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Harvest:The Lost Colony Part 3
Posted By: Half-Jaw<alex.brooks6@btinternet.com>
Date: 20 September 2006, 4:35 pm
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The Harvest Colony…
2525 A.D…
February 3rd…
3:50 am…
He had no idea what had happened. One minute, he was running. The next, he was being hurled through the air, as if some giant invisible hand had suddenly reached down, snatched him up and tossed him away. Once again, lying on the coarse, sandy surface of the planet, Wallace attempted to compose himself amid all this chaos. He brought his arm up towards his face; the Plasma Grenade that had launched him forward had scorched his arm badly, the metallic armour plating a charred, blackened colour, the cloth beneath burnt away to reveal a seared, razed layer of tender, otherwise pink flesh. It stung like hell, although there was nothing he could do for it. The only Med-Kits they had were back in the Barracks, and most of them were gone now anyway, most of them just smouldering, ebony-black embers crumbling in upon themselves, the others alight with auburn flames, constantly licking at the brilliantly carved stone and gradually destroying the oak surfaces within the Dorms. The noise was deafening; the unremitting fire of the enemy's plasma weaponry shrieking forwards, the others screaming in pain, the aliens, the freaks guffawing deeply in amusement, pleasure, satisfaction as they mercilessly gunned down what little remained of the humans. Blood trickled down the front of his face from a large, jagged cut high on his forehead from when he had been flung to the ground. The smell was awful; charred flesh, fumes from the enemy transports, the discharge of plasma…and fear. Just looking around, Wallace could see that the others were terrified, quivering uncontrollably in sheer terror. He had to admit, even he was petrified. He knew that there was no way out; the most this colony had available to it were the M12 LRV 'Warthogs', basic model jeeps that wouldn't even stand up to a blast from one of those lowly Plasma Grenades. Slowly but surely, Wallace began to realise; they were going to die here. There was no way out.
He began to go over any possibilities in his mind, desperately trying to take his mind away from the thought of death. The main Defences had been tied into the Power Supply which was housed securely in the Control Room…unfortunately, there wasn't one any more. The Radio would be out too. The enemy wouldn't have any need for the Armoury when they already had far superior weaponry to them.
Directing his forlorn gaze upwards in despair, Wallace began to understand just how beautiful the stars really were. Just put there, against the vast blackness of space, glimmering away, like newly carved jewels in a ring, as if to simply decorate it, to make it more pleasing to the eye.
As the sounds of the firing grew steadily louder, Wallace suddenly snapped back to his senses. Alright. Enough's enough. Might as well go down fighting. He practically jumped up to his feet. Glancing at his Assault Rifle, he emptied the chamber and slammed a fresh clip in. As the LCD Monitor rapidly refreshed itself, the display showing 60 rounds loaded, he pivoted smoothly on his heel, to confront the oncoming enemy. Snapping one eyelid firmly shut, he aimed carefully down the barrel, and took aim at the nearest alien.
* * * * *
The Jackal rushed forward, its emerald, glowing energy shield grasped in one hand, a diminutive, fist-sized Plasma Pistol gripped in the other. Its jaws clicked open and shut, jagged teeth jutting out at obscure angles, its thin, spindly legs allowing it to gracefully skip forward lightly. It didn't even see it coming. The sound of three, crushing gunshots shook the night and reverberated annoyingly, as three 7.62 mm rounds rushed forwards. One pierced the Jackal's shoulder, penetrating its soft, off-colour flesh with relative ease, violet blood spraying backwards onto the surface. Another entered the Jackal's abdomen, the Jackal shrieking in pain as it was pushed backwards with the force of the blow. The Jackal just had enough time to catch a glimpse of the last bullet as it infiltrated the Jackal's skull, the bullet shooting right through between its large, orb-like eyes, smashing with tremendous force into the Jackal's brain. It was dead before it hit the ground.
* * * * *
Wallace surveyed the scene with mild satisfaction as the Jackal was launched speedily backwards through the air, its Plasma Pistol jettisoned swiftly from its grasp, its jade Energy Shield vanishing with a flash of light into thin air. The Jackal's corpse flew about two yards rearward, and then collapsed clumsily onto the ground in a heap, lavender blood seeping from its open, untreated wounds. Wallace ducked into the nearest alleyway; tugging an M9 HE-DP Fragmentation Grenade from his weighty belt, he snatched the minute, metallic, silvery pin from its crown and hurled it back into the street with his strongest arm, his left. Peeking out from round the sharp corner, he watched it curl fluidly through the air, and bob gently along the ground, coming to rest at the feet of a much larger, more heavily armoured, cerulean-coloured alien. The grenade detonated violently, minuscule shards of murky green shrapnel flying away in all directions, dust and rock kicked harshly into the air; the creature hardly budged. The blast had however alerted it. Revolving on its heel, it spun round to reveal a massive, burly carapace, a long, slender metallic shield smothering its entire left forearm. Its miniature skull seemed largely out of proportion when compared with the rest of its body. Drawing a bead on the puny, weak, feeble human, it jogged forward at a steady pace, its armour clunking heavily. The human took aim…and fired. It didn't affect it in the slightest. The shots simply rebounded off the burdensome shell, the bullet casings tinkling away onto the rocky ground beneath them. As the creature drew nearer, the human continued to fire, as if hoping by some miraculous circumstance, it would penetrate its thick, protective layer. The beast brought its arm back, and then hurled itself forward with tremendous force, its massive shield arcing through the air, heading with maximum velocity towards the human's cranium. Wallace dropped to the ground briskly, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow of the Hunter that, having missed its desired target, slammed forcefully into a nearby ODST, a sickening crunch of shattered bones ringing out against the racket of battle as the Helljumper, clad in the traditional jet-black, polished jumpsuit , was hurled with monstrous force backwards . The soldier flew swiftly through the air, somersaulting rapidly, his limbs dashing out in all directions, until finally; he collided with a nearby solid stone wall. His backbone snapped viciously as he crashed into the rough architecture, then slowly, he fell, limp, unmoving, onto the ground. He didn't stir again.
* * * * *
Sailing gracefully through the night, the Phantom sped purposefully towards its objective. Its low altitude did not bother the pilot in the slightest; vigilantly gazing downwards for any sign of trouble, he deftly manoeuvred the vehicle even lower. Glancing down, he examined the dials and meters on the dashboard, he nodded to himself, pleased that everything was going so well. The Elite pilot looked back up; he stared out of the viewscreen as a 102 mm High Explosive, Anti-Tank Rocket headed directly towards them from below, gaining forward velocity with every second. He didn't have much time; he began to calculate the distance in his head. 50 feet…40...30...20...10. He yanked on the controls, banking right hard. The Phantom slipped to a 45 degree angle; its passengers were tipped to one side. Breathing a small sigh of relief, he continued on, the Phantom self-righting itself simultaneously. As he continued to steadily fly the transport, the ship rocked violently, the nose tipping forward rapidly at a dangerous angle. The tremors shook the hull plating violently, the ship's armour trembling rapidly. It only take the Elite a second to realise what had happened; whilst he had simply assumed that the Rocket had been fired straight, with no guidance whatsoever, the Rocket had in fact locked on to the Phantom's heat signature and curved around behind them mid-flight.
As the Phantom was steadily propelled towards the ground, the nose now almost vertical, the Elite unbuckled himself from the pilot's chair and began to fumble for the cockpit door latch. He was too late. As the Phantom began picking up speed, the nose impacted vehemently with the ground, the cockpit pounded in upon itself as the entire weight of the ship was placed on top of it. Glass from the viewscreen shattered and was flung around feebly, the frame sadistically crushed, the metalwork crumpling in upon itself slowly. The Elite was flung powerlessly forwards onto the glittering dash, and was compressed mercilessly as the roof bent inwards sharply, pressing itself on top of him. Tan-coloured dust and jagged, grey rocks were kicked up in the ship's wake, as the entire vessel capsized heftily, its occupants thrown about pitilessly like toys in the hands of a child, collapsing unintentionally over each over as the ship ground to a jarring halt. The violet ceiling of the Phantom rushed rapidly up to meet them as they arced clumsily through the air, limbs flailing left and right as they were catapulted to the floor.
* * * * *
Wallace hurled himself backwards sharply, as the Hunter's burnished, tapered shield swung round once more, missing his arm by mere centimetres. As he landed inelegantly upon the earth, his right hand dived downwards, snatching the secreted M6D HE Pistol from the hidden strap within his boot. As the Hunter lumbered dozily back round to face him, he brought the weapon up slowly, snapped his left eye firmly shut, aimed down the length of the barrel, and clamped his finger down on the trigger. The semiautomatic handgun emptied its twelve-round clip briskly, a dozen 40 mm SAP-HP bullets slamming ruthlessly into the Hunter's mid-section. The rounds mercilessly slammed into the Hunter's orange waist, embedding themselves deeply, blood spurting out from the fatal wounds, and seeping grossly onto the floor. The Hunter stood rigid for a moment, facing away from Wallace, showing its back, as if in insolence, before finally, swaying slightly, then stumbling thunderously to the earth. Wallace brought his gaze back up; the enemy were advancing, rapidly, throughout the Colony, hurling bodies out of their way, as they marched stridently towards him. He had no idea of what to do; there was nothing left to protect them from this determined, relentless, callous adversary. Nowhere else to run. Nowhere to go. They had been beaten. And they had won. The UNSC forces had been routed.
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