[4-14] The Town

[Okor]

The rumble of an engine permeated the deathly silence of the city, echoing off of dilapidated ruins of the commercial district, eventually reaching the miserable remains of Okor’s ears. His horned head twitched, his singular eye staring off into the distance, attempting to track the sound of the vehicle. Survivors. He relaxed his grip on the throat of his latest victim, the lank hair of the banshee falling to the pavement, their neck bent at an unnatural angle, their long talons slowly sliding from his flesh as their corpse came to rest. As much as he was loathe to admit it, the beasts seemed to be adapting to their Prime prey. A weeping woman was ensured to elicit a response, regardless of whether their victim fancied themselves saviour or scourge.

But the time for such musings had long since passed, faded into the void along with the creature that had inspired them. The bones upon his waist rattled as he began his jog, pestilence being pounded into the pavement with each step, his dulled sensations struggling to pinpoint the approaching automobile. The embrace of Nurgle shielded him from pain, numbing every nerve within his corporeal form, replacing the callous cruelty of the world with naught but the ever-present love of the Lord of All.

His corroded claw crushed wood beneath its grip as he mantled over a collection of debris in an alleyway, the rockcrete and rebar impaling a still-moaning corpse, its rotten teeth gnashing as a month of meals passed it by. The growl of the engine came ever-nearer, the distortion granted to it by countless echoes slowly fading as he approached the source, the trophies and weapons hooked onto his armour bouncing off of the putrid plates.

Just around this corne-

His diseased bulk turned the corner, a gauntlet pushing off from the rockcrete surface as he pursued his mechanical quarry. The screech of stalled tires drew his attention as the massive construct attempted to stop itself, the iron grille growing to fill his vision. He threw his ceramite-plated arm in front of his body, adding another layer of armour to shield him from the impact.

It never came.

He slowly opened his crimson eye, staring at the vehicle that has almost crushed him beneath its weight. At least something can go right on this damned isle-

There was a crack of thunder as a firearm spat death, a bullet piercing his ancient armour, passing through the flesh and maggots writhing beneath, and entering his heart, the lump of lead coming to rest inside the long-rotten organ. Briefly shocked, the Plague Marine dipped a claw into his most recent wound, inspecting the opaque fluid dripping from the newly created chasm within his corpse as shouts and screams came from within the truck.

”Everyone gets… One.” He snarled, glaring into the eyes of the woman leaning out from the window, her facial features filled with barely-contained stress and panic, clearly beginning to suffer from the constant turmoil of the island, looking down the smoking barrel of a rifle.

Another shot rang out as a crimson-clad man squeezed through the window, sliding his fingers over the woman’s as he depressed the trigger, sending another round through his torso. Silence briefly reigned as all the parties present slowly turned to look at the madman, who simply shrugged. ”What? He said we all got one.”

“What are you?” Demanded the woman, her eyes narrowing as she held her weapon steady, attempting to shake off the vermillion villain grasping at her gun.

A familiar cybernetic head appeared over the cab of the vehicle, the Colonel gazing down at the Dean of Security. “He’s my commanding officer.”

The other inhabitants turned to stare at their mechanical ally, before returning their gaze to the rotting revenant, attempting to comprehend what could bring the stalwart steel-hearted warrior into the service of such a being.

“Are you infected?” Growled Christa, still holding the sniper’s rifle steady with one arm, eternally ready to fire the death-bringing round.

”I can assure you that whatever… Contagion runs rampant on this island, is nothing more than a mere cold in comparison to Nurgle’s gifts.” He chuckled, pausing briefly to cough, pale blood flowing into his rusted helm. He wiped his own vitae off on his gauntlet, smearing it with the opaque fluid as he moved towards the rear of the vehicle. ”I am Okor Paleblood, Dean of Security. I have ten… millennia of combat experience, more means to kill a man than are allowed by most universe’s peace treaties, and a great desire to continue laying waste to this beasts.”

He hauled himself over the partition of the bed of the truck, landing between a cowering secondary and his subordinate, and across from a familiar face. ”Ah, Hiro. I’m glad to see that you have so far... failed to impale yourself. Have you enjoyed yourself on this blasted island?” He spoke, a smirk undeniably spreading beneath his armour.

“This is such bullshit,” spat the Samurai, jabbing a finger at the Ancient Warrior. “First, I have to fight my way through a tribe of cannibals, then Barry kicks the bucket, I have to fight a bastard who might somehow be even uglier than you, and to top it all off, I’m stuck in a truck full of maniacs, with a case I don’t even know how to open.”

”A case, you say? Three digit code?”

“Yeah… Wait, how do you know?”

The corpse chuckled. ”Even in this land of constant creation, my Lord guides me.” He paused, closing his eyes as he attempted to recollect his memories of the combination.

”Three primes dead in the dark, one by beast, one by blood, and one by choice. An Eden set aflame in the thirty-ninth millennium, a paradise purged of life. Seven sevens less seven, a holy truth denied.”

The hacker simply stared at the rotting ruin before him, uncomprehending. Okor sighed, cursing the ignorance of this realm.

”Three. Thirty-nine. Forty two.”

1058 words according to the site.