Greeting The Corridor

This is a short story I am working on in relation to New Horizon (http://www.newhorizonrpg.com)

Three days, three very long days, that’s exactly how long Harken had been sitting in this turret staring out at endless plains as he waited for something to happen. Command said that Animus activity spiked in this area yesterday, but so far their unit had come across exactly zero activity, and about twelve stew pots worth of grassilope. Patrolling the outer edges of the combat zone made for long days when nothing happened. Mile after mile, he was blessed with visions of yet another grass covered hill. His unit hadn’t even seen combat in over a month. Perhaps someone up top was giving them these assignments for their own twisted pleasure.

Harken shifted in his seat, and, for the third time today, went over the standard checks for his turret. He wasn’t the best shot, but he was the smallest one in his unit, which earned him a seat as gunner in one of their three tanks. Of course these were barely tanks by any stretch of the term, cobbled together from whatever Avalon had handy when the war started. These things ran on hope and fairy farts and only did that about every other day. Harken hated his seat, his torso felt too open, too exposed, but he fit the best in the snug space which left his legs overheated and squeezed together like a plump lady trying to fit into her kid jeans again.

He checked his available ammo, barely depleted from where it had started earlier this week, then went about testing all the moving parts. Instinct and practice saw him done in less than a minute, as he once again was sure that everything was in working order.

“Jake, toss me a drink” His voice echoed slightly in the cramped interior, and was answered a short time later as a small frontal hatch opened to reveal a glistening fresh canteen as Jake landed it perfectly in Harken’s lap.

“Thanks.” The cap popped off easily enough, and cool life flowed down his throat, taking the dust and grime with it and leaving a refreshed feeling that was rarer and rarer these days.

“You guys getting anything in there?”

“Nothing, All I can see is another stretch of road and a couple more miles until dinner.”

The voice was too muddled to make pick out the speaker, but the general nature of the comment would have put it square out of Terry’s lips. He always thought with his stomach. Not that Harken blamed the man. MRE’s were great for keeping up strength, but there was nothing like a nice ravager steak waiting for them back at the barracks. Sad to think that before joining the military Harken would have turned his nose up even at a meal such as that. He smiled and laughed weakly thinking about his life before this. War changed everything, made everyone stand up and pay attention. Harken was a painter before this whole deal with the Animus. Now his most common color was red, and those were hardly masterpieces.

Lost in thought, Harken almost missed the warning as the sound of gravel grating under tread was replaced by a distinct metallic click. Everything slowed down as the tank shook slightly. For a second, Harken thanked whoever was watching over him that the IED was a dud, and then the entire vehicle lifted into the air. He felt the lower half of the tank lurch up before the upper half even began to move. In that split second, he knew he was never going to see his friends again. Two lives ended in an instant, snuffed between unforgiving pieces of metal.

The explosion broke the gunner’s seat loose inside what was left of the compartment. As the tank came back down to earth, the seatbelt pulled into his hip. The unmistakable pop and sudden pain told Harken that his right hip was dislocated. The tank rolled to its side, tossing the chair free as the seatbelt finally gave way from the strain. He hit the dirt rolling, trying to ignore the pain lancing from his hip, down his leg, and up his side. If he didn’t get out of the way, the tank would crush him when it came to a stop.

He barely missed what was left of the front hatch, as the twisted metal hit the dirt next him. His brief moment of grace was cut short by a now unrecognizable piece of metal that caught him in the chest. The impact crushed into his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs, but his armor held. His arm didn’t fare as well, as a deep gash opened along his right forearm.

As the dust from the explosion cleared, Harken could hear the sound of shouts and gunfire. Someone had missed their warning; someone had driven their convoy directly into an ambush. Luckily for Terry, he wasn’t going to be around to see the aftermath. Had it been Terry? Harken’s mind was so fuzzy at the moment he couldn’t even remember which tank had taken point this morning. Maybe it was Denvers, or Claudia today. Either way, men around him were screaming and dying.

Harken tried to silence the screaming pain in his hip and arm as he crawled back to the wreckage of his tank. He had to get into this fight, had to do something. He desperately searched for a weapon as fire burned around him and twisted metal threatened to cut him open. His knife was still on his hip, and a couple grenades as well, but he needed something with range. The weapons compartment was still mostly intact, and Harken thanked his luck again. At least this time it was going right.

The door grated against the twisted framework, but eventually pulled open enough for Harken to grab a rifle. He checked the weapon over as fast as he could, and then set about determining where the enemy was. His tank lay in the middle of the field, Claudia’s in front and Denvers' behind. None of them were moving, but his was the only one that looked completely down for the count.

Alexis and Samuel were already dead; apparently the gunners were the first targets on the working tanks. He was bruised, bloody, and limping, but at least he was still alive. Bullets hit the dirt around him as he made his way toward what remained of his unit. He couldn’t cross the gap between the tanks, not without being picked off. There was an explosion nearby, and a piece of shrapnel scored a large gash across his left cheek, and he dove back behind the wreckage of his own vehicle. Taking cover behind what was left of the driver’s compartment, he said a silent prayer when he saw the unmistakable crimson leaking from beneath the hatch. Terry was never going to get that dinner.

A larger explosion, probably a rocket round, sent up a plume of dirt and rocks littering the battlefield and leaving a ten foot crater just behind where Harken had taken cover. He still couldn’t see the enemy, but he knew what direction they were coming from. He scooted as far out as he dared, and tried to see anything through the dirt and glare. He wasn’t sure, but it looked as if they had dug into a hillside just past the road and then disguised it to cover their presence. Gunfire exploded around him again. In the confusion he couldn't tell if it was from his own weapon, or his enemies'. He may have fired, but at the moment he couldn’t remember.

He squeezed the trigger and felt the familiar jolt as his rifle went into action. He didn’t see any individual Animus, but at least he knew their position. Round after round sped down his barrel and toward the hill, jolt after jolt reminded him that his right arm was bleeding from earlier, and his hip was still out of place. He must have hit something, because he heard a guttural howl and saw what looked to be a crimson mist in the dust. Taking aim toward the sound, he had a brief moment to register what sounded like gyrocopter blades before the ground in front of him disappeared and he went blind in a flash of light and pain.

Slowly, Harken regained his senses enough to take stock of his surroundings. He couldn't tell how long it had been since the explosion. Had it been only a few minutes, or had he lost hours? He was flat on his back, shielded by what remained of his tank, and still listening to the sounds of gunfire. Something was different though. The weapons fire sounded wrong, and he could hear what sounded like swords striking one another.

Sure that there were no enemies immediately around him, he grabbed his rifle and posted at the corner of the wreckage once again. Through the dust in the air, he could see two gyrocopters between the tanks and the hillside, and four heavily armored combatants pressing the attack against the Animus. Before he could even pick out an enemy combatant, the fighting stopped. Three of the figures began searching through the hillside, while the fourth turned and made his way toward the tanks.

The warrior was wearing crimson armor with silver and gold tracings along the edges of plates and in decorative motif across larger sections of the body. When the figure cleared the dust of battle, Harken could clearly make out the number thirteen engraved on his shoulder in gold traced roman numerals. Harken’s breath caught in his lungs. Corridor thirteen was recently established, but had already garnered a reputation surpassing that of the Animus. They were commissioned as part of Animus Stalkers,but were often known by the more colorful slang term of core stealers. It was said that they could read a wafan’s mind simply by looking into his eyes. Some even claimed they could steal one’s wave form.

Though the figure was heavily armored, Harken could tell that he was a vanir. He was much too big to be an aesir, and jotuns were rarely so close to human in form. The man made his way past Claudia’s tank, stopping to examine a body that Harken couldn’t recognize from this distance, and then headed straight for Harken’s position. Even though the Stalkers had saved his life, he felt like hiding; like curling up in a ball and disappearing beneath the wreckage.

His heart raced as the man approached. Aware that we was clutching his rifle like a club, Harken slowly eased it to the ground beside him, just in time for a hand larger than his face to grasp him around the throat and lift him into the air. A brief moment of panic, and his eyes locked with the brilliant orange oculars of his would be savior. In that instant, he felt his body freeze. His muscles refused to work, his heart refused to beat, and he would have sworn that his wave form stopped functioning. There was an odd sensation from his idpulse that could only be described as a pull, and the vanir relaxed his grip. A strong voice barely released the word “clean”, and Harken knew that the individual wasn’t talking to him.

“Aesir, what is your assignment, and what happened here?” As if he finally recognized that he held another wafan before him, the Animus Stalker spoke, and slowly lowered Harken back down to the ground.

“I’m a tank gunner assigned to perimeter patrol duty out of the Hesper unit. We were conducting routine patrols when we were hit by IEDs and ambushed by Animus.” He winced as weight once again assaulted his hip. “Did anyone else make it?”

The Stalker’s eyes sank slightly, and he shook his head slowly. “You’re the only one we found. The Animus have a base dug in about a kilometer down the road and we were sweeping in to try and take them out when we came across your wreckage. You’re lucky we got here when we did. Help will be along shortly, but my unit and I have to join the strike force. We will leave some supplies for you.”

He was the only one? Claudia, Denvers, Terry, and all the rest silenced in a few moments of panic and explosions. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t glorious, and most of all, it wasn’t right. Something stirred in Harken’s chest, his strength finally seeming to inch its way back. “I’m coming with you. These were my friends here, my family. If you’re going after the main group I want in.”

His strength ebbed again as the vanir placed a hand on his shoulder and barely pushed, dropping Harken back into the dirt, sending a jolt of pain through his hip. “You are injured. You can’t walk, and from the look of your arm you won’t be able to hold a rifle worth a darn until you get some medical attention. You would be more of a liability than a help. Stay here and wait for the med crew to come and pick you up in a few minutes. You can come back for the next fight.”