Crisis Memes - 21 & 22 - Sat 09 Aug 2256

21 - Sat 09 Aug 2256 08:18

This is no pageant, thought Ben. You don’t end up spattered with other men's blood and brains at a pageant.

In front of him, Will pushed his sword into an onrushing Vikings face. The man’s own momentum forced the tip of the blade deep into his eye socket. He roared in pain and staggered backwards. Ben pressed further back into the narrow supermarket doorway.

The barricades were over-run. Led by more men in white bandanas, two groups of rioters had closed in from the flanks along Ring C, and at the same time the Vikings had charged. The Marines had resisted for a while, battering pipes against helmets and heads, but the Scandinavians were half-crazed and fired-up with an inexplicable blood lust. They had been pushed back as far as the Supermarket doors. There were civilians inside hiding behind the boxes of supplies.

Out in the street Ben could see rioters stomping fallen marines. Sergeant Youkana lay face down just in front of the doorway, a sharpened and bloody piece of metal protruding from his back.

Neither were non-combatants, many fleeing for their lives, being spared. One of Bens volunteers, limp and no longer pleading for his life, was being kicked by two big Vikings. One of them turned and noticed Will and Ben in the doorway opposite. He pointed them out to his comrade and they started to approach.

Will stepped forward, retrieved Youkana’s plaz-pipe and passed it back to Ben. “Use it, or we’re both done for,” he said.

The Vikings were ten feet away now. Ben could see that their eyes were glazed and they weaved slightly as they walked. They must be drunk or drugged he decided. He wasn’t scared. Something inside him refused to believe that this was really happening.

Will stepped out of the doorway to give himself some space to manoeuvre. Then with a clatter, he was hit by a heavy rack falling from the mezzanine above. He went down and stayed still. The Vikings circled around the debris coming at Ben from either side.

22 - Sat 09 Aug 2256 08:22

Bruce knew that he was losing control. Somewhere in his back of his mind he became aware of a certain irony in the situation. Military psycho-therapists had told him politely that he had severe ‘anger management’ issues, and more simply that he was a ‘Berserker’ - a name originally given to legendary Norse warriors who worked themselves into a frenzy before a battle and fought with reckless savagery and insane fury. But mostly his brain was filled with a simple desire to kill as he ran into the fray.

Ahead, he saw a group Vikings standing over the body of a Marine officer. Swinging the claymore he decapitated the closest one. Ignoring the shower of blood he swung at another and ripped open his stomach. There was another armed man in an alcove beside him. Bruce caught a glimpse of a raised club and swung his claymore a third time. This time his blow was blocked by the frame of the shop window.

“Bruce! Bruce, you crazy bastard! It’s me, Ben!”

The world slowed for a second. Bruce blinked, took a breath and lowered the sword. His brother stood in front of him - looking past him over his right shoulder and starting to call a warning - which probably meant…

Before Bruce could turn he was grabbed him from behind. Holding the sword with two hands, he swung it over his shoulder smashing it into the skull of one of his assailants. The momentum of the big blade caused all of them to fall over backwards - one assailant winded, another dying - a third rolled away and scooped up Chiton’s sword. Bruce had lost his grip on his own weapon. The winded man was still hanging on to him. Wills short sword was aimed at his chest. Bruce roared, and struggled in vain to roll away.

With a grunt, the man above him dropped the sword and fell to the side. Ben stood behind him with a bloody piece of pipe and a look of rage on his face.

The last attacker now got to his feet and turned to run. Two crossbow bolts thudded into his back and he fell forward with a final groan. The Marines had taken the upper mezzanines.

Now there was death and carnage on all the length of 17-12 Street. Following Bruce’s lead, the soldiers were on a killing spree. Rioters were falling in droves to the spears, swords and steel bots that rained down from the walkways above. Most now ran back through the barricades they had overrun earlier.

Bruce struggled to his feet and picked up his claymore, but Ben stepped forward and grabbed his brother’s arm.

“For Gods sake, call your men off before they massacre everyone!”

The berserker demon was waning and Bruce had regained some control. Turning around he shouted, “Marines, Hold your positions. Form a line!”

Some obeyed, but many simply chose not to hear and continued to press forward. A hundred yards further away, the alarms on the blast doors of F Ring were wailing out a two-minute closure warning. The tide of looters was receding towards the back of the ship.

Bruce ran out in front of his men and held up his hands to stop them.

From behind him a crazed Viking with a captured sword roared a battle cry and lashed out. Bruce watched his severed left forearm fall to the floor, then swung the claymore clumsily with his right to make his last kill of the day.