[Colonel Marksman]

Author's Note: This was actually the original story I was going to post for the Grand Story Competition, but I somehow felt it wouldn't stand up as well in a Tau community, so I tried writing something else.

CULTIST

“Let none live.”

“Yes, my lord,” the Iron Hand Marine said with a short bow. The veteran sergeant turned to four of his companions and tilted his head to the right.

Three boltguns cocked–deep, guttural echoes throughout the steaming hallways of the hive world’s catacombs.

––––––

Crushing sounds of distant artillery brought Weiss to attention. He looked around the sewers, his shotgun’s flashlight aiming up and down through the endless darkness. He turned to his left and shook his companion.

“Zen! Zen, wake up!”

The artillery shells fell with a strange pattern. Six or seven hammered in the distance followed by one or two. Silence, then it started again.

Zen ruffled his stringy black hair and yawned, reaching for the lasgun at his side. “What do you make of it?”

Weiss stepped into the light made from a tunnel above. He had no uniform, just a factory worker’s shirt and gray camouflage pants, with only a flack vest for armored protection. His bare feet pattered in the gently running water. The quakes became louder.

“That can’t be no shelling of the planet,” Weiss replied looking up. “We’z are a mile underground.”

The sounds became louder and clearer, the pounding reaching their hearts.

“Shooting? Guns?”

The sounds hammered to a halt. The two men looked up through the dim light.

Teeth of a chainsaw snarled to life. A Space Marine jumped down the hole after the two men. Zen instinctively blocked with his lasgun, but might of the giant forced the buzzing chainsword straight through the lasgun, into the traitor’s face, down his chest and into his bowels.

Weiss screamed, shooting eight-gauge lead into the assailant. They bounced off the power armor like beads. Those that hit the Marine in the face bounced off like BBs from an airsoft gun.

Weiss ran, splashing sewage water as he did making footsteps easily traceable in the darkness. The veteran sergeant followed. As the guard ran, he felt his footing weaken beneath the artillery-pounding footsteps of the Space Marine, stumbling with the quakes.

He slid around a corner and dove, stomach-surfing on the downward slope. When he leveled again, Weiss stood back up and continued running. He looked behind. The Marine was only four meters away.

“Space Marines!” He shouted. “Space Marines!”

His bare feet slipped on a sharp object. Weiss lost his balance and fell into the water. The Marine took a few more bold steps, scooped up the man and lifted his catch in the air above his head. His armored fingers began to rip the flack vest. Weiss dropped his shotgun.

“Where are they hiding?” The Iron Hand asked.

Weiss breathed heavily, his head light. He lifted a weak right arm and slung it over the Marine’s arm, his hand’s motion followed by an audible clank.

The veteran sergeant looked at his shoulder pad to see a krak grenade.

The implosion turned Weiss into bloody goo, the Space Marine flung to the floor, his arm in pain and his face in the sewage water. Two of his battle brothers quickly made their way towards the sound.

“Are you alright?” one of them asked pulling his arm up. The veteran sergeant had a fist-sized wound on his right cheek, his shoulder pad appeared non-existent, and his right arm was badly scratched and twisted.

“Just shell-shock,” he said shaking his head and sitting to rest. “Just shell shock. Continue the search, brothers.” he tried to stand, but fell back down. The blast had knocked him senselessly. “I will be with you. The Emperor keeps us strong.”

“The Emperor keeps us strong,” the two replied.

Both Marines began picking up sound and heat signatures like never before. They continued moving down the sewage, rats scrambling away from the quaking of their footsteps.

––––––

A ragged priest clutched tightly to his golden ring that hung around his neck. Eyes widened with watery tears. “Be–be brave, my followers,” he said with a creaky voice.

Factory workers, beggars, merchants, aristocrats and Arbites, a group numbering almost a hundred persons stood from their meditation. Yet, none had marks of chaos, no mutation, nor did any of them seem to be psykers in the least. But all held a look of sorrow as weapons were passed around. Shotguns, autoguns, pistols, a few bolters, and frag grenades. All were prepared to defend their worship from whatever came through the main door.

“Hide the children, for they are our future,” the priest commanded.

A walk-in closet was opened, as was a trap-door inside underneath the rug. A young, black mother kissed her six-year-old son as she laid him inside the trap door. “Be brave and quiet, my son,” she said.

“Mamma, what’s going to happen? Are we going to die?”

The mother tearfully shook her head. “Not you, any of you. May the Emperor grant mercy.” Eighteen boys and girls younger than thirteen were pushed in and told to remain quiet. The door was bolted shut and a sliding wall hid it.

The mother took hold of a lasgun. All could feel the thumping footsteps. “Space Marines,” they whispered amongst themselves. All faced the single, wide door in the middle of the iron walls. The footsteps rumbled to a halt just in front. Weapons raised, charged and cocked…

––––––

“I think it’s booby-trapped,” one of the Iron Hands whispered.

“I see nothing,” the other replied. “We can open the door and wait.”

“Agreed.”

Both Marines stood on either side of the door. One gently tightened his thick, armored fingers over the round knob. He twisted it, and jerked quickly. The door squeaked open, then silence.

They both turned to take a look. Tiny words could be read on a number of boxes attached to the door. Face Towards Enemy.

“Emperor’s Throne!”

The frag grenades and anti-tank mines released a chain-reaction of explosions, running a whole three meters to the left and right. Heavy stubbers, lasguns, shotguns, autoguns, and various pistols followed.

The two Marines were bloodied, their armor ripped and chipped, but nonetheless, one leaned forward. He glanced at the bolter at his side, smashed into the wall and badly jammed. He pulled out his bolt pistol and yelled as he open fired. His enhanced hearing could pick out the sounds of exploding heads as he pulled the trigger. He was met by a hailstone of bullets and lasers.

“Brother Arcam!”

It was the veteran sergeant. He brought two more battle brothers with him, and from behind, a group of dancing lights. A squad of ten Arbites came behind the Space Marines.

A man stepped out into the sewers, a powered chainsaw above his head. As he yelled, a bolt pierced his chest and exploded. Another cultist stepped out and shot a grenade launcher. The frag round collided with the veteran’s power armor, the blast knocking him back, but he protected the Arbites behind him.

Another cultist picked up the grenade launcher. Arcam fired his last bolt round. It barely missed, cutting through the burned remains of the door, and dislocated the shoulder of a woman taking cover behind it.

The cultist with the grenade launcher ducked, but remained in his place. He swung the weapon and squeezed the trigger, twisting the multi-barrel chamber, the pump ready to release a krak round tucked inside.

Something heavy clattered onto the cultist’s right foot. He looked down at his ragged boot to find a frag grenade.

“Grenade!”

The cultists pulled back and dove inward. Shrapnel burst from the canisters as heavy ceramic bands thrust into the bodies of those who did not get far enough. The three Space Marines ripped the walls apart and knelt as their Arbite allies provided covering fire with autoguns and boltguns. Return fire bounced off or absorbed into the Space Marine power armor.

Like the shields of the three hundred Spartans, the Space Marines slowly advanced forward, protecting the Arbites who murdered the masses with hating care. They name-called the cultists, stirring them to fight harder.

“Traitors!”

“Cowards!”

“Weakness!”

“Heretics!”

The inquisitor came up from behind. The Arbites bowed as he pulled the double trigger to his bolter-flamer, spraying into the thinning crowd. Dozens of people—their bodies, their wounded, their women, their teenagers, the sick and elderly, cackling away like splintering wood.

And yet, the flames flowing with the power of blessed oils did not calm nor bring surrender. They pushed forward, lobbing burning chairs, bodies, and alcohol onto the Space Marines. One of the Arbites’ hand and the veteran marine’s shoulder was caught between a burning crowbar, swung from a fifteen-year-old beggar. Encouraged by his small victory, the boy ran forward, shooting his las pistol before taking three bolts to the chest.

The flames receded, and so did the masses. The inquisitor was stunned. There were no pleas for mercy. Nothing to say that they even desired forgiveness in the slightest.

“Marines! Use your fists. There is no need to waste any more of the Emperor’s precious ammunition. Let none live!”

Weakened elderly and men half-eaten by flames fought with their bare fists and clubs till the Space Marines kicked and crushed their frail bodies.

With an auspex scanner, one of the Arbites wove his hand along the walls, the screams of dying people in the background. He waved it by the hidden wall. It screeched.

One of the Arbites turned to see a Priest, blood trickling down his face. His breathing is heavy and pale, but strong for a dying old man.

“The Emperor protects,” he whispered airily. “We have done no wrong here. Ask for forgiveness.”

The Arbite put his shotgun’s barrel up to his face.

As he pulled the trigger, the scanning Arbite turned to inquisitor. “I’m getting readings.”

The veteran sergeant walked up to it, feeling the wall with his right hand before bursting his mechanical arm through. He punched a second time and began pulling it apart. “Inquisitor,” he said turning back. “What about these?”

The inquisitor peered into the walk-in closet. The Space Marine picked up a girl no older than four years. She shivered like a rattlesnake’s tail, green eyes wide and wet. Her fingers nervously rubbed together, golden hair twisting and heavy with sweat.

The inquisitor’s eyes softened for only a moment before he turned away. After a swallow, he turned back. “Let none live.”

“As you wish.” The Space Marine looked at the child lying down in his hand. “For the Emperor, little one.”

His hands came together like a crack of thunder.

Children inside the closet were horrified by the explosion of blood and fragmented bones. Nothing remained in the Marine’s hands but an oversoaking, red-dripping dress. He stepped inside the closet. Screams, wails, and cries for mothers did not stop him.

Underneath the floor, five children held close to each other, shocked and crying. The Space Marine’s footsteps creaked from above. He paused, looked around and the wail of a boy was silenced, the last one.

“Something is different here,” the veteran sergeant said.

[ChaplainKenny]

Well, I kind of liked it.

Originally Posted by Colonel Marksman

Those that hit the Marine in the face bounced off like BBs from an airsoft gun.

I think you need to change that analogy, as airsoft is long gone :P. Very intresting otherwise, though.

[Colonel Marksman]

Originally Posted by ChaplainKenny

Well, I kind of liked it.

I think you need to change that analogy, as airsoft is long gone :P. Very intresting otherwise, though.

Lol. It's just a comparison. Imagine if being hit in the face by a shotgun slug struck you like BBs from an airsoft gun. That's how I imagine the Space Marine looks at it.

[ChaplainKenny]

Heh, I know. Maybe like hail on the windshield?

[brickinthat]

Like the shields of the three hundred Spartans, the Space Marines slowly advanced forward, protecting the Arbites who murdered the masses with hating care. They name-called the cultists, stirring them to fight harder.


i thought the spartan reference was shitty, otherwise good though and yes i agree with the bb's thing too