Bergman's Hope

[FTGTEvan]

"Oi, Thomasson! Wake up! It's your watch."

"I wasn't asleep, I was just thinking about our last night in town I spent with your mom, Gammon." Thomasson slowly shoved himself off the cot and exited the shadowed but not dark bunk room.

Gammon stood stock still, staring at Thomasson stone faced. "That's not funny man. You know she died three cycles ago." The younger man tried to keep his face somber, but his lip twitched up slightly, fighting the grin.

"Stop exaggerating Gammon! It was only one cycle; she's still fresh!"

Both men glared at each other for a moment before bursting out in laughter. Eventually, Thomasson straightened up and began gathering his gear. “Anything happen on your watch?” he asked his younger comrade.

“Convoy 12 checked in on their way back in to town. They mentioned that there were a few disappearances out at the mine. Not unheard of, but more than they remembered. There were rumors of animal attacks. They suggested keeping my lasgun charged and ready just in case.”

Thomasson shrugged. “Probably just a bigger than normal smuggled shipment of grog to blame for the missing persons. They’re not exactly in a safe, rolling meadow out there. Regardless, your rifle should always be charged and ready newbie. The captain just says not to because anything he saves on power packs he pockets. I thought you would have learned by now not to trust anything that ratbastard tells you.”

“Because you’re so trustworthy,” Gammon laughed.

“And don’t you forget it!” Thomasson called as he exited the small watch building just inside the Western fence of Outpost Bravo 13. He stalked through the wire mesh gate and closed it behind him, pulling it closed until the magnetic locks clicked.
Splitting his attention between checking his lasgun and the hillside rolling away from the outpost, he casually strolled along toward the Northern corner of the fence in the gathering darkness. Once he arrived, he waited a few minutes gaze directed at the stand of trees some four hundred meters distant until he heard the gentle tread of boots on the grass from the direction of the Northern gate.

“You forget how to tie your boots again, Marsh?” Thomasson called gently from the corner of his mouth.

There was a chuckle as the footsteps got closer before they finally stopped a few feet away. “If you’re that impatient for your fix, I can give you some to keep with you Thom,” the man called Marsh teased as he handed over a small roll of Gerrumweed.

Thomasson took it gratefully, fishing out a lighter and taking a deep drag on the smoke before handing the lighter to Marsh to light his own. “That’d be nice, besides the fact that Cap Big-britches has it in for me, but trusts you for some strange reason.”

Marsh smiled behind his cigarette. “Everyone has their vices Thom,” he said knowingly, but didn’t expand on the hint. The two stood in companionable silence, smoking and staring out at their respective sides of the compound.

Nearing the end of his smoke, Thom broke the silence. “You hear about the disappearances?” Marsh nodded, despite Thom not looking at him. “Well, keep an eye out. See you in two.”

“Aye, stay safe.” Marsh flicked the end of his cigarette on the grass, grinding it with his heel before turning and walking away from the shared corner, eyes out to the darkness. Thomasson did the same, enjoying the slight jiggle in his brain with each step as he eyed the shadows below the trees in the distance.

* * * *

More to follow, niddyness included.

[FTGTEvan]

Second entry. Sorry if you saw this coming - there's only so many ways a story can begin with a promise of nids.

* * * *

As dusk turned to dark and his watch wore on, the keenness of Thomasson’s paranoia dulled with no movement in the shadows to hone it again. Pacing restlessly, he chided himself each time he realized he hadn’t been registering what his eyes were passing over for several minutes and fought to refocus.

But guard duty is thankless, unstimulating work, and Thomasson’s lapses grew longer. Checking his watch, regularly, he made his way to the corner he shared with Marsh a few minutes early, antsy for the stimulation of human company. He wasn’t surprised he beat his ever-relaxed fellow to their arranged meeting time, but he still bounced impatiently; pacing a few dozen steps away before swiftly returning and listening intently for his friend’s approach.

Eventually, Thomasson’s impatience began to get the better of him and he began drifting down the Northern fence. After his third foray several paces down his friend’s stretch of fence without a sign, Thomasson began to get worried. Marsh wasn’t the type to be on time, but he also wasn’t the type to leave someone waiting for long. And it wasn’t like he would have had something to distract him or delay him from this particular meeting.

Hoping he was simply being impatient, and cheering himself up by thinking of what the captain would say if he found Thomasson along the wrong fence line, he wandered toward the Northern gate in search of Marsh.

As the northern gate came in view, Thomasson frowned. The gate was still closed, he double checked that, but he wondered where Marsh could be. He hurried down the fence to the next corner and was dismayed when he didn’t run into his friend. He turned back, going slower this time and scanning the surrounding area outside the fence on the off chance that Marsh wandered out to investigate something without calling it in.
A klaxon tore through the night silence and spun Thomasson around. “What in the name of the Emperor?” He sprinted for the Northern gate, rifle lowered and primed. Reaching the gate, he mashed in his code and cursed as the red-light blinked. Damn the Captain’s paranoia.

Cursing, he took off once again at a sprint, this time for his own gate. As he rounded the corner of the fence, the Klaxon cut off. Rather than finding it reassuring, something in Thomasson’s gut felt the sudden silence to be even more foreboding.

Arriving at the Western gate, Thomasson pounded in his code furiously, relieved by the click of the gate popping open. He swung it open and carefully closed it behind him, pulling the rifle into his shoulder to keep it leveled with one hand.

Over his thudding pulse and gasping breath, Thomasson thought he heard cries of pain coming from the main compound. Sweeping the area with his rifle to his cheek, he slide-stepped his way over to the guardhouse door. Reaching it, he made one last scan of the compound and turned to the door, turning the handle before shoving it open with the tip of his lasgun, both hands firmly back on his weapon.

“Gammon? Where are you at kid?” Thomasson called, his voice strangled down to barely more than a whisper. Seeing the main room was clear, he cleared his throat and moved for the bunk room and called again, this time audibly. “Gammon!”

Shakily taking his left hand from the rifle, Thomasson reached around the corner and flicked the light switch just inside the doorway.

He turned swiftly from the sight that greeted him, squeezing his eyes shut to push out the vision of gore-splattered walls. It was just a swift glimpse, but Thomasson knew clearly through his horror, that the image of Gammon flopped sideways over the cot, blood still oozing from the gaping hole on the crown of his skull, would be with him for the remainder of his days.

[FTGTEvan]

Part 3:

Gasping to catch his breath and press the bile back down his throat, Thomassson stumbled to the door of the guard house and leaned against the wall, head tilted back, blinking his eyes clear.

His breathing returned to slightly more normal levels as his training began taking over and his ears perked, listening for clues for what was going on outside his protective hiding place. Hearing nothing close, he raised his rifle to his shoulder and slide-stepped around doorframe, keeping his shoulders level and steady as he swept to either side and exited the building.

Instincts he had forgotten, developed a decade earlier, before he wound up on this calm backwater, took over and Thomasson quickly and quietly stole further into the compound that had been his home for 90 day shifts over the last several years. While keeping his head up, he crab walked swiftly from the guardhouse to the side of the compound’s garage. Pressing his back to the building, he scanned the surroundings, listening for any noise that would let him know what was going on. He had an idea, but refused to entertain it then. Sliding along the wall, Thomasson reached the rear corner of the building and cautiously turned his head over his left shoulder and lowered the rifle so as to expose as little as possible around the blind corner.

With just one eye looking down the dark space behind the garage and along the Southern fence, he waited for a dozen breaths or more until he was sure there were no unexpected shadows.

Raising the rifle and pivoting smoothly on his left toe, he turned the corner and made his way along the back wall of the garage, before repeating the procedure as he arrived at the far corner of the stocky building.

From here, he glanced between the small barracks around the corner and ahead, and the Southern Guardhouse ahead and to the right. Not liking the idea of leaving an unknown behind him, he took a long look at the guardhouse before turning toward the alley and backing swiftly toward the small building.

Listening around the corner of the entrance while keeping eyes toward the center of the compound, he was less than hopeful, not hearing anything that would tell him friends were alive and prepared inside. Just in case, not trusting his watchmates to be calm if still breathing, Thomasson carefully, unclicked the power pack from his lasgun and clicking it back into place. The resulting quick, high whine of the gun taking the charge was the closest he was willing to calling out. He’d survived a las-blast before, but not whatever had happened to Gammon.

He waited two breaths after re-engaging his power pack before pivoting around the corner and crouching through the door. Only the safety lights were lit, casting a low yellow glow across the small room. Seeing no threats ahead, he closed the door with a click behind him and then risked a quiet call.

“Kale, Dannis, either of you around?” He was surprised and hopeful on hearing something shift in the bunkroom. The door opened and a pale face appeared behind a lasgun barrel.

“Thank the Golden Throne,” the shaken Dannis sighed before lowering his rifle and opening the door, revealing Kale kneeling behind him, rifle still aimed for a moment.

“Either of you know what’s happening?”

Kale shook his head as he rose. “I was already by the gate when the alarm sounded. I came in to check with Dannis; he was trying to get someone to tell him what was going on when I came in the door. There was only screaming on the vox. Then it went dead, right before the klaxon cut out. We holed up in here after that.”

Thomasson nodded, taking in and assessing the information, but refusing to allow himself to acknowledge the conclusions. “We’re not going to do any good or learn anything new staying here.”

Dannis opened his mouth, as if to argue, but Kale spoke first; “I’m with you. Better than waiting and wondering what’s out there and if it will come for us.” Dannis swallowed, but was clearly not willing to hold out by himself.

“Ok. I came from around the garage. Didn’t see or hear anything, but I didn’t check inside. We should go straight for the radio bunker. If something is still out there, I’d rather face it in the open than around a corner in the barracks.”

The two men nodded at Thomasson, happy to let the more experienced man take command of the situation. Kale walked over to the gun locker and pulled out extra power packs, tossing a couple to each of the other men before grabbing a helmet and strapping it on.

“Ready?” Thomasson asked. Kale nodded firmly, while Dannis merely licked his lips and pulled his rifle tighter into his shoulder. “I’ve got point, then Dannis. Kale, you’ve got rear. Let’s go.”