That’s how long they had to hold out for until reinforcements arrived. That was how long that they had to stare down into the maw of death, holding the cursed red line from the massive host of the infected. It was four against what seemed like the entire populace of the town; which in hindsight may have been depressingly true. Add to the fact that Aase was gone, having taken several of the wounded back to the CCP, things were not looking good for the fire-team; they were for all intensive purposes, alone. Not good odds.
The team had set up three lines of defense, setting up anti-personnel mines and charges all across the chokepoint, but even that would not be enough to stop the horde from coming. They lost Gavin in the first wave; the poor bastard never saw it coming until it was too late. The other recruit, whose name he just couldn’t seem to remember, took a nasty slash to the leg before they ended up having to fall back. By the time the three had gotten to the second line, the kid was a deathly white, blood loss taking its toll on the young lad. It was going to hurt to leave the greenhorn’s body behind, but they didn’t have the time or manpower to spare when it came down to it. A shame too, kid was barely out of his teens.
They had lost the second line; the numbers were just too many for the three to handle for long. The kid, still having enough energy in him, went out in a blaze of glory by detonating a Newton’s Special when the Elysian and he got to a safe enough distance. The raging inferno left provided the pair just enough time to set up before facing the onslaught once more. While the two were ready to stare into the abyss once more, the supplies on the other hand, were dwindling fast. It wouldn’t be long now till the pair was run ragged and forced into melee.
Strategists would often like to point out over how dire and foolhardily it would be to have a mere two soldiers hold an area against insurmountable odds, with little to no support. Tacticians would scream in rage over the wastefulness of bunkering down and holding against wave after wave of mindless, unrelenting beasts, when there were better positions to defend. None of them would understand though, but for every single fiend that made it across the line while they went to a higher spot, was one more that the civilians behind them would have to face. The two knew what they had to do, and they were going to hold, or die trying.
Roach was dead; a spike to the head saw to that five minutes ago. He himself wasn’t in good shape either; his visor, shattered and broken in the last tangle, let the yellow ichor of a nearby corpse flow freely down his face. Wincing in pain as he lifted up the plasma cutter, Varl bit down hard as his own blood trickled out from under his suit. Although Aase had called in just a few seconds ago, it seemed like it was going to take ages before the reinforcements got to him. To him, it didn’t really matter if they made it in time or not, he was, for all intensive purposes, alone.
He was all that was left of Bravo Squad on this god forsaken rock and someone, somewhere, was going to pay for all the blood that the Endasimarian had to spill in this hellhole. Just let it all out, John thought, as his rage, sorrow, and misery ebbed and flowed freely throughout his entire body. Just let it all go, just like it did on Tellus Prime. Unconsciously, his blood soaked free hand reached out for his side arm, bringing out the venerable M1911 to bear once more in the face of battle.
As he face down the oncoming horde alone, Sgt Varl, in a fit of sheer macabre humor, idly wondered how many he would be able to take down. The average Kasrkin soldier was capable of taking 15:1 odds against their fellow GRUN counterparts. The average Amerian, especially one of the Endasimarian culture, was capable of taking 20:1 odds easily, 30:1 the norm and 35:1 pushing the limits. But this wasn’t a mere thirty or so against one, no; this was around the range of a hundred to a hundred-fifty against one per wave. This was by all means suicidal. However, unlike the rest of his kin, John carried the mark of the reaper, and he most certainly wasn’t going to let the Angel of Death down at all.
“Come, come on and let’s dance! One or a thousand I’ll kill you all!”