This is pretty much a fanfic for SAS Zombie Assault 4, which provided me with a great deal of fun times. Thanks, Ninjakiwi!
After I tried and tried and thought of how to make an ending for this story, I just decided to cut the end a bit short. Google Drive's revision history says I started the first line on April 22nd, some time around midnight (for my time zone, of course).
WARNING: Contains violence, bad similes, excessive edginess, the lack of a title, and a sort-of military character written by an author with no actual experience with the military.
EDIT: Just noticed how my story looked like with forum formatting... NO! My precious italics and indentation!
“Crimson, we’ve got a contract from HVM. Another station’s gone dark - this one with a few crates of turrets and grenades on it. HVM’s sending a team to recover the goods, but it’ll take some time before they arrive. If you can get to the station and defend the crates until HVM’s squad arrives, HVM’s willing to pay you in some of the crate’s contents. Make your choice quickly, Crimson, ‘cause in a few minutes other S.A.S. will take up all the available positions.”
“I’m on it.”
Crimson switched off the terminal in his personal quarters and moved over to his locker. Picking up his familiar pistol-shotgun-assault rifle combo and donning his armor, Crimson walked to the waiting shuttle. He saw several of his fellow S.A.S. waiting in the shuttle already, but he knew he wouldn’t be joining them. He knew he could count on them to save his life, and the other way around, but none of them would need it. The S.A.S. merely nodded at Crimson, and in a few moments the shuttle was in the air.
It was obvious why the station had gone dark. It was the number one cause for any loss of contact, the number one cause of death, and the number one reason that the S.A.S. was in operation these days.
Zombies.
The S.A.S. had known of these creatures for over a thousand years now, from back when they were more military than mercenary, but for the most part the undead threat had been exterminated after the Black Isle operation. Hundreds of years later, however, the zombies reappeared - this time inside a space station orbiting the heavily populated planet of Aartis, in the Thera system. In just under two weeks the planet had become overrun, and the infection had spread to the point where all of humanity was threatened. Crimson had done his own part in the S.A.S.’s operations in Thera, rescuing civilians, shutting down or powering up crucial systems, and even dealing with a couple of treacherous HVM soldiers who were “just following orders” and could have “no witnesses”, all the while gunning down zombies in all shapes and sizes. At this point people had lost all hope of eradicating the virus, and for the most part zombies had become a normal occurrence in everyday life.
And with a threat that anyone could combat so long as they had a gun, arms corporations and paramilitaries ran like well-oiled machines. Contracts like Crimson’s were routine: one could even predict when the next problem would occur - a couple of blocked databases (always courtesy of the infected AI Combot), a few dropped ammo packs, so on and so forth. The arms corporations and government were always running into issues, and the S.A.S. was always there to solve them -- for the right price, of course. And of course, for those who were foolhardy enough, one could take a shuttle and drop right into the midst of the horde to try to thin their numbers, but this would always inevitably end with the team on their backs, getting their suicidal asses saved by a cleanup crew.
A hand on Crimson’s shoulder jolted the gunman out of his train of thoughts. The pilot and de facto mission manager, Sara, was
the only one left in the shuttle - all the other soldiers had been dropped off without him. “Hey, we’re here! Unless you aren’t taking the job after all?”
“Just thinking, is all. The goods are safe with me,” Crimson promised.
“Pssht. More like some of the goods,” Sara quipped.
“It’s HVM. It’d probably be wasted on them anyways.”
The pilot only responded with a chuckle as Crimson walked down the ramp of the ship. She did have a point - it was exceedingly difficult to protect all the crates with just one man. Even with the two turrets mercenaries could deploy, the destruction of anywhere between one and six of the nine boxes was a very real possibility - and if only one or two turrets were awarded, then what was the point of using turrets to begin with?
As soon as the ship left, Crimson knew he’d have about five seconds before the hordes turned up. The shuttle’s engines roared as the ship’s ramp closed up and Sara pushed the bird into the sky. She’d only return once her charges had finished the contracts, which meant she’d be back in roughly two minutes.
Five...
Crimson took a look around, scanning his minimap for the crate’s locations.
Four...
Yep, they were in the same places as they always were. Unsurprising for a arms corporation that was as unimaginative as it was immoral. Stupid humans.
Three...
Crimson drew a clean white pistol, racking the slide back, detaching and re inserting the magazine, looking through the scope. His CM Two-Oh-Five was all in order.
Two...
Next, the Assault soldier drew a short, ordinary-looking gray shotgun. A crank of the pump revealed the only unusual external feature - the bright yellow of an incendiary shotshell. His RIA Strikeforce was fully functional.
One...
Lastly, Crimson slung his rifle off his back - a nasty little number with a ominous fiery glow to it and a white skull on the right side. The Heartburn was good to go.
GO!
He heard the horde let out a collective screech before zombies began coming out of the walls. At first it was only a few Shamblers and Stalkers, nothing a spraying from the pistol couldn’t handle, but Crimson knew that the crowds would soon swell to massive numbers. The gunman could only keep on moving, killing crowd after crowd until the horde gave up.
Crimson’s boots pounded against the ceramic floor, even as dozens of rotting feet cracked the tile in a mad dash to destroy Crimson, and, more importantly - the crates. In just a few steps, Crimson could already see a small group of zeds clawing away at a crate. He dashed toward the crowd, raised his Two-Oh-Five, took aim...
And sprayed the whole crowd down with just a single clip, not even slowing. The slide and click of a combat reload filled the pauses between footfalls as the rifleman continued to run. A claw raised itself up from the pile of freshly remade corpses and reached for the crate with all the desperation of a druggie reaching for their next fix, before finally falling limp like a wilted, rotting flower.
Crimson sprinted over to the next entry point, letting himself go into auto-pilot as he chuckled to himself. How even a zombie would be so foolish as to attack an inanimate metal box over an armed mercenary would forever be beyond him.
In some ways, though, the living humans could be many times worse. He’d discovered that just a little too late.
For starters, shooting them wasn’t a viable option until the damage they desired was already done, for some reason. People thought it was wrong, thought that they deserved a chance to show their trustworthiness. Deserved a right to life.
Hah, He thought. He already knew who could or couldn’t be trusted. More like a chance to stab us in the backs. Those humans... no, those creatures, those things, with that kind of mentality, who utilize the trust of others to manipulate them, who utilize their “right to life” to ruin or even outright end the lives of others... they haven’t a right to shit.
He swapped the Two-Oh-Five for the Strikeforce. The crowd was starting to get thicker, and a new set of enemies came along with it. Nothing too special to deal with just yet, though, just switch weapons and keep firing.
His first encounter with those supposed humans had been, ironically enough, from HVM, the very company he was working for right now.
Crimson circled around a group of Shielders, filling their backs full of burning lead as they tried to bring their shields to bear against him.
The bitter cold and snow of Boreas had been expected, of course.
The assault tossed a grenade, blasting another crowd into giblets.
The bitter cold of the HVM’s reception was somewhat less expected.
Putting on a brief burst of speed, the assault sprayed into the mob with his pistol before switching to his shotgun once more.
The bitter cold with which the Captain ordered his troops to destroy the ambulance filled with injured had not been expected at all.
Crimson blasted open a Bloater, causing worms to wriggle out of the ashen corpse.
And lastly, the HVM troops went down with unexpected ease.
A simple flick of the combat knife cut the wriggling worms into pieces. It was curious that Medics and Heavies weren’t equipped with these. Alas, but they had their own ways of dealing with close combat.
They’d had both a numerical and positional advantage - by all rights the soldiers should have been able to gun him down where he stood, but something about the burning wreck filled him with a fury that wouldn’t be stopped with bullets.
One of the worms was still wriggling disgustingly, but it burst like a bloody green water balloon as the Assault crushed it underfoot.
He’d shot the soldiers down with all the precision of a professional, slashed the Captain with all the insanity of a serial killer, and crushed the Captain’s skull underfoot until the bone shards had been ground into a bloody dust.
Twenty seconds left. Time flies quickly when you’re having fun. But the fun was about to end very soon.
Yet the bloodshed didn’t make him feel any better.
Ten seconds left. The Strikeforce was cremating the hordes, but it wasn’t enough. They were still gaining on him.
He’d fought partly out of vengeance and partly out of survival, but vengeance doesn’t fix the wounds inflicted by violations of trust.
Three. They’d finally got to Crimson. The mercenary drew his trusty knife and, repeating a motion done hundreds of times before, swung.
Of course, the S.A.S. knew what had happened by now - but they couldn’t do anything about it.
Two. The blade cut through the crowd as easily as it cut through the air. Technology was capable of truly amazing things - a thousand years ago a knife like his wouldn’t have killed even one of these shamblers. Yet it still wasn’t enough.
If the S.A.S. exposed the killings, HVM could simply flood them with troops until all of Trans-Fed drowned. However, HVM would not only lose their best customers in the process, but they’d also find themselves on the receiving end of a galaxy-wide witch hunt. Neither side could do anything to the other without facing fatal consequences, and thus nothing was done. HVM preferred things that way for sure - they were lacking in creativity but not in shrewdness.
One. The horde was clawing at him, Crimson was slashing with his knife rapidly, but he was still being attacked. They were beating on him, trying to break through his armor, bruising him dozens of times all over, the pain was starting to get to him, he’d be in for a real spot of trouble except for -
It wasn’t like they cared how many people died anyway. It wasn’t like they cared how much of anything was expended as long as their goal was reached in the end.
The timer reached zero.
“It’s HVM. It’d probably be wasted on them anyways.” That was true for so many things, from resources to time to lives.
As if on cue, the horde before him seized up collectively, and fell limp. After the tumble of corpses, the only thing left was the quiet hum of machinery. Yet another thing Crimson would never be able to understand, but again this was all normal. The mercenary took a few moments to reload his weapons and catch his breath.Then his headset crackled to life with the cheers and congratulations of his comrades.
All wasted.
“Very impressive!”
Creatures... No...
“Nice!”
Things with that kind of mentality...
“You saved all of the crates man! You’re a pro!”
They haven’t a right to shit.
The compliments zipped past Crimson unheeded. The Assault was already overwhelmed with the old rage. He could feel it burning within him, threatening to reveal itself in a burst of violence on anyone or thing that further provoked him. HVM’s own vessel had already arrived, the soldiers strolling in through an airlock, wondering why the S.A.S. shuttle was still present. Crimson knew that not all of the members of HVM were bad. The corporation’s attitude wasn’t a representation of the employees they hired, he knew. If Crimson gunned down the wrong people, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.
“Um, Crimson, you’re done. We can go home now,” Sara’s voice spoke through the comms.
He’d just have to rely on his instincts. His sixth sense, as some might put it.
“Crimson, if you were anyone else I’d be gone already,” Sara chastised.
Ducking behind one of the alcoves in the hallway, unseen, Crimson waited for the soldiers to deploy and begin to recover the crates.
“Crimson, what are you -” With a flick of his fingers, Crimson switched off his com-link. He couldn’t have that bothering him at a time like this. The troopers dropped in -six in all - and began lifting up the crates in teams of two, unaware that they were being watched and judged.
Crimson focused his sixth sense, closing his eyes. Focusing on the first of the soldiers, the mercenary felt around for the soldier’s intent. Observing with minimal effort. He was still quite new to this ability, having only become aware of it after it had already become too late to save those who were lost.
After a brief check on all of the soldiers, Crimson came to a rather unfortunate conclusion.
None of them could be trusted.
They’d all be polite and friendly, sure, but there was a very good chance they’d shoot him down if they thought they’d be able to get away with it, which they certainly would be able to, except for one thing.
He knew what they were planning. He could make the first strike.
The S.A.S. shuttle remained in its position in the hangar, the occupants still waiting patiently and uneasily for Crimson to finish what he was doing. All protest had likely died down when his comrades realized he was no longer listening. The HVM shuttle remained docked in its own position at the airlock, waiting for its own operators to start loading the precious cargo into the hold. Crimson had made good use of his pistol and shotgun during the contract, but there was one last weapon he hadn’t used yet.
The Heartburn.
No longer taking any effort to remain hidden, the Assault stepped out of the alcove and into the full view of all six soldiers, Heartburn in hand. Now that he knew the outcome, Crimson could afford a little bit of wit.
“What was that saying? Do unto others as others would do unto you, but do it first.”
With a small smile on his face, he let himself fall into auto-pilot once more. He turned towards his targets. He pointed the rifle at his targets. He squeezed the trigger.
Someone screamed. It wasn’t him. He paid the scream no mind. When one used a Rancor weapon, one learned to ignore the sounds and smells after a while.
While Rancor was a sadistic company for certain, they could be trusted to behave the same way every time, at least. Not openly hostile, but perfectly willing to turn you into a sobbing pathetic mass of burnt, dissolved, or shredded remains if the need should arise. The important thing, though, was that they could be trusted. It was perfectly safe to do business with them as long as one didn’t plan to screw them over.
In other words? Nothing like HVM.
After a brief blur, all six of the operatives were rolling around on the ground, flailing in agony as they cooked on the inside. But what Crimson was really worrying about was the people rushing through the airlock, undoubtedly to stop him. Once again, he turned, pointed, and squeezed.
A few bullets in the windows and control panel turned the airlock into a death trap. A few hands frantically banged against the door as the operators within realised their fate, before they finally fell limp. Their deaths were regrettable - Crimson could not sense whether they were good or bad - but they were also inevitable. They had signed on for the job, they should have known the risks.
Having no choice but to admit defeat, the HVM shuttle undocked and pulled away from the station. For a third time, silence reigned, this time only interrupted by the quiet hiss of air out of the airlock. Crimson smiled, switching on his comlink.
“--the fuck was that--”
“--kill us all--”
“--insane--”
“--amazing!”
“Hey.” Crimson’s voice cut through the shocked crowd like a knife through a horde. “It’s HVM. It’d be wasted on them anyway, right?”
After a few seconds of silence, murmurs of reluctant agreement and even a bit of nervous laughter filled the comms. They all knew the risks, and in order to survive one had to pose a few risks of their own to others. After a few moments, a pair of boots stepped onto the ground. A second and then a third pair joined it, before the sound of footsteps filled the air and the S.A.S. secured the cargo initially intended for HVM. The best part was that HVM still couldn’t do a thing about it - any further retaliation and the S.A.S. could reveal the shooting of the ambulance, and then the resulting mess was not something either party would want.
As Crimson stepped on board, he could feel the stares of his teammates. Crimson paid them no mind, if he could trust them, they could trust him, even if the higher-ups would berate Crimson for...
For his very unprofessional behavior.
For losing his temper and acting without any communication with his team.
For breaking his contract with HVM.
For betraying them.
For killing their personnel, who trusted that Crimson would not shoot them.
For... falling to their level, no, lower than their level, not betrayal over some kind of horrifying and forbidden secret, but simply over a grudge and a couple of weapon crates.
A rush of fear and shame poured into Crimson’s mind. He could almost feel the very life draining out of him, and for a moment he wished that it was, for to commit such an act that went against the very thing he strove for - trust and loyalty - was something that would forever stain his honor.
Crimson felt himself fall limp in his seat. The eyes that were locked onto him widened. Some of them turned away, looking at their companions in shock. They knew that he’d finally realized the meaning of his actions.
He’d lost their trust. Even if he explained himself, he’d done enough damage - if he’d break his code of honor and risk everyone’s reputations over something as simple and petty as anger... Not a whole lot of people would be willing to trust him anymore.
Crimson closed his eyes and tried to forget or justify his actions, but he simply couldn’t. He’d thought earlier that if he gunned down the wrong people he couldn’t even trust himself.
But it was the very thought of drawing and firing that showed his true nature.
Crimson felt a hand on his shoulder. The eyes were gone now. Only Sara remained in the shuttle -- everyone else had left again, and Sara was alone with him.
“Crimson, what’s wrong?”
It seemed, even after all that he had done, Sara still trusted him. Crimson couldn’t simply let that trust in him go away unrequited. “I... I finally realize what I’ve done,” the Assault began, and then the words came spilling out.
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Topic: AzyWng's Written Works Thread (Read 4214 times)