Reapers: The Shadow Soldiers (13 page)

More screams filled his ears and called attention to his right. A lone woman had busted through a militant’s grasp and barreled out of her home. She looked to be free, until another militant stepped in and tripped her up. She fell to the icy ground—hard. It took a second for her to recover. By the time she did, another militant had arrived. The two pulled her up by the thick of her blonde hair and tried to gain control of her. She was spirited and fought back, but it was to no avail. At threat of his own death, one of the militants got a grip and struck her hard across the face with the butt of his rifle. She limped over as the two militants finally managed to wrangle her in.
 

Just then, the militant whom she’d escaped from came out of the doorway. Unlike the others, he was not wearing a helmet. Burns figured he must have been someone important in the ranks. As he approached her, he pulled a kitchen fork out of his arm and threw it to the side. He did not seem very amused. Her attempts at escaping execution may have only expedited the process.
 

Indeed, this militant removed a flashy pistol from his holster and aimed it at her head. She no longer had any fight left in her and had accepted her doom. Burns, however, had not.
 

Rocketing off from atop the cliff, he aimed himself for the center of the action. It was time to see if the armor was really as good as Index made it out to be.
 

Descending quickly, he landed in front of the woman just as the militant fired. The bullet was blocked by his chest piece as his thrusters cut out.
 

Standing, he removed both of his compact submachine guns and made quick work of the two militants standing behind him.
 

The leader then began firing his flashy pistol at Burns. The bullets didn’t even make a dent, and soon the man was out of ammunition. He backed up slowly and dropped the weapon, looking for whatever mercy he could find. Burns didn’t hesitate to put two bullets in his chest and then a third between his eyes for good measure. The man crumpled to the ground without a whimper.

Lowering his weapons, Burns turned and knelt down in front of the woman. She looked up at him, bruised and battered but with a little bit more hope than she had before. He gave a smile, but she couldn’t see it underneath his helmet. Suddenly, the crack of rifle fire interrupted the moment. Thinking quickly, Burns threw the woman to his side and took the brunt of the attack.
 

“RUN!” he yelled back to her as he stood and unfurled a hailstorm of bullets toward the impending militants. Some went down, and the rest split off for cover. It didn’t matter though, because it’d bought enough time for the woman to escape from the village. Burns didn’t know where she would be going, but anywhere was safer than here.
 

Continuing forward with his onslaught, Burns walked at a slow pace—simply shrugging off the incoming fire like a human tank. The armor wasn’t very bulky, and it did leave quite a few gaps, but the militants seemed to have only minimal training and were firing out of fear. It served them poorly.
 

Aiming his two submachine guns forward, Burns let out another fully automatic hailstorm of bullet fire. The shabby wood of the village buildings was poor cover, and Burns’ rounds easily penetrated it. Finishing off the last militant, Burns reached the scene of his destruction. Nearly fifteen men lay dead, littered with bullets.
 

The rest of militants had been notified and poured out from everywhere, surrounding Burns from all sides and firing without hesitation.
 

Bullets bounced chaotically off Burns’ armor as he knelt for cover and fired off his guns in both directions. It took quite an amount of composure, but he kept the firing rate to a minimum.
 

With striking precision, he switched from side to side, nullifying each militant as he could. Yet they continued to pour in and took cover themselves.
 

One militant in particular was hidden just well enough for Burns to be concerned. As he extended himself to get a few shots at the man, another from behind managed hit a gap in his back armor. The bullet tore through the side of his chest and seared with pain. Burns hissed as he quickly turned around and put a few rounds into his attacker. The wound still hurt like the devil, and Burns began to lose his tactful composure.
 

Switching to full auto once more, he unleashed the fury of his left submachine gun on the remaining militants. Seeing that they were all pacified, he turned and did the same to those at his right. They didn’t stand a chance.
 

The last survivor came charging after Burns, ready to bludgeon him with the butt of his rifle. Burns aimed and pulled the trigger, but his weapon wouldn’t fire. He was out of ammo. Throwing it aside, he attempted to pull up his other weapon, but he didn’t act in time. The militant had struck down with his rifle, bashing Burns across the helmet. The armor took the savage attack like a champ, but the man was not stopped. He lunged forward, tackling Burns to the ground. Burns growled as he tried to keep focus forward. The militant had ditched his rifle and unsheathed a dagger instead. He struck down at Burns’ neck. With enough strength, Burns managed to grab the man’s hands and keep the knife hovering just inches from cutting his neck. They became locked in a deadly stalemate. The militant pushed down as hard as he could, and Burns repelled with equal veracity. He still felt at a disadvantage; he had a wound after all, and it was not making this easier. It swelled with pain, and he could feel his strength slipping.
 

As Burns predicted, his muscles soon collapsed. The man brought the dagger down, and Burns thought for sure he was finished. As the moments passed however, and no pain occurred, Burns opened his eyes and realized the man had been blown back by a sniper somewhere.

Burns looked up to see the man was laying only feet away from him but with chunks of his head missing. Following the path of the proposed bullet, Burns rolled over to his left and saw the hostages freeing themselves. The shot must have come from one of them.
 

He was thankful, but he knew his survival was not assured. He certainly had some shattered ribs, and the outside temperature was dropping fast. His uniform was good in the cold but not Silverset-nights-good. If he didn’t get to cover soon, he’d be dead by morning.

Lucky for him, he was laying in the middle of a soon-to-be ghost town. He rolled back over and saw that a small shack was just feet from him. All he needed was to head for that shack, and he’d be safe for the night.
 

However, as he stood, he realized that was going to be easier said than done. Losing strength fast, his legs began to feel like noodles as he collapsed to the icy ground once more. Feeling the wound surging, he opted to forget the shed and stay on the ice. He may freeze, but it would be better then straining himself trying to get to safety. If he was going to die either way, he might as well be comfortable.
 

As he lay there, bleeding out, a sudden feeling came over him. Perhaps it was a basic survival instinct, or perhaps it was much more, but it told him he wasn’t going to die there. It told him he’d survived too much to give up. Feeling this renewed surge of strength, he looked up at the shack once more. It was far, but not that far.
 

He grunted and threw a hand forward, ignoring the seething pain and pulling himself closer to the shed. Gritting his teeth, he paused for a moment, trying to keep the pain to a minimum. He’d only gained a few feet, but he was that much closer to the shack.
 

Doing this routine again and again and again, he began inching himself closer and closer. It didn’t get easier—every pull was filled with increasing amounts of pain, and at some points he wanted desperately to stop, but he couldn’t. He simply pushed on. The painful minutes slowly passed but eventually he reached the shack.
 

Punching open the shabby door, Burns crawled inside and laid himself against the first wall he could find. It wasn’t the warmest place in the world, but it would protect him from the cold and any predators that might visit in the night. Guarding his agitated wound, he lowered his head and everything afterwards soon became a blur.

REAPERS

A sound outside roused Burns from unconsciousness. He lifted his head with painful grunts but didn’t see anything. Pulling out one of his weapons, he looked toward the door. He didn’t know what was out there or if he could put up much of a fight, but he was certainly going to try.
 

He then heard the vague crunch of sneaky footsteps in the snow outside. He raised his gun higher, aiming about halfway up the door. His arm pulsated with pain, but he kept the weapon positioned.
 

A shadowy figure then grabbed hold of the door and slowly pushed it open. Concealed by the darkness, and Burns’ own pain-riddled inhibitions, he couldn’t tell who the figure was. He aimed his weapon to fire, but the shadowed figure spoke to him.
 

“Colonel,” it said in a suppressed, lethal-like tone, “we’ve got to get you out of here.” It then became somewhat familiar to him. The tone of speech, the way it moved.

“Carmen?” he asked lightly, baffled that she was even alive.
 

“Yeah,” she answered, coming forward out from the darkness. He didn’t know much about this woman, other than she was a coroner, but he was relieved to see her now. She knelt down next to him and inspected his wounds.

“I—I thought you were dead,” he mumbled, still feeling faint. She shook her head.

“No, but if we don’t get you some help fast...you will be.” She wrapped his arm over her shoulder and helped him up. “I found a cabin a few houses down that still has heating. Let’s move,” she said, leading him out of the shed and back into the torn up village.
 

The temperature was as cold as ever, but the two pushed on toward the cabin. Burns could see it just a bit in front of them. Its lights were on, and it looked warm. He didn’t know if he could make it though as his legs still felt like noodles.

“Stay with me, Colonel!” she yelled to him but he couldn’t help it. Fading from consciousness, he slipped out of her grasp and crumbled onto the icy ground.
 

He wished he could say he had peace in this unconscious world, but once again his mind seemed to plague him with visions.

This vision was a dark world. Everything around him was black. The type of black that can’t be seen through, despite his best efforts. Because of this, he had no idea where he was—or even where his hands were. He let out a howl for someone to save him, but his voice just echoed back at him. He was alone in the dark world and didn’t know how to get out. Trying to find something to grab a hold of, he stumbled and fell over something on the ground. That’s when he saw a light above, cutting through the darkness. He stood quickly and jumped to catch the light. He needed its warmth, its security. Sure enough, it began to lower. He reached as high as he could to grab it. As he did, he brought it down to illuminate his surroundings. Only, he quickly realized the light wasn’t a light. It was a flame. Feeling the burn, he dropped it and jumped back. The fire quickly spread, showing him that he was in an inescapable box. He then realized it wouldn’t take long before the fire consumed him. He should have never reached for the light; he should have been content with darkness.
 

A loud crack then returned Burns to the conscious world. He jumped a little, the sudden movement straining his injury and causing him to deeply growl. It wasn’t just the pain of the bullet lodged in his ribcage though. His visions were not only getting more realistic but also harder to read.
 

Taking deep breaths and trying to control himself, Burns suddenly realized he wasn’t lying on the ice anymore but instead sitting in a chair at a wooden table. He must have been dragged into the cabin by Carmen.
 

Looking around, he noticed the place looked rather disheveled. All of the windows had torn drapes, the kitchen had pots and pans everywhere, and one of the walls appeared to have a slight bloodstain. He grimaced—the Collective had been here. Still, the cabin managed to retain its heat, and he was content with that.
 

Calming down, he reached into one of his pouches to retrieve the picture of Evelyn. Only it wasn’t there. He desperately checked the rest of the pouches on his belt, and neither of those contained the picture either. He then came to a stark realization. He’d left the portrait on the Syncopate. It was stuck there, probably forever now.
 

He lowered his head a little, feeling a deep anger in his heart. It was all getting to him. The mission, the vision, the pain.

Several more cracks then echoed down the hall from where he was sitting and shook him out of it. It was then he first realized that Carmen wasn’t in the room with him. Sure enough, only about a minute later, she came walking out with a ULC militant in her grasp.
 

Without his skull helmet, he was certainly less frightening. In fact, with his size, he almost seemed...mousy. She threw the scrawny man forward, colliding off the table to the floor. As he tried to get up, she stepped forward and crushed his padded chest with her boot.
 

“What were you doing back there?” she growled, pulling out a pistol and aiming it at the man. He whimpered back.
 

“I—I can’t tell you that,” he told her. She looked up at Burns for clearance to use force, and he slightly bowed his head. She nodded back and then turned, smacking the man in the face with the butt of her pistol. He howled as she reached into a pouch on her belt and removed a communications device.
 

“I found this a few feet from where you were hiding,” she explained, putting the device right in front of his face. The man shook his head like he didn’t know what she was talking about.