This is my first attempt at writing such material so apologise in advance for any poor quality work.
Legal Bit
SLA Industries and all inherent material is the property of Nightfall Games 1991 onwards. The Virus, the zombies, Dr Brunswick and the Awakened are property of Andrew Elliott.
Now the apology and legal bit are out of the way let’s get on with it.
The roar of combat, the screams of the wounded and garbled orders of command, crashing of weapons fire and the almost delicate rattle of falling cases, crunching of debris and shattered armour. The smell of blood, excrement and burnt gunpowder. The flickering and dancing light of burning wreckage, sudden sharp and fearful movements of combatants, the utter stillness of the dead, and shuddering of the almost dead. The feel of the armour surrounding and protective, the heavy weight of the weapon, the stinking sharp sweat in the eyes.
They were the last of the tribe. Just two warriors to avenge the treachery of their scorch-eyed ‘allies’ who had sneaked into their village the night before and killed all the warriors but them. The tribe was dead and there was no way they would be rebuilt. Their God did not award the careless and unable, He did not even award those who fought brilliantly but died. Only those who fought well and lived were taken to His side. They could not sense Him or His Angels, but they knew they watched from above and judged.
The day was damp and miserable, typical but fitting. The trees lining the boulevard funneled the rainwater away from the mournful procession, at the fore a motorized carriage bearing the casket, immediately behind the tearful relatives. Then came the associates and finally those paying their respects to the deceased.
Not a sound was heard beyond the steady drip of the rain, muffled whine of the carriage’s motors and the occasional cough of those within the procession.
The rain had slackened off to a light drizzle. Water hazing the streets as the standing water started evaporating and condensing within metres of the floor. The bar was cool compared to the outside but Strike didn’t notice as he walked in and unbuttoned the long-coat covering his Deathsuit. Pulling off the dripping hat, the ebon folded it up and slipped it into a pocket before slipping onto a spare stool and ordering a drink. As he waited he twitched almost continuously, as if turning to face different people.
The ever-present rain was all but unknown at this level, so far beneath the surface that the rain arrived as a toxic sludge more than liquid. Not that Karl was concerned either way, his reason for coming this far down had been met and the he only remained so long as completion of the job remained un-confirmed. He glanced at the time-display and anxiety, he needed to be elsewhere in just under an hour, and it would take most of that time to get to where he needed to be.
