Seventy-Two Hours

Chapter 7

The Ork staggered, mud splashed as he thundered closer, the rounds stitched across his chest. Blood fountained from each impact as the mass reactive rounds detonated within the beast's barrel like chest.

"Waaagh!" It bellowed, swinging its rusted axe toward Yngvar's chest. The Space Wolf parried with his chainsword, the whirring teeth screeching as they ground into the corroded metal of the Ork's axe. Yngvar angled the axe's blade safely out to the side and lept forward. He drove his knee between the Ork's legs, soliciting a squeal of pain as the beast bent nearly double.

As the Ork bent over, dropping its forgotten weapons into the mud in an attempt to reach for its pulped nethers, Yngvar head butted the beast. An audible crack sounded as its tusks were shattered. Blood shot from its broken nose, spattering Yngvar's face to mix with his own blood where the Ork's tusks had split open its forehead.

The blow staggered the beast backward. Yngvar stepped back, drawing his chainsword back and lunging forward in one smooth motion. The whirring teeth sparked and screeched as they scraped across the Ork's chest armor, which had been bolted directly into its flesh. With a lurch they found purchase in flesh and blood fountained as they tore into the greenskin's chest.

Yngvar grunted as he forced the blade deeper, blood splashed across his face and armor as he shoved the blade though until the hilt clanged against the Ork's armor plate. Blood sprayed from the whirring blade which now jutted from the beast's back. Yngvar ripped the blade free and flung the blood from its blade with a flourish as he stepped to the side to allow the body to fall.

The heavy form slumped to its knees, and then toppled over, mud splashed up from the bodies impact. Yngvar threw his bolt pistol away in disgust. "I'm out."

"Me too." Dante replied, letting his borrowed pistol drop into the mud with splash.

"I have one full magazine left plus the partial in my weapon." Isaac said, his bolter coughed two more times. "Scratch that. One full magazine."

High pitched shrieks filled the air again as the next wave of the bombardment ripped its way through the atmosphere. The rear ranks of both forces were decimated, but that did not stop the front ranks from rushing toward the battered remnants of Death's Head.

Yngvar looked up; he could now see the growing shape of the thunderhawk as it sped toward the LZ. In between the ear splitting detonations of the orbital bombardment he could hear the growing whine of the troopship's engines. As if sensing his observation, the vox crackled again.

"Death's Head we are nearly there. Do you copy? ETA three minutes."

"Copy that." Yngvar replied.

"Sweet Emperor!" The thunderhawk pilot said as he spotted the embattled horde which was close to overrunning Death's Head's position. "Can you pop smoke so we can identify friendlies? We'll do a strafing run before pick up to buy us a little breathing room."

Yngvar nodded toward Isaac who followed his lead by pulling a smoke grenade from his webbing. They lobbed the grenades into the center of the clearing where, after a couple of muted pops, they began hissing, though this was lost in the driving rain and the constant rumble of explosions from the artillery attack, and thick yellow smoke began billowing out.

"Smoke has been deployed." Yngvar voxed as he turned to face a group of Tyranids which were charging him, bone blades wetly reflecting the light of the explosions. With his chainsword clenched tightly in his right fist, he drew his combat blade with his left and rushed to meet them.

"Roger that, Brothers, we have eyes on the smoke. Commencing strafing run in sixty seconds." Came the reply, though Yngvar did not acknowledge it...nor did he hear it. The red rage of the berserker had descended upon him and he knew nothing but violence and hate as he lept into the Tyranid's center.