The First Fear
The roar of engines filled the air as maintenance crews scrambled across the military airfield of Ark No. 17. "Move it! The ground forces are in trouble!" "Swap the loadouts and bring back the old rockets!" "We've still got napalm rockets left, sir!" "Are you trying to burn our own men, you idiot?!"
With the situation on the surface growing desperate, every available hand had been thrown into rearming the gunships. Thanks to their frantic efforts, the aircraft achieved liftoff in under ten minutes. There was no time to celebrate. The ground was a slaughterhouse.
> Gunships commencing ground support. All unit commanders, request assistance as needed.
The communications center sorted through the chaos of ground-force transmissions, directing pilots toward the most critical sectors. The surviving infantry responded with desperate relief.
> This is the 11th Company! Large swarm of small monsters inbound. Request immediate support!
> 14th Platoon reporting. Five large monsters approaching. Intercept!
Outside the sandbag perimeter, monster corpses had piled into impassable mounds. Grenades were wasted simply to clear firing lanes, while walkers occasionally paused to blast gaps so the heavy machine guns could keep firing. Mortar rounds reduced bodies to pulp, sparing that problem, but rifles and even heavy machine guns left too many intact remains.
> This is Gunship 22. Beginning ground support. Danger close.
> Danger close! All personnel, fall back inside the perimeter!
The 35mm chain gun on Gunship 22 spun up, its five barrels hammering the hulking monsters that clambered over the ruined sandbags. Each shell lacked the punch of a walker's 40mm cannon, yet the sheer volume of fire compensated. The final death screams of the creatures were lost beneath the thunder.
Cheers rose from the infantry as the gunship peeled away—only for hundreds of smaller monsters to flood the gap. Curses replaced the celebration as machine guns opened up again.
The mortar crews, positioned near the Ark, received fresh ammunition through the main gate. Even in the rear, the extreme numerical disadvantage meant monsters slipped past the line in unexpected numbers, forcing the mortar teams to fortify their own positions with sandbags and machine guns.
Tatatat! Tatatatat!
"Damn it… they just keep coming."
"We're already out of heavy machine-gun ammo…"
"Hold on. I'll bring more."
Monsters were reaching the mortar pits. If the main gate fell, everything was over. The newest Arks carried turrets and missile batteries; Ark No. 17, built in the earliest days, had none. By the 200-series, Arks began mounting CIWS; by the 300-series, they were purpose-built fortresses. The double-digit Arks, including No. 17, possessed only one virtue: absurd durability. Everything else had to be compensated for by the men and machines outside.
*
"Damn it… the casualties keep mounting."
How were these things still functional? Even while burning alive from napalm, they rammed walkers and destroyed them. The Controller wanted nothing more than to pull everyone back to the gate, but a single breach there would end the battle instantly. The entrance was a straight corridor with almost no room to maneuver. Once the defensive fire was forced inside, it was finished.
Gunship support was the only reason the thin perimeter still held. Hundreds of infantry and dozens of walkers had already been lost. The gunships performed brilliantly—fire support and rapid reaction in one—but the men were reaching their limit.
"How the hell are they still pouring out after we torched the whole district?! Is the napalm defective?!"
> Manufacturing error: none detected. The number of monsters simply exceeded our Ark's detection capacity.
"Son of a bitch!"
How many were there? Even now they kept crawling out. The gunships ferried wounded, delivered ammunition, and cleared corpse piles, but the pilots were human; they needed rest. After hours of napalm runs and continuous combat, their exhaustion was obvious. The ground troops' fatigue required no description.
When this was over, everyone would rest. For a while. Balance demanded that civilians share the burden next.
> Sir. Monster influx has ceased. Current detected count: 43,921. Rapidly decreasing.
"Ha! Finally!"
The Controller slammed a hand on his knee. Only the remaining monsters stood between them and victory.
"Connect the loudspeakers!"
> Connecting speakers…
*
"Sergeant… I'm so sleepy…"
"Stay awake, you bastard! Sleep now and you're dead!"
Tang! Tang! Tatatat!
A soldier with arterial wounds that any medic would recognize as fatal stared blankly while firing. The sergeant beside him fought to stem the bleeding, but the outcome was already written. The man collapsed with a heavy, quiet thud.
The sergeant stared at the body, wondering if a single bullet might be kinder, when the Controller's voice crackled across every radio.
Exhausted minds found new strength. Not hope for tomorrow, perhaps, but the refusal to break.
"Yeah, you bastards… die! Every last one!"
"We crawled through hell to get here! If you want us dead, come and try, you ugly sons of bitches!"
The gunship pilots retained some sanity, but the infantry and walker crews, already pushed beyond reason by fifteen hours of combat and adrenaline, lost the final thread. The Controller's words severed it completely.
"Blood for the Controller! Skulls for His Excellency!"
Two months after humanity's fall, the monsters felt fear for the first time—and began to flee.