Blood Never Dries

Notice:

The story has been influenced by Warhammer 40k.

Cloudless Thunder is artillery.

Blood.

Blood painted him, but it was not his own. Shouts could be heard. Through he paid them no mind. His eyes forward, not daring to look away.

Mind racing. Heart pumping. Blood flowing. Muscles stiff.

He had to go forward. Not because he had to, no one would blame him if he turned back. He had to go forward because he was already too far.

A deafening boom came from the left cutting off screams of pain but starting more. Cloudless thunder rains from above. Ripping people to pieces. Viscera flies. Now coating the left side of his face. Blind in one eye he pushes on.

Each step a mile.

Each step a journey.

Each step is a lifetime.

But yet he pushes on.

A brief flash turns the man in front to paste. If that. Now blind in both eyes he continues to push.

One miss step determines whether he lives or dies. One miss step kills him. He dares not falter because he cannot falter.

He knows he is close. He does not know how close though.

Out of breath.

Out of energy...

...

But he is not out of faith. He takes one last breath not knowing if it is his last. He begins to scream, not out of pain but of determination.

He falls.

He did not falter.

He did not miss-step.

Neither was shot.

Nor turned into a cloud of mist.

He had reached his goal.

As he falls hears something. Not to his left or right, but right in front of him. He hears a painful gasp.

A smile blossoms on his bloodied face. Still blinded by the blood and sweat.

He pushes his weapon into the man to hear him scream. Just like the men he stood beside moments ago. But no scream came.

The smile that had just blossomed fades. Replaced by confusion.

He hurriedly raises his hand to wipe what he can for his eyes. To see once more.

The man was dead.

Not moving.

Not flinching.

Not a spark of life in his eyes.

The bayonet had gone straight through his ribs and into his heart. The death was nearly instant. Just enough to let out a painful gasp.

He yanks out the blade not caring about the blood spraying him.

He sees an enemy out of the corner of his eye still shooting.

He moves his weapon to face the man who paid his friend no mind as he pulls the trigger, too close to miss. (The man who was stabbed)

Only after the man falls does he realize that something was not right. He looks down to inspect himself to see a shard of metal. A shard of metal that cut him through.

As the adrenaline begins to fade does he realize the extent of his injuries. He had not made it to the enemy line in one piece. 3 holes straight through him.

He staggers forward onto the next enemy refusing to quit. His right leg collapses causing him to fall to the floor still clenching his weapon tight.

The man is still clinging to life even though he should be dead. His strength is fading and fading fast. He releases his weapon with no more strength to hold it with.

The sound of cloudless thunder cuts out.

The assault is over.

It was a failure.

Boots are heard a distance away. The reinforcements arrive to replenish the casualties. The men stop a distance away for man cut through. Surprised that someone managed to make it. Though not in one piece.

The reinforcements begin to mock the dead guardsmen. They walk over to see if the guardsmen had anything on him.

One of the reinforcements glances over at the men the guardsmen managed to kill. He mutters under his breath 'Damn fucking corpse-god fanatics'.

By now the others had turned the guardsmen over to check from loot. The eyes of the guardsmen flutter open. His eyes immediately locks onto the man who said 'corpse-god'. Burning hate surfaced in his eyes.

Tink

The sound of a pin hitting the floor draws the attention of the reinforcements to the guardsmen's right hand. A grenade lay firmly in his hand within whatever remaining strength the guardsmen had.

As the reinforcements look endlessly at the grenade. One is looking elsewhere. The eyes.

The guardsmen's eyes seemed to burn holes into his soul.

Filled with wrath, hate... Anger.

The guardsmen could no longer speak but his eye said it all.

FOR THE GOD EMPEROR

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This battle was to be nothing more than a foot note of a foot note of a foot note on some report that may never be read, never to be glanced at even.