Fighting With Faith- Forty-Second Entry

Bullets peppered the walls to his right as Starut sprinted across the hanger. He jumped over wrecks of silos, dodged charging mutants, shot off potshots at the enemy which seemed to be everywhere and was cursing at the top of his lungs for leading his squad in that suicidal charge. Smoke from blasted ruins drifted his way, momentairly obscuring his view as he raised his hand in front of him to brush the haze away. An explosion jarred to his right, shaking the very ground he was on and sending a ear-splitting shockwave rushing past through him. he ignored the discomfort and ran on, oblivious to just how near he was to death seconds ago.

He was approaching the exit of the hanger, which was now bigger then when he first came in. Craters the size of a man was blasted into the walls, revealing more cultists and aliens pouring into the hanger. Talons swishing and menacing claws barred, A Genestealer, covered in a dull red coat, leapt past him, along with the rest of its brood as they went about killing and maiming.

He had lost his squad, or maybe the other way around as the supposedly flanking maneuver on the Asat Guardsmen ended on a disastrous note: Scores of Chimera transports with Dozer blades attachments had entered the hanger, raking the place like horses galloping over grass, their sponsons tearing bloody chunks of flesh away from the defending cultists and mutants. It crushed the Tyranids mercilessly, the sound of the carapaces of the alien cracking like boots stamping on twigs.

A concussive blast from behind threw Starut off his feet, causing him to sprawl on the ground. His survival instincts returned as he looked up, eyes wide with apprehension. Sensing a warm flurry of activity on his back, he stood up and turned. Fires raged around the hanger, with even more craters on the walls and floors. The fighting seemed to be getting more intense as the defenders were force to use desperate measures to fight back and the attackers utilising dirtier tactics to out-maneuver them.

A burning mutant roared past him, it’s back wild on fire. Its roars were drowned out by the explosions and gunfire that were taking place. It writhed in agony as it fell to the ground, rolling on the ground trying in vain to put the fire out. Starut gazed at it sympathetically for a moment before recovering his composure and reaching the exit.

Starut lifted his leg, which responded with an acute pain tearing up his right thigh. He cursed as he bent down, going as low as possible before rolling up his pants. His right knee was a swollen purple mass, with a small cut oozing brightly coloured blood out. He rolled back his pants and stood up.

He must move on.

Gritting his teeth and trying to ignore the intense pain that seemed as though his kneecap was bursting, Starut half-ran, half-stumbled out of the hanger, into the wide corridor beyond , cloying by the second with scuttling Tyranids, shambling mutants and running cultists.

“Starut-STARUT!” A voice called out to his left.

It sounded vaguely familiar. Starut stopped and turn, peering into the throng before him awhile before identifying the source: Shaolsen.

His heart full of relief and certain happiness, Starut ran towards him, as he did towards Starut. Both met in the seething cacophony of boots, claws and shouting, grasping each other by the hand and running back to where they parted with their brood of Biovores.