___________________________

  SURVIVAL INSTINCT

  Jackson’s helmet clattered against the floor. It wouldn’t do him any good, not with the shattered visor and burnt-out circuits.

  And at least it allowed him to enjoy the cool air streaming in from outside, the winds of New Poltava having been cooled by stormy weather and coastal jet streams.

  In a similar fashion, the soldier ripped the gloves off his hands. Though he had to wince when the sticky fabric tore away from the cuts and bruises in his palms, he was all the more thankful for the refreshed feeling, simply letting some rain pour unto those very same palms. Fresh rain washed away grime and blood, leaving behind abused skin and bruises.

  As the corporal faced towards the outside of the tower and the darkened outlines of New Poltava, he could hear the monster shifting behind him. It had likely noticed him, considering how it was slowly circling him.

  The gnashing predator in the dark, bloodied fangs waiting to deliver death onto him too.

  Quite a lot of possibilities had streamed through Jackson’s head.

  Jump. Run. Flee. Beg. Give up.

  Fight…

  Back there was also Heermann’s body.

  He had fought. And he had died.

  Blood was still streaming down Jackson’s face. One cut in particular, right above his right eyebrow, was rather irritating, sending that crimson lifeforce right down to his eye. Blinking only helped so much. The rain couldn’t wash it all away either.

  Was it really worth it to keep going? What would even change if he decided to stand his ground? Everyone else was dead.

  Images flashed before Jackson’s inner eye. First Langstrom. Then Heermann. Both of their abused bodies, lying limp, their lifeless eyes hidden behind opaque visors, staring at him.

  They were always looking at him. As if he held the answers.

  It hadn’t been his choice to be in this position… and yet, here he was, taking the brunt of it.

  This was it. There was no one around to help. No one to bail him out. No one to swoop in at the last second and change the outcome.

  “Fuck it…”

  Reaching down, Jackson grabbed a rather long piece of steel that he’d been eyeing ever since he’d gotten back on his legs. Part of the reinforced window frame, having been dislodged when that oversized monster had thrown a couch his way.

  Just over two meters long, going to a rather sharp looking point on one end, its utility was obvious from the get-go. And even though it cut into his hands as he gripped it, Jackson had to admit that it was probably the best he was going to get.

  Makeshift or not, it was still a spear. And he would still hold his ground.

  Against the encroaching darkness, he would have flint and stick.

  The drums of war were echoing from the distance, his blood calling for the fight.

  He'd made his choice. Survive.

  …

  Turning on the spot, Jackson immediately locked eyes with the berserker, bringing his spear to bear and holding in front of himself, as he took on a low, defensive stance.

  The alien for its part looked unimpressed. Bloodied viscous teeth showed themselves in another snarl, gnashing together as it let out more ferocious growls. Globs of thick saliva trickled down its bloodied chin, mixing together with what must’ve been Heermann’s blood.

  Even with its non-Terran origin, it managed to perfectly hit all the instinctive triggers deep down in Jackson’s being. As he eyed its maw, he could feel the fear of his distant ancestors, staring down a predator in the dark. Hairs stood at attention, shivers crawled slowly across his skin and his muscles tensed in fearful anticipation.

  Its claws, though partly mechanical, were no better. The beast’s ‘hands’ were little more than pieces of flesh that had been grafted to alloy, in a nightmarish four clawed hand, with each ‘finger’ being the equivalent of an oversized kitchen knife. The sound, as they dragged across the marbled floor, caused Jackson’s teeth to grind.

  No doubt, it would cut through flesh like nothing. His uniform, padding and armour could maybe help, but one good swipe would quickly result in death.

  Gripping his spear harder, Jackson felt blood pooling in his palms as the sharp steel carved its way through his skin and into his flesh. Adrenaline was preventing him from experiencing the pain, but even now the corporal could feel his fingers growing cold and numb.

  With ragged breathing, he slowly circled away from the window, eyes locked with the monster, spear firmly pointed in its direction. Sweat clung to every centimetre of his body, cold and sticky.

  Blood mixed with sweat and dirt.

  The air was heavy with the smell of death, stinging at the senses, tugging on instincts.

  The monster’s ears flicked slightly; they themselves were little more than pieces of skin, held together by cables and covered in rashes. The same was true for the rest of the creature. Wherever it wasn’t covered by armour or its underlying bodysuit, Jackson saw the mangy skin, filled with blisters, scars and patches of discolouration.

  The faceless men came to mind.

  Just what was hiding beneath that alien technology? Then again… considering he was facing this thing in a one to one, maybe it was better not to know.

  Another snarl, followed by the Berserker going on all fours, in a full display of feral rage.

  Jackson meanwhile kept his eyes thoroughly glued to the monster.

  Lightning struck outside, its glow illuminating the luxurious apartment – now defiled and turned into a battlefield – as well as the two opponents facing each other.

  For a brief moment, the apartment around them disappeared. Gone was the luxurious furniture and displays of vanity. Vanished had the view of New Poltava and the fires that raged in it.

  Now, drums were banging in the night, torches lighting up the deadly dancers of the dark, his ancestors singing in cadence with his final test against the beast. The jungle itself was shaking in tandem with the hammering of the drums and chanting of hunters.

  Theirs was a song of conquest and bravery.

  Stand tall and prove your mastery over the darkness.

  Finally, the berserker lunged for Jackson, who himself evaded, poking his spear forward, but only grazing the beast as it flew past.

  Gripped by rage, it immediately continued its assault, swiping at the human with a vicious ferocity, razor-sharp claws cutting through the cold air. Jackson hopped back, before swiftly rolling under another attack and once again stabbing at the monster. His spear found flesh, but no hold, sliding off the Berserker, only drawing drops of blood.

  In the distance, the main singer howled in a victorious roar, quickly joined by the other hunters.

  Stay true to your blood.

  Falling back, Jackson sprinted away from the beast and towards the far end of the Livingroom, as well as another dividing wall standing there. Create distance. Get control.

  As the hairs on his neck stood at attention though, Jackson could clearly feel the monster running towards him from behind. Without much choice, he threw himself to the ground, barely avoiding another lunge.

  Cold air rushed over him as the beast flew by with terrifying speed.

  Shortly after landing, it spun on the spot and cut towards him with its claws. Blocking with his spear, Jackson could hear the tearing of fabric and dripping of blood.

  Falling backwards, the corporal’s behind met with the floor, after which the monster saw its next chance, once more lunging for Jackson.

  As jaws of death were quickly approaching, he heard drums increase in pace, joined by the quick song of the hunters.

  Jamming the spear forward, Jackson was barely able to put it between himself and the berserker, stuffing the weapon into the monster’s maw and buying himself another second.

  With a few hundred kilograms of rage and muscle on top of him, the corporal simply did the first best thing that his mind could muster in the haze of panic and shot his hand out towards a tube that was connecting the berserker’s facemask to its torso.

  Without much thought about consequences or repercussions, Jackson grabbed said tube as firmly as he could and yanked it to the side, ripping it out of the socket from the monster’s facemask.

  Black liquid – thick like oil - immediately shot out from the tube and opening, followed by the monster screeching and whining, recoiling away from Jackson.

  As the soldier rolled awa from the beast, he sprang back unto his legs and readied his spear once more.

  Taking this moment as his chance, he thrusted the spear forward towards the throat of the beast… and missed.

  It had found no purchase in the flesh there and instead lodged itself in the berserker’s shoulder, eliciting another roar from the alien.

  Panicked, Jackson tried to pull the spear back, but instead found himself pulled forward, losing his footing and faceplanting into the floor.

  Spurred on by knowing what came next, Jackson didn’t miss a beat on immediately moving and rolled to his right, barely avoiding being crushed under the still functional left arm of the beast.

  Getting up, the corporal sprung to his feet and ran past the berserker, dodging another swipe and continuing his run for the end of the Livingroom.

  Though as his instincts flared up again, Jackson didn’t see the berserker lunging towards him when he looked back. Instead, he was met with a table flying right towards him.

  Dropping down to the ground, the soldier evaded death by furniture, as the table flew past at inhuman speed, crashing into the dividing wall. Broken and shattered wood and the sound of… glass and water?

  An Aquarium.

  Jackson didn’t have time to process things or formulate what to do next, as he could already hear that mass of muscle and feral rage sprint his way. Jumping to his feet, the soldier tried to manoeuvre out of the way but instead found himself making contact with the creature’s uninjured shoulder, the tackle sending him flying backwards into the remains of that divider wall.

  Crashing painfully through it, Jackson landed hard on the now wet floor, filled with remains of the wall and aquarium, much of it consisting of broken glass.

  Grabbing a large shard, the corporal rolled to the side and hopped unto his feet again, just in time to see a set of claws flying down towards him. Falling backwards, he heard the ripping of fabric and felt a sting in his chest.

  Yet, the monster had fallen short, tripping over its right arm and only hitting him with the tips of its claws.

  As a quick look down confirmed, he hadn’t been disembowelled. His chest had rather deep cuts in it, with blood already flowing from them, but then again… would he really let a flesh wound stop him now?

  The drums matched the rhythm of his heart, hunters and warriors stomping their feet in pace with their hymns of survival. Survive. Survive! SURVIVE!

  Sprinting forward, Jackson took his chance, sliding under another swipe, stabbing ahead with the shard of glass. It found its mark, first stabbing into its mask, then cutting into the beast’s gums and lacerating its tongue.

  Using this chance, the corporal took hold of the makeshift spear, still lodged deep within the Berserker’s shoulders and tried to pull it out.

  Steel cut into his hands, blood lessened his hold, with his fingers slipping along the sharpened edges. He could feel it give slightly, but by then, the mass of flesh it was stuck in started to move.

  Howling and whining, despite the shard of glass still stuck in its maw, the beast began charging away, clearly confused. With only a split-second to make a decision, Jackson decided to hold unto the spear.

  But that meant that for his efforts, he found himself dragged along the ground by the beast, just under its belly as it sprinted into the Livingroom, spurred by pain and confusion into a frenzy.

  Jackson felt something in his grip shift.

  Then the world begun spinning around him again. A cacophony of sounds assaulted his ears, the crashing of furniture, thrashing of the beast’s muscles and its howling as well as scraping of metal.

  As the Soldier rolled along the ground, he found himself a way’s away from the Berserker, but this time spear in hand.

  The creature for its part, had lost its balance and seemingly come to a halt in what had once been the dining table, climbing out of its remains.

  Now it was doing little more than thrashing around in the destroyed furniture, swiping at invisible enemies.

  Most importantly though, Jackson could see the limp on its right arm. It tried to lean on it instinctively, only to collapse and instead shift towards the left one. A small whine escaped the vicious maw, still bleeding from a piece of glass stuck in it.

  He might’ve missed its throat, but it looked like its shoulder was utterly out of commission.

  The Hunters called out in celebration, the lead singer raising his voice above the storm of drums, chants and wind.

  Against the darkness, they had stood for millennia.

  Against the darkness, they would stand another thousand years more.

  Finish the beast.

  A snarl found its way unto Jackson’s face, eyes locked with the hulking form of his prey. One good hit was all he needed. Alien or not, this thing clearly had a jugular. Pierce that and bleed it out.

  His blood was on fire, his hands made of ice, his skin wettened by rain, sweat and blood, but his resolve was as strong as ever.

  The Berserker looked over into his direction and growled once more. Lightning struck in the distant sky. It then roared. Thunder filled the apartment.

  Claim your prey.

  As silence surrounded Jackson, he could see the beast charging for him, using whatever strength it had to aim itself towards the human.

  His right foot shifted to the side, pressing against his heel. Left foot steadied itself, sole flush with the ground. A breath escaped his lungs. Shoulders locked. Left arm straight forward. Right arm forward, with the elbow twisted upwards. Torso leaning down, following his attack.

  Eyes locked on his target.

  The spear hit flesh. His fingers started slipping. Another whine from the monster. The straining of his arms as a great weight pushed against them. A breath, burrowing itself deep into the deepest corners of his chest.

  Breaking of steel, tearing of skin and crashing of flesh against hardened marble.

  The beast broke off to the side, sliding across the floor into a twitching heap. The spear had been broken in two, with one part of it still lodged in the beast’s throat and the other one still within Jackson’s hands.

  As he himself came to a halt, Jackson felt every fibre of his being yearning for that finishing blow, to finally deliver unto the monster the killing blow.

  By the time he managed to will his body back unto its legs, a blood pool had already formed around the Berserker. The beast was still thrashing around, clawing at things that weren’t there, fighting a battle it couldn’t win, as blood continued gushing from the deep cut across its throat.

  Thick blood, mixing together with that unsettling black bile, was also freely running from its mouth, choking its whines and resulting mostly in pathetic gurgles.

  Growling and roaring had turned to whining and had now been reduced to little more than gurgling.

  As Jackson steadied himself, he eyed the dying being. The Monster’s limbs were barely twitching, with it mostly just kicking out its legs in a futile attempt to keep moving.

  Hobbling forward, leaning against what remained of his makeshift spear, Jackson eyed the creature, vision carefully following its last death throws.

  The hunters were now urging to claim his victory. The drums had stopped, the main singer had dropped to a whisper and the wind was howling in a sorrowful tone.

  A song of conquest and loss.

  Raising the spear, Jackson gathered whatever little bit he could ask of his muscles and commanded them to move. As the piece of steel move forward, it found its final resting place within the Berserker’s skull.

  Bone cracked, one last whine escaped the beast and finally, silence embraced them.

  The darkness of the forest was gone. The drums had fled into the ether and the hunters had returned to that void they claimed as their own.

  The apartment, the sight of Jackson’s final battle, was now engulfed in an eery quiet.

  No longer a battlefield, the corporal instead now found himself on a graveyard.

  Finally letting go of the makeshift weapon, Jackson took a moment to simply stare down at his hands, covered in cuts and soaked in blood. Soft splashing echoed to him from the floor, as his very lifeforce was dripping unto the apartment floor.

  His right arm had a few deep gashes in it, two along his lower arm, exposing flesh and muscle to the cold air, with another cut on his upper arm.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  His left had received a slash going from the back of his hand, across his wrist, up to his lower arm.

  On his right thigh, was another gash that he’d received during one of his dodges, missing a major artery by centimetres.

  His forehead was still bleeding, alongside a new cut he’d received. As his fingers traced the abused skin, he could feel the wound go from his lower right jaw, up to his right cheekbone.

  But the most visible injury, was the one on his chest.

  Four claw marks had cratered their way through his uniform and armour, leaving behind deep gashes in his sternum.

  More blood was dripping.

  Falling backwards, Jackson let himself crash against the cold hard floor, exhaling slowly as his body grew numb. His fingers felt cold, his sweat became ice that was growing out of his pores and his muscles screamed in agony, burning like they were halfway there to being dissolved in acid.

  He was done.

  …

  Heermann appeared before his inner eye.

  So did Langstrom.

  So did Crivello…

  No. He wasn’t done. Not yet at least.

  With a shaky look towards the windows, Jackson saw the skies above New Poltava. Sunrise was mere minutes away. The Strike Force would soon make their decision on whether to land or abort the mission altogether.

  He owed it to them to finish what they’d started.

  Forcing himself back unto his feet, Jackson winced with every movement he made. The veil of adrenaline was long gone and no speech he could give himself would convince his body to accomplish another push. This had to come from him and him alone.

  His knees shook when he put pressure on them. Same with his arms when he put his weight on them, limbs trembling under the strain they’d endured all evening long. His throat was parched, sore and dry, with a metallic taste accompanying it all.

  Coughing didn’t make it better, his nerves screamed out in pain at the scratching in his oesophagus.

  It made him realize just how much his core was hurting as well. Coughing was quickly replaced by dry heaving, sending a searing pain through Jackson’s abdominal muscles.

  The pain was mind numbing, like some mad giant was squeezing down on his very organs, turning him into paste from the inside out. Patrick wanted to scream, but he knew there was no sense in that.

  Breathing was difficult. Moving was painful.

  His vision refused to focus, remaining hazy, even as he searched for Heermann.

  Fred couldn’t help him now. For a moment he’d considered calling out, but he wouldn’t answer.

  “Come on… come on!!!”

  Hammering his fist against his abused chest, Jackson managed to start moving at least, crawling his way across the living room over to Fred.

  Time window or not. Pain or not… he couldn’t leave without saying his goodbyes.

  A dead man might not reciprocate them, but Jackson held unto the principal that it mattered. Something had to matter out of the madness he’d endured this evening.

  The Colonial for his part was exactly where he’d been a few minutes ago. The wounds were still fresh, the blood still semi-liquid.

  Fred’s cloak was similarly in rough shape, cut to ribbons at the front where he’d been ripped apart by the berserker, covered in bloodstains and dirt.

  Carefully pulling Fred’s helmet off, Jackson was met with the dead gaze of his friend. Eyes, that once had life, focus and dedication in them, were now empty. Locked into an eternal stare. Looking at Patrick.

  Always looking.

  Closing Fred’s eyes, Patrick fished the dog-tags out from under the armour, pulling on the chain until it gave way and broke apart.

  They were mostly just ceremonial at this point. ID-Tags in their implants made for far easier identification. But something about those old school dog-tags had appealed to the men and women of the armed forces.

  A badge just for themselves. And a gift for those that remained.

  That’s the agreement they all had made before Lumen.

  Whoever was the last one left, would keep the tags… keep the memory alive.

  As it was, Patrick couldn’t help himself but also eye over Langstrom’s dog-tags again. ‘Johannes K. Langstrom’ twenty-two years old.

  Patrick didn’t have it in him to say anything.

  Fred’s dog-tags joined those of Johannes, secured in a pouch on Patrick’s chest-rig. He told himself that it would mean something.

  He quietly prayed that any of it had any meaning.

  With the dog-tags stowed away, Patrick gently took Fred’s cloak from his body as well and wrapped it around himself. It wasn’t much, but hopefully this last little bit of help from a fallen friend could help him make it to the finish line.

  Now, all that was left, was to head for the roof.

  _ _ _

  His trek had been uneventful. On his way out of the apartment, Jackson had spotted Fred’s rifle, now looking like little more than a chew toy. At the very least the corporal had been able to find his combat knife in relatively good condition.

  The tower itself was empty. On the floor just below the roof, Jackson could see the results from Saberi’s bombardment, having caved half the roof in, together with its occupiers.

  There were no stairs or even a ladder to speak of, so willing his body as best he could, Jackson slowly crawled his way up the rubble, towards that morning sky.

  It was right there. The finish line was mere meters away.

  Whether he’d hobble or crawl, he would reach that final goalpost.

  Lavender clouds were staring down at him, mixing together with a deep blue. In a few spots where the clouds had cleared up a little, Jackson could see stars, still visible in the waning darkness.

  For a moment his thoughts wandered to home. Earth never felt as far away as when he was on the battlefield.

  It’d never felt as far away as it did right now.

  And thusly, step by step, piece by piece, Jackson pulled himself towards the finish line, weak breathing keeping him going at a snail’s pace.

  At the last few meters, the view of New Poltava in the morning sun greeted him. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, bathing the city in warm light. For the first time, New Poltava didn’t look like a hulking beast trying to devour them all… it looked familiar. Human.

  The roof itself was the picture of destruction. Craters in the concrete, left from the mortar-rounds, pieces of alien bodies strewn about. On the other edge, he could even see the remains of another oversized crab, like the one from inside, likely ripped apart by the barrage.

  They’d done it. Saberi had done it.

  And in the distance, Jackson’s eyes saw it. The flares.

  All over the city, from similar places to his, were flares going up.

  He almost didn’t want to believe it. In the darkness from earlier, it had felt easy to believe that he was likely the last Skydiver left alive on Odessa. But he wasn’t. Far from it.

  All over New Poltava, green flares were shooting up into the morning sky, illuminating that gloomful dawn.

  They’d done it. They’d actually done it.

  As if on autopilot, Jackson’s hands wandered down to his chest-rig, to the small flare-pistol mounted there and then up towards the sky. The flare was already inside and primed. Turning off the safety with a flick of his finger, Jackson caressed the trigger for a moment, feeling the resistance that it offered.

  This was it. Keeping his arm outstretched towards the heavens, he could feel the weight of those that had died, sagging his shoulders.

  The flare-pistol was little more than a polymer tube with a pistol grip and trigger, yet it felt incredibly heavy, as if it threatened to buckle Jackson under it.

  He closed his eyes and pressed down on the trigger.

  With a whistle, the flare shot up in the sky, light up in a small ‘bang’ and then gently flew down back towards the ground.

  Thoughts were swirling in his head. A heady and confusing cocktail of relief, emptiness, regret and cold comfort. The unreal sensation that it’d been done, that he had actually survived the night and completed his objective.

  It didn’t feel right. None of it felt right.

  And yet here he was.

  However much he wished he wasn’t…

  Stumbling backwards, Jackson hobbled his way to a pile of rubble that he could lean against and sat down wordlessly.

  Every movement hurt, every little bit of pressure he put on his muscles made him want to scream. Clenching his teeth, Jackson simply breathed in and out, trying to distract himself from it.

  Opening his eyes again, the soldier was met by the gentle caressing of the morning sun, its rays washing over his broken body,

  The morning sun over a planet at war, greeting him like it was just another day like any other…

  He was back on Lumen.

  The battle for the precinct had been brutal and bloody, with the defenders fighting for every corner of that godforsaken building. They’d lost a lot of Marines. A lot of Skydivers too.

  Even with the pincer attack, with the Marines and Rangers attacking from ground floor and the Droptroopers attacking from the roof, it’d been a slog.

  And though the final assault hadn’t lasted more than six hours, it’d had felt like a lifetime.

  Few of the defenders had surrendered either. A few fake surrenders, followed by them pulling grenades and trying to kill themselves and their captors.

  But more insulting than all of that, was the fact that most of the leadership had bugged out before the assault.

  They’d managed to nab two of upstart kings, who had evidently decided to make their last stand. The rest though? Gone.

  The siege had taken too long. Though Jackson knew that they couldn’t be blamed.

  The first Regiment of the Skycorps, the Rangers and the Marines from Strike Recon had done the best they could.

  They were all overstretched, forced to besiege Silquor with whatever they could.

  The SCAF hadn’t shown up to the party. Command had denied targeted airstrikes within the city.

  It’d been all a complete shitshow.

  Jackson kicked a piece of rubble across the roof of the precinct, before plopping down on a convenient piece of debris. Fred joined in from the side, bandage around the side of his head where he’d been grazed by a bullet.

  ‘Downside of having such light armour’ the German had joked.

  A rather cavalier way of looking at it, so Jackson thought to himself. A few Centimetres off to the side and the bullet would’ve punched straight through the visor and into Fred’s skull.

  As it was, it had simply broken apart against the helmet, most of the shrapnel flying off to the side, with a chunk of it burrowing itself through the armour and into Fred’s skin. At the very least the Colonial could count on it resulting in a relatively fashionable scar above his left ear.

  It was surface damage at worst. The corpsman had made clear that it was little more than a flesh wound, with Fred’s skull still very much intact.

  Though Jackson found it hard to believe that there was anything alright with that colonial freak.

  Jackson’s second opinion aside, the corpsman had stitched Fred together and told him he was fit for combat.

  “Did ya hear what some of the Grunts from Strike Recon are calling us, Patrick?”

  Jackson glanced over to Fred and shook his head.

  “Wingless Demons. Bit double sided with the wording. We got our wings clipped, but we still fought like hell. Think it’ll catch on?”

  Wingless Demons… bit on the nose for the 1st Regiment. Then again, the Skycorps had quite a chip on its collective shoulder. Trying to prove themselves in the meatgrinder that Lumen had become.

  “Maybe. Does have some ring to it. Better the Grunts give us that, than what the Rangers had in tow for us.”

  “Really? Those knuckleheads managed to think up a nickname for us? What’s the suggestion?”

  Jackson fiddled with a piece of concrete, flipping it between his fingers, idly playing with it while his eyes scanned the horizon.

  The sun was coming up.

  “So far top pick with the Rangers is ‘Pod Tards’. The other one they thought up was ‘Crispy Cibble’… idea being, you burn up on entry and then get turned into chunky bits on impact. Though they seem to mostly shorten it to Cha-Charlie. You can see they’ve had plenty of time to think shit up while waiting for us to breach the roof.”

  “No kidding.”

  Jackson then proceeded to chuck the piece over the edge of the roof and into the abyss below.

  After that, Fred also found a place for himself to sit down amidst the rubble.

  Much of the roof had been decimated, due to the messy entry the Droptroopers had been forced into.

  Lot of charges blew too early; some had been miscalculated and took structural supports out with them. The aftermath of those was still visible in darkened scorch marks, scattered debris and upturned concrete.

  What had been supposed to be a quick and clean entry - cutting the head off the snake - had instead turned into a shitshow, with the Skydivers being forced into slugging their way through fortified hallways.

  Though from what Jackson had seen and heard, the Marines and Rangers hadn’t had it that much better.

  Hallways turned into kill zones, entire rooms collapsed to block off access and all kinds of traps rigged together. Whatever the defenders had been able to think up, had been thrown at the Coalition troops.

  Jackson wordlessly searched through his rigging, fishing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

  One last smoke was still poking out of the packaging.

  “Thought you’d said you’d quit?”

  “If we survived this shit, yeah.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you Patrick, but you are very much alive.”

  “Kiss my ass.”

  Placing the cigarette between his lips, Jackson began his search for his lighter, when Fred handed one over.

  The corporal wordlessly took it.

  Lighting it up, Jackson took a few slow drags, closing his eyes, enjoying the numbing sensation of nicotine. It barely hit, nothing like it used to… but right now he’d take any kind of stimulus to take his mind off of things.

  After a moment, the corporal explained: “It’s the last one anyway. Might as well use it up. Plus, that whole thing of me saying I’d quit if we survived was more me betting on the fact that none of us were going to make it.”

  One quick toss later, the lighter was back with its original owner.

  “You know Patrick, that’s what I always admired about you. Your endless optimism.”

  “Oh please, don’t act like you were any better.”

  But apparently, the universe had decided that Jackson was not allowed to enjoy his last cigarette in peace, as from the side he spotted Etana jaunting over to the pair.

  The New Zealander’s accent was about as thick as one would expect, though Jackson would argue that he was still far less grating to listen to than Fred.

  “I thought you said you’d quit.”

  Fred interjected, quipping: “Well, Patrick here in his infinite wisdom didn’t expect to survive.”

  Etana snorted in amusement, finding a good place for himself and plopping down unto the ground, sighing as body and mind were finally allowed a bit of rest.

  “Victory ciggie then, ey Pat?”

  “Could call it that…”

  “You gonna quit for real after this?”

  Jackson glanced over at Etana and saw that, indeed, his counterpart was serious.

  Though he had no clue what sort of vested interest his squad-mates had in his smoking habits, Jackson acquiesced.

  “It’s going to be the last one, even if I didn’t want to quit. Pretty sure we’ll be stuck in this hellhole for a while and far as I’m aware, logistics isn’t going to give a rat’s ass about delivering me smokes.”

  Fred snickered, mumbling: “That’s one way to break a bad habit…”

  Then, for a moment, silence fell over the trio.

  Etana kicked a piece of debris, then, as was characteristic for him, started complaining: “Can’t believe most of those fuckers made it out before we got to ‘em. Could’ve ended this fucking war right then and there.”

  Fred for his part leaned back a bit, stretching his legs and closing his eyes, simply stating the obvious: “They wouldn’t send us if it was easy.”

  Blowing smoke into the early morning wind, Jackson snarked: “Ain’t that the truth… Say, is Cassidy still kicking?”

  To Jackson’s left, Etana replied: “Yup. Very much so. All that grenade managed to do was piss him off.”

  How very characteristic for the sergeant, so Jackson thought. Apparently, their collective luck was enough to make up for the lack of self-preservation and obvious lunacy.

  That ‘collective chip’ on their shoulders would get them all killed. Too many had already died in the capitol.

  Far too many would die in Silquor.

  Not much use in fussing over it though…

  For now, Jackson decided to simply enjoy the sensation of the warm morning sun on his skin, feeling its soothing touch wash over his face. A shower would’ve been preferable, obviously… but a bit of sunbathing after a night of hell was a close second.

  “Wonder what kind of headlines this’ll make back home. What do you think Jackson?”

  “Jackson?”

  “Hey Jackson?”

  “Wake up Jackson!”

  Forcing his eyes open as best he could, the corporal was met with a blurry sight in front of him.

  But this couldn’t be right. That had sounded like Crivello’s voice. And he was dead.

  Dead like all of them. Right?

  “Come on corp, get it together! Talk to me!”

  “… Sarge?”

  The blurry mass of colours and shapes in front of him was now taking the form of Sergeant Crivello. The very same that Jackson had met earlier that night. The very same that he was sure had died in that hellfire of plasma and crushing concrete.

  With one last shake to the shoulder, Crivello managed to rattle Jackson enough for his brain to start getting into gear. That was indeed the sergeant in front of him. He’d survived. Against all the bets the universe seemed to have made against them.

  “There you go. Come on Jackson, you ain’t dead yet.”

  “Where… where are the others?”

  Crivello didn’t answer immediately, instead propping up Jackson so that he was back on his behind, leaning against a nearby wall. Dizziness and a general feeling of disorientation were still shaking up Jackson’s brain, but he felt like he could at least try and make sense of the here and now.

  He’d figure out where up and down were soon enough.

  “They didn’t make it Jackson… at least, as far as I’m aware. Raines died in that other tower. I haven’t heard anything from Javelin… and well… sorry about your German friend. I stumbled over his body earlier.”

  So that were two confirmed KIAs, with still no word from Javelin.

  “Saberi?”

  “Nothing, but I wouldn’t hold out hope the kid made it. Listen, for now we need to get to the landing zone. I’d say it’s time to link up with the Strike Force. Get them their intel and get you to a corpsman.”

  Jackson for his part wanted to object, wanted to say that they should at least check for the others… but there wasn’t anything left in him to support that sort of bravery or naivety. Truth was that the intel they had was more valuable than any one Skydiver’s life. If Saberi and the others were alive, they’d have to wait.

  Another weight to put unto his shoulders…

  With Crivello pulling Jackson back unto his legs, the corporal was once again forced to put pressure on his limbs, immediately feeling muscles and tendons cry out in agony, torn away from that rest that they so desperately wished for.

  “Can you walk?”

  “Barely…”

  “Thought so… okay, hold on for a sec…”

  Crivello then searched for something in his pockets. Jackson’s mind caught up a second later with what the sergeant was getting at.

  ‘EnduroStim’.

  He wanted to object at that drug-cocktail being jammed into him, but the soldier could barely croak out basic answers, let alone object to something.

  “I know that look. I don’t like these either corporal, but right now I need you on your feet.”

  ‘Not liking it’ was an understatement. Jackson and pretty much every soldier in the Skycorps dreaded these stim-shots.

  To be used under extreme circumstances if soldiers were suffering from exhaustion and crumbling from physical exertion, they contained a potent mix of modified modafinil, MyroSynth and Glucopulse, all wrapped together with a good helping of Adrenaline.

  It would get Jackson back to his feet, but the crash-out in a few hours would leave him reeling. If he was unlucky, that’d be the end of the deployment for him.

  Still, some part of the corporal managed to override his baser instincts, reasoning that Crivello was right: In his current state, he’d never reach the landing site in time, let alone alive.

  Not with New Poltava still being as dangerous as it was.

  So, straightening his back a bit, Jackson leaned his head to the side and presented his neck.

  “Okay, hold on there corp. Worst comes to worst, you can tell the corpsman to yell at me for giving you this.”

  Jackson barely felt the needle penetrate his skin.

  What he did feel, in a matter of moments, was the change in his body. First a numbing sensation running along all of his muscles, followed by his face heating up and a metallic taste pouring over his tongue. Then, finally, the fog lifted.

  Like a weight had been taken off his brain, Jackson was met with a clearness he hadn’t felt in hours, allowing his mind to start making sense of things. To finally internalize what had happened. What was happening.

  Shaking his head, Jackson straightened his posture a bit. At first his muscles characteristically ached, but that too was washed away, subsiding into a slight tingling feeling over his entire body.

  “Hate these things…” Craning his neck to the side, Jackson could hear a satisfying ‘pop’ come from his spine. Rolling his shoulders resulted in no auditory feedback, but the soldier could feel just how smoother everything felt.

  “And yet they get ya going. Come on, we need to link up with the Stike Force and report our findings. Most importantly, your findings.”

  With that, Crivello produced what at first looked like a small black rectangle but was quickly identified by Jackson as the Blackbox from his helmet.

  Of course…

  With the protective piece of headwear gone, he could at least deliver the recordings and pictures from his visor to Strike Command.

  As Crivello handed Jackson’s Blackbox over to him the sergeant also produced another one, explaining: “From your friend. Fred. I’ve also got Raines’ Blackbox with me. Least we can do is make sure that the intel we all gathered actually gets put to use. Hope that this shitshow wasn’t for nothing…”

  Jackson didn’t feel like doing more than just solemnly nodding.

  “Anyway. Come on Jackson, double-time. Let’s get the fuck out of this city.”