Anthony DeCosmo - Fusion

Fifty feet…

The monks with their swords increased their speed in response to her charge. The sound of their pounding footfalls created a steady beat like an unstoppable tide rolling to shore. Their wide line condensed into a mob as they neared their target.

Thirty feet…

Nina grasped the hilt in a death-grip. The sword she had taken from a Mutant; the day she had met Denise. It hung behind her and to the side as she leaned forward in eagerness to meet her fate. She ran even faster. Her heart raced like a drum played by the devil.

Ten feet…

She saw the once-human rotting faces with splotches of red and green and flakes of skin hanging like scales. Their damned eyes locked on to her and knew only that they must hurt and wound and kill because that was all any creature of Voggoth could possibly desire. A destiny Nina once thought she shared but now she knew more. She understood more. And she would fight for it.

Nina jumped. She jumped like an Olympic hurdler, passing over the first enemy swings, landed behind the vanguard and in the midst of the mob, and she kept running, swinging as she moved with the momentum of her charge behind the arc of the blade. No consideration for defense. No blocks. No attempt to parry. Nothing but attack-attack-attack.

A head rolled free; a robe fell limp; an arm holding an alien rapier flew through the air. And still Nina darted through the sea of attackers, dropping her shoulders and swinging; leaping forward and thrusting. Everything in the blade. Nothing but attack!

Their counter-thrusts hit air as if trying to puncture a ghost. Enemy swords clanged against enemy swords where she had stood just a blink ago. Nina refused to stop, instead sweeping onward like a farmer’s scythe reaping harvest.

The bodies dropped around her in a line of dominoes knocked asunder. Yet more moved in with the Bishop’s orders of purification dictating tactics.

She felt the tip of one sword rip across her shoulder. Before a single drop of blood came from the laceration she had slain three more.

No fencer’s skill; Nina moved as a butcher.

A wide swath-a slit chest, a cut throat, a skull torn in half, a shoulder chopped into mush. Her sword did not falter; did not get caught in the gore. The strength of her muscle and the power of her rage made each swing unstoppable.

The entire upper half of an enemy body fell away from the bottom; the blade drove through a rib cage without pause; her weapon eviscerated a monk who dared block her path…

That sea of robes-still four score strong-spread in the slightest; took pause in the face of this demon of slaughter.

Directly in her path one of the monks discarded his blade and against the desires of his master raised his forearm and took aim with the alien gun mounted there.

Nina threw her sword. It hit the mutated man square in the chest. The body fell straight backwards to the floor.

Before the sound of the thump carried to her ears, Nina pulled the Mac-11s from their dual shoulder harnesses and, holding the guns sideways, waved her arms to either side in a slow arc dealing deadly bullets into the mob. She kept her eyes forward; she did not aim with anything other than instinct, yet not a single bullet missed.

She spied the Ogres lining up for their run at her through the gauntlet of robed monks. Her battle computer saw it all so clearly. So precisely. So easy.

Her guns clicked dry at exactly the same moment. Piles of dead monks rose on her flanks but the balance of the force did not hesitate; they climbed over their fallen brethren and poured in toward their unarmed victim like Moses’ parted Red Sea collapsing onto Pharaoh.

Nina ran forward again as the blades thrust toward her person. As she did, her arms worked in fast unison to her utility belt. One-then a second grenade-sans pins-dropped to the moss-covered floor.

While the mob closed in from the sides, one of the Ogres met her at the dead body pierced by her thrown sword.

Captain Nina Forest acted in a flash of lightning. While the clumsy brute raised its arms in attempt to pound her from above, she drew the sword from the fallen monk like Arthur pulling Excalibur from the rock and slashed across the creature’s kneecaps. She felt the bone there-or what passed for bone-crunch and the flesh gape open.

The monster stumbled to a knee.

The monks swarmed in.

She balanced her left hand on the shoulder of the half-collapsed beast and swung over as if she were a gymnast working the vault. As she landed, the grenades exploded. The shrapnel bore into the face and chest of the wounded Ogre; its body served Nina as an unwilling shield. A shotgun blast of an explosion hammered the horde of Monks. Bodies flew. Blood rained. Limbs tumbled through the air

The second Ogre confronted Nina.

Her sword plunged up where a crotch should be, driving in nearly to the hilt.

The Ogre fell forward; it’s face directly in front of her.

The Desert Eagle appeared in her hand. The Ogre’s alien eyes gazed at the big black barrel. From point blank range she pulled the trigger once, twice, three times. Each powerful round tore away a chunk of monster-skull. The dead creature dropped over and hit the floor with a heavy tremor.

Nina turned around. A handful of monks remained to face her. A handful of bullets remained in the Desert Eagle. She found a match for each.

The last gunshot echoed through the chamber, replaced by the steady gurgle and throb of the fuel tanks and feint moans from the mortally wounded.

Nina let the hand gun fall and then struggled to retriever her sword from the body of the second Ogre. It took some doing, but the blade came free.

Her eyes-still determined; still alive with anger-turned north again.

Next.

The walls wore a thick coating of green growth that took on the texture of not-quite-dry spackle. Wires-that could easily be mistaken for vines or perhaps even veins-hung loose over the musty corridor. A pair of glowing orbs drooped from the ceiling on twisting ropes casting the hall in a pale light.

No opposition greeted Nina. The last of The Order’s minions lay dead or dying (whatever that might mean to such abominations) behind her in the fuel depot. Only the buzzing sound of the Frisbee-thing with the glowing eyes followed her, and she had determined it presented no threat other than broadcasting her position. She decided that no longer mattered.

She knew the Bishop would not run. She knew he would wait for her with, no doubt, a surprise or two. Admittedly, as she entered the dome-shaped chamber that served as the Bishop’s final refuge, the nature of that surprise managed to take her off-guard.

Three images played on rectangular screens lining the curved wall on the far side of the dome-shaped room. The video in the center came from the surveillance drone showing Nina’s backside as she passed through the open sheath at the chamber entrance.

The one to the left presented video taken from an aircraft; most likely one of The Order’s Chariots. The scene depicted a mixed eastern forest covered in a blend of turning autumn leaves as well as stalwart evergreens. In a clearing atop one mountain she saw two people.

The man wore shoulder-length hair and pointed toward the shipboard camera. Nina recognized him: Trevor Stone.

Behind Trevor stood Nina Forest, evident immediately by her telltale ponytail and tactical gear. She fumbled for something in a bag as the craft circled the clearing in an obvious attempt to land.

“This is who you are, Captain Forest,” the Bishop’s voice spoke from alongside the monitors. “Rather impressive, actually.”

The Nina on the mountainside pulled a small device just as Trevor turned to address her. After an electrical flash Trevor Stone doubled-over onto the grass and rocks of the mountain top clearing.