Granary Four

"But now, this vein is about to run dry."

Rovi jabbed his pointer sharply.

He aimed at two pitch-black zones on the map.

"Granary Four, once the energy reserve hub, held the planet's largest liquid Promethium storage tank clusters."

"Granary Nine, the seed and Fertilizer base, also the primary processing center for Corpse Starch."

The markers for these zones had gone dark, signaling total loss.

"According to the last comm logs intercepted by the 'Kais' server." Rovi tapped the brain jar on the table. "Granary Four and Granary Nine fell a day ago. That's our next destination."

"Esteemed Advisor, what are we doing there?" Old John asked, trembling. "It's got to be swarming with monsters."

"Precisely because it's swarming with monsters, that's where the wealth is." Rovi countered coolly.

"Plague demons don't drink Promethium fuel, and the Walking Dead don't need special drought-resistant seeds."

"Those supplies are now ownerless, just sitting there, waiting for someone bold enough to take them."

Buck caught on.

The gleam in his one eye sharpened. "You want to... fight to sustain the fight?"

"The Adeptus Mechanicus took our survival supplies, so we'll loot from the dead."

Rovi planted both hands on the table, leaning forward with an oppressive presence.

"Our fuel only lasts twelve hours. In twelve hours, if we don't act, we'll just be waiting to become Fertilizer."

"Alpha, run the numbers."

The Tech-Priest's eyes flickered red.

Several Mechanical Tentacles danced swiftly across the console.

"Logic extrapolation in progress... Target: Granary Four."

"Distance: one hundred forty kilometers."

"Terrain: extremely poor, riddled with swamps and ruins."

"Threat level: high."

"Estimated yield: enough Promethium fuel to sustain Granary Seven for half a year."

"Half a year." Rovi savored the word. "Worth betting our lives on."

He turned to Buck. "Those two Heavy Boltguns—can you use them?"

"Anyone with hands can." Buck grinned, baring yellowed teeth. "But I'll need a vehicle. A regular truck can't handle that recoil."

"Alpha." Rovi faced the priest. "Dismantle part of the 'Wall of Gluttony.'"

The priest's mechanical eye contracted sharply in confusion.

"I want you to transplant it onto the front of our Chimera Personnel Carrier, make it a bio-reactive armor. I want our convoy to be able to smash straight through those bloated Ogres."

Alpha paused for two seconds, then replied:

"As you command, Advisor. This will take time—at least four hours."

"I'm giving you three." Rovi raised three fingers. "Old John, you pick people from the refugees. Find the ones with guts, who aren't afraid to die."

"Tell them that after this operation, everyone gets double Synth-Starch Blocks and real canned meat. The few crates stashed under the Drop Pod."

Old John swallowed hard and nodded heavily.

"No problem. For canned meat, they'll bite a demon's ass."

The meeting wrapped up in ten minutes.

No wasted words, no rallying slogans.

Every person was like a cog in a precision machine, meshing and spinning into motion.

That was the rhythm Rovi wanted.

For Granary Seven right now, efficiency was survival.

Two hours later, the Repair Workshop.

The Metal Wall that had once rampaged on the battlefield, devouring Plague Ogres.

Now lay cut into several thick armor plates.

Even detached from the main body, these plates still showed a strange vitality.

Purplish-red tendrils writhed at the steel seams, as if still breathing.

Tech-Priest Alpha directed a few Servitors to weld this Living Armor onto the fronts and flanks of two Chimera Personnel Carriers.

Whenever the welding torch's heat touched the armor, a layer of viscous grease oozed out, sizzling audibly.

Like a scream, or maybe an excitement.

Buck was directing his men, securing two Heavy Boltguns onto the turret ring mounts on the vehicle roof.

"Steady, the recoil on these things can shatter your shoulder!" Buck bellowed. "Wipe the Belt Feed clean—don't let a single grain of sand jam it!"

Rovi stood on the elevated catwalk, looking down at the scene.

His fingers unconsciously rubbed the Black Ring.

"Kais," he murmured into the air.

A burst of static crackled through his earpiece, followed by a synthesized, emotionless electronic voice.

"I'm here, Advisor. Logistics Data Link established."

"What are the results of the perimeter scan around Granary Four?"

"Data fragments reassembling..." The Kais Server's voice paused.

"Warning, Advisor. In the core ruins of Granary Four, aside from the signature typical of plague creatures, an unknown, covert High-Frequency Signal Fluctuation has been detected."

Rovi frowned slightly and asked, "Also Chaos?"

"Negative. The waveform does not match Warp thermal energy reactions. It's colder, more precise."

Kais's mind struggled to search its pre-death memory banks.

"Somewhat similar to deep-mining scan waves, or a Genestealer's Bio-Beacon. Insufficient data to confirm."

Rovi's heart sank.

If it were just Nurgle's mindless Walking Dead, with heavy firepower and Living Armor, he had an eighty percent chance of charging in, grabbing what he needed, and running.

But if there was a third party...

Genestealers.

Or some unknown Xenos cult.

At this chaotic juncture, any variable could be fatal.

"Mark that signal and transmit it to Buck," Rovi ordered. "Tell him, once we're inside, if the target's uncertain, fire first, ask questions later."

"Understood."

Three hours later.

The rain had eased slightly.

But the sky remained overcast.

The north gate of Granary Seven slowly creaked open, rusted gears grinding.

A strange convoy rolled out of the defensive line.

Leading the way were two modified Chimera Personnel Carriers.

Their fronts were covered in Bio-Armor, still faintly pulsing.

The twisted face of the devoured Ogre could still be vaguely discerned on them.

Heavy Boltguns stood tall on the roofs, their dark muzzles aimed into the distance.

Behind them followed five transport trucks converted from civilian vehicles.

Giant empty oil tanks were welded into the truck beds, surrounded by sandbags, with dozens of fully armed "recruits" crouched on top.

They wore ill-fitting carapace armor.

Their hands clutched brand-new Lasguns tightly.

Their movements were still stiff.

Their eyes flickered with fear of the unknown.

But at least they were no longer refugees waiting to be slaughtered.

Rovi sat in the command seat of the first Chimera.

Through the narrow observation slit, he watched the desolate wasteland outside.

What should have been golden wheat fields had turned into patches of gray-black swamps.

Withered crops stretched toward the sky like ghostly hands.

Occasionally, a few mutated crows could be seen pecking at corpses by the roadside.

"This is the Empire's blood vessel," Rovi muttered to himself.

Already necrotic.

Flowing with pus.

Yet still being squeezed for every last drop of value.

"All units, attention."

Rovi pressed the communicator, his voice calm and steady, transmitted through the static to every vehicle.

"Keep your distance—forty klicks an hour. We're not going to die, we're going shopping."

"Buck, watch your fingers. Don't burn through your ammo before you even see the enemy."

"Copy that, Advisor." Buck's voice sounded muffled, probably through his Respirator Mask. "I think I see something big up ahead!"

Rovi squinted.

In the mist about five hundred meters ahead, a massive shadow loomed faintly.

An overturned Harvester, three stories tall.

But now, it was completely covered in some kind of fleshy Fungal Carpet.

Countless flies swirled around it, forming a black cyclone.

And beneath that cyclone, something seemed to be watching them.

Rovi touched his chest.

The Nurgle Amulet Fragment under the lead plate began to warm slightly.

Still, he didn't order a stop.

"That's a landmark," Rovi said coldly. "Ram it."

The engine roared, tracks churning mud.

The Chimera, armored with the Wall of Gluttony, charged into the mist like a maddened steel beast, howling forward.