The Skyranger spins on a dime, touching down outside a fashionable cafe in France's second city. Flames erupt from the tiled roofs. The streets are chaotic with screaming civilians and the swift, flesh-crawling forms of Chrysalids.
The strike team are firing even as they skid down the ramp of the Skyranger, but it's not enough. A Chrysalid leaps upon one of the fleeing Marseillais, piercing him with hollow spines. Viscera splatters against windows of the cafe. The man's body bulges grotesquely, ballooned with the Chrysalid's gestating larvae. The monster flexes, turns, begins clicking towards two women paralysed with shock.
Cpl. Calum Mitchell is the first to react. Head down for speed, he dashes across the forecourt. Grabbing a cowering man by the shoulders, he throws him into a stumbling run towards the evac zone, then brings his shotgun to bear on the menacing Chrysalid. It falls with a skithering shriek.
Mitchell ushers the women towards the Skyranger, keeping a weather eye on the bulging body, which already begins to twitch and stir.
Suddenly it leaps for him, but he is already slipping away into the cafe's portico. Boghead and Rk. Meinhardt make short work of the zombie.
Their is a screech of metal, an electronic squeal. The viewscreens buzz and static in protest.
"Cyberdisc!"
We get a good look at it this time. Clawed, winged, a surgical terror that contrasts sharply with the organic horrors of the Chrysalid. It advances smoothly, eerily.
Fearlessly, Mitchell sprays it with scatterlasers, which zap and zing off its platinum skin. It shakes itself, strangely dog-like, then slips forwards again, closing on the Corporal's position.
A shocking jerk, like the alarming dart of a spider. A grenade bounces at Mitchell's feet. He throws himself to one side, the blast catching him and catapulting him out into the road. All around, more Chrysalids scramble over the rubble, leaping out of broken windows.
Desperately, Enigma and Cyclops fire at the Cyberdisc, scoring its silver hide. I bark an order to Cpl. Arnold. Steadying the launcher on a car door, he lets our a whoop as the rocket roars across the forecourt, crashing the 'disc against a smoldering bookcase to lie, inoperable, among the charring pages.
There are cries from above. Using the grappling hook built into his prototype body armour, Cyclops slingshots himself onto the roof of the cafe, sending quaint parasols and white metal chairs clattering as he lands. A Floater soars above, taking potshots at the men and women hiding beneath tables and awnings. A grim smile, a trigger pulled, and it careens into a nearby building.
The Chrysalids are everywhere. Cpl. Arnold sweeps his LMG across the street, flooring one after another. But there are always more.
Wounded, Mitchel drags himself into an alley, a wide trail of blood scraped along the floor behind him. It leads the Chrysalids right to him. Cornered, battered and bleeding, he can barely scream. A dark splash obscures his headcam.
"Dammit." My head is in my hands. "Strike team! Mitchell is KIA, repeat KIA. Expect a zombie at 10 o'clock, any minute now."
A sliver of brickwork, a blue awning, a faint star, are visible in the corner of Mitchell's splattered cam. Then the view shivers, jerks. A lurch into an upright position. Shuffling forwards. Moving figures, shooting. A flash of red fire. Then only static.
The Skyranger is packed on the return journey. Fourteen survivors to be dropped off in safe rural areas in the French interior.
They have Cpl. Mitchell to thank for that.
Mitchell ushers the women towards the Skyranger, keeping a weather eye on the bulging body, which already begins to twitch and stir.
Suddenly it leaps for him, but he is already slipping away into the cafe's portico. Boghead and Rk. Meinhardt make short work of the zombie.
Their is a screech of metal, an electronic squeal. The viewscreens buzz and static in protest.
"Cyberdisc!"
We get a good look at it this time. Clawed, winged, a surgical terror that contrasts sharply with the organic horrors of the Chrysalid. It advances smoothly, eerily.
Fearlessly, Mitchell sprays it with scatterlasers, which zap and zing off its platinum skin. It shakes itself, strangely dog-like, then slips forwards again, closing on the Corporal's position.
Desperately, Enigma and Cyclops fire at the Cyberdisc, scoring its silver hide. I bark an order to Cpl. Arnold. Steadying the launcher on a car door, he lets our a whoop as the rocket roars across the forecourt, crashing the 'disc against a smoldering bookcase to lie, inoperable, among the charring pages.
There are cries from above. Using the grappling hook built into his prototype body armour, Cyclops slingshots himself onto the roof of the cafe, sending quaint parasols and white metal chairs clattering as he lands. A Floater soars above, taking potshots at the men and women hiding beneath tables and awnings. A grim smile, a trigger pulled, and it careens into a nearby building.
Wounded, Mitchel drags himself into an alley, a wide trail of blood scraped along the floor behind him. It leads the Chrysalids right to him. Cornered, battered and bleeding, he can barely scream. A dark splash obscures his headcam.
"Dammit." My head is in my hands. "Strike team! Mitchell is KIA, repeat KIA. Expect a zombie at 10 o'clock, any minute now."
A sliver of brickwork, a blue awning, a faint star, are visible in the corner of Mitchell's splattered cam. Then the view shivers, jerks. A lurch into an upright position. Shuffling forwards. Moving figures, shooting. A flash of red fire. Then only static.
*
They have Cpl. Mitchell to thank for that.
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