He's been left to die on an inhospitable world, surrounded by criminals and enemy forces. Enough is enough, and Walters doesn't care who knows it.
jueves, 18 de agosto de 2011
SDIV - El Juego Chapter Seven
Butt was sure he was going to die; he had been almost convinced of it waking up bound and gagged in the crate, positive in his assumption as the first shots were fired and now there was no doubt, as the turbulence of explosive impacts buffeted him.
His luck had been running out ever since he had borrowed the golden ticket, and right now it appeared to have reached rock bottom. With a vomit-inducing lurch his world went backwards, the crate smashing into what felt like a less than welcoming earth. Over and over it rolled, bouncing high into the air and slamming Cornelius generously into every one of the walls. With one final twist and slide, it came to a halt, the rear door parting in two and letting Cornelius see exactly what was going on; chaos, mayhem and blood-letting. Normally his kind of party, but not in his current predicament.
He could see the smoking ruin of what appeared to have been means of locomotion, bodies lay half-sprawled from the cockpit and a rough gaggle of men and women were making their way towards him. What he did not like, was the efficient way they handled the assault weapons in their hands, nor the uniforms they wore. Taartuns they were not.
The creature on his shoulder screamed a defiant challenge and Cornelius began to curse in frustration as he struggled to free himself.
She did not know why her Master remained bound on the floor, whilst enemies approached. His roars were loud, yet were made from a non-defendable prone position. Cocking her head to one side, she made a decision; someone needed to take him in hand. Delicately walking down his chest, she approached the ropes tied around his ankles, and dug her claws into the soft flesh of his thighs. With a yelp, Cornelius stopped struggling, and nodding in satisfaction, she flamed. It was a little indiscriminate in target, but served its purpose, although her Master seemed less than grateful. Scolding him, she prodded him onto his side and repeated the process, at last satisfied with her work.
“Crap!” swore Butt, as the unexpected burst of liquid fire sprayed over him, “Are you trying to kill me?”
There was of course no answer, Butt’s struggles and the corrosive offering combining to part his bonds. As sharp claws prodded at him, he turned to one side and steeled himself for more pain; in that he was not disappointed. One heave was all that was needed to wrench himself free, and gingerly rolling to his feet, he looked round for some weapon. A reassuring weight settled around his neck, and Cornelius stroked one hand against the creature’s head.
“I”, he said, “have the perfect name for you … Clari; just the right mixture of bile and affection.”
Purring softly, Clari nuzzled him, and then stared greedily out at the oncoming enemies. With her Master, death and destruction were always near.
Carefully, Butt inched his way out of the crate, making no sudden moves with which to startle the soldiers garbed as Church warriors. A shrill whistling sound seemed to signal something, as the soldiers threw themselves down onto the ground. Cornelius was puzzled, but only for a moment, as a barrage of missiles streaked down, striking the earth around him. It seemed as though the floor bucked upwards, tossing him in the air, before slamming him down to the ground. He hugged the dirt, his fingers scrabbling for non-existent purchase, and Clari warbled her joy.
No doubt the barrage lasted for a moment, but time seemed to extend itself, yet eventually it was over. Gingerly, Cornelius pulled himself to his feet, the sounds of injured and dying men permeating the air. Yet, Cornelius just was not feeling in a charitable mood. He scrambled across to where shrill moans indicated one of the soldiers lay, moving round behind a cluster of rocks. One of the explosive rounds must have landed close by, as the man lay propped against a rock, both hands pressed tightly against his stomach, whilst blood pumped rhythmically from the stump of his leg, sheared off just above his knee. No sympathy crossed Cornelius’ mind, this would have been his fate, if the fortunate counter-attack had not been successful. He actually was not feeling favourable to either side; collateral damage had been a given with their individual tactics.
A rifle was close by the man, yet he never moved, as Cornelius picked it up, checking its charge and functionality. A pistol was also clipped to the man’s belt, as was a wicked-looking knife.
Gasping in pain, the soldier now saw Cornelius and turned to him pleadingly.
“Help … me…” he prayed.
“Sure,” said Butt, raising the rifle and firing once.