Hold the Line (Part 2)

The winds of war grew ever fiercer.

Lankagela was an Imperium sergeant, a Zuen, and a member of the Black Legion's Fifty-Ninth Regiment.

His armor had become scrap metal. The pale paint on his black plating was like a faded memory, but the tactical flashlight mounted on the left side of his helmet had come back on, miraculously undamaged by his fall.

His men had become chunks of flesh scattered around him. Mede was now a mound of minced meat, his remains strewn through the ruins. Wadake's chest had been pierced through, his head sheared off by fallen rubble as his body twitched on the bloodstained sand.

Dane and Farley had been closest to the defensive turret when the enemy's autocannon barrage blasted the fortifications apart.

In Lankagela's fleeting memory, both men had been swallowed by the flames of secondary explosions, burning fiercely as the shockwave hurled everyone away.

Their remains had been burned beyond recognition. He suspected they had died before they even hit the ground.

Thick smoke rose around him, but the wind scattered most of it.

He could not move. He could not feel his left leg. Shattered debris lay scattered in every direction, and one particularly sharp piece had pierced his thigh and pinned him to the ground.

He turned to look at the burning bunker. The surviving machine guns were firing at the screaming rockets overhead, while an entire section of wall had been blown away, leaving the position wide open to the enemy.

The enemy horde was crossing the dust-choked desert toward them. The filthy clouds kicked up by motorcycle tires and engine exhaust half-concealed their forms.

The enemy rode in wearing all manner of primitive, crude armor, charging forward with frenzied coordination.

He remained calm and called for friendly forces over the comms,