In Huck's Hands

Flay the Heretic; End.

Lo'Ref shook his head frantically, trying to convey the urgency of his mission. He pointed to the shabby tent, then out towards the dark expanse of the darkened desert beyond the base.

The soldier's blue eyes narrowed. "Oh, I see. Trying to warn your SandHound friends that we're onto them? I don't think so, boy." He sneered, pushing his facemask off his mustache face.

A meaty fist connected with Lo'Ref's stomach, driving the air from his lungs. As he doubled over, gasping, the soldier grabbed a fistful of his unmanaged hair and began dragging him away from the command tent.

"Let's go see the Captain. She'll know how to make you talk, mute or not."

Lo'Ref struggled weakly, his mind racing. He had to make them understand. The base was in danger. They were all in serious danger. As he was hauled through the darkened pathways between tents, a new fear gripped him.

What if the premonition was wrong? What if this was all just the product of a traumatized, overactive imagination? He'd be branded a madman at best, a spy at worst. The fragile protection offered by his stolen uniform would evaporate, leaving him at the mercy of people who shot first and asked questions never.

As they neared the detention area, a commotion erupted from the far side of the camp. Shouts of alarm pierced the night, followed by the constant ringing burst of multiple gunfire.

The soldier stopped, his grip on Lo'Ref loosening as he turned towards the sound. "What the...?" More shouts joined the first, accompanied by the clash of steel on steel and the dull thud of explosions. Lo'Ref's blood ran cold as he realized his vision was coming true.

The SandHounds had come, and the western base was woefully unprepared. As chaos erupted around them, Lo'Ref knew that his warning had come too late. The pieces were in motion, the game had begun, and the eye of some greater power watched it all unfold with cruel amusement.

With a swift motion, he broke free from the distracted soldier's grasp and melted into the shadows between tents. As the western base descended into bloody chaos around him, Lo'Ref ran, his feet carrying him towards an uncertain future in a world teetering on the brink of cataclysmic change.

The night erupted into another bloodbath, a familiar Buritian sight. Lo'Ref's feet pounded against the packed sand as he weaved through the maze of tents, the burning smell of gunpowder and charring flesh filling his nostrils. Screams of agony and rage punctuated the air, a hellish chorus accompanying the burst rhythm of gunfire.

He rounded a corner and came face to face with a scene straight out of his darkest nightmares. A group of SandHounds had breached the perimeter, their eyes glowing with an unholy green light that matched the pulsing black veins visible beneath their skin. They moved with inhuman speed and coordination, their crude weapons a blur as they tore through the surprised defenders to bloody shreds.

Lo'Ref watched in horror as a SandHound warrior, his body riddled with bullet holes that should have dropped him instantly, leaped onto a Vascan soldier. The possessed attacker's teeth sank into the defender's throat, ripping it out in a spray of arterial blood. The dying man's scream gurgled into silence as he collapsed, his killer already ripping the next soilder's head clean off.

A tank rolled into view, its massive gun swiveling towards the melee. The cannon roared, and for a brief moment, Lo'Ref thought the tide might turn. The shell impacted among the SandHounds, turning several into pulsed red mist and sending others flying into gorey piles. But to his disbelief, many of those hit simply stood back up, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, and rejoined the fray with nothing more than the will to murder.