We are the last, trapped in this dark chamber, awaiting the doom that has come to the rest of us already. The twin reactors behind us providing us with warmth and the power to fight on a little longer. When we entered we were carrying with us the weapons of our lost brethren. A nearly fully loaded chaingun, two empty pulse rifles, a charged massdriver with defunct scope, two Tumbos and three grenades. We were able to exchange our vests for new ones at the shooting range but sadly the grangers had disabled the helmets there with their vile spit. We took the ones we came with along instead even when they were malfunctioning half of the time even back then.
I imagine I should be beginning from the start of our end.
They had come in our slumber. They went for Druga first, the little alien, thinking him an easy prey. But when they tried to break the protective glass the alarms activated and the young boy took the weapon he always said he was married to, the 150 XM, and blew the duo of dretches against the ceiling in a green shower of alien blood. He awoke us while the green mist was still settling soothingly on the surfaces of the cryogenic suite.
Anya had us move out. Sadly the second spare reactor was destroyed and the first one had a far longer charge-up time than we expected when we moved it to the cryo area, presumably because a basilisk and their fine ‘grasp’ of humans and their technology.
Our original position was simply unholdable because of the lack of a base and since we only had our emergency Tumbos, assorted ammunition and the 150 XM she had all eight of us move to the living quarters where the stash we left after the last marksman tournament should still be, and still was.
We held our position for a while there. Barrelshooting incoming dretches with the MD in the vent and the occasional basilisk between the mass of dretches from the double entrance was fun enough but we were growing low on ammo because of it and needed to escape. We had to move fast. So we broke out, in force. We headed down the stairs and we encountered a mass of dretches, blocking us both ways, led by the basilisks. But the walljumpers came from where we had just been. These marauders were persistent and ferocious, but above all tactical, taking down both Emka and John after separating them from the group and leading them off in the hallways, presumably to be consumed wholly by the waiting dretches. Having them grow by feeding instead of time. Eventually we fought our way back to the quarters, drained from even more ammunition, and just as swiftly as we returned we left again through the vent, crawling through the still slightly acidic remains of the countless dretches we had easily killed. Dropping down we decided to head towards the shooting range. Fighting on in the hope of being able to regain the power to fight on. Druga however thought otherwise. Headstrong as he was he turned around and headed back through the cryogenic area with his shotgun and Tumbo, getting two extra clips from loyal Sam to take along. His goal was the dish, determined to send out a distress call for help. We hope he made it, and that someone will read this eventually, although we have no hope for his own wellbeing.
We however at that time were not thinking of defending this facility, nor of a last stand like this. Our intent was to take the equipment and provisions from the armory alongside the pulse rifles stored there and head along the corridor towards the escape pod.
How mistaken we were, for that pod meant death. It was all the more ironic since we must have killed ten marauders at the armory and fifteen more in the corridor, more dretches than we bothered counting and even seven dragoons, magnificent beasts who can take your head off in a single bite. Only to arrive at the pod where a grey dragoon supported that fact by giving Bresk a decapitation special the moment he opened its door. We fought our way back to the shooting range again, having emptied the chaingun already along the way towards the pod because we were certain it would be a one-way trip.
Once more we sought out the armory, but the grangers had come and gone, leaving destroyed equipment in their wake. The recharge point was broken. The spare helmets fubared so we could not replace our failing ones with them. The only luck we had was a closed pack full of chaingun ammo and four out of dozens of grenades that were still functioning. Anya was the only one that could still see the red on the radar. And I think we were glad for it. She was calm, always had been. I think I would lose my mind if I saw with my own eyes how many we were up against at once. We left through the vent because of it. Sealing it with a boobytrap so plain in view hoping that the aliens were so smart that they would wish to avoid a fiery death.
Now we are here, three of eight, the chaingun emptied into the first two grey dragoons before they were willing to stay down, tougher and meaner than the normal ones we encountered earlier on. One Tumbo empty, one cut in two by the zapping marauder which seems to have been leading the raids so far. Grenades used to clear the aliens from the small hallway when the fray was getting too thick. Luckily the twins still provide us with the power for the pulse rifles and the mass driver so we can protract our demise slightly longer. No doubt that wouldn’t last long should they get their claws on the feedpoint.
But our fear grows infinitely greater than that now as we start hearing the tyrants’ roar around the corner. Anya says the radar is filled with the red of these creatures presence, and that even the vent we used to escape their siege earlier has been cleared of the boobytrap by the little cousins of these behemoths. ‘They are most likely marauders with basilisks forming the rear.’ She said as if that knowledge would comfort us. We laughed with the tyrants’ roars gaining power evermore. ‘Our own private Thermopylae’ I chose as my last words. ‘Whoever comes to our aid, I bid you luck in freeing this outpost from this plague’ were Merkoff’s. And Anya’s was a response, an ember of hope from the flamethrower we wished we had. ‘Life is what you make of it and doesn’t depend on luck.’
