Chapter 20: The Gristle-Hound
The bosses retreated to their respective lines, and the slaughter began.
Someone in the Fertilizer Syndicate screamed, "FOR THE EMPEROR!" and three thousand voices roared in response.
What followed was a skirmish in the pure, unadulterated style of the 41st Millennium: a chaotic blend of primitive steel and roaring gunpowder. Morale was unnaturally high. These were bottom-tier hive gangers, yet they fought with the fanatical zeal of Imperial Saints, hacking and shooting at one another without a single step of retreat.
At the center of the vault, a hill began to rise—a literal mountain of the dead.
The Fertilizer Syndicate managed to plant their banner atop this "Corpse-Cairn," and a squad of autogunners scrambled to the peak. From the summit of rotting meat, they rained fire down on the Alchem-Hounds, their mismatched weapons barking in a rhythmic symphony of lead. It was the "Golgotha of the Guts," a localized version of the eternal attrition that defined the Imperium.
The Hounds had the numbers, but they were mostly "Chem-Wraiths"—starving junkies whose only advantage was that they were too high to feel their limbs being severed. Eventually, the battle slowed into a grueling grind of attrition.
High in the operator's cab, Kian worked with cold, mechanical precision. He fired a shot every four or five seconds, his breath steady.
"Two hundred and fifty meters out. Blue shipping container. See that Chem-Hound with the stub-rifle?" Kian asked, his eye pressed to the optic.
Shiv, huddled beside him, nodded. "Target marked, sir."
CRACK!
The target's head vanished in a spray of grey matter.
"Left side. Three hundred meters. The punk with the mohawk and the fire-bomb. See him?"
"Marked!"
CRACK!
The punk's throat erupted. He slumped over, his fire-bomb igniting his own clothes as he tumbled into a sump-puddle.
"Two hundred meters. On the flank of the Corpse-Cairn. The one with the scrap-shield."
"Marked!"
CRACK!
"Ah... missed that one," Kian muttered.
"You hit the guy standing behind him! Count it!" Shiv chirped, scribbling on his slate.
In this surreal atmosphere of "Shoot-and-Tally," Kian emptied a fifteen-round magazine. Total count: six confirmed kills, 1,800 scrips earned. He tossed the empty mag to Shiv, who immediately began thumbing fresh 8.9mm slugs into the spring.
Kian fired through two more magazines until the barrel of the Vindicatus was shimmering with heat.
"Position's compromised," Kian said, pulling the rifle back. "We're moving."
"We're stopping?" Shiv asked, confused.
"Repositioning. Stay in one place too long and someone will drop a grenade on your head. What's the count?"
"Seventeen confirmed, sir."
They scrambled down the crane's ladder and sprinted toward the western flank of the vault. They ran for over a kilometer, Shiv panting heavily under the weight of the ammo bags, until they reached a cluster of derelict cargo containers.
Kian looked up. "Squat down. Boost me up."
Shiv obeyed, and Kian used the boy's shoulders to vault onto the roof of the corrugated steel box. He then reached down and hauled the boy up.
The view wasn't as panoramic as the crane, but it covered the Hound's approach perfectly. Just as Shiv stood up, a series of heavy, metallic clangs echoed from the crane they had just vacated. A hail of heavy-stubber fire shredded the operator's cab, turning the glass and light armor into a sieve.
Shiv turned pale. If they had stayed ten seconds longer, they'd be red paste.
"Focus, kid! Tally!"
Kian lay prone on the container, using his backpack as a makeshift rifle rest. He waited thirty seconds for his heart rate to drop, letting the barrel cool in the stagnant air.
CRACK... CRACK... CRACK.
The Vindicatus spoke again. Every few shots, another Alchem-Hound fell.
This surgical precision did not go unnoticed. The Matriarch, watching from her command-pulpit, narrowed her eyes at the flickering muzzle flashes on the western flank. Kian was too effective; he was picking off her squad leaders before they could push the line.
She turned to a hulking brute standing beside her—a man whose muscles were so overdeveloped they looked like knotted tumors. His head was shaven, and his skin was a map of needle-tracks.
"My child," she whispered, her voice a cold rasp. "Go and bring me that sniper's tongue."
The brute knelt and kissed her leather boot, his eyes glazed with a mix of devotion and chemical lust. The Matriarch reached out, and a pneumatic needle slid from her bracer, plunging directly into the brute's carotid artery. She depressed the plunger, emptying a full vial of Onslaught-Stimm.
The brute's skin turned a violent, bruised purple. His veins bulged like serpents under his skin. He let out a wet, guttural roar and took off toward the western flank, moving with the explosive speed of a preying animal.
Kian was lining up another shot when he heard the rhythmic, heavy thud-thud-thud of a massive weight moving fast. He swung his rifle around.
A two-meter-tall Gristle-Hound was barreling toward his container. The freak was moving at a dead sprint, ignoring the debris and fire in his path.
"Holy Throne!" Kian hissed.
He tracked the target and squeezed the trigger.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Five shots. All misses. The beast was zig-zagging with a speed that defied its bulk.
"Gristle-Hound! Gristle-Hound!" Shiv screamed, scrambling backward. "It'll strip the meat from our bones!"
"Shut up and load!" Kian barked. He sat up, took a deep breath, and led the target. He centered the front post on the brute's leading knee.
CRACK!
A wet thud followed. The 8.9mm slug tore a chunk of meat the size of a dinner plate out of the brute's thigh. The Gristle-Hound's leg gave out, and he went tumbling, sliding across the metal floor for twenty meters, leaving a trail of purple blood and shredded skin.
"He's down!" Shiv cheered.
Kian didn't cheer. He saw the brute already pushing himself back up. He lined up the shot to finish him.
Click.
Empty chamber.
"Crap! Mag! Now!"
Shiv fumbled, finally shoving a fresh magazine into Kian's hand. Kian slammed it home and racked the bolt, but the Gristle-Hound was already back on its feet. The freak didn't even look at its mangled leg; the stimms had completely disconnected its brain from its nervous system.
"MOTHER WANTS YOUR HEAD!" the beast shrieked, frothing at the mouth.
It lunged. In less than ten seconds, it cleared the remaining distance and launched itself into the air, its massive, clawed hands reaching for the top of the container.
Kian leveled the Vindicatus at the soaring mountain of meat. With Shiv's scream ringing in his ears, he pulled the trigger.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!