Lance Corporal Johnny Mathis was huddled up in the frozen
footprint of one of the 90 ton death machines that wreak hell on his planet on
a regular basis.
Cupping his cigarette to hide the glow, he remembered his
dad telling him the story of the Cogwerk Industries, and how they used to
actually care what happened around here.
Down by Beggar’s Bay, they had a flight station set up big
enough to handle multiple drop ships. Several of the colorful Clan Banners
would wave over multitudes of troops who had trained to keep the peace.
That was then and this is now. Now the Clans seemed to be
all wrapped up in portals, looking into something called a Meta something or
other. In their absence, Pirates, smugglers, and low life’s had moved in. Gang
wars rage back and forth with no control. The Military Police iMech’s all lay
in salvaged over ruins. The only ones left, are those who only want their damn
planet back.
Resistance fighters, usually not very coordinated, certainly
not well armed, try and take on the Pirate Gangs, trying to make the planet too
expensive to care about. It’s hard though. And ordinary folks with hunting rifles
and farm supplies get used up quick when fighting the gigantic Mechas that roam
the countryside.
Down the hill, Johnny heard or rather felt the leg
hydraulics of an Eighty Tonner known as a Ballista that he’d scouted previously
as it ransacked barns and outbuildings, looking for scrap.
Johnny put out the smoke and breathed in his hands for a brief
respite from numbness, gathered his gear and ran at a crouch parallel to the
machine, just over the rise so that there wouldn’t be any site confirmations.
The Ballista had seen better days. Skull and crossbones
painted with white wash across the front of it, rusted holes where bullets had
entered at some point in its existence. On its left armature was the faded
insignia of the old Overlord Clan, now but a distant memory.
Still, even in its state of disrepair, the pilot inside
caught movement on his sensors. 50 meters off his 3 to 2.5. Looking at the size
and speed, it could be a deer, or just a big dog. He should check it out
anyways as he might get a meal out of it, if it is a deer, or even better, get
to shoot one of the frakkin farmers that have been sabotaging their equipment
as of late.
The Ballista topped the hill and stood still, waiting for
his foe to make a move.
Johnny was crouched down in another muddy foot print. He’d
taken a couple of knee length socks out of his pack, along with gunpowder,
fertilizer, and some fermented orange squeezins in a mason jar that he’d packed
carefully.
Into the sock, he poured equal parts of gunpowder and
fertilizer, then using the fermented oranges to bind it all together. For a
makeshift ignitor he reached into his cargo pocket and pulled out a thin flask
full of magnesium shavings. Very carefully, he squeezed the socks between his
numb fingers mixing up the odd mixture. Once this was done, he tied the socks
off, then thickly coated them in axel grease. Once done, he reached into his
other pocket and pulled out a small, silver dog whistle. Putting it to his
lips, he blew in the direction away from the mech.
In the Ballista, the Pilot saw his audio signals peak on the
high end, somewhere near the tree line. He then caught movement scuttling
around.
“There we go, there’s those lousy milk saps. Time to cook
some farm hands.”
<thump> <thump>
Wha? What was that? The pilot shown a spot light around his
mech. Seeing the frozen prints, he reasoned that his hydraulics made a funky
adjustment on the frozen mud. Time to go light up the tree line.
Johnny was sweating bullets. This was not good as the sweat
trickles turned to ice in the most inconvenient places. He had thrown his “sticky
bombs” right into the leg gears that were right beneath the ammo cannisters for
the Ballista. Now hopefully, that mech makes it far enough away before the
grinding of said gears sparks the magnesi FOOM,
KERWHUUUM!!!
Blackness. Cold. Ringing. The sense that a giant had just
punched him right in his babymakers with its giant fist. Johnny cracked his
right eye open. Pain. Blindness. Then faint light. Luckily it was moonlight or
Johnny wouldn’t see a thing.
About fifty feet down the hill the Ballista lied in ruins.
Johnny thought hard now, because he was pretty sure he only heard one
soul-sucking explosion. Folks don’t realize that it’s not the explosion that
hurts, it’s the shockwave caused by all the air leaving the vicinity at once.
To emphasize the point, Johnny could see a piece of his leg about ten meters
away. He looked at it with clinical curiosity. Watching as it spasmed, but just
a little.
Wait, oh yeah, was there only one explosion? Johnny looked
over towards the Ballista with his only working eye. Sure enough, most of the
mech was splintered and in pieces, but the left leg and fuselage was still
intact. And on fire. Well now, at least he’s taking one of the monster mechas
with him.
On this cold November night, a second eruption of flames and
carnage erupts, disturbing the countryside. Then all was silent again. And so
it goes.
