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Deployment + 20 hours: 53 minutes: 02 seconds (Lieutenant Wilkens Mission Clock )/
Coastal Grid thirty-two by twenty-four, UNSC command structure A-9

The pain - there was hardly any. Wilkens fell to the ground, slinking in under the radio station's table. He checked his side. There was a slight dip cut out, near his hipbone. Almost like someone had taken a superheated scoop, and literally scooped out part of his side. He ran his hand along the hole, and his it came up, shaking, with blood running down it's length. He screamed aloud, his eyes wild with fear and disbelief.

One of the Marines, a Corporal Hall, who had been manning the other M247 machine gun, turned toward the noise. He saw Wilkens sqwuirming on the ground a matter of four or so yards away. Hall sprang into action, leaving the gun silent, and quickening the Covenant advance. Being the ranking officer, he shouted an order to the two Privates who were busy taking potshots at the coming assault.

"Retreat!", he shouted, "Let's get the hell out of here!"

"Gladly, sir!", one of the Marines answered. He grabbed his buddy, who was putting a burst of SMG fire into an unlucky Grunt's chest, and pulled him as he ran.

Hall picked up the now comatose Wilkens, and hauled him over his shoulder. Wilkens was either too heavy, or Hall too weak, but Hall simply couldn't get far with Wilkens on his back.

"Marines, covering fire. Now!", he shouted to the two, who were now a good fifty feet away. Hall started dragging the Lieutenant as the Marines opened up, all the while picturing that the beasts approaching behind him were mere feet away. The rocks and boulders behind their original position were scorched with the burn marks of hundreds of discharged plasma weaponry. Hall was scared now, terrified. He didn't seem to be getting any closer to the pre-fab structues that his comrades were behind. Finally, one of them, a Private Mitchell, leaped forward, and started dragging the Lieutenant behind one of the structures. Hall followed behind.

"Sir, get behind here, dammit!", Mitchell shouted. But Hall still moved slowly, feeling more and more tired. He was but a few, short feet away, when he collapsed into the sandy shore, face first. Mitchell stared in awe at what he saw. Hall had obsorbed near ten plasma bolts in his back. Some were just knicks, but others were dead on hits, leaving the spinal bone underneath visible.

Hall's eyes were vacant. They were open, staring right at Mitchell, yet unseeing. Mitchell crawled over to Hall's body, and managed to pull it behind the same pre-fab structure that Wilkens was behind. He turned Hall over on his back, grabbed his dog tags, some ammo, and finally shut the man's eyes. 'Damn it', he thought, 'the man didn't deserve this'.

Corporal Robert A. Hall had just recently enlisted into the Marines. He was young, but had already seen action before on his home planet, which had been invaded by a relatively small Covenant assault. The UNSC forces there, including Hall, had fought hard, and eventually won. Hall had been been given the title of 'Corporal' there, for an act of bravery where he had risked his own life to save a fellow Marine from a plasma grenade. The grenade had stuck to his helmet, and he fumbled to unstrap it. Hall had jumped forward with his combat knife, cut the strap, and flung the deadly helmet forward among the attacking Covenant. He had saved the Marine, and killed several Covenant in the process.

Now, he was dead. He was only in his twenties. Mitchell pulled out his thermal blanket, and placed it over the fallen hero. He then, with the help of Andrews, hefted Wilkens and ran around the bend in the clifface behind the pre-fab structures. It was a long ways ahead to CS B-1. But they could make it, provided the Covenant on their tail didn't catch up.

The distance, though not great, definitely seemed so. It was only about a click or two to Coastal Station B-1, but their trek felt like miles upon miles of running. Judging by the growing darkness, it was getting late. The second day of the Covenant invasion was near ending.

"That's it, Andrews", Mitchell collapsed to the ground, gasping for air, "I'm done."

"We have to keep moving, Mike.", Andrews stood weakily and replied.

"We can just rest for a half hour or so. I just need to take a breath and get something to drink. God, I'm so thirsty..", Mitchell answered back.

"Fine, make it twenty minutes. But then we have to keep moving, man", he set Lieutenant Wilkens down, leaning him against a nearby boulder, "You don't want those bastards behind us to catch up, do you? I don't know about you, but I'm running short on ammunition."

"Same here. Maybe two clips of 9.3mm for the rifle", he chugged some water from his canteen, "and a couple grenades. Man, this'd sure be easier if he'd wake up.."

"How would you feel if you'd just slammed with plasma, huh?, Andrews retorted. "In fact", he reached into his pocket, retrieving a standard issue biofoam injector, "I bet you he couldn't walk even if he was awake. No telling if it melted his hipbone or not." He hit the stub, and biofoam filled the gouge in Wilkens' side.

"Right, sorry. It's just after seeing Hall, and..."

"Nevermind that. Let's just rest a bit, and move on. Hopefully we'll be there before it get's completely dar-". Andrews was cut off as Mitchell's heaset radio that was integrated into his helmet buzzed loud with static.

"Hello? Is anyone there?", Mitchell questioned the static, seemingly.

"Who is this? Where's Lieutenant Wilkens?", answered the familiar voice of Sergeant Richards. They had come back for them!, Mitchell thought.

"Who is it?", asked Andrews.

"It's the Sergeant", he replied. Then, turning away, "This is Private First Class Mike Mitchell, sir, and we have the Lieutenant."

"Good. What's the status of the station?"

"Bad, sir. We had to abandon our position, and we took a casualty on the way out."

"Who was it?"

"Corporal Hall, sir."

"Damn, he was a fine man. Too young..", he trailed off.

"Orders, sir?", Mitchell reminded him.

"Yes, listen up Private, we're coming up on your six, so keep your eyes peeled for movement from that direction, and keep your trigger fingers checked, got it?"

"Yes, sir. Estimated time of arrival?"

Sergeant Richards paused, presumably checking something, "Three minutes. Over and out."

The radio clicked off, and Mitchell turned to Andrews. "Here that?", he asked tiredly.

"Yep. I'm just glad that we're getting the hell out of here. I'm sure looking forward to a hot meal and a shower."

"Well, don't give your hopes up. No telling what their situation is. They may have been attacked too. Even if they repelled the attack, there would probably still be considerable damage. And then of course there's the Covenant on our trail... I guess I should've asked about that."

"Yeah, I guess you should'a.", Andrews replied, and yawned, then set his head down on a nearby rock.

Mitchell turned away from his prone friend, and moved to the other side of the boulder they had been leaning against, facing their six. Five minutes ticked by, then eight, finally ten minutes later, and no sign of Richards. It was almost completely dark. The last traces of sun were slowly passing in the distance. He cursed, then shook Andrews violently, desperately trying to wake him up.

"Wha - what is it, man?", he asked angrily, half awake.

"It's been over ten minutes, and there's still no sign of Richards. I think we should start moving toward the station.", Mitchell said away in the direction of the next coastal station - a trickle of fear in his voice.

"Alright, then let's get-", Andrews started, but was interrupted by a muffled moan. They both turned toward Lieutenant Wilkens, who was turning back and forth over and over. Whether from a dream, or from him rousing from his sleep, neither of them could tell. But Mitchell took this as an opportunity to rouse him from unconsciousness. He strode a few paces over to where Wilkens was lying, and started nudging him a bit in the shoulder.

"Sir, wake up, sir!", he whispered, but Wilkens just moaned in his dream-state and turned his head again. Then, shaking him a little harder, he repeated the command. This time, Tyler Wilkens' eyes beat open a bit, and he turned toward the distress.

"What the- Where am I?", Wilkens asked drowsily.

"Sir, you were hit, and we had to abandon the camp. Right now we're headed toward the next station. The Sergeant made radio contact a while ago, saying that he would be here in three minutes. It's been near fifteen. We've decided to move toward Coastal Station B-1."


It all came back to Wilkens in a flood - the hot punch in his side, falling, screaming for mercy. Then the dream. Wilkens gazed down at the ground, remembering the wicked dream state he had been in.
Wilkens' dream had been more of a nightmare, until a moment ago when he awoke. Right after he had been hit, and lost consciousness, it was as if he had been teleported to a different Earth - one in an even worse state of being as the one he was currently lying on. He was in a desert area, with a large city to their backs - spent Warthogs were all around aflame, Scorpion tanks were overturned, spilling out fuel, even civilian vehicles were overturned and set ablaze on a road to his left. All around him lay the lifeless bodies of all whom he loved. His friends, family, even his older brother was there, strewn around on the ground nearby. The "battle" seemed to have been over quickly, though, strangely, only a few bodies appeared to have had plasma burns on them. Indicating they were attacked by something else, other than Covenant. Or possibly, the Covenant that attacked merely didn't have the munitions left - it seemed to be in the near future, days, maybe weeks ahead. He doubted any of their plasma weaponry had any energy left.
Wilkens spotted a few of his family members nearby, unmoving. Striding over to his mother's lifeless body, he dropped to the ground. She was older than he remembered her - he hadn't seen her in a while because of all the fighting. She seemed about near sixty, if not more. Her eyes were wide open; Lieutenant Wilkens bent down to fold them closed, fighting to hold back the tears the entire time. His brother, Corporal Wilkens lay nearby, rifle in hand. Spent shell casings littered the area nearby, indicating that something had attacked the group, and his brother was probably trying to defend his family. His brother had a look of peace about him, which made Tyler move even closer to tears. 'All these people . . . ', he had thought.
Looking down the road, he saw the big picture. Probably near a hundred Pelicans lay destroyed in front of the dusty hills ahead. He surmised that this had been an effort to remove the civilan population from the area - possibly using the Pelicans to bring them to a few awaiting UNSC cruisers in orbit. But it had been a futile effort, since it was obvious to have been an ambush. He looked up ahead, next to an overturned Warthog, and saw it; a glimmer of burnished metal beneath a pile of civilan and Marine dead. He slowly walked closer. It was obvious to be human from the shape, but it wasn't built like any Marine he had encountered before. The man was huge, maybe seven feet tall. Next to him lay a helmet.
But this was no CH252 Combat Helmet that normal Marines or ODSTs wore, this helmet was that of a Spartan. Wilkens dropped to the ground in horror. Earth's last hope, the Master Chief, lay dead at his feet - but somehow, Wilkens himself had survived.

The vision quickly faded as he felt himself being shaken. Then, he had opened his eyes to find himself laying on the coast of a ruined city, reminiscent of the destroyed city he had seen in his dream.
"Sir?", a seemingly unfamiliar man next to him asked. "We should get moving now that your awake -"
Lieutenant Wilkens looked at him dazedly, turned his gaze, and shook his head to clear out the questions in his mind. 'Was it just a dream?', he asked over and over 'Could it be real? Will it happen?' The questions flew through his head over and over, but he supressed them.

"Noted. Let's be moving, shall we?" He glanced at the two Marines quickly with a slight smile. Wilkens unslung his BR-55, and shakily rose, holding the boulder he had been leaned against for stability.

That's when he heard it - a strange noise. Sort of like the crack of a whip, but much faster. Then he realized he had heard the same exact thing earlier that day, just before he had woken to find his troops in battle with the Cov-

"Let's move, Marines! Come on!", he jumped forward and started running; the Marines following confusedly. Ignoring the dull pain still in his side that throbbed with each bound, Wilkens shouted over his shoulder, "By the sounds of that gunfire, the Sergeant needs our help, pick up the pace!" The two Privates were lagging behind, still unaware of the situation - Wilkens was a good eight yards ahead, and over the roaring waves crashing on the beach, it was no wonder they failed to hear Tyler's message, or the sounds of battle ahead.

Seeing their leader growing increasingly farther away, and noticing they were not gaining, Pvt. Andrews and PFC. Mitchell dashed ahead in a dead sprint, leaping over boulders. They eventually spotted the Lieutenant ahead in the sand, seemingly kneeling.

"Dammit Andrews, hurry it up! Something's wrong", Mitchell shouted over his shoulder as he saw the Private start to lag behind. PFC. Mitchell finally caught up to Lieutenant Tyler Wilkens, and collapsed headlong into the sand behind his left shoulder.

"Sir", he panted out, breathing heavily, "What's the . . . matter-" Mitchell started to say, but, looking at the Lieutenant, he saw it. The shoulder patch of a Staff Sergeant lay in Wilkens' right hand. Ahead in the rocks was a massacre. It seemed that each and every rock was covered in what looked like crimsom paint, although a purplish gloss spotted a few areas. Bodies were strewn all around - all Marine, save a lone Covenant Special Operations Elite, attired in jet black armor.

Tyler dusted the sand off of the patch just as Andrews finally caught up, and placed it in an empty pocket on his combat harness. He glanced around, scanning the beach head with extreme scruitiny for any disturbance, and glimmer of hope - or danger. And there it was. Up ahead about thirty feet, the Sergeant lay against a large, Warthog-sized boulder, his left shoulder seemingly sliced off. But, the glimmer of hope came when Sergeant Richard moved his head slightly, and spotted through the cloud of growing darkness, his friend and brother in arms. He managed a weak smile.

"Come on!", Wilkens shouted, and dashed ahead to try to help his dying friend in any way possible. That's when he sensed something was wrong. A slight shimmer appeared in front of Wilkens, and then another "wave" flew by. Another off to his left, two more on his right.

Lieutenant Wilkens did a full 360 degree turn, noting the shimmering areas seemingly all around them, just as Andrews and Mitchell closed in. Mitchell was the next to see the Sergeant ahead, and the shimmering air that now incased the squad. There were six or seven of the things total.

A low pitched warcry was uttered in the direction of the air fluctuation nearest the Sergeant - straight ahead. That's when all of the air around Lieutenant Wilkens seemed to sprout out large, glowing, cruely shapen instruments of death. When activated, each induced a short hissing sound, as if they were snakes ready to strike at their prey. Growling could be heard all around them as Lieutenant Wilkens, Private Andrews, and Private First Class Mitchell went back to back, and the shimmers seemed to draw closer.

"Marines", Wilkens whispered quietly to the two Marines at his side, who were noticeably becoming more and more unnerved. "Lock and load, we have company".

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