Chapter 74: Rolling Thunder
In the lightless depths of the Underhive's transit conduits, the cargo-trolley ground forward with a rhythmic clack-clack-clack. The massive front searchlight cut through the ancient soot, casting long, dancing shadows against the curved plasteel walls.
Far ahead, at the edge of the light's reach, a mass of twisted silhouettes appeared. They were huddled together, blocking the entirety of the tracks, brandishing a chaotic array of scrap-metal weapons. They were clearly waiting for the trolley.
Kian Voss narrowed his eyes, his hand tightening on the grip of The Bulldozer. "Mutants. It seems the 'Unclean' have finally lost their patience. They've smelled the grain and the nectar."
The Silent One leaned in, his voice a dry rasp in Kian's ear. "Master... I sense a breach. They have torn up the iron path ahead. They stand there as a screen, hoping you will panic and accelerate to crush them. If you do, the machine will skip the rails and tumble into the sump-sludge."
Kian let out a cold snort. He turned to Shiv, who was at the throttle. "Kill the speed. Stop fifty meters from the line. Everyone, weapons hot. The moment we stop, we purge."
The Blackwater Cultists ahead saw the light slowing down. They began to howl—a high-pitched, wet "Awoo!" that echoed through the pipes. They brandished their jagged pipes and rusted cleavers, screaming insults in their distorted, multi-tongued dialects.
Their plan was simple: lure the "meat-stock" into a high-speed derailment. They had smelled the natural starch of the potatoes and the sharp tang of the amasec for days. The temptation of a "real" meal had finally overridden their fear of the light.
"Are they coming? Should we scatter?" one mutant hissed, his hand over his sensitive, multi-pupiled eyes as the searchlight blinded him.
"Listen for the roar!" their leader shrieked. "When the metal beast screams, jump to the sides! We will feast on their marrow tonight! AAW-OOOOO!"
Kian watched them through the sights of his auto-shotgun, unimpressed by their primitive tactics. Their IQ seemed as mutated as their limbs.
"Open fire," Kian commanded.
He pulled the trigger. The Bulldozer erupted.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP!
The unique, bass-heavy roar of the full-auto shotgun filled the conduit. In the 41st Millennium, "overkill" was the baseline. Each 35mm shell contained twenty heavy lead pellets backed by a military-grade propellant charge. At fifty meters, it didn't just hit people; it erased them.
The rest of the crew opened up with their autoguns. The dark tunnel was illuminated by the flickering strobe of muzzle flashes.
The mutants didn't have a chance. Their bodies, weakened by chemical rot and radiation, were shredded. Long-term exposure to the Sump had made them frail; they were being turned into a fine red mist before they could even turn to run.
Kian emptied a twenty-round drum in seconds. He ejected the empty casing, which hit the floor-plates with a heavy tang, and slammed a fresh drum home. He racked the bolt, the sound lost in the screams of the dying cultists.
In a "game," a shotgun's spread was usually a joke—useless beyond ten meters. But this was reality. The 41st-millennium buckshot maintained a lethal grouping even at two hundred meters. Kian didn't need to aim for a head; he just aimed for the "center of mass" of the crowd. Every pull of the trigger resulted in a spray of blood and bone as the pellets found purchase in the huddled freaks.
By the time Kian's second drum was half-empty, the blockade was gone. Forty corpses lay tangled on the tracks. The survivors were wailing in terror, scrambling back into the side-pipes.
"Cease fire!" Kian shouted. "Check your mags! Reload!"
He picked up the two empty drums and began thumbing fresh shells into the springs. Shiv and the Joels did the same, their hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline of the slaughter.
Once the "Combat Refresh" was complete, Kian signaled for Shiv to move the trolley forward at a crawl.
The wheels of the power-head rolled over the pulped remains of the mutants, the metal screeching as it crushed bone and scrap-armor. They reached the sabotage point.
A one-meter section of the track had been completely excavated. Two deep pits had been dug into the floor-plates. If the trolley had been moving at full speed, the front wheels would have slammed into the gap, causing a catastrophic derailment.
Kian looked at the Silent One. "Can you hold us? Can we 'glide' across?"
The Psyker looked at the weight of the two cargo-cars and the power-head. He nodded slowly. "I can anchor the metal to the rules of the Void for a short time. Move slowly."
"Shiv, forward. Slowest setting," Kian ordered.
Shiv gripped the throttle, his face pale. As the front wheels reached the gap, the Silent One extended a hand. A cold, purple shimmer enveloped the trolley.
Instead of dipping into the pit, the power-head remained perfectly level, as if it were riding on an invisible bridge of lead. It drifted across the gap with eerie, unnatural smoothness.
Shiv stared back at the void beneath the wheels, his mouth hanging open. "By the Throne... it's a miracle."
"It's an investment," Kian corrected him. "Keep moving. Full speed once the rear car is clear. We're taking the fight to their warren. I'm not letting a bunch of 'Unclean' dictate my shipping schedule."
The trolley accelerated, its engine roaring as it chased the retreating mutants.
These creatures, despite their mutations, weren't fast. Their limbs were uneven, their gaits skewed by distended tumors and extra joints. Kian sat in the rear bucket, his auto-shotgun rested on a crate.
He didn't aim for the head. He just practiced his "snap-shots."
THUMP.
A mutant running on all fours was hit by a cloud of buckshot, launching him five meters forward into a wall.
THUMP.
Another, trying to climb a side-ladder, was raked across the back, falling into the sump-puddle below.
Kian tossed an empty mag to Little Joel, who caught it and began reloading with the efficiency of a trained soldier. The boy was grinning, finally feeling the "high" of a successful raid.
As the trolley thundered deeper into the Blackwater territory, the pipes began to echo with the rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat of the purge.
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