55 Reclaiming Hope (12)

Balboa had fought in many places—bitterly cold lands, scorching lands, ruins full of madmen, and beautiful places with such lovely scenery that it was hard to believe rebellions could ever break out there.

Thanks to war and his profession, he had visited more places in his life than most people in the Imperium would dare imagine, but he had never considered that a good thing.

Ultimately, there had only ever been one reason for him to go to those places.

Balboa squeezed the trigger of his lasgun all the way down.

Crimson beams burst forth from the end of his arm, blossoming through the frigid air and knocking some creature he could not identify to the ground. It was covered in fur and not particularly large, but its claws were as thick as the Astartes' combat knives.

Even so, it was still flesh and blood. A couple of lasgun shots were enough to put it down.

No arguing with that, the captain thought fiercely. What was it called again? Ah, yes. The laws of physics.

He turned around and continued spraying fire with his weapon.

More young men in black uniforms like his were doing the same. Beams swept over the low snowdrifts, striking swathes of similar beasts.

They fell to the ground, their corpses trampled into mud-like pulp beneath the powerful hind hooves of their own kind. Dirty red seeped out, sank into the snow, and became inconspicuous stains.

Balboa silently estimated the distance. Two hundred meters, one hundred meters, fifty meters—he stood in the cold wind with narrowed eyes, staring straight at the frenzied beasts surging toward them like an avalanche. But when they closed to thirty meters, he suddenly released his grip and let the gun hang naturally.

The strap, worn smooth to fit against his skin,