THE GUARDSMEN, THE BULWARK - WARHAMMER 40K

10.3

          It was brief and sudden: the artillery shell exploded with a trembling thunder, rocking the ground with force until the dust had settled. And it wasn't shortly after that another struck with a detonating impact, then another, and another as it went on in repeat.
          With deep labored breathing, they had just escaped the bombardment in the nick of time when she had pushed her companion and jumped herself into a dugout that was just nearby when the first artillery shell shook the ground.
          And, just as she had thrown herself in, the support holding the entrance wavered and caved in—trapping them inside—as they took a moment to recover, before looking at the rubble that blocked their way out. She stared at it blankly, thoughts running amok.
          Then a groan from her companion caught her attention as she averted her gaze to him, the wounds on his neck seemingly threatening to bleed him dry as it stained his glove and trench coat. She checked it as she gently pulled his hand from it—inspecting the gaping wound—before she removed the sling from her lasgun and retrieved a piece of cloth by cutting a part of her coat.
          With a makeshift bandage, she placed it on the wound before she wrapped the sling around his neck to keep it in place. And, with a tightly placed knot, she was done. "Are you... Are you a veteran?" he said with difficulty while appearing disoriented from the blood loss.
          She pulled back and took a seat on the dusty floor; her gaze was long as she opted to stare at him instead. The bombardment outside continued with its relentless battering, and she hoped that every traitor beyond the rubble was caught in it.
          "It doesn't matter," she answered with a raspy voice that sounded like it was difficult to speak—as if it strained her cords—as she turned to look away. Her eyes scanned the area, the dugout poorly lit with only a single lantern until she saw a staircase behind him.
          She stood up with every effort she had, with her lasgun in her hand, she stared at the dark tunnel that ventured deeper into the ground, before an artillery shell struck overhead causing dust to rain down on them. They couldn't stay.
          Her attention returned to her companion as she watched him struggle to stand, trying to force himself until he received an extended hand offered to him. He nodded in thanks as she pulled him up.
          As she drew closer to the stairs, she attached her knife—her bayonet—to the barrel of her lasgun. There was a subtle brush of wind as she stared down the dark tunnel ahead, but the pitch black that shrouded the narrow passageway soon fairly lit up. The sounds of boots stopped just behind her; her companion having retrieved the lantern from its post.
          And so, as they looked down the stairs where the faint noise of mild growls and sickened laughter echoed through the shadows, they pushed through; prepared to weather any horrors that dwelled in the dark.
          As they descended the stairs, the wooden floorboards creaked under the weight, before they made it to the bottom where the tunnel was long and spread to many others. It would be easy to get lost, she figured, but undeniably better to take the chance than remain idle. So, with that thought in mind, she began to debate which tunnel would bring them back to the top.
          Then there was the subtle breeze once again, she moved and passed through a tunnel, stopping and waiting, and then moved when she felt it again—repeating the process—until she failed to feel it. So, it's this, she concluded when she turned back and entered the tunnel that was it, her companion close behind with the lantern to light the way.
          Through their journey in the dark, claustrophobic tunnel, the sounds of gnarling hisses and sudden outbursts of screams could be heard throughout the labyrinth as they walked with extreme caution.
          Until the tunnel ended and brought them to a section of the large underground system, and as they ventured in, they recognized it to be a medical station with its infamous white theme, except there were stains of red and shades of grey as the lantern weakly lit up the room.
          As they walked in, it was clear there was a fight—perhaps a close brawl—with everything turned into a mess and the floor littered with all sorts alike, even dismembered limbs that were still fresh.
          Within a moment after laying their eyes on the bloodied wet hand, they were immediately ambushed as she received a striking blunt force to the back of her head which caused her to topple over to the floor. Her head was dizzy and her vision was distorted, and as she tried to gather herself, she was kicked across the face.
          Her consciousness threatened to black out, and her body ached as she felt sharp blades cut and slice through her, and punches and kicks throughout her body. She wondered if her companion was still up and standing. Failure, was her last thought when she believed this would be her death.
          Until the sound of a firing lasgun disrupted her chain of thoughts, and followed were the sounds of agony and piercing screams until both fell silent. She heard rapid footsteps approach her as she forced her eyes open. "Korpsman, can you stand?" the voice was sharp although a hint of exhaustion could be heard.
          "Grox-shit, come on!" the woman snaked an arm over her shoulder as she helped her stand, all the while she kept her lasgun firing with the other at the heretics that came at them with ferocity and murderous intent.
          "Stay with me!" the woman yelled at her as she tried to stay conscious, but her vision was distorted and blurry as she felt the strength in her legs threatening to buckle under her own weight.
          But for only just a moment, she caught a glimpse, and the sight took something from her that she could never take back; she saw the dead body of her companion, mutilated and dishonored. It seemed like everything deafened, the air became cold, and her body felt empty before she felt a small spark-but it was just enough-that she retrieved a frag grenade from her pocket and pulled the pin.

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Author's Announcement

I wrote three draft—from scratch—three times.

The companion would have survived

if I was content with the first or second draft.

Unfortunate, that it wasn't good enough.

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