This story is an unofficial story based, without permission, on the Warhammer/Warhammer 40,000 intellectual property owned by Games Workshop Ltd.
"Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are
As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends"
Corporal Michael Callus thought he was going to puke. Staring there, into the rushing, never ending blackness, he couldn't see anything, anything but the betrayed, terrified eyes of Private Milton McClellan, looking at the man who was supposed to keep him safe, mouthing those terrible, silent words as the blades came down the crush his body.
"Help me."
But he didn't. Callus tried. He stood there, screaming, wanting to reach out and pull him in, he squeezed the trigger for all it was worth. It wasn't enough. The Ork was faster than he is. And one of his men was dead. Callus cried out, punching the glass. Spider web cracks appeared across it, and blood red rivulets ran down Callus' arm. A Penal trooper cried out.
"Hey buddy, just what the hell do you think you're doing!"
Big mistake.
In a flash Callus had wheeled around and delivered him hard uppercut to the jaw, combined with a strong left knee in the stomach. Whirling, Callus hit him hard with a haymaker, sending him down, hard, in a cloud of his own blood.
Suddenly, a hundred lasguns were trained on his head. Callus looked around. He didn't even care at this point. He'd seen too much. Too much war, too many young kids torn apart, too many worlds ruined, too many mothers crying, too many fathers dying.
"INCOMING!" The voice was Haydn's.
Callus turned to see what his friend was talking about, and then he realized. The train had not left fast enough. The explosive charges lining the walls of the tunnel were blinking red. Then the blast. Then the darkness.
Callus was vaguely aware, momentarily, of falling through an endless blackness filled with other material. Spinning through the air, he was at peace. Then, it was if he was being sucked into a funnel hole of pure darkness, and he was gone.
***
Michael Callus woke up, bathed in the warm sun. He was lying on sand, the cool waves were lapping at his ankles. His ankles? The tide must have come in. He closed his eyes again, for a moment, and smiled. Life was good. He had just been released from basic training, and had two weeks of freedom before getting shipped off to the School of Infantry.
Callus stood. The sun was setting over Kazarkia. He would need to be home for dinner, and then the evening mass. Father Thorpe wouldn't be happy to see Callus miss prayer on his first day back. Running his hand through his raven hair (it was already starting to grow back. It always did grow fast) Callus turned to and grabbed his shirt, pulling it on and making his way up the road toward his small village. A trio of Lightning-class fighters were streaking overhead. Kazarkia was a strange world, to say the least. An odd mix of a rural agri-world in the country side and a bustling metropolis of Imperial civilization in the cities. The world itself was nearly devoid of any satellites, but a large space station hanging just outside of orbit served as a docking and refueling point for the local Imperial Navy detachment. Michael's older brother, Johan, had been the pride of the family when he had received high enough marks in math to attend the Imperial Navy academy on Kazarkia's third moon.
***
Callus opened the door to his home, and stared in silent horror. What was left of his mother and father were spread across the tiny kitchen and living room. Everything was drenched in sticky, red blood. In the center of them stood a pale white being, glowering at him. He knew what it was. He had seen it in his training vids.
"Slaaneshi."
It lunged at him. He dodged, running, slipping in the blood and entrails of his parents, dry sobs taking over his chest. He smashed his shoulder into a wooden cabinet, tearing open skin and sending a jet of blood out behind him. The daemon gurgled in delight.
Callus burst into his parents bedroom, slamming the door shut and locking it, he sprinted for the closet and tore the door open, fighting back the urge to vomit and sob and break down all at once. Pulling his father's bolt pistol down from the shelf he found a clip, tearing off the cover and slamming it in, racking the pistol. He turned just as the door broke open and the creature lunged at him. He raised the pistol and squeezed off three rounds. The daemon's head exploded in a cloud of crimson that sprayed across Michael's chest and face. Grabbing two more clips he shoved them in his pockets and ran. He had to get to the Church. He had to warn Father Thorpe.
***
Callus fiddled with his lasguns nervously, sitting in the tiny steel boat at blasts shook the ocean around him. He was a newly stamped Private in the Kazarkanian 207th assault infantry division, first regiment, second battalion, third company. Lieutenant Pearson's platoon. They were on the moon of Dansing, pushing the Eldar out of their positions. This was his first combat mission, a beachhead mission. He had seen this in his training vids. He hardly relished the idea.
"ALRIGHT YER LAZY LUGS, FIX BAYONETS!" The voice belonged to platoon sergeant Borges.
***
The jungles of Schoeman's World. Platoon sergeant Borges being torn limb from limb by a Tyranid Warrior. Screaming like a little girl. Callus armed his grenade, and threw it.
***
Dansing again. Back in the boat. Sliding the bayonet into its position, checking his lasgun. Safety off, set to burst fire mode. Full power. Good. The ramp swung down, Callus screamed and charged. First he was running through water, then sand. The world was exploding around him. He looked around him. Next to him, a man was running. A blast of warp energy. The soldier's face was gone. There was nothing but his grinning, white, skull. The eyes were still resting in their sockets, staring out. Green. Macabre. Dead. The body kept running. It kept running, and running, and running, until another blast hit it in the chest, and it was gone. Callus stared forward, lost in his horror. Screams. Screams, everywhere. Death surrounding him. He just kept charging. He just kept charging. He just kept charging. Emperor's tears, he just kept charging.
***
The Church was burning. The cries of Slaanesh worshippers filled the air. Michael Callus was hiding in the confessional, reloading his bolt pistol. He had arrived at the church just in time to see his fellow villagers tearing Father Thorpe's last leg off. He'd shot them. He'd shot all of them. Then, as Father Thorpe stared up at him, bleeding to death, his face ashen, barely keeping his eyes from rolling into his head, Michael had finally cried. And then, he'd shot him too. As the Emperor gazed down at him from his marble eyes, he'd shot his priest.
***
Falling. Blackness. The air rushing up around him. Callus momentarily regained conscious. Vaguely, from far away, he heard the sound of bone cracking against rock. He fell back into the darkness.
***
Natalie Walker. The first love of Michael Callus. Pretty little blonde lass from his village. She was nailed to a black, wooden, cross. Her throat was slashed open and her entrails were spread across her legs, and on the ground at her feet. The cries of the dark god's name were going up across the city. The whole world had gone mad. The whole world had gone mad.
***
The Sisters of Battle were putting the city to flame. The Inquisition had come, swiftly. Death comes on swift wings, as the old saying goes. The rebellion had been put down. Callus was standing in a straight line, in full parade uniform. His eyes looking at nothing, seeing nothing. Seeing everything. The Inquisitor was patrolling up and down the lines, commending the men of the Guard for their service in putting down the rebellion. The planet's Arch-Deacon had gone mad. Had devoted his worship to the Chaos God Slaanesh. He was being loaded onto the black ships even as the Inquisitor spoke. Taken for questioning, somewhere in the stars. Order had been returned to Kazarkia. Two million dead. Slaanesh had taken two million souls from the people of Kazarkia. Two million subjects of the Emperor had been killed or gone into darkness.
***
"Sweep, two by two. Alpha pattern. Emperor protect." The Captain was speaking. Callus raised his lasgun and began his sweep with unerring professionalism. The subjects of the Dark Eldar's experiments were laid out on tables and nailed to the wall. Eyeballs floating in the darkness, suspended by anti-grav generators. Tortured bodies, tortured souls. The Eldar's dark cousins were gone now. They had been driven away. There was nothing left to do but take inventory of their madness. The Ordo Xenos would arrive soon enough to take what it wanted. Until then, it was up to the Guard to maintain security in what had once been a colony-satellite orbiting unpopulated world XV1-2R7.
A scream. There was one still on board. Lasguns turned, lighting the air with super-heated beams of red light. The Dark Eldar warrior was incinerated where it stood, dropping the Guardsman it had held by the throat.
***
The air was erupt in fire. The small landing craft shook as it fell towards Nemesis Tessera. The ground rushed up to meet them. The retro-jets fired. They hit the ground. The door opened. Callus tore his lasgun from the rack and charged. He found himself simply staring in awe. The Gray Knights were already in the field, lacing their way between ranks of daemons, storm bolters firing, halberds glimmering in the air. Chaos bowed down to their Imperial will. By the Emperor, they were fast.
***
War. Everywhere, war. It was all he knew. As he fell, war flashed in front of his eyes. A lifetime of war. Dead enemies from a thousand campaigns were in front of him. Eldar, Tau, Tyranids, Orks, Men, women, and children. He had killed them all. He had killed them all in the name of the Emperor.
"All I have ever done is kill in the name of the Emperor. When will I die for him?"
His eyes snapped open. He knew that the black mass he was staring at was the ground, somehow. He hit. The sickening crunch of bone. Everything was silent.
Hive World Terra