glow of the sunset. Dusk blanketed the savanna in an orange shade, the golden shimmer of dry grass comforting—akin to flickering tongues of campfire. The ground never felt so comfortable. My breath was raspy and uneven, bearing stark contrast to the rolling whispers of grass against the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a guttural howl echoed through the air.
Shit.
As sensation returned to my extremities, I pushed myself from the cracked earth. Dust buffeted the senses. Though disoriented and in various levels of discomfort, I managed to hoist myself upright. Vision was hazy and shaky, at best. Blinking, I rubbed my eyes, a moment of clarity focusing them. Just as my ankles found their bearings, I caught myself swaying as though the world was forcing me into a waltz. It took a few moments to notice drops of scarlet pattering down the tops of my boots. The corners of my vision hazed as sight began to dissolve once more.
I blinked.
The horizon seemed to tip before I felt myself fall. Fortunately, I managed to catch myself on the wheel of an overturned truck before eating dirt. Pain spiked from my ribs as the impact of my hand resonated to the core. With a wheezy cough, I grazed my forehead with the tips of my fingers, feeling the sticky wetness of old and new blood. Through gritted teeth, I allowed the members to explore a little more. A hiss escaped lips as I discovered the source of the bleed, a sharp sting biting from what felt like an inch or inch-and-a-half laceration just above the left brow.
Brilliant, I mused. Now they can smell me.
Bitter sheepishness shifted to fear as another howl—at least a mile closer, this time—brought me to terms with the gravity of the situation. Adrenaline ran its course. My vision and sense of equilibrium heaved itself to order, acute pains riddling my body muted to dull aches and mild points of soreness. I pushed myself from the truck and scanned ahead. Memories of what occurred trickled back to me.
There was an explosion.
I slowly began to remember, eyebrows furrowing as I struggled to think. A bead of warm fluid rolled down from my brow; a ferric scent tugging at the nostrils.
The Captain and... and Eta!
I scrambled to the other side of the truck and, just as quickly, stumbled backwards. The Captain’s lower body had been pinned under the flipped truck, the rest strewn a few feet away, tossed over in caked layers of ichor and dirt. Some twisted tracts of viscera were all that kept what was left of the flesh together. The late officer’s exposed spine and lower ribs remained a dull beige amidst the browns and deep reds coloring the corpse—the olive green once part of standard uniform now barely visible. I struggled to keep the contents of my stomach in place. Swallowing a little, I was sharply reminded of thirst. A sensation of dry stickiness began to pervade the mouth and throat. I licked my lips, catching only the flavor of bloodied salt; the texture of cracked skin. An intense longing for water struck my senses. Still blankly staring at the pulp before me, it took a second to register the appearance of a canteen at the side of the officer’s hip, exposed slightly from beneath the vehicle. It was a little bloodied, sure, but I’ve sipped from humbler vessels. I crawled beside the lesser half of the cadaver and tugged at its belt. The partially severed remains gave a little, slipping a few inches with a bit of effort. A harmonic accompaniment of squelches and wet noise followed. Bile licked the back of my palate.
Cheers.
Once the canteen was freed, I wiped the blood with some spit and a relatively clean spot on my trousers. As I took a deep draw, I noticed the grip of the Captain’s pistol now revealed on the upper right thigh.
Won’t be needing this either, I suppose.
Knowing commissioned officers carried larger caliber, anti-Variant side arms, I figured it’d be best to hold on to the late Captain’s should one of those long-limbed bastards from the grass come bounding my way. Standard anti-personnel rounds would do fuck-all against those monstrosities. I cradled the weapon in my hands for a moment.
Never thought I’d get to hold one of these beautiful little ass-kickers.
The pistol was heavier than it looked, crafted with a long steel barrel and solid wood, rounded at the bottom with cross-sectional etchings across the grip. It looked to be top-loaded, munitions being fed through a slot above the barrel and stored in an in-built casing just to the fore of the trigger, fused with the trigger guard, itself. A heftier replica of a classic Mauser C96.
Fancy.
The weapon featured a small slit alongside the munitions casing, counting six rounds—fully loaded. I shoved the piece into my waistband, allocating a stripper magazine loaded with modified rifle rounds from the corpse. The munitions were almost comically large for a handgun.
Seven-sixty-two. That’ll kill a fleecer, right?
These were known to punch through officer-issued pressed steel; it would certainly do in a mangy Variant.
Just aim for the head and heart, I thought.
Easy.
I chuckled bitterly, thrusting the spare magazine into my pocket. Not wanting to miss a thing, I executed a quick pat-down (on both halves), snatching a flask tucked in the remnants of the officer’s coat. It was plainly made, small, with a simple nickel cap. A tastefully etched monogram was engraved on its surface with a minute coat of arms imprinted on the other side. I twisted it open and sniffed its contents. A malty aroma coupled with the scorch of alcohol greeted me—far more pleasant than any bark liquor I’ve ever had the grace to savor. Figures. I took a celebratory swig, wincing as the fluid lapped against my sore throat. With a short grunt, I pulled myself upright, stuffing the flask in another pocket. Not daring to make a sound louder than a cough, I whispered roughly:
“Eta!”
Nothing.
“Nicolás!”
Silence.
I continued the search for my potentially ill-fated friend, calling and skulking through the remnants of the skirmish. Now fully about my wits, I became intimately aware of the bouquet of bodies decorating the field. Every few yards, a twisted corpse. Men, women, smoke, and metal—a grand charnel house open for all. I sighed, pondering.
If everyone ate an assortment of bullets or shrapnel, there’d be more to account for.
I paused for a moment, adjusting my boot.
Perhaps the lucky bastard got off with a retreat?
At any rate, I’d spent enough time searching. If the man was dead, huffing over his fresh corpse wouldn’t strike a new heartbeat. My eyes wandered to the clouds, orange-tinted and infuriatingly gorgeous. I sniffed. Darkness would fall soon and the fields will then be teeming with packs of fleecers. They’d flood within the hour.
Like fat chairmen to a cocktail party.
I scoffed at the thought of food as my stomach began one of its frequent attempts at conversation. Truly, it’s a melancholic day when one realizes that, following an accompaniment of mangled carcasses, one of the most itching thoughts would be of appetite. A mirthless smirk crept across my face. Snorting, I dropped to a knee, heaving a once fellow soldier onto her gut.
It’s not like your rations deserve to go to waste.
I tore off the woman’s pack and rummaged through its contents. Inside was a half-eaten Nutri-Bric, a capped tin of wheat gruel, and an unopened can of unknown nature. Figured this was enough. If I couldn’t make it back to Fort Mohl by tomorrow evening, I’d probably be dead anyways. If it weren’t fleecers or some other fuck-ugly flavor of Variant, it’d be an equally hideous raider fiddling with my entrails. I clicked my tongue, shouldering the bag and scanning for a means of transport. Surely, both sides couldn’t have retrieved every working vehicle just yet. I brought myself to my feet. Wary of debris or the occasional landmine, I pored through the leftover rubble of singed flesh and steel. I came about sixty yards from the dearly departed Captain when I began to hear voices behind a scorched personnel carrier. Instantly, I fell prone. Following a cautionary pause, I crawled forth with all the frantic softness of a hungry snake, eyes level to the earth. Once closer, I counted three pairs of boots. None were Ninety-Sixth military issue, but nor were they Forty-Third.
Thank God. Looters? Raiders? Both?
Conversely, they could just be scavengers from the Ninth, but who on this very yellow earth would want to stake their life on that? I slithered ahead, closing the dozen-yard distance between myself and the smoldering vehicle. Squinting, I peered beyond their feet. What appeared to be at least two sets of wheels sat idle ahead of the boots. I listened intently, catching the familiar rumble of working diesel engines.
And there’s my mode of exit.
I crawled over to the side of the personnel carrier, leaning against one of the two sets of back wheels. Propping myself up, I attempted to listen in. Garbled, incoherent murmurs began to morph into words:
“...o’er an open flame.”
My ears caught the masculine voice of an otherwise normal human being, nothing peculiar or remarkable in its tone. The man continued:
“I’ll definitely get the next one, ya hear? It’s been so long. Too long. Anyway, it’s gettin’ dark. The ’leecers’ll be here any moment. They can probably smell the flesh here for miles—it’s practically a goddamn barbecue.”
He’s not wrong, I thought plaintively.
Another voice, much less eloquent than the former piped up, its cadence scratchy, tainted with some sort of knuckle-dragging drawl:
“I unnastan’ n’ all, buh’ Karhakas will ’ave our scrotes if we don’t git a’least two ‘undred pounds o’ good salvage.”
Salvage? Probably just looters or scavengers.
Relief washed over me. I could ask for a lift for some creds or promised scrap and this whole nightmare will be blown right over.
No big deal.
The first voice responded quickly, “We already have somewhere around one-eighty. Bastard can’t expect us to strip these fucks lying about into the night, right? That shit ain’t humane. I’ll have the council at his tit if he gives us shit.”
They had a concept of “humanity” and even a “council?” Fantastic.
I’ll be fine.
I began to rise to my feet.
“Buh’... Wha’ ’bout the meat?”
I froze. Eyes widened as tendrils of fear wormed into the chest.
What meat?
A third voice arose, this one wet and croaking with yet another strange accent:
“Ah, we alruddy butchered an’ field dressed four o’ ‘em. They’re starten’ to rot tho’, see? Caught me a live one be’foe—kid almost dead anywho, so t’weren’t doin’ ‘im any large disservice by bleedin’ ‘im. Buh’ erry’one else is starten’ to pick up the stench o’ rot. Is’sa bust here, I’m tellinya. The heat kills the meat and the g’damn mons’sers are gonna be allo’er us in a few.”
Following a loud sigh, the first voice resumed, evidently the leader of the trio.
“Alright. Let’s pack it up, then—Cork, get the meat, and you, Smek, see if you can’t find at least one more decent cut. I don’t want Karhakas crawling up my ass again.”
“Heh,” the guttural one giggled. “Tha’ a figure of speech, Lars?”
An audible silence sunk in.
“Let’s... Let’s not talk about that.”
Yikes.
The other two snickered. One sounded like his throat was made of nothing but phlegm. The other, sandpaper. Footsteps began to circle around the truck I was so comfortably leaning against.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
Indecision ravaged my thoughts. Do I stay put and hide? No, the fleecers will tear me apart by the time these bungholes leave. What if I attack them? Three presumably armed cannibals against one injured, outgunned regular? No, they’d riddle me with holes and eat me. In that order, if I’m lucky.
Think fast, headass. I ransacked my brain for an idea, any idea.
Nothing.
Just desperate curses and an acute awareness of how full my bladder was. The phglemy man was about to turn the corner when, by an apparent act of the divine, one of the others caught his attention.
“Smek,” the leader, Lars, said lowly. “Y’know, I’d rather you not bring that up again. That shit can happen to any of us. One day it might be you.”
The other responded, voice thick like oatmeal and expired dairy.
“Hah, nah, I’ve goh’ a nuttural defense, see?”
I could only imagine how repulsive his mug could’ve been to match that voice.
“I’m nuttrully irredeemably ugly!”
Ah. Figures.
A spark of humor brought me back to earth.
“HAHA!” Smek roared. “The on’leh time I actually git meh cock wet is iffit’s dead or iffit’s a jimmied-up Variant... Heh, ain’t like they can say ’no,’ ey?”
“You’re a goddamn animal,” Lars spat.
“Yeh? And I bet Karhakas fooked yeh like one, too! Hahaha!”
I may have sniggered, myself, were I not a wayward clench from soiling myself.
“Y’know what? Fuck you, you fleecer-fucking shit!”
A short scuffle ensued; the sounds of various blows exchanged.
Nice.
I peeled my eyes for a means of salvation. A dead soldier laid a few feet to my side, his arms still clutching a Ninety-Sixth standard-issue submachine gun, apparently to shoot at other dead soldiers.
Don’t mind me, friend. My lips pressed together, fingers wrapping around the weapon.
Why not help out a fellow battle buddy?
I bit my lip, tugging a little on the barrel and stock.
Let me just...
I attempted to pry open the boy’s fingers, but, as fate would have it, rigor mortis had gotten the best of him; fingers a rusted vice around the gun.
Goddamn it. I gave it another tug.
You don’t even need this anymore, you stupid stiff prick!
With a hard yank, the soldier’s body jerked forward. His head snapped towards me while his helmet slid back, uncovering eyes that were very much wide and what I could have sworn to be awake. His teeth clicked together audibly. I gasped and jerked myself backwards, crunching my pack against the rucksack of another fallen combatant.
Shit.
The scuffle nearby instantly ceased.
“Did-didya heer tha’?” Smek grunted.
“Yeah...” Lars’s voice was low, dense with suspicion.
Some whispering ensued before I caught the very familiar sounds of weapons being drawn. A high-pitched metallic tinge denoted the possibility of a blade, while the sound of a gun cocking was unmistakable.
Oh, fuck me.
I hastily slipped out of my pack and rolled under the personnel carrier. The dead soldier was still clutching onto his prized firearm, eyes now staring emptily into mine as he laid sideways about a yard beside the vehicle. Dumb dead bastard. The thought bore more bitterness than spite, at this point. His eyes remained, milky and unwavering.
Yeah, fuck me for being alive, right?
Within moments, the sound of boot-steps echoed around my flank, proximal to the running trucks. Slowly, the boots circled around the rear wheels ahead of me, reappearing again on the other side. What looked like the broad tip of a machete came down, a foot from my face. I held my breath.
The blade maneuvered away from me, the flat of it pressing against the dead soldier’s chest. The body was turned over with ease, breaking our rather one-sided staring contest.
“Thees fook’s are all det, they are,” grumbled Smek.
He hawked a ball of phlegm, spitting it some inches away from the corpse. Casually, the man rested the machete’s tip on the boy’s forehead, twisting repeatedly. Stagnant blood trickled down the soldier’s perfectly still face. Some anger began to simmer within me. We were once, after all, part of the same suck.
“Et’s pr’olly tha’ wind or sumthin,” Smek continued with a yawn.
“No, you dumb shit-sack, look at this.”
“’Ey, yewbuttfookedcoont!” Smek barked, so quickly it all sounded like one mangled word. “Don’t yeh be callin’ meh doomb!”
The machete was lifted from view, no doubt to be pointed threateningly at the other party.
“Ah, sew it up, beast-fucker,” Lars spat, contempt slathering his words. “Look. There’s two dead soldiers here, but three packs. What does that tell you?”
“I ’unno,” Smek mumbled. “P’raps one up and ran away?”
“...Or perhaps hiding somewhere?”
“Yah, tha’ too.”
“You know, Smek,” Lars muttered. “You’re about as sharp as a potato.”
“Whassat ev’n meen?”
“Nothing, Smek. Just search the area. They couldn’t have gotten far.”
“Righ.’”
Without thinking, the pistol was already in my hands, held close. The smell of its oil polish crawled up my nose. Comforting. The marauder with the machete, presumed to be Smek, walked around to the back of the personnel carrier. He stopped in front of me. Listening, I heard the sound of the truck’s canvas shuffling. One at a time, the man’s boots shifted up and away from view, the suspension squeaking as it shook with his weight. The body of the vehicle depressed about half an inch under his mass.
Lard ass.
No wonder they’re cannibals. It’s practically the only way to get fat in these parts. I gritted my teeth and looked to my side once more. The man with the gun, Lars, took a few steps forward and knelt beside the previous dead soldier. Blood was still dripping down across the boy’s forehead as though beads of scarlet sweat. I suddenly became aware of my own fluids rolling down my face and brow. The cramped space beneath the carrier felt like a convection oven, the waving distortion of heat causing air to shimmer around me.
At this rate, they won’t even need to roast me. Bitter humor laced the thought.
I continued to watch Lars search and grope around the boy’s corpse. His interest quickly shifted over to my abandoned bag. He rummaged through the insides, tossing aside the wheat gruel and Nutri-Bric. I heard what sounded like him sniffing the unknown tin for a second before tossing it to the dirt as well.
What—too good for normal food, Mister Cannibal-Eat-Your-Face?
He sighed and stood upright, taking a step towards the carrier—towards me. Immediately, my heart launched itself into my throat. The man stopped about a foot from me, a few inches from the vehicle, itself.
Why’d he stop? Did he notice?
Anxiety gripped the nerves, only to be quickly diffused into disbelief as a faucet of yellow began to hit the dirt just in front of my face. I struggled to stifle the sounds of shock and general disgust as I felt tiny droplets rebounding onto my face and hands. I repositioned my forearms to shield against the mist. The smell, however, burrowed past all defense and into my skull; stench curling nose hairs in recoil. I pressed my lips together.
You’re kidding me.
Horror sank into the ego as I witnessed the puddle slowly, but surely, spread towards my utterly undeserving self.
Well... Maybe not “utterly.” My mind spontaneously began to run through all the things of questionable moral integrity I’d done.
Yeah, I mused. Could be a little worse.
I ground my teeth.
Like being eaten and raped to death.
After what felt like ages, the man finished up. The puddle, however, remained stalwart in its endeavor to royally fuck up my day. I retracted my body as far as I could without exposing my back on the other side, but to no avail. The effervescent pool was inches from soaking into my shirt when a stray cigarette fell and bounced off the raider’s boot. The smoke rolled under the truck, finishing its fateful journey about an inch from my forehead.
My eyes widened in utter horror.
