Chapter 1-3 of Steel and Bone shortstory thingie

Deviation Actions

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Literature Text

Clambering up the ladder with shaking hands, face contorted, her teeth chattering, Erma sticks her top half out of the top hatch of Ocelot. Grabbing the MG, she's already bleeding from a gash on her head, streaming down her face, half-blinking away tears of exhaustion, anger, and restrained sadness as she grasps the grip tightly, swinging it towards where she's supposed to be firing, pulls down on the trigger as bullets rake across the outside of the hull of the Ocelot, mixing with the sound of casings bouncing down the sides as the gun, her means of retribution, bucked and kicked and spewed them out. It was like the heaviest leaden rain on a tin roof - And then they connect, ripping into her as the jaws of a wolf rend a stuffed cloth toy, tearing her flesh and fur and medals and uniform, her trigger-finger only tightening as she's rattled backwards, the stream of bullets making her body jitter and jump. And, as quickly as it began, it stops, her jerky, violent movements stopping in tandem, body slumping slowly forwards, smearing lines of spurting blood from her chest across the top of the cupola as she does, hand loosening on her grip of the MG until she falls, hitting the floor of the Ocelot, her form limply splayed across the still-twitching body of a Juniper Vuori, Stürmjager and Offizer. And there, Erma Fabrik, Feldkommandantin of the 34th, staring blankly up at the stormy sky through a hatch in a metal coffin, eyesight steadily darkening, died. She could feel her mind ripping as she got up, an almost physical pain before it knit as she got up, bones crackling with an uncomfortable sound. It was like she was - She was inside a vehicle, she was inside the Ocelot. Dried blood smeared her front, she could feel cold wind against - Bullet wounds? Her uniform, chest, it was torn almost to shreds from the volley, ribs poking through, but she didn't feel anything. Just a profound numbness. She moved her hands, rustling against the body of - Oh Khai. She suddenly wanted to vomit, to cry, to scream, to bash her head against the metal of the vehicle until it stopped, but she somehow knew it would do nothing. A terrible silence permeated the area, as she reached down to the body and closed it's eyes, her hand going to her holster, and - Nothing. Dammit.

Something was tapping against the outside of the hull, as a tune whipped past her ears for the first time in such a long time, and such a sweet tune.

"Betty bury deep, Betty bury deep, bury'ur down where death cannot reach, bury her down, six feet down, down where death cannae find her. And there she'll lay, there she'll lay, under this sweetened ground."

That sweet tune, as her mind dulled slightly, it set her on edge, that peacefulness amd dulling she felt only seconds before replaced by a pure and unnatural fear, that fear telling to her run, run away quickly. Her stomach twisted as she thought about, leaving - Fuck it. She slung the body on her back, it was like she couldn't feel anything, any of that stress in her limbs or pain in her chest or head gone. She would run, she would get out, she would get away, she would climb out and run, to hell with her leg, which reminded her suddenly. Her leg wasn't feeling like it was torn anymore. It was still as hurt as ever, but she could move it as normal. Was she hurt? What was this? What was happening? No mind to that, no care to it.

She could think later, but now was the time to act, not the time to sit down and think and die in a box. Climbing up the ladder and out of the charred, dented, vehicle, carrying the body along with her, she, once out, rolled off the top of the metal hulk, being as careful as she could with this flesh-and-death thing she was carrying, llanding in the ditch beside the burnt metal, in the snow. She made sure to fall on her back, or at least, not let the other be hurt. When it landed, she heard something go 'Crk', audibly. She felt nothing as she stood up, dead-set on her goal of getting far away from here. She could hear the singing getting farther away, or was it closer? She couldn't tell, as she stood up, dragging the corpse for a second before moving it back onto her back, letting arms hang and legs swing and head loll as she trudged along, boots crunching through the snow. Was that snow, or bones? She couldn't tell, and she didn't care. She continued on. With each step she took, the body moved with her, wobbling and moving, snow crunching under her boots like ash. It was so cold, or she imagined it was cold. She couldn't feel what it was like, but she knew it wasn't warm. Wind whipped and snow fell, making it hard to see in front of her. Her coat wasn't the tightest around her, what with it being so torn, chunks torn out of it by the hail of bullets that had torn into her as well. She continued watching, eyes staring ahead. It was like she didn't need to blink anymore. Did she? She didn't remember needing to, even when wind and snow and things blew into her eyes, they just didn't feel bad, or good, or like anything. There was a sensation, but nothing negative, nothing positive. She trudged ahead, keeping up that steady pace, not knowing why she was going so slowly. It felt right? It did.

As she walked, an unfeeling thing in a snowy wasteland of a land, carrying death on her back and life unfound in her mind, she began to hear the crunching of boots - Not her own, but it sounded like others, roughly six, maybe seven, all walking in unison, the clicking and cocking of weapons, probably louder than they intended them to be. If I'm going to die now - I'll make sure they know I know they're there, she thought as she opened her mouth, jaw clicking, teeth coming together and back as she gurgled out a sound, meant to be a 'I know you're there, whoever you are' coming out more like a

"You hlllackkk ghhh herrrrr"

Ending in a nasty almost guttural growl of a sound, that clacking, clicking of her teeth only intensifying. She felt liquid pooling in her mouth - She'd bit her tongue, though not as badly as she could have.

At that, they revealed themselves; Seven Necros soldiers, ranging from six-foot six at the shortest to six-foot nine at the tallest. The tallest was obviously the leader, a red plume sticking off the side of his helmet, next to the NS, 'Zasady śmierci są złamane' written under it in neat, almost cursive, handwriting. She couldn't translate what it said into Republik or Common, and she didn't care to. The tallest spoke, an almost whip-like quality to his voice, a quick snap as his jaw moved up and down with each enunciated word, the odd mass of flesh where his eyes were positioned on his face quite the uncomfortable sight to behold.

"Subhuman infantry; Separated from unit, Necromancer no longer alive. You appear to be carrying subhuman corpse. Fresh or unfresh? If Necromancer does not respond, will be taken with unit. Anomoly, serve Death. Chwała śmierci."

He stepped forwards several steps. In a quick fit of attempting to speak again, she spoke, barely managing out syllables and tongue movements, it all feeling so new to speak with this, like this.

"Notshhhheeperrrat. No Necromalkkkkkkennner. Do nghhlll - not acquire. Know. Chwallla. Smcirci."

The last part was gurgled, blood dripping out of her mouth and down her chin onto the ground, staining the white of the snow like paint on a canvas from the brush of some macabre creator. As they spoke, it was like a music, music, overwhelming music, it rose in her mind, threatened to overwhelm her, threatened to throw out her thoughts, threatened to make her speak the more she complied, the more she as they asked, this feeling gutting forth a sort of screeching yell out of her. It's sudden, but the Necros soldiers seemed unfazed, almost like statues of flesh.

Either that, or their faces were so fully covered or augmented that their show of emotion was nigh-imperceptible to anyone except the others of that squad. Letting the body drop from her back as she clicked and clacked her teeth, shaking shivering, shuddering, no cold but just sheer - Whatever this is.

And then, that last overwhelming bit, she knew what she had to do, that mind exploding into violence. She ran - No, jumped, almost like some wild animal, at the squad leader, knocking him over, now on top of him, the rest of the squad immediately opening fire. She felt the impacts, the pushback, but nothing else. No pain. She could feel his skin against her hands, her palms, her nails, as she torn at the arm holding his pistol, pulling on it, ripping away at it's layers, moving her mouth to his neck and simply biting into it, tearing out a fleshy plug, spitting it back into his face as he writhed. He may have been undead, or not undead, or just deadened to all pain by whatever the Necros had put him through, but he knew what was happening. His arm came off so well, muscle and nerves like so many wires in machine simply popping with the force she exerted on it, all the while being pelted with bullets. They were like... Pebbles. A blur of color, a blur of violence and satisfaction and quick, deceive, death overtook her, and the next thing she knew, she was standing up, looking at the body, the body unharmed, but just as stained with blood as she was. Face, chest, arms, legs - All of it. This masterpiece was complete, this canvas had been filled. She didn't care to see where any bodies were, not that she knew where they were in the first place. Blood led off in so many directions. Pieces, bits and pieces, like a scrapyard, scattered to the winds. She picked up the body and kept walking.

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