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Corpsman First Class John Turk grunted and pulled again on the Cultists blade. His scream was impossibly loud as the serrated teeth of the blade pulled and tore at his insides, finally pulling free in a spray of gore and arcing tendrils of blood. He instantly threw the blade into the darkness. He felt the hot blood warm his skin as his life spilled on the dusty floor of the T’Hephestan Agri-Corp office building. This office was once bustling with clerk-adepts issuing production permits and subsidy waivers to the land owners of the Rim-Worlds, but now it was nothing more than one of a thousand crumbling ruins associated with this war.

His hands were numb with shock as his blood slicked fingers fumbled for the PLB (personal locator beacon) on his wrist, and thumbed it to life sending his vitals, and location on a IG Medical Command frequency. He then felt around inside his med-pack for his only hope, and inside one of the pack’s many pockets, he felt the telltale shape of his stim-needle. Part stimulant, part medicae and mostly painkiller, he injected the potent narcotic, anti-biotic, pro-coagulant, and body regulating mixture into his thigh. Instantly he began to calm as he could feel the drug cocktail begin it’s work. He tasted the antiseptic-chemical flavor through his tongue.

John found the taste of it sickening the first time he had ever tested a watered down stim-needle during basic training, but ever since that day, he loved that taste. The training cadre medicae officer had told his unit that “It is what life tastes like.” He struggled to maintain his focus as the powerful narcotic chemicals relieved most of his pain. He saw the blood flow from his stomach wound slow, as the pro-coagulants forced his blood to thicken and clot. He began to focus on his breathing, and maintaining his heart rate as the adrenal stimulants sent his heart racing, to power the thickened blood through his body.

The pain of the wound faded but was replaced with the pain of a hundred capillaries bursting from the pressure of the chemically thickened blood as it tore through his body. His hand shook violently, as he struggled to complete the next step of the stim-needle treatment. He pulled the cap from the opposite end of the stim-needle, and injected the counter agents. The agent’s chemicals would counter act the worst of the stim-needle’s side effects. It would thin the blood, now that the wound had almost sealed itself. The counter narcotics brought back a good amount of the pain from his wound, but would clear his mind of the narcotics worst effects, stopping his slide into a drug induced euphoric overdose.

He dropped the stim-needle and tried to focus on his surroundings. The quickly cooling, slowly spreading blood of the slain Cultist, seemed to darken the room in the fading light of the evening. His Rixon pattern las-rifle laid near his feet, dropped during the vicious close quarters fighting. He knew the power pack was almost exhausted. He struggled to hook his foot in the sling and drag it his hand. He slid his palm under the pistol grip and pull it close to his body, too weak to lift it off the floor. He knew he wouldn’t be able to effectively fire it, or even defend himself, but its presence still brought him a modicum of comfort and a sense of safety. He then closed his eyes… he felt himself slip quickly into a drug addled haze. His last thoughts and hopes, before he slipped into oblivion, was that he would again be one of the lucky 38 percent of Guardsmen who survived the stim-needle’s tender mercies.

Very nicely done. Hope to see more, perhaps continuing this?

Sergeant John Turk stepped onto an empty ammo crate and peered into the darkness. No sooner than his eyes adjusted to the moonlit landscape, then the Ground in front of the trench was instantly ripped to shreds as the Greenskins fired their incredibly loud, smoke-belching, highly inaccurate slug throwers. Luckily for Turk, their aim was as bad as their smell, and that was fething awful! “Four days,” that had been what Command had told him, “four days.” Four days till relief came, four days till they were re-supplied, four days till the received a new CO. “Four Days.” That was eight days ago. Turk wished that the paymasters at battalion would utilize the same mathematical model as Command when it came to his pay voucher. He smiled and spit out flecks of dirt from his mouth.

“I think they are still out there.” He said as he gave, what he hoped would be a reassuring smile.

He looked at the group of soldiers around him. Their youthful faces were painted with a mix of fear, confusion and determination. Yeah, that was the true face of the IG all right. Not the thin-lipped cat-that-ate-the-canary look on the faces of soldiers in the recruitment holo-vids. These kids should be in secondary agri-school, not crouching in a trench on some pointless, worthless, tundra covered planet in the H‘radrar System, waiting to be butchered by Orks. He picked up the vox-set held out to him by Corpsman Chandler. She managed to mirror his smile, but it was more sad than amused. Her face was as dirty, pale and pretty as the moon above, and her bright red-hair was about as conducive to her camouflage as a road-flare. She was scared, they all were. He knew as well as they did that the next charge would be the last.

For days they had absorbed the brunt of the Ork assault. Their section of trench had collapsed for meters on both flanks from the unceasing Ork artillery. They were over 100 yards from the nearest occupied trench, and despite the poor aim of the Greenskins, he knew that there was no way that they would survive a run with no cover across a no-mans-land of broken stones, muddy runnels and collapsed defenses. If he could only get a message to Firebase Delta, he could request a fire mission that might give them enough cover to fall back out of this trench. But the Vox tower at Beta had been shot to hell during the last Ork assault. He keyed the vox-set and began transmitting on the only channel where there was an answer. Command.

“Rixon Two One Six, this is Rixon Four Three Five, come in over.”

He waited as the static on the vox filled the trench like a nerve gas. He could imagine the comm-troopers at Command arguing amongst each other as to who would have the unsavory duty of lying to them again about support… or speaking with the “soon-to-be-dead.”

“Rixon Two One Six, this is Rixon Four Three Five, I repeat, come in over.”

The static again was like a black fog, as if every second or static would stretch into an eternity. Come on! He though, just tell us the lie, and keep these kid’s hope alive.

“Uhh…Rixon Four Three Five, this… uh, is Rixon Two One Six, we read you over.” A thin girlish voice sounded over the vox, obviously a new recruit had received the honor.

“Rixon Two One Six, we are in bad shape here, ammo is fifteen percent , platoon is twenty percent, we need those reinforcements, now.” He released the thumbswitch and waited.

“Rixon Four Three Five, this is Rixon Two One Six, your orders are to hold position until re-inforced.” The sudden reassurance in her voice told John that she was obviously reading off of some print copy orders, that some senior officer without the spine to speak to him directly had given her. As if reading it assuaged her guilt somehow. He could hear the Orks whipping themselves up again, as they had done before. The assault was imminent. This was it. They were coming.

“Emperor Damn You all to the Warp!” John cursed, as he threw down the vox-set and took a deep breath.

“Listen Up,” He shouted over the ever increasing din of Ork howls and Grot screeching, and staccato gunfire, “Grab your weapons and get on the line, “ His voice was hard edged and loud in the close confines of the trench. He tried to think of something inspiring to say, or some famous last words, words that would steele his resolve as much as dispel the fears of young troopers around him, but all he could really think of was to say in the seconds before the Orks began their final assault was…

“Fix Bayonets.”

Your story is gritty and believable.. I like that. Keep it coming bro.

Lieutenant John Turk sat in the red tinged darkness of the Valkyrie and ran his hand reassuringly over the smooth plasteel casing of his Rixon pattern assault las-rifle. He knew his weapon well, he had never had anything in his life as dependable as this rifle. It had never left him for another man. It had never betrayed him. It had never failed him. He felt the names he had carefully, and lovingly carved into the side of the barrel shroud. Those names meant more to him than all the medals and honors he had ever received. It was the names of the worlds liberated by his Imperial Guard unit, the Rixon 3rd Airborne Infantry.

The Rixon 3rd AI had a long and storied history. For over a six millennia, the 3rd AI had served the Holy Throne of Terra, fighting at the Cadian Gates during Abbadon’s Black Crusade, may the Emproer burn him from the universe, defending the perimeter worlds of Armageddon during The Great Waaagh!, as well as pushing back the rogue tendrils of Hive Fleet Leviathan from Tarsus Secundus. He looked over his squad and chirped his headset vox-caster…

“ETA 15 minutes to drop zone. 2nd platoon sound off!” The replies came in order of seniority from his squad members.

“Sergeant Willmon, ready sir!”
“Corporal Spiering, ready sir!”
“Corpsman First Class Roberts, ready sir!”
"Corpsman First Class Chandler, ready sir!"
“Corpsman Mckinney, ready sir!”
“Corpsman Headings, ready sir!”
“Corpsman Crooms, ready sir!”
“Corpsman Hawthorn, ready sir!”
“Corpsman Walker, ready sir!”

John felt the tell-tale prolonged shudder of the Valkyrie entering the lower atmosphere. He lightly kissed the medal of St. Basillius, patron saint of Fools and Daredevils, and tucked it back inside his fatigues, then stood up, and grabbed the walk-line as he made his way to the drop ramp.

“Final checks! Prep for deployment!” He shouted, not bothering with the vox, his troops knew what to do.

“IN HIS NAME!” Came the unanimous reply from his unit, loud enough to be heard over the incredible din inside the tight confines of the passenger hold.

John checked the straps of his thermoplas armor, making sure they were tight. The dark grey of his fatigues was barely visible past the flat black of the armor segments, like a beetle, so black as to feel almost slick to the touch. Like the rest of his unit he wore a billed cloth combat cap, as all scout platoons of the 3rd AI wore. The standard issue guard helmet would limit his unit’s visibility and keep him from accurately pinpointing the sounds of the enemy during a stealth recon. He and the rest of his platoon would be trading protection for perception, as the olds AI saying goes… but he felt more like the brass thought helmets were more expensive than soldiers.

The long, custom las-rifle power packs were fully charged, and their weight felt good against his chest. He double checked his equipment one last time, and breathed deeply as the red light switched to yellow.

“PREPARE TO DROP!” John shouted over the wail of the drop klaxon.

“SIR, YES SIR!” came the reply from the platoon.

The Valkyrie’s drop hatch began to open and wind filled the hold. John clipped his grav-chute to the static line.

“HOOK UP!” He shouted.

The reply was lost in the howl of the wind. John Turk knew that he would not have to issue the order, he knew his platoon would follow. As the light turned green, John Turk took 4 quick steps and leapt from the jump hatch of the Valkyrie. His grav-chute deployed immediately and almost jerked his arms out of socket. He tried to exhale to lessen the strain, but grav-chute deployment was as dangerous as any activity in the Imperial Guard ranks. He knew that the mission had a low probability of survival, but only death in the service to the God Emperor of man could one find eternal glory. Only by becoming the sword in his hand of Him on Earth, could one achieve greatness in this life of misery and darkness.

As his fall slowed and the canopy of the tall fir trees below rocketed up to meet him did he notice a dark shape hurtle past him in the darkness, the grav-chute ripped to shreds by the force of such a high speed insertion. He could hear the soft noise of the corpsman’s screams as she plummeted to her death. He activated his vox-link.

“2nd Platoon Sound off!”

All but Headings sounded off into the vox in his ear… another trooper lost. There was a reason grav-chute deployment was only for the bravest or craziest troopers in the Imperium. They landed in the clearing designated in their drop plan with surgical precision. The removed all usable equipment from Corpsman Heading’s body, and quickly buried her in a shallow grave, camouflaging the site. Sergeant Turk recited a quick prayer to the Emperor, imploring Him on Earth to welcome her, another soul, ready for the final battle.

Corpsman Walker, a good friend of Corpsman Headings, stayed kneeling at the mound, as John Turk moved his squad into the night. He motioned for McKinney to rise and take point. McKinney moved quickly, replacing his cover and taking his rifle to his shoulder, moving silently past the column of assembled soldiers.

Everyone ignored the silent as the tears on Walker's face.

Brilliant.