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For millennia, they tore their way across the Orion Arm. Swarms of quintillions, from which planet nobody knew nor cared, ravaged their way across solar systems. Even technologically advanced races buckled under the sheer numbers and abilities they possessed. Some choose to ally with one another, trying to postpone the swarm as it carried on rampaging. One small scout vessel of the hive, sent to search the outer reaches of the galaxy to search for more planets to consume, by chance was drawn to a young sun, the center of a seemingly unimportant solar system. The scout group noted the presence of one life-bearing planet--a perfect opportunity to weaken it for the arrival of the swarm proper, perhaps even consume it. Had the scout decided to opt for the adjacent system, perhaps things would have turned out differently for that little blue planet. ** 5th January 1915, Northern France John Daniels, soldier of the British Expeditionary Force, sat crouched in his trench while the sounds of artillery and machinegun fire came from somewhere far away. He was shivering, covered in mud, his hair infested with lice, his food filled with maggots. His uniform was in tatters and his ammunition was low. Moments later, there was a huge scream, like an artillery volley but much louder, followed by a boom and a jolt, which knocked him off the box he was sitting and caused chunks of the trench wall to collapse. Some sort of new German artillery? He crept out and looked cautiously over the side of the trench. About a kilometer away, embedded in the ground, was some sort of enormous thing,looking like some sort of gigantic rock. He wondered what the sarge would make of this. ** Central Australia Harry Sanders, scholar from Sydney University, had been awoken by some sort of earthquake that morning. Staying out here in the Outback in his study of the Pitjanjatjara tribe, a venture his fellows had mocked him for, he had no idea just what could have caused this. Glancing around the seemingly endless stretch of parched wasteland, he noticed something wrong with Ayers rock, in the background. There seemed to be some sort of lump embedded on top of it. ** Central Siberia, Imperial Russia
SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Grigor Liadov, guardsman of one of the Tsar's prison camps out here in this frozen wasteland, took a long at the expanse of tundra around him. Countless trees had been flattened by the earthquake earlier, thought what could have caused it he had no idea. That black mass in the distance--had that been there before? ** Northern France Infantryman Klaus Wagner looked over the trench at the falling rock now occupying a good chunk of the space between theirs and the Tommy trenches. He was surprised that a thing of such size hadn't made a bigger crater. The troops in the rest of the trench were still confused, and the scheduled artillery barrage had been put off. Messages had been sent to command to await instructions over what to do with the thing--perhaps they would blast it apart with artillery and resume the fight. Perhaps it would turn out that there was gold in it. He then noted what looked like a golden, ten-legged beetle scuttling nearby. Strange little thing--certainly didn't look like anything you'd find in these parts. As he bent down to take a closer look, it suddenly pounced onto his ankle and dug its mandibles straight through his clothes and into his skin. Crying out, he jerked spasmodically for a moment before he tore the thing off and stamped it into the ground. He pulled up his trouser to get a look--a purple patch was forming on his skin where it had bit him. Groaning, he limped down the trench as more of the little insects began scurrying into sight. ** Petrograd, Imperial Russia Tsar Nicholas II sat within his room in the Winter Palace as one of his aides entered the room. Were they about to bring him news from the front? "My Tsar, our astronomers at Pulkovo Observatory would like to report that earlier this morning they recorded a large falling star heading on a trajectory that would bring it into central Siberia." "And?" sighed the Tsar. "Why should I be concerned with one falling rock falling into that frozen wasteland?" "With respect, sir, they feel it may generate a cataclysm comparable to the one in 1908. It is possible that it may cause disruption in that area." "If by disruption you mean squashing a few peasant villages, then certainly. Now leave me alone until you
SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 have something important to tell me." And with that, the Tsar rolled back into bed. ** France "A falling star, you say?" "Yes, sir. Message just came in from the Somme area. The troops are confused, and apparently its arrival has coincided with a sudden outbreak of strange yellow beetles." John French of the British Expeditionary Forces, within his place of command, eyed the messenger. "Reminds me somewhat of that yarn written by that Wells fellow back in '98, don't you think? Oh well, I guess we shall simply have to remove this impediment. With explosives, or artillery. Can't let one stone from the heavens interrupt the fight, can't we?" "Very good, sir. Oh, and by the way, the message would also like to add that some of our men have been bitten by these beetles, and are feeling very ill." "Well, this isn't my specialty. But no insects will survive for long in that hellhole. Just tell the soldiers to give them the same treatment they give their lice. Now, unless you have anything else to add, I would like to continue with my breakfast." ** Northern France "Message from the toffs, lads. Artillery's going to blast that big rock, and then we'll be able to get back to giving Jerry what for." For the past several hours the area had been surprisingly quiet. Daniels guessed that the Krauts had been just as stunned by the thing as they were. He took another peek over the side of the trench--the thing seemed bigger than before, and there appeared to be tendrils of some sort extending into the ground. "But sir, maybe there's somethin' of value inside that." asked one soldier with a loud London accent to the sergeant. "Nonsense, private. That rock is only of interest to crackpots who think that giant ants live on the moon." He checked his watch. "Okay, the guns will be firing any moment now."
SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 After a few moments, the booming of artillery started up, and Daniels covered his ears. Moments later, the whistling of incoming shells came in. He looked over the side again, expecting the rock to shatter like an egg, only to see a cluster of pinpricks hovering near it. Peering at them through his binoculars, he could see that they were, in fact, the artillery shells. Moments later, they dropped to the ground harmlessly. "What the devil happened there?" breathed the sergeant. He turned to another soldier. "Send a message back to the brigadier--tell him that for some reason shells won't hit that thing. We need explosives." "We're going to blow it up, sir? What about the Boche?" "To hell with them! Theres something unnatural about this rock, and I do not want it here any longer!" As he spoke, several cries came from down the trench. Looking down, Daniels could see countless insects swarming towards them--little golden beetles. Hundreds of them pounced onto some poor guy beside a machinegun, causing him to scream out in agony. Daniels ran down the trench as the others began firing into the swarm, some even lobbing grenades. He didn't know what the hell was happening, he didn't want to find out. ** Sergeant Matthias Schultz headed down the trench, with soldiers huddled together down by its walls. It was all due to that damn rock that had fallen out of the sky--the Britishers had suddenly stopped firing, his machingunners were complaining that it blocked their view, and now he was getting reports of strange biting insects crawling about. He noted, calmly walking towards him, was one of the troops--Wagner, or something like that. One of his trousers appeared to be slightly torn, as if something had bitten through it. "I request permission to access an infirmary, sir." he said calmly. "I have been bitten by an insect." "Show me." snapped Schultz. Damned cowards were always using injuries to try and keep out of duty. The soldier complied, pulling up his trouser to show that his ankle had turned purple and some sort of crystalline stuff was protruding out of his skin. Schultz felt faint. "Ah...very well, permission granted, soldier." He turned to the other soldiers. "If any of you see these insects which are supposedly crawling about, eliminate them. They are no doubt connected to that rock, which I trust either our gunners or the Tommies will have razed in good time." He took another look over the trench. The rock seemed to have changed shape, looking more bulbous and as if it was about to burst. The sooner that thing was destroyed, the better. **
SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Dozens of guards and prisoners of the Tsar, once in animosity of each other, walked calmly across the snow towards a distant rail track. Scurrying around their legs were hundreds of beetles, some of them latched onto their clothes. Each man had a puncture in his trouser, and an empty expression on his face. The 15.00 supply train to Vladivostok was due in a few hours. ** Schultz observed the rock, safe in the knowledge that the artillery would soon let rip and send it back to wherever it came from. More soldiers had complained about bites from these damned bugs that had popped out of nowhere. Once this thing was blown up, he would see that they were all exterminated. "Mein herr!" cried a voice. "Look!" Schultz lowered his view. Across the desolate expanse before them, hundreds of...things...were apparently burrowing their way out of the ground. Giant moles? Badgers? What was going on? He finally got a close look of one of the things as it appeared, and his jaw dropped. It was some kind of giant insect, the size of a donkey, like a cross between an ant a spider, with ten legs and a drooling face fall of mandibles. It was colored black-and-red, like some monstrous Red Widow. He continued to stand gaping as at least a hundred of the things began to scuttle rapidly towards the trench. "Sir? Orders?" Schultz snapped back to reality. "Shoot, you idiots, shoot!" The soldiers aimed over the side of the trench and opened fire, with the MG 08 machineguns positioned on regular intervals likewise. Bullets hammered into the faces of the nearest bugs, but anything less than about ten rounds on a concentrated spot seemed to do little other than slow them down for a moment. As they finally came within meters of the trench, Schultz fixed a bayonet to his Gewehr 98 rifle. "Soldiers!" he screamed. "Fix bayonets!" They complied, just as the things began leaping into the trench. A soldier nearby screamed as it dug its mandibles straight into him, tearing into his stomach. As he clattered to the ground, it picked up his rifle with its forward legs, and then suddenly stuck it straight into its hide. A gooey, purple, crystalline substance spread from the spot where it was stuck and covered most of the rifle in a matter of seconds. Now armed, the thing fired the rifle now embedded in it, grazing Schultz on the shoulder. Crying out in pain, he looked around him and saw his men being overwhelmed by the things. Ahead, one of them had managed to incorporate of the MG 08s into itself, and was blazing away like a madman. Throwing down a grenade, he leapt out of the trench and began running to the artillery positions a distance back, hoping the explosion would buy him time. He was going to have the entire area pulverized and gassed.
SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Those things were not going to spread out more. ** Train driver Leonid Palenko sighed as his train braked to a halt. A crowd of people, some dressed in army uniform, some in prisoner fatigues, were standing still on the track ahead. What were those idiots thinking? Here he was, delivering an shipment for a company in Vladivostok, and they were delaying him. "What the fuck do you think you are doing, durak?" he shouted as one of them walked briskly up to him. "You are holding up the train! Get a move on!" He then noticed there was something wrong with the guy's face. Half of it was covered in this purple, shiny mucus, and the eye of that half was bulging so much that it looked like it would burst. "What's wrong with you?" he demanded as the man drew a revolver. "No! Put the gun down! Wait!" The man fired, the bullet slamming straight into Leonid's brain. Moments later, the others were also walking towards the train. Within a few minutes, it was continuing on its way, delivering a new shipment to its destination. ** Colonel Jacques Picard of the French army sat on a chair before a villa sipping from wine. Looking around him, it was difficult to tell that a matter of kilometers away was the Somme, and some of the worst fighting here on the Western Front. The soldiers and officers passing by here had being spreading ridiculous rumors of a falling rock that was invincible to artillery fire. Obviously, he didn't believe such nonsense, being a man of taste. Footsteps approached. He turned to see two British soldiers, their uniforms bloodied and muddy, carrying something in a bag between them. He wondered what these two uncouth English men wanted. "So many...those eyes, those eyes..." one of them was mumbling. "What is the matter?" demanded Jacques angrily. Sighing, one of the soldiers dumped the contents of the bag in front of him. Jacques spat out his wine in shock. It was some sort of monstrously large insect, like some deformed spider, curled up and holed by bullets. "What is this?" he breathed. "Hundreds of 'em attacked us, sir." said one of the British soldiers in a Cockney accent. "We think they comes from that big rock that fell from the sky. Me and Pete here managed to kill one of 'em and carry him here. They didn't seem to interested in us, y'see, and dug back into the ground when they killed all the lads in our bit of the trench. We think they gave the Krauts the same treatment."
SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "But did you not shoot them?" "These big lice can take a bullet to the face and they'll just keep on coming. Plus, there was a ton of 'em. When you killed one, twenty more appeared." "Did you not use artillery?" "Didn't 'ave time to send a message. Besides, like I said, they dug under the ground when they were finished. Nothin' for them to fire at even if they knew they was there." Jacques stood up. "You two will come with me and take that thing with you. There is a truck near here. We will take this to Monsieur French at command and inform him of the situation." "Very nice idea, sir." Scooping up the thing, they walked down to a nearby truck, not noticing the golden beetles scurrying in the nearby shadows. ** The Biped forces in the immediate area of the hive-meteor had been exterminated. More would no doubt come. Fodder for the warriors. Their ranged weapons would do no good. The Infiltrators had already managed to force several Bipeds into the consciousness of the Swarm. Their knowledge had been stripped from them and added into the Swarm's collective mind. These Bipeds were disunited, disjointed, squabbling and suspicious. They waged a war that was consuming a continent. Their industry, once converted, would do well to produce the weapons the Swarm had acquired from other worlds. But for now, their own primitive weapons would have to suffice. Targets for attacking had already been identified. The urban areas known as Paris, Berlin, London, and Moscow were the most important. Lesser strategic and tactical locations were also included into the plan. Warriors and other representatives of the war caste were being spawned. Inevitably, the Bipeds would succumb. `
** 6th January 1915, Berlin Kaiser Wilhelm II, Eric Von Falkenhayn, Paul von Hindenburg and Eric Ludendorff stood around a table in a room within the Reichstag itself. Apparently, reports of a very disturbing development had filtered in from the western front, and the Kaiser had demanded that he and all his most important members of the chief of staff be told in person.
SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Mein herren," announced a man from intelligence as he entered the room, saluting. "We have confirmation of very strange news that could potentially reshape this war entirely." "What would it be? Has God finally decided to wipe those Entente pigs from the face on the Earth?" said Falkenhayn. "Er...it is something like that, now that you put it this way. I shall be succinct. Yesterday morning, a rock of some sort fell down in the space between ours and the enemy's front lines in the Somme area, in Northern France." "Is that it?" scoffed the Kaiser. "A falling star necessitates the changing of our war effort?" "It is what came with the rock that will. Shortly thereafter, both us and the Britishers came under attack. I will not waste time attempting a description of the attackers, for you will take me for a madman. I shall let these photographs speak for themselves." He tossed a set of freshly developed pictures onto the table. They displayed enormous insects swarming over the land, attacking soldiers and pulling apart crates and trucks. The jaws of all looking at them dropped. "What...what are those?" gasped Ludendorff. "Enormous insects, as your eyes will tell you, that obviously accompanied the rock." "Preposterous! Insects of unearthly origin coming from fallen rocks? I refuse to believe this!" said the Kaiser. "You will have to." continued the intelligence officer dryly. "We also discovered these." He tossed several dead golden beetles onto the table. "What's this?" "These appeared shortly after the rock's impact. They apparently swarmed in some trench areas, and bit whoever came near them. Those who have been bitten are in care, but the symptoms are...strange, to say the least. Analysis is still being worked on." "So...what are these creatures doing now?" asked Hindenburg. "They exterminated all our troops in the immediate vicinity of their rock, and did not pursue a further onslaught." "Have we not destroyed the area with artillery?"
SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "They are capable of burrowing underground, and trying to blow up the rock with ranged fire has not yielded much in the way of results." "What do you mean?" "We are simply unable to destroy it. I cannot properly word an explanation yet." "Enough." snapped the Kaiser. "This situation is confusing me, and I demand we take all measures necessary to defuse this. We shall destroy the area from above if we must. I think our zeppelins might be useful for this." "As you wish, Herr Kaiser..." ** John French wiped the sleep from his eyes as he stumbled into the meeting room he had been told to go. Supposedly, an emergency briefing had been called, with all top British and French officers available having been called. What was going on? Had the Boche broken through their lines? "Ah, Monsieur French." said a voice as he entered. "Please look at the table." French nodded, taking a look down, and swore he almost had a heart attack from the shock. Lying on the table was some gigantic ant...spider...thing. Dead, and curled up, but still hideous. "Wha...what is that?" "That, sir, is what came in that rock you were told fell from the sky at the Somme." "Just one?" "No, sir. Hundreds, at the least. They killed all our boys in the immediate area, and artillery did not seem to have much of an effect." "I...I...need some coffee. Make that beer." ** Northern France French Sergeant Derand accompanied the BEF and French army soldiers as they cautiously approached the perimeter beyond which the creatures in the meteor had not went. Apparently, they had exterminated every human in a kilometer radius around the meteor, and Derand was under explicit instructions not to head a meter beyond that radius.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 He watched as the troops began setting up barb wire lines and machinegun emplacements in a new defensive half circle. Clearly these things were intelligent, command had decided, and so an offensive on their part was inevitable. Thus, French had decided that to suppress them heavy concentrations of machineguns were needed, a tactic some of the British troops had taken to calling 'dacker', after the noise some of the guns made. Some had complained about the diversion of supplies from other parts of the line, but after seeing pictures of these things and what they had done, Derand had decided that it was necessary. Plus, the Krauts were no doubt doing the same. "Is it me, or has the topography of this area changed?" said a high-class British voice. Horace Smith-Dorrien, a BEF commander, was accompanying him. "Let me see." said Derand, taking his binoculars to his eyes. Yes, the closer to the meteor, the more elevated the terrain got, as if the area around it was being pushed up into a mound, like some enormous...ant hive... "I think, mon ami, that they are building a nest." he uttered. "What?" "We have established thaat they are insects, have we not? Therefore, they are going to have some base of operations." "In that case, I hope we will dynamite the place as soon as we get the chance. I don't fully understand these things or where they have come from, but by Jove, I'd be happy to get rid of them as soon as possible and resume fighting enemies who I know are human at least." "Indeed." said Derand, who turned around as a truck carrying more soldiers and boxes of ammunition parked on the grass nearby. "Let us just hope that those enemies have also switched their focus to these things, and will not take advantage of our little change in strategy here." "With that Kaiser bastard, it's very much possible." agreed Dorrien soberly. "Still, I wonder where this things have come from, and why they chose our planet." "I don't think we'll have an opportunity to ask them." said Derand as the soldiers around them began digging into the ground behind the barbed wire. "Let us just hope that the firepower we have with us will suffice to stymie these little demons..." ** Northern France In a triage behind German lines, Doctor Gerber looked upon the various soldiers who had supposedly suffered bites from the strange golden beetles that had been crawling around. Some of them had managed
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 to catch and kill some of the beetles, and he had been dissecting them to an extent. Their biology certainly was peculiar, what with their carapace proving surprisingly strong, and various organs he could not identify. The whole thing seemed like something had designed it--but what creator would see fit to put such horror on this world? He looked over the bitten soldiers lying on the mattresses in the tent, all of them unconscious. When they had entered the tent, they had seemed fine, albeit limping and some strange...stuff...on their ankles or places where they had been bitten, before complaining of headaches, vomiting, and even voices in their head. Now, they were all silent, with this crystalline, purple mucus-like substance having spread across half their bodies from the place they had been bitten. Its purpose he could not fathom. In any case, grabbing a scalpel, he decided to remove some of this substance and study it properly. Bending down, he jerked back in shock when the soldiers' eyes burst open. Jumping back as they all stiffly rose up in unison, he grabbed his own Luger from the table as they got to their feet. "Get back now! Jetzt! You must all be treated!" he shouted as some of them walked out of the tent, and some advanced towards him. "You will get down, or I will shoot you!" he shouted, as one approached him with his arm outstretched, his face looking increasingly more skeletal and his eyes bulging, and his blood vessels and nerves clearly visible under his skin. In desperation, Gerber fired off a shot into his eye, which had seemingly no effect. Scooping up a nearby surgery knife, the man dived towards him as he screamed. ** Northern France Colonel Dietrich watched as the sun set over the barbed-wire dotted horizon, with the ground around the place where that falling star everyone was talking about had fallen apparently forming into some kind of mound shape. Several squads had been sent into the trenches near it to reoccupy them, but none had returned. He had been getting vague reports of giant insects and infestations of mysterious golden beetles. Frankly, he didn't know what to believe--it was starting to sound like a Jules Verne novel to him. "Mein herr, the emergency consignment has arrived." said a soldier, saluting. Several trucks had pulled up, and soldiers were taking out various sets of apparatus. "What is this?" demanded Dietrich. "Flamethrowers, mein herr. They were originally designated for use further down south on the front, but they have been redirected here. Command requests that these be set up as soon as possible." "Against what enemy are these supposed to be used against?" "I have been hearing stories of rampaging giant ants from the moon, mein herr. I do not know what
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 nonsense to believe in these days." "Very well. Have these handed out and deal out instructions as to their use. Hopefully they will help against whatever horrors we're about to face..." ** London In a room within one of the various buildings allocated for the direction of war in London, First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill read over the message that had been passed down to him from high up. It detailed the formation of an 'Emergency Land Armor' committee, in response to some drastic development on the Western Front. Had the Kaisers men somehow reached Paris? Someone shouldve bloody well told him. In any case, the priority was accelerating one of the projects under his supervisionassembling a team of engineers and other such experts and focus their energies into construction a mobile armored defensive position. Most intriguing. Some would say that wars were fought with men, not glorified motor-cars. Still, he would do what duty called. Britannia was not going to defend herself. ** Warriors had been spawned. Intelligence and information, stripped from feeble Biped brains, had been analysed. For now, there was insufficient strength to launch a total swarm over this continent, but given the Biped's apparent bias towards strategies of attrition forcing them back a segment of land at a time would buy time for this. The first offensive was about to begin. It would be nothing compared to what would come later, but for breaking the morale and coherency of the Biped factions it could just suffice. ** 7th January 1915, Northern France Denard rubbed his eyes as morning broke. For something like twelve hours now, the troops had been constructing this new line, taking various shifts with some resting as others worked. A British artillery battery had been set up a few kilometers back, and had been instructed to target the general area in front of the line and be ready to fire at a moment's notice. They had let off a few shells about an hour ago to make sure their elevation was correct. Now, glancing at the mixture of British and French troops pulled from various parts of the front line, Denard continued scanning the area with his binoculars. What was definitely a huge mound of some sort had formed a distance ahead, with the ground very gently sloping up to it. If these things, whatever they were
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 and wherever they came from, could manipulate the Earth like this, he suddenly felt very worried for a reason he couldn't identify. "Sir! We have movement!" shouted one of the English soldiers. Denard looked around the plain before him with his binoculars, spotting something emerging from the ground about a kilometer and a half away. Yes, he could make out squirming mandibles and a heaving shape. Then his heart leapt and he found himself breaking out in sweat as countless other similar things began erupting out of the dirt around it. "Merde." was all he could say. "Alright, lads, here they come! Everyone prepare to fire!" shouted a British subordinate. Denard jumped back into the trench and readied his service revolver, for all the good it would do. So it was true--they were under attack by unearthly insects, as much as that sounded like something from a HG Wells novel. Now it was time to see if this hastily constructed defence line would hold them. "Fire as you have a clear target!" yelled Denard, as he continued to observe through his binoculars. It looked like a vast black tide was coming upon them--no need to be discriminatory against something like this. He suddenly felt a soggy sensation in his underwear, and uttered a prayer. If he got out of this, he would be heading straight to the nearest church. The machineguns placed along the trench opened fire as the swarm approached, the high-caliber rounds slamming into the first line of the tide. Denard saw quite a few of the disgusting, oversized woodlice crumple, but the rest simply scurried over their bodies and continued. How many were there? Hundreds? A thousand? The screaming of artillery shells came from overhead, slamming straight into the huge moving mass of the things. Dirt and flesh erupted all across the plain in front of them. And yet, the demons kept on coming, trampling over their dead. Some of them were now very close, close enough that he could see their black eyes and twitching mandibles. A few soldiers nearby cried out and feel down as some of the things fired with rifles somehow attached to them. More were almost upon the trench, casually scurrying over the layer of barbed wire. "Bayonets, ready!" screamed the British sergeant, and some soldiers firing with rifles fixed bayonets and stabbed at the things as they leapt into the trench, screaming. Aiming his revolver, Denard fired straight into the face of one of the things as it landed a few meters away. Screeching in pain, Denard finished it off with his knife, stabbing straight into its face and splattering purple blood all over his uniform. Before him, other soldiers were furiously jabbing at the things, which in turn physically tore some of them apart with mandibles and forearms. The machinegunners continued blazing away as more of them swarmed forward, and more artillery shells impacted straight into the mass of them, but they just kept on coming. Screams reverberated around as the soldiers began to find themselves being overwhelmed, with multiple insects attacking each one. "C'est des conneries!"[ this is bullshit] spat Denard to himself, and scrambled out of the trench as now the
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 machinegunners found themselves being torn apart. He had thought something like this would have happened, so command had put in a contingency. Something they had previously considered barbaric. Readying a flare gun, Denard fired into the sky as the trench behind him filled with bugs, before struggling on a gas mask. ** Dietrich was woken by the sounds of shouting, and clambered out of his bunk readying his Luger. Rubbing his eyes as he walked into the trench, he found the troops shouting among each other as rifles were loaded and flamethrowers were readied. Looking over the side of the trench, he could see about a kilometer away an incoming mass of disgusting creatures swarming towards the trench, and almost vomited at the sight of it. They were up against these things, spawned straight out of hell, and they were expected to survive? But there was no running back now. The Vaterland demanded nothing less. "Ready Flammenwerferapparaten!" [Flamethrower] he shouted uselessly, with the flamethrower-equipped soldiers already standing ready. Chunks of earth burst into the air as gunshots suddenly came overhead-looking at them through his binoculars, he could see that some of the demons had rifles and machineguns embedded into their sides. Hurensohn, [Son of a bitch] he thought. "Artillery, fire!" he shouted. Several field guns, placed a relatively short distance back from the trench and elevated low as to almost horizontal levels, opened fire, slamming shells straight into the mass of creatures. Dozens were blasted apart into the air, but they plowed on like nothing had happened. "Flame weapons, ignite!" he shouted as the creatures came within twenty meters of the trench, the maximum range for the flame weapons. The area was bathed in orange as the dozens of flame weapons ignited, spraying fire in arcs, roasting the incoming creatures as they came. Each weapon had two minutes worth of use--could they hold out that long? Nevertheless, some of them slipped past. Several leapt into the trench over the flames, tearing straight into the men with mandibles or gunning them down with the rifles attached to them, forcing Dietrich to empty his entire Luger clip into the nearest one, only for a soldier to have it finished off with a bayonet. Alongside the flamethrower men, machinegunners blazed away at the incoming tide, despite some of them being struck down by return fire. A neat, long pile of roasted demon bodies was now forming in front of the trench, but even with that they kept on coming, climbing over the bodies of their wounded. The planks lining the floor of the trench suddenly burst open as several of them emerged from underground, grabbing soldiers by the legs and pulling them down or simply emerging and tearing them to pieces. Some troops cried out in terror and jumped out of the trench. Dietrich let them go--no point wasting bullets on cowards and traitor filth, when these things were upon them. "I'm out!" shouted a flamethrower operator as his weapon ceased pouring out flame.
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"Same!" cried another. One by one, the flamethrowers began to go out. A pile of roasted creature bodies almost a meter high was piled in front of the trench, but there still didn't seemed to be any end to the swarm. As they began to scuttle into the trench, a shadow was cast over the area. Dietrich looked up to see the long, cylindrical shape of a zeppelin moving overhead. Thank god, he thought. Now it was time for some payback. ** Denard watched as the Allied trench was swamped in poison gas, hearing the screams of the creatures as they poured right into it. Some of them were already heading back. A pyrrhic victory at best, but at least they had killed a number of them. Standing by the artillery that had delivered the shells, he was preparing to jump into a truck waiting nearby to take him to an Allied command post to report. More men lost--but what made that so different from the rest of this war? "Sir!" cried one of the artillerymen, indicating several trees collapsing nearby. Denard jumped into the truck and began starting up the engine as something erupted from the ground nearby. It looked like an abominable beetle the size of a train locomotive, with massive pincers and clusters of red eyes. The artillerymen screamed as two more burst from the ground, the first tearing into one gun with its pincers and impaling the men on its forearms. The other two set about picking up the guns and shoving them straight into their sides, with purple mucus spreading from their bodies and onto the gun. Denard decided not to watch any more, and began driving off as fast as he could. Already he could see the image of the monstrous beetles repeating in his mind. What a goddamn war this was turning out to be. **
Dietrich watched as the zeppelin began dropping its payload, with the sounds of explosions and screaming ringing in his ear as the bombs impacted into the swarm. Screeching, the things all began to burrow into the ground, throwing up earth and showering the trench with it. "To hell with this!" he spat and clambered out of the trench away from the battlefield, and began running as fast as his legs could take him. Behind him, the zeppelin continued to drop its bombs, doing little other than blasting up more earth. The other troops in the trench had decided to follow Dietrich's example and were also running like hell, dropping their weapons and equipment. Command would be pissed, but who gave a fuck? The explosions subsided, and Dietrich took a glance over his shoulder. The entire area in front of the trench was cratered, with roasted and twisted pieces of those giant insects scattered everywhere. Several fires had started in the trench, scorching the mangled bodies of soldiers and the huge insects alike. A scream came from nearby, and Dietrich turned his head to see a soldier being dragged into the ground by wriggling mandibles and forearms. Another guy yelled as the same happened to him. Sweat broke out on
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Dietrich's head as he ran faster, with some of the men breaking down into tears and collapsing to the ground. "Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse!"[shit] he spat as one of the things burst out of the ground, impaling a sergeant on its forearm, before burrowing back into the Earth. Then, up ahead, parked by some trees, was an armored car. Some of the soldiers were already running towards it. "I am an officer, and therefore I am requisitioning this vehicle over you! he shouted, shooting the nearest men with his Luger. Jumping in, he started the engine and began to drive off as the men began screaming obscenities at him, some even letting off pot shots. He was going to go straight to Ludendorff or perhaps even the Kaiser himself with news of what he had just seen. ** The offensive, though brief, had been a success. The Bipeds had been pushed out more, with insignificant casualties. However, the revelation that they possessed some degree of airpower was a surprise. Still, it was not an advantage unique to them, and the appropriate countermeasures were being created. Still, it was possible to take time with these Bipeds. Let them attempt to create feeble weapons in response to their incursions. Let them panic; it would make rounding them up easier. Let them debate and procrastinate, as the knowledge gleaned from their own skulls would attest. The two other hive-rocks were also well on the way to being established. Processing of this world was guaranteed to be successful. ** 8th January 1915, Paris, France Within the Palais Bourbon in Paris, all available Allied commanders on the Western Front had gathered around a table. Several photographs, as well as the roasted remains of what looked like and were giant insects were piled on. French Prime Minister Rene Viviani, John French, Ferdinand Foch, and other key command personnel took their seats around it. "Gentlemen," announced French, "we face a most grave situation. Three days ago, a falling star landed in the northern portion of the western front in the Somme. As utterly insane as this may sound, it has since disgorged what can best be described asmonstrous insects, equipped with intelligence, which have dealt losses to our forces in the area. We tried re-establishing a concentrated defence line, but that was taken out with impunity." "Merde."[shit] muttered Foch as the photos of the things were passed around the table. "Have the Germans not taken losses, sir?" asked a BEF officer. "Oh yes. Comparable, if not in excess, of ours. From what intelligence can gather, they were still marginally
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 more successful in their defence, making use of flame weapons to hold them back." "Then that is what we need. We must acquire the German flame weapons immediately." announced a French army officer. "Not so fast. Fritz also made use of a zeppelin. As far as we know, these things cannot stretch their presence into the sky. I've cabled Lord Kitchener and Churchill, and we've accelerated the development of a number of weapons projects." "Why are we so concerned?" sighed Viviani. "There is only one group of these things, are they not? We shall simply mass artillery and level them all." "That is the problem, sir. Not only do these things have some way of nullifying artillery fire on some areas, but they can also burrow right under our lines, giving them an innate tactical advantage." "Is there no way we can fight them, then?" "Perhaps if we asked the Germans to consider the possibility of a ceasefire..." suggested Foch. "Rubbish. They would backstab us immediately. Besides, can we, the most powerful nations in the world, not deal with one nest of overgrown fleas? We shall establish minefields, more artillery, trenches, and..." "Would it not be better to put in changes to our doctrine? Thus far, the policy of defence positions has not been effective against these things." "That is why I mentioned the projects we are accelerating." cut in French. "We formed a special committe to create for us a...mobile defensive position, if you will, and have accelerated their project with a healthy injection of funding. They're working as hard as possible on it now. Here's what we should hopefully have in our possession in good time..." He slid across the table a sketch of what appeared to be a large metal box on treads. ** London, Great Britain Herbert George Wells looked across the front page of the day's Times. Most unusual news had seeped down from the Western Front in France, apparently--an anonymous source had, for a price, provided the newspaper with pictures and information of a development that was most disturbing. The newspaper displayed a blurred photo of what looked like some enormous, monstrous insect attacking a BEF soldier, with the headline blaring 'MONSTERS IN FRANCE'. Reportedly, a rock had landed in the Somme a few days before, before disgorging enormous insects that
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 had attacked both the Allies and Germans. According to the source, the insects were intelligent, able to somehow use human weapons and attack tactical targets. He wondered, then, just who had attacked who-no doubt the fools manning this pointless war had simply shelled the rock in view of it blocking out their view, and the poor creatures had simply retaliated. Naturally, plenty of others in the city were dismissing it as a hoax, a fabrication. The government itself had provided no statement. But the photo provided did look so realistic, and others in the military had all but confirmed it. Had they at least tried to communicate with the things, he wondered. If they truly were from beyond the stars, they must know things that humanity didn't, and if they were able to calculate their descent onto a specific location onto a specific planet, it clearly meant that they possessed great mathematical skills. But, naturally, the fools who continued to squabble over irrelevant things would try to exterminate these poor things like regular cockroaches. So many things they could tell us, so much to gain from co-operation, and it was all squandered. And, he thought darkly, there was still the question if it was even possible to eradicate them, and if it was in fact the case that they would eradicate humanity, reacting like a disturbed beehive. Taking a sip of tea, he decided to turn to other news, to take his mind off this depressing information. ** Stuart, Northern Territory, Australia Bruce O'Donnel sat on the edge of the desert town, in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of kilometers from the nearest point of interest, Ayers Rock. About a week ago, some bloke from Sydney had passed through here, claimed he would be back tomorrow, and hadn't shown up. Probably tripped up on a stone and decided that it was a life-threatening injury--those blokes were as wussy as bloody poms, he thought. The glass of beer beside him began to vibrate slightly, as dust was suddenly kicked up on the ground and began to approach, despite there being no wind. Probably the beer, he thought. Despite a few of the lads in the town having been sent over to Europe to fight in the trenches, he had managed to avoid that. Why risk your life fighting for some toff in London, when you could relax around here and... A thing burst out of the ground in front of him--like some sort of enormous bloody spider. More erupted out of the sand and began scuttling into the town, and already he could hear screams, shouting, and smashing. He was knocked onto his back as the thing dug its mandibles into him. Ten minutes later, Stuart's population had dropped to zero. ** 9th January 1915, Ypres, Belgium
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Canadian soldier John Huck stood in the upper floor of a building on the edge of the town. So many fuckedup rumors had been seeping through these days. Supplies were being diverted from the front here supposedly because of some shit happening not so far away in the Somme down in France. He hadn't been told exactly what was happening, but one of the Brits had been babbling about giant cockroaches or some bull like that. "Foggy morning, eh?" Fellow Canadian Powell came in, with some boxes full of ammo. "Krauts are quiet this morning." muttered Huck. "They've also been pulling more stuff down to the Somme. Even though we've been hit hard down there, or so I heard." "You also heard the cockroach story?" "There might be some truth in that, eh. Some of the papers in London and Paris have already caught on, and a lot of troops coming by have been talking about it." "I don't know, but...shit! Look there!" A dust cloud was appearing in a nearby field, despite there being no wind. Moments later, the ground burst open and giant insects--just like the guys had said, dammit!--began scurrying out and making a beeline for the town. "Shit, shit, shit!" Huck opened fire with his rifle, but for some reason his shots didn't seem to have much of an effect. He prepared a grenade as Powell broke down and began crying, before suddenly throwing himself out of the window. "What the fuck are you doing?!" shouted Huck as he fell straight into the mass of giant insects, and was immediately torn apart as they swarmed over him. He could hear screams and gunfire from other parts of the town, and threw down a grenade as they began scurrying up the walls of the house he was in. It exploded, blasting back a good few of them, but more simply scurried in. Grabbing a sharp poker from a nearby fireplace, he began stabbing at them, as the sound of incoming artillery grew increasingly louder... ** Above the Somme Captain Geisel of the zeppelin L3 looked down at the landscape below as the huge thing, laden with incendiary bombs, moved over the desolate hell below. It looked like someone had just dumped a pile of brown sand onto a relief map of the Somme, with an enormous mound rising up. His orders were to bomb the thing out of existence. Wouldn't a problem. "We will be in position in a matter of minutes, Herr captain!" called a crewman.
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"Acknowledged. Ready bombs." They hadn't been clear to him exactly what was happening. He didn't know where this mound had come from. Rumors, in any case, had spread about giant insects from space. No idea if they were true, but regardless, this thing was not supposed to be here. "Herr captain! Something is coming!" called the crewman again. "What do you mean? What is coming?" "There is something else in the sky! Many things! Moving very fast, towards us!" Geisel had enough time to see a large, dark object zip past the zeppelin, and moments later there was a scream as a crewman fell down. High-pitched buzzing, like a dragonfly's wings, came from nearby, and he looked around in confusion. Moments later, he found himself starting into a cluster of beady green eyes, seconds before he was impaled on a sharp forearm. ** Private Adolf Hitler watched as the things shot around the zeppelin, tearing into like butter. Moments later, an explosion engulfed the aft part of the flying machine, causing it to slowly fall to the ground engulfed in smoke and flame. Around him, other soldiers readied flamethrowers as they carried fuel tanks off a nearby cart, along with piles of explosives. They had been told to move in and kill anything living as soon as the zeppelin had finished bombing. Now, standing a distance back from the former trench line, they could only stand in shock as the thing fell to the ground. "Those things are coming our way!" shouted a nearby unteroffizier. "Ready flame weapons!" Armed with one of those wretchedly heavy things, which they had received a brief demonstration on how to use a matter of hours ago, Adolf cursed. Like many of the other soldiers, he had heard the stories of the monstrous insects attacking both Allied and Central Powers forces here in the Somme. He had dismissed it as mere horror stories spread by Jews to promote fear and disharmony within the ranks. Of course, now his opinion had quickly changed. As the things drew closer, he half-expected a wet sensation in his pants. "Mein got (My God) !" screamed one of the soldiers as one of them swooped into view. It looked like an enormous cross between a dragonfly and a mosquito, with a face full of twitching mandibles and a carapace like a lobster, at least thirty feet long. Screeching, it impaled one of the men as the others let loose with their flamethrowers. Screaming in pain, it shot back up, its body ablaze. Another one swooped down and ejected some sort of black substance from its mouth, hitting a soldier. Shouting, the poor man writhed as his flesh was burnt off his bones. "No! No! gasped Adolf as he hid behind the cart. Activating their flamethrowers, the men arced in the air,
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 trying to force the things away. One was caught in several arcs simultaneously, and fell to the ground, screeching as it was burnt alive. Another swooped down and scooped up another soldier, flying upwards and dropping him at 200 feet. Adrenaline suddenly filled Adolf's body as the cart was tossed aside and he found himself staring straight into the hideous face of one of the creatures. As it prepared to lunge, he activated his flamethrower, wincing at the heat, sending a jet of fire straight into its face. "Help!" he looked around, to see the unteroffizier being pinned by one of the things nearby, with its forearms about to lunge. Igniting his flame weapon, Adolf launched a jet of napalm into it, causing to fly off screaming. "Danke schon, mein kamerad!" grinned the unteroffizier as he approached Adolf. "I will see that you will get promoted for this!" As he walked towards him, Adolf balked upon seeing a star of David medallion hanging out of his pocket. Looking around, he could see the things flying off, with mutilated corpses of brave German soldiers and weeping young men around him. ** Vladivostok, Imperial Russia Sergei Gogol watched as the train from Moscow pulled into the siding. It was earlier than expected, which was strange. What was stranger that half of the locomotive was encrusted in some purple...stuff. A man emerged from the cabin, dressed in a uniform and looking expressionless. The carriages opened, and men in prison fatigues also came out, marching in unison. "Hey, what's going on?" asked Gogol as they briskly advanced. "What ships leave...today?" asked the man in military uniform slowly. "Well, there's one to America--San Francisco...and I think there's one from Japan..." Seconds later, the man produced a revolver and shot him through the head. With that, the procession headed down in the direction of the docks. ** Ypres French army private Jacques Blanc lay prone at an opening at the top of the Cloth Hall of Ypres, firing at the clusters of things scurrying around in the square beneath him. Alongside him, looking stoic and holding a satchel full of grenades, was a German soldier. Sitting behind him and weeping were a few Englishmen and
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Canadians. Before this day, Blanc would have laughed at the notion of these men sitting in one room with each other. He didn't know where these monstrous things had came from, only that they were overrunning both Allied and German positions. Conventional defensive lines had been to them what a twig on a rail was to a freight train. Disorganized and cut off from command, troops of both sides had attempted to hole up in the larger buildings and push them back. From the screams and explosions he had been hearing, not all of them had been so successful. "Down! Shoot down!" cried the Fritz suddenly in accented French. A group of the things were climbing up the side of the tower, with one of them firing randomly with a rifle it had somehow attached to its side. Grabbing a grenade from the Fritz's satchel, Blanc unpinned it, waited a moment and then dropped it out of the window. It struck one of the things in the face and detonated, blasting them off the wall and taking a chunk out of it too. "We are running low on bullets." declared Blanc in English to the Brits and Canadians with them, as he continued firing away at more of the things pouring into the square. "Well, old chaps, I dare say duty'll forgive us if we cower in here for a bit." said one of the Englishmen calmly. Blanc rolled his eyes. They were being beset by the forces of hell, and the English still acted as if it were a mere tea party. "What if those things smell us out, eh?" said of the Canadians. "Or what if they search this place? There's only so many hiding places." "Then we take ourselves. And a few of them with us." said Blanc, indicating the grenades. "Absolutely not!" declared the Englishman indignantly. "You blasted frogs may find the idea of such things attractive, but as a servant of King George V, I refuse..." "Shut up! Something is happening!" snarled the German as the insects suddenly paused in their onslaught. A loud whistling sound grew ever louder. The German's eyes widened in horror. "I think I know what they're going to do. Do you have gas masks?" "Well, no..." "Handkerchiefs! Cover your face!" Seconds later, artillery shells impacted into the square and across the town, disgorging thick chlorine gas. Scuttling around as in panic, some of the insects began burrowing into the ground, while others were picked off by sniper fire as they milled around confusion. As the gas spilled across the city, troops ran out of buildings, coughing and screaming as they breathed it in. "Bastards." muttered Blanc as the gas began to form a thick fog. Thankfully, it appeared that they were too
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 high to be affected by it. "We wait now." he sighed. ** Paris, France Sitting in a coffee shop in view of the Eiffel Tower, Jean Bernard, member of the upper class, sat reading a newspaper. All sorts of bizarre things lately, straight out of a Jules Verne novel--the papers were filled with tales of monstrous arthropods from the heavens overrunning places on the Western Front. Nonsense, all of it, he thought smugly. The papers must have been truly short of imagination to concoct such hoaxes. "They are coming!" shouted a voice. He turned around to see a soldier in torn uniform and a bloodied face walking through the streets. "They will kill all of us! The eyes, oh those eyes...we cannot stop them!" "Go vomit in the Seine, drunkard." shouted Bernard. "No!" said another man seated at a table nearby. "I know some officers on the front--they too have told me about monsters!" Hubbub quickly filled the coffee shop and spread throughout the street. He could already notice people filling up carts with their belongings. He wondered just how far people were going to take these stories of giant insects. ** 10th January 1915, Winter Palace, Petrograd, Imperial Russia Tsar Nicholas II was pulling on his coat when he entered one of the staterooms he had been called to. Standing around the table was a number of Russian generals, including the commander-in-chief of the army, Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich. He had been pulled out of bed again for a briefing on some new development from the Western Front and for something happening in Siberia. Swearing under his breath as he took a place around the table, he turned to Nikolaevich. "Tell me what is going on." "Our friends in the West have sent us this." said the commander-in-chief, and slid across several pictures of enormous insects swarming across a field. He then passed over several large reports and dossiers, with the Tsar looked at with confusion. "I realize this will sound utterly insane, my Tsar, but our allies in the Western Front have come under attack from what can best be described as monstrous insects from the heavens."
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"What hoax is this?" snapped the Tsar. "Do you--they--take me for a fool?" "It comes with assurance from most of the British and French high command." continued Nicholas dryly. "I cannot hope to imagine what they could gain from a practical joke of such a type." The Tsar scowled. "Well, if it is true--and I have my doubts--I'm sure they can handle it. What threat can overgrown termites such as these be? Anyway, I was told that there was a second piece of important information requiring my attention." "Yes, my Tsar. I'm sure you're aware that a few days ago a falling star landed in Siberia." "Indeed, I was knocked out of bed for it. Continue." "We have approximated the area in which it landed. And lately, we have been losing contact with towns, camps, railway stations, and so on in that region." "What do you suggest?" said the Tsar, furrowing his brow. "Perhaps I can be of assistance." rasped a voice. They turned around to see a long-heared, bearded scrawny man in monk's attire enter the room. "Rasputin." growled the commander-in-chief. "What are you doing here?" "It is clear that these creatures, be they emissaries of the Lord God or Satan, seek to destroy the heart of Russia." continued the monk, ignoring him. "It would be most advisable to purge them before they grow into a cancer that will bring the Imperial family to ruin." "But how?" said the Tsar. "We are having problems enough with our own front. How should I go about this task?" "You are appointed in your task by God, your highness." replied Rasputin. "It does not matter from where you get the force. Satan does not care for humanly delays and hesitation." "Yes...you are right..." said the Tsar, looking thoughtful. "My Tsar, if we lax on the lines, the Germans will...surely you cannot say that you are listening to this insane, addled..." began Nikolaevich. "I will not tolerate a bad word about this most loyal servant of the Imperial household." snapped the Tsar. "Dear Rasputin here is right. I want at least one division to investigate. Nikolaevich, you are to make the arrangements for this, by order of the Tsar."
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "As you wish." glowered the commander and chief as he walked off. As the conference dispersed, Rapsutin folded his arms as if in satisfaction. ** Versailles, France "We just lost Ypres." Horrace Smith-Dorrien of the BEF second army stood before John French and saluted, as other BEF officers sitting around the table in the room studied the reports he had brought. Several French and Belgian personnel were also in the room. "How?" breathed French. "From the few survivors, these...monsters tunneled out in the town outskirts. They utterly overwhelmed our positions in the area. After a matter of hours, the Krauts swamped the whole area in poison gas." There was a brief silence. "Did it work?" "We're...working to establish that." French held his head in his hands. Then he sat up and looked determined. "We are going to rearrange our defensive positions around the Somme. If these things can attack any location at will, we must be prepared for that. The Germans are now a secondary consideration." "Sir, some of us have been considering the idea of a ceasefire with the Germans in light of this..." "The idea is being discussed here too. Suffice it to say that it comes down to how temperamental old Kaiser Willy's thinking." "Also, how can be sure that the Germans will not seek to...interrupt our re-arrangement." "If they've any brains, they'll be doing the same. If they do, we can at least have the pleasure of watching them fare by themselves against these things." "There is also one more thing, sir..." "What is that?"
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "We need a name for these things. The lads have got a few ideas--Swarmers, Scurriers...do you have anything catchy in mind?" French considered for a moment... ** Wakasa Bay, Japan Fisherman Shinji Ichigo prepared his boat for today's catch. Reportedly, the fish were good this season. All he had to do was find a good batch of choi, and he would finally be able to purchase a new home for his family. As he tied his nets, something emerged from the fog covering the bay in front of him. Emerging from the mists was a steamship, bearing Russian colors, with no indication of slowing down. He quickly ran to one side as it ran aground into the shore, smashing his boat under its hull. Shinji began swearing violently in Japanese as figures appeared on the deck, and then seemingly jumped down onto the ground. Ignoring this, he walked up to the nearest one, demanding an explanation. He managed to glimpse of cold, staring eyes the 'man' grabbed him by the neck and squeezed. Assembling by the ship, the rest of them began to walk swiftly away. ** 11th January 1915, University of Paris Professor Adel Lafeete studied the creature on the dissection table in front of him as an army officer entered the room. Yesterday evening, this had been sent down to them, supposedly retrieved from the Somme, and they had been ordered to study it as much as possible overnight. Reportedly, it was one of many creatures that had come down in a meteor a few days before, and they apparently had been attacking military positions in northern France. The creature, a very large insect of some sort, had been a fascinating specimen. Looking like a strange combination of various families of insects, the internal arrangements had intrigued him greatly. Now, judging by the tapping of his feet, this simpleton from the army wanted something from him. "Yes, monsieur?" he asked. "What have you learned from this thing?" snapped the officer. "Not much, I'm afraid. We've only done a basic dissection thus far."
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "My superiors will not be pleased." "Science cannot be rushed. We cannot learn all there is to learn from a specimen over one night." "Right. What have you done, then?" "We've named the species. Entomogrex impurus--vile insect swarm, as a basic translation. Grex for short, as some of us call them." "We and the men have our own name." said the officer. "Roaches." "Right." continued Lafeete. "In any case, this certainly is a fascinating creature. Very strong muscles, an impressively tough hide, and the eyes and various external sensory organs, as far as we can tell, are on our level, if not above." "Continue." "But what's more interesting is this." He took him over to the adjacent table, where a rifle covered in a purple, crystalline-like mucus was lying. "This was fused to the creature via this substance here. It managed to somehow selectively attach itself to the various firing components of the weapon, which we presume are triggered via nerves or something of this nature--almost as if this substance has a mind of its own." "How do we kill it?" "Well, it's tough, but shooting it can do the trick." said Lafeete dryly. "Monsieur Lafeete!" An assisstant professor entered the room, carrying a beaker partially encrusted in the purple substance. "This stuff has been growing over its container very rapidly. We are not sure what to do." "See how bad it gets. If necessary, burn it with a Bunsen." said Lafeete. "Anyway, one interesting thing is that the brain--at least, we think it's a brain--is a bit more diminished than we think. Presumably this species does not value individual intelligence." "Very well, professor. Report any further findings you make." As the officer left the room and the professors continued about their business, nobody noticed some fragments of the substance slowly growing over their surfaces. **
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Chimay, Belgium Farmer Daniel Duval was in a sour mood as he returned to his farm on the edges of town. Rumors were going around from the front, about monsters and unearthly insects. Soldiers, both German and Allied, had been coming in lately, babbling such tales and scaring the women and children. Some had even packed their belongings and left. Clearly, those soldiers had been raiding their officer's wine cabinets. "I am home, mon cherie!" he cried as he walked up to his farmhouse. No response. Strange. He then noticed his vegetable patch--completely ruined, as if a giant badger had been at it. Swearing violently, he headed around the back, to see what else the vandals responsible had done. His heart leapt at what he saw. What appeared to be a monstrous beetle of some sort, almost as big as the farmhouse, was chewing up the cows and the horses behind it, the huge mandibles tearing their bodies and the many forearms shoveling in flesh. "Merde!" he spat and ran inside, looking for his rifle. So, the tales were true. No matter--it was simply an overgrown beetle. Just a oversized aphid. What harm could it do? He ran back outside, armed with his weapon, to find smaller insects the size of large wolves waiting there, their mandibles twitching and their mouths dribbling. He tried to aim, but found himself frozen at the sheer ugliness. A soldier in German uniform appeared from behind the house, with the huge beetle behind him. At this point, he didn't care what nation a soldier hailed from, provided he could help. "Sir!" he cried out. "Please! Save me!" The soldier turned around to reveal that half of his body was covered in this purple...stuff. His eyes were bulging and his skin was pale. "Save you?" he said in a strange, eerie monotone. "Why should we deny ourselves nourishment?" Pain followed. ** Central Siberia, Imperial Russia Dmitri Zelin clutched his coat to him as the observation balloon moved gradually over the landscape of tundra and snow-covered pine forest below him. He had pushed out of bed a few hours ago and told to scout this area thoroughly for some reason that hadn't been explained to him. Apparently, there was little else in this place except one of the Tsar's 'penal correction facilities' and part of a trans-Siberian rail.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Fucking lousy job." muttered Grigor, one of the other guys, as he lit up a cigarette. "I could be screwing Ukrainian sluts and I'm gawking at snow." agreed Zelin under his breath. "Hey--what's that?" Passing over a hill, they noted what appeared to be an enormous mound rising out of the ground, engulfing a space nearly a kilometer wide, with what seemed to be purple, 350-meter wide crystals protruding out of it at diagonal angles. Cracks in the ground at least several feet wide spread from it through the forest, with trees around it felled. He could glimpse dark shapes scurrying around among the pines, but they were too far down for him to effectively make out. "What the hell is this?" spat Zelin. As they moved over the sight, he noted a large rock at the tip of the mound, which seemed to be partly coated with some dark purple stuff. "Looks like something termites would make. Very large termites." commented Grigor. "What ever the hell it is, I'm sure they'll have a few guns clear it away." sighed Zelin as he took a swig from a flask of vodka. As they cleared the mound, he violently spewed it out. A huge dark seething mass covered a large portion of ground on the other side of the mound, scurrying through the trees and tearing some of them down. He could glimpse the rail from the other side of the balloon--a train had been stopped, and was being swarmed by the dark things down there. "I...I..." Grigor was trying to say something, but looked too shocked and horrified to properly formulate a sentence. "I think we've seen it all. Turn this thing around." stuttered Zelin. Grigor began shouting orders to the others manning the balloon when one of the large crystal-like things began glowing. Zelin had enough time to wonder just what that meant when a stream of energy leapt from it, vaporizing the balloon. ** Zurich, Switzerland Vladimir Ilyich Lenin studied today's newspaper as he sipped from a cup of tea. Apparently the rumors of monsters on the Somme had been confirmed--the papers in Paris had been given exclusive information from an anonymous source from the University of Paris that the creatures were enormous, unearthly biologically advanced arthropods that had come to Earth in rocks. He, along many others, had met these rumors and news with incredulity, but now the paper displayed
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 pictures of a semi-dissected...thing...along with ones from the front. He considered the implications of this. No doubt the bourgeoisie and upper classes would panic--this would be a threat to their power that could not be bargained with, reasoned with, or pleaded with. The paper stated that the results of attempts to eradicate them with military force had been uncertain--unsuccessful, then. He had also been getting rumors that a similar object to the one in the Somme had landed in Russia at about the same time. This certainly was interesting. These things would sow panic and uncertainty--the perfect ingredients for revolution, giving the people the chance to usurp their oppressors while they fretted. After all, capitalism was an inherently vulnerable system, and these things were the perfect catalyst to bring the whole rotten system down. He had decided that it may not be worth the time to attend the Zimmerwald Conference--it was time to accelerate the plans he had in mind in regard to his homeland... ** Northern France "Tally-ho, lads! We reach that village and we'll all be safe!" Lurching through the field of long grass, a tattered group of BEF troops followed the lead of Captain John Hodgers at the front, who was waving a Union Jack flag for morale. They had been ordered to relocate to the village visible a few hundred meters ahead at the end of the field--no doubt due to those Grex, or Roaches. He had been quickly convinced by the reports and pictures he had seen, unlike some of the other idiots around him. "Will there be beer there, sir? I'm bloody parched." sighed one of the troops. "Just this short distance, and you'll have all the food and drink you'll want!" shouted Hodgers, pointing at the rural French houses and church steeple visible ahead. The men had been walking for hours, confused and uncertain, with those unable to keep up left behind. He couldn't blame them for having such miserable looks on their faces. "INCOMING!" The whistling of an incoming artillery shell pierced their ears moments before a geyser of dirt erupted nearby, showering them with earth and grass. Losing all coherency as a group, the men sprinted towards the buildings ahead with their remaining energy, while Hodgers croached down and brought his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the landscape in the direction from where it came from. In a few moments, he had identified the bastards responsible--two giant house-sized beetles with artillery guns fused to their sides, firing repeatedly, over a kilometer away. He got up and ran back after the others as shells impacted all around him.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Running across the partly-desolated field, his ears ringing from the noise of the impacts, he finally reached the village boundary as shells came in that direction too, with the top part of the church steeple smashed off. Stumbling onto someone's porch, he found a bottle of wine and took a swig from it as another shell smashed apart a nearby house. The sounds of gunfire and screaming came from nearby, but with a combination of shellshock and the wine Hodgers found himself strangely indifferent. Stumbling out and through the village streets, he noticed several of the men firing at some of the regular smaller Roaches as they scurried in. Some of the locals had joined in, stabbing at them with spades and pitchforks. A few of the little blighters had rifles and machineguns fused to them, gunning down some of the men, while others burrowed out of gardens and dragged down anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby. "They're coming! Thousands of them!" shouted a voice in French from nearby. Passing another street, he noticed a huge mass of Roaches, including the huge beetles--bombardier beetles, heh--swarming across the fields towards the town. Again, he found himself strangely lucid to all this--that French wine really did its job. He continued to stumble through the village whistling cheerfully as one of the dragonfly-like flying Roaches swooped down and scooped up a horse and cart trying to escape, tearing apart the horse with its mandibles and ripping apart the cart with its forearms. More of them came down, grabbing up some of the men and either tearing them apart or dropping them from a high distance. As Roaches began to swarm into the village from all openings, with nearly all the defenders dropping their weapons and running off, he continued to whistle and prance as one of the beetles smashed aside a house and lunged towards him. ** The White House, Washington DC, USA President Woodrow Wilson glanced through the stack of reports on his deck as Army Chief of Staff Hugh Scott and Vice President Thomas Marshall stood in the Oval Office before him. "Would you believe the claptrap the Europeans are sending us--like some drivel a damn fool would think would pass for a fantasy." he snapped, skimming through it. "What claptrap would that be, sir?" asked Scott. "This whole damn scenario they're postulating to us. That they're being threatened by enormous, intelligent, unearthly insects. What next? Termites destroying Paris? Ants bringing down London?" "Our sources in Europe vouch for this, sir, as unbelievable as it may seen." said Marshall.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "I still am doubtful. Besides, what do they expect us to do? Can they not even eradicate some insects without coming crawling to us?" "Sir, we've also had reason to believe that Russia and Australia have suffered similar incursions." "What would I care? What happens in those godforsaken wastelands is irrelevant. I'll abstain from a response or a reply to this--until giant spiders are tearing down the Capitol, Id prefer to see more of these European termites before I make a decision..." ** ,Amiens, Northern France Nurse Pollinger looked upon the pour screaming soldiers contorted into various positions throughout the tent. Some had their limbs torn off, others were in states of convulsions and shock, and some were having their condition made even worse as the other sisters, tired and confused, hacked away at their wounds with saws and scalpels. She had heard enough of these monstrous insects, the Roaches, to know that they were real and posed a threat. Most of the injured men in the tent had been among the few survivors of their advances thus far. She had heard that the demons had been attacking villages and towns all around the front, purging them of man, woman, and child alike. They did not distinguish between soldier and civilian. Upon seeing what they had done to some of the poor lads here, she found herself doubting whether any sane god would inflict such monstrosities on the world. "This is curious." Nurse Granger had extracted something from the leg of a private, who was screaming in agony. She dropped it onto a tray with her tweezers. It was a small rifle round, except that it was partially encrusted in some crystalline purple stuff. "Some of this...mucus, I can only describe it as...was spreading into his leg from the wound. I may have to hack it off." "Can you tell what it is?" "What am I, Florence bloody Nightingale? All I know is that it shouldn't be there." "But how did this bullet..." "I've been 'earing that some of those Roaches or whateva you wanna call 'em can stick guns into their sides, or sumfink." said one of the more lucid soldiers, sitting up. "They can also some'ow fire without reloadin' and whatnot. Class, that is." And he slumped down. "That's not everything." continued Granger, picking up another object from the sample tray with her
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 tweezers. "I also found this lodged in another poor boy's ankle." She showed her an object shaped and sized like a bullet, but more jagged and sculpted, looking like a fragment of some purple gemstone. "Made out of the same stuff that other round was coated in, I'd say. Looks almost as if it was grown." Pollinger paused. "Just what did we do to warrant such spawns of Satan among us?" Granger laughed. "Think about what y'do with yer hubbie and you'll understand, old girl." As Granger picked up a instrument and prepared to cause another poor boy intense pain, Pollinger wondered just how people like her could stay so jolly in the face of such horrors. Oh well, just good old British tenacity, she thought. If Albion could laugh at the Krauts, she could laugh at monstrous cockroaches. ** Sitting in a farmhouse several miles back from the trenches, Adolf Hitler sat grumpily as other soldiers milled around and chatted. He would suffer syphilis than sitting around in this French dump, not fighting on the lines. But orders were orders. Supposedly, command was reorganizing their forces in this area, as were the Allies, in response to those monstrous insects--Schaben, the troops were calling them. Cockroaches. "I've been hearing many things, Adolf." grinned Jonas, one of the other privates. "They say you might be promoted, for saving that guy's arsch from those flying Schaben the other day. Or an Iron Cross, maybe. Your second, and in such short time." "Yes." sighed Adolf. "A pity we have to change our focus because of some giant garden pests. No doubt some punishment from above. Jonas laughed. "Ach, Adolf. You should lighten up. You may need that state of mind. He laughed. "Yes. I've also been hearing that they're accelerating development of a new air arm of the army. They were a bit embarrassed when those giant mosquitos ripped one of our zeppelins to shreds." "Flying? Pah. Flying is for cowards who cannot fight like real men on the frontline. But, I suppose it can have its uses." "You and your funny ideas, Adolf. You think you're going to be Kaiser one day or something?" he chuckled. A private suddenly burst into the house, looking tired. All eyes flicked in his direction.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "News." he panted. "We're going to on the offensive against those things. Very soon." ** 13th January 1915, Siberia Alexei Gorki shivered and hugged the fur coat he was wearing closer to him as the troops around him trudged through the snow. A few months ago, he had fought at the Siege of Przemysl, but, deciding that his life was worth more than the orders of the idiot officer who had ordered him and his fellow soldiers to charge a machinegun nest, he had ran. Soon afterwards, he had been caught stealing to try and get money to head home to Moscow, and as such had been shipped out here to a camp. Now, it seemed, some sort of penal battalion was being put together. Trains and trucks full of artillery and ammunition had arrived, along with soldiers, supposedly from the reserves, via the nearest urban area, Surgut. He had and the other prisoners were to be given guns, and were to fight or be executed by the other soldiers. The Tsar commands and God approves, they thought disgruntledly. "What's going? How could the Germans or the Austrians have possibly got this far?" he asked another soldier. "Fuck if I know. Rumors say that there's demons or something coming from the tundra. Likely some Tunguska durak stole some vodka from under the ass of some priest." grumbled the soldier before lighting up a cigarette. "Come on, you little pieces of shit!" shouted an officer, holding up a sword. "Move on!" Shuffling half-heartedly through the snow, the soldiers began to climb over a ridge, with some of them passing out as the cold and inadequate clothing took their toll. Some of the criminals tried to run; they were almost instantly shot down by one of the officers. The regular troops, used to this, did not react. Crossing over the ridge, the soldiers recoiled in shock. Beyond the hills of snow-covered pines and tundra before them was a bright purple glow, with some of the larger hills looking as if they were about to burst open. Some of the trees, if one looked closer, seemed to be partially encrusted in some purple crystalline stuff. "What the fuck?" muttered Gorki. One of the soldiers burst into tears and collapsed onto his knees. "It is as my mother said! The devil himself has brought his evil to the Earth! We must--" The fluids within his head were splattered onto the snow as one of the officers emptied a revolver round into his head. "Men, we do not know what to expect. We do know that something from that...thing...wishes to destroy the motherland? The Tsar does not permit it, and we shall not permit it!" roared a colonel, riding from atop
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 a horse and holding a sabre high. A second later, something burst from the snow and grabbed both horse and rider, dragging them down into the ground in the blink of an eye. "Oh, SHIT!" shouted Gorki as the ground before them began to burst open. The troops began to cry out in horror as...things...demons crawled out from the ground, dark lumps of legs and eyes. "Fight! Fight, maggots, fight!" screamed one of the remaining officers hysterically as his horse reared and whinnied, as the troops began either shrieking like little girls and running away or desperately firing as many rounds as they could into the faces of the things as they emerged. Alongside the demons were what looked like men...men in rotting prison fatigues, skin either dropping off or covered in more of that purple stuff, their jaws looking as they were about to split in half like mandibles and their eyes bulging, or simply not there at all. Gorki found himself feeling a wet sensation in his pants as one of these lunged towards him. Stabbing at the thing with his bayonet, Gorki cut open its stomach, only for what looked like little golden beetles to spill out of its chest, pouncing onto him and digging their mandibles into his coat. Thankfully, it was too thick for them to fully penetrate it, but he nonetheless screamed as he began shaking them off and stabbing at the rotting walking corpse as it continued trying to grab him. Around him, everything was going to hell. A swarm of demons had emerged from the ground and was showing no respite to the dwindling soldiers. Artillery shells rained down, blasting up snow, earth, and demon parts--so, they could be hurt--but they just kept coming. Firing a round into the head of another of the walking bodies, he began reloading as the bullet knocked its partially-decomposed head off, but it carried on. Nearby, the little beetles had pounced onto another of the soldiers, covering his face and all exposed flesh as he screamed in agony. More demons were approaching, this time charging out of the forest. These ones looked like hideous overgrown spiders, expect that their backs were covered in lobster-like armor and their front legs were spindly and sharp. Their mouths were less insect-like, with jaws and sharpened teeth, but arms still extended from under their jaws. Galloping forward and screeching, one of them pounced onto a soldier and spat some black fluid into his face. Screaming, the poor man was utterly dissolved, his liquidized flesh seeping into the snow. Around him, nearly everyone was dead. Almost no white of snow was visible for all the hellspawn covering it. Dropping his rifle in despair, Gorki dropped to his knees as they swarmed towards him. ** Kyoto Outskirts, Japan Makie Tanaka was heading to the family home through the forested hills in the outskirts of the city, with the Kiyomizu-dera temple visible a distance away. In a basket she carried fresh clothes for her husband,
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 which she had picked up from elsewhere a while back. It was early morning, with the sun still barely rising; cautiously looking around her, she thought about the recent stories spreading about mysterious white gaijin, supposedly from Russia, bringing terror to anyone who crossed their path. The police had not taken these stories seriously. Walking over a crossroads, she glimpsed a group of about eight figures in the distance walking down one of the roads. Their gaits were oddly unnatural. Quickening her pace, she walked down a slope towards a street of wooden houses below, with other people already out for their morning business. "You are two minutes late." Her husband, Takashi, was waiting in front of their house. "Apologies. It took slightly longer than..." "Hey!" Takashi and some of the other men were glaring at the group of people she had seen as they calmly strode into the street. Their clothes, which seemed to be a mixture of uniforms and fatigues, were tattered, their skin seemed leathery and almost rotting, their eyes were either bulging or not there at all, and their mouths were stretched into wide grins. Some of the people blanched at the sight of them. "Who are you?" demanded one of the men, confronting the group as they stood there. "What is your business here?" All of the men in the group began suddenly convulsing violently, as if suffering a seizure. Their faces began to bulge, and then their jaws split in two, like insect mandibles. Some purple substance rapidly spread over their hands and fingers, deforming them into claws. The backs of their shirts burst open as what looked like deformed insect wings unfolded open, while the skin fell off their faces to reveal a second set of eyes in their forehead. Makie watched as the first one reached forward and casually impaled one of her neighbors with its arm. Pandemonium instantly broke out in the streets as the monsters took to the air, grabbing some bystanders and dropping them from a height. A few of them produced revolvers, also partially encrusted in the purple substance, and opened fire, gunning some people down. Running inside, Makie watched through the window as some of them literally smashed down through the roofs of some of the houses, with screaming following shortly. Shouts came as several policemen appeared, who cried out in horror upon seeing the things. "There is only one solution to this!" shouted Takashi as he too ran inside, heading for his room. Going to cower, no doubt, she thought. Outside, some of the policemen returned fire with their own weapons, holding the wings of the demons, only to get torn into bloody chunks as they swooped down. One of them, its chest splattered with blood, turned around and stared straight at her through the window. Clicking, it began to move rapidly forward. Takashi then burst out screaming, waving an ancestral katana. Charging straight at the demon, he cleaved it
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 in half at the chest with a strong swing. Another one in the process of dropping a bystander from above swooped down, only for him to stab it straight through the head as it came down. More police, cowering behind several nearby carts, emerged and resumed firing as he mutilated another one of the things with the sword. Cheering, people began to re-emerge from their houses wielding knives and other blades as the last of the things were either sliced up or riddled with bullets. Twisted bodies of both men and demon littered the ground as shouting came from adjacent streets. As the people began to mourn the dead or praise Takashi, nobody noticed the golden beetles scurrying in the shadows. ** Winter Palace, Petrograd, Imperial Russia "My Tsar, we have news from Siberia." Tsar Nicholas stood in one of the staterooms of the palace, along with his aides and Rasputin, standing in a corner, as one of the servants spoke to him. "He doesn't appear to be very well, sir. I am uncertain what this bodes." "I have been hearing enough bad news from the West. I am confident that whatever he tells me cannot possibly cause me any more concern." said the Tsar gloomily. "May I present Colonel Pavel." announced another aide as the door opened. A man in Imperial Army uniform, partly splattered in what looked like blood and another fluid the Tsar did not want to be identified, entered the room, looking vacant. "What news do you bring, Colonel?" asked the Tsar. Seconds later, his aide was pulling the Tsar to the floor as the colonel drew a gun and fired, narrowly missing him and smashing one of the windows. Drawing their own revolvers, the others in the room emptied several dozen rounds into him. Staggering and holed with wounds, the colonel fired again as the Tsar took cover behind a chair. Running up to him with a ceremonial sword, one of the generals proceeded to remove his limbs and head with several swift sweeps. Collapsing to the floor, the colonel began bleeding not blood, but some purple liquid. "What the hell was that?" gasped the Tsar. "As I told you, my excellency," uttered Rasputin as walked up, "the emissaries of Satan will do in their power to bring you down." "From now on, I want all visitors to the palace checked thoroughly." announced the Tsar. "And get me
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 someone with actual knowledge of news on Siberia." He looked down at the mess in the room as servants began to drag the body away. "Bring me some vodka. Lots of it." ** 14th January 1915, Picardy, Northern France British army officer Maxwell rubbed his eyes as BEF and French army soldiers set up barricades, barbed wire, and other defensive objects along a bridge over the River Somme. It was early in the morning, and all of them were bleary-eyed and tired. Across the other side was a village, which had been partially evacuated, or the locals conscripted into the French forces. A Rolls-Royce Armored car, one of the few available, was parked beside him, with the heavy machinegun fully loaded. It made him feel marginally safer. These Roaches had been spreading hell everywhere; they didn't care for things like defensive emplacements, rivers, and natural barriers. Despite the fact that the lines near the place where the rock from which they supposedly came from had fell were still strong, they had been popping up all over Northern France and even part of Belgium. Ypres had fell; he felt sorry for the Englishmen and soldiers of the Commonwealth who had been killed there. The Germans weren't coming off scot-free either; if some of the rumors were true, the Roaches were striking across the German border too. Although to be fair, the lads were liable to make up anything in times like this to give them hope. "What's the bloody point of this?" growled Private Jones, one of the soldiers, as he set up a Vickers machinegun. "I mean, I've heard what these Roaches or whatever the hell you wanna call 'em can do. Only way to fight 'em is to not fight 'em." "Man, you will do your duty for King and Country without question, or so help me I'll put a bullet in your head for cowardice." snapped Maxwell. Jones replied with a scowl. The man's attitude was understandable. Information about the Roaches were vague; and for that, the men were going to fill in the gaps with whatever nonsense they deemed appropriate. "At least we have a nice place from where to fish, non?" muttered Remi, the French officer in charge of the French troops there and the unofficial translator for the ones who couldn't speak English. "As command said, the perfect place from where to defend this spot. They can't burrow underneath us. They'll have to be funneled into a single chokepoint. We can easily defend this." "Oui. But if we must retreat, then we'll be cursing this place." sighed Remi as they looked around. The area was silent save for the sound of birds, insects, and the men working. The silence was broken moments later by a high-pitched buzzing noise. Dropping what they were holding, the troops cocked their rifles and looked alert. Maxwell produced his Webley Revovler and made sure it was fully loaded. It was time to see just how well thought-out this little plan was.
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Flying over the roofs of the village were three...things. A roughly human shape, with two arms and two legs, but with an otherwise purely arthropodic bodies, with segmented leg and arms and a torso that looked like a cross between a starved man and an insect's underside. The head was grotesque, with a cluster of large mandibles and two sets of small, yellow eyes. Each one of them held a weapon, with two of them holding Lee-Enfield rifles, and one of them appeared to have a MG08 machinegun, partially fused to its arm, with the ammo feed extending into its back. "Shoot them! Shoot them!" he shouted, coming to his senses. The men opened fire, with some of the bullets visibly hitting, but apparently not doing much. The three flying things opened fire, with volleys of rounds impacting straight into French and BEF soldier alike, splattering blood onto the bridge. A mass of Roaches appeared among the buildings of the village ahead, scuttling very fast towards the bridge. "Motherfuckers!" shouted the soldier manning the machinegun on top of the armored car as he opened fire. Dozens of rounds hammered into the head of the one with the machinegun, finally blasting it off and causing to fall down into the river below. He swept the gun in an arc as one of the men grabbed one of the other machineguns and returned more fire, knocking them out of the sky, but not before a round hit straight in his face and tore his head clean from his neck and spinal cord, making Maxwell wonder just what calibre they were using. "Someone get in that vehicle!" he shouted as they diverted their attention to the things now swarming onto the bridge. Explosions detonated at the end of the bridge as they detonated the mines placed there, and more came as the troops threw down grenades. The machineguns continued sweeping as the first line fell down just a few feet ahead of them. Their bodies were simply pushed aside and crawled over as more lunged forward, with the troops putting up as much ammo as they could. Bullets pinged off the armored car, both strays and ones fired by Roaches with weapons fused to their carapaces. "Keep it up! Keep it up!" screamed Maxwell hysterically as another one of the troops got in the turret of the armored car and continued putting up fire. One of the forward machinegunners was torn to pieces as the things pounced onto him, and soon the second one went as he ran out of ammo. Across the shore, one of the buildings crumbled and one of those gigantic beetles emerged, with at least half a dozen machineguns fused to its side. Maxwell almost vomited as the huge mass of Roaches now filled his vision. Seconds later, artillery shells screamed overhead and impacted straight into the mass, spilling out--gas. The Roaches suddenly paused, giving Maxwell time to shout: "Gas! Gas! Masks on!" The troops began to fumble and hurriedly force their gas masks one as poison gas began spreading rapidly in all directions as more shells impacted into the village. Some of the Roaches appeared to fall over as they were engulfed in it; the rest began quickly burrowing back into the ground. Maxwell had got his mask on as the gas spread over the bridge and the river. One of the men, who hadn't got it on in time, convulsed and drooled as he breathed it in. One of the wounded suffered a likewise fate. Maxwell felt angry. Not only to those filthy Roaches, but to the bastards who hadn't told him that he and
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 his men had been little more than bait. ** Paris outskirts, France Parisian policeman Derome was on his early morning patrol, with fog covering most of the city. Rumors and whispers were spreading about the cancrelats, the cockroaches, rampaging on the front. Too many traumatized men and villagers had entered the city with tales of them for most to dismiss the creatures as a hoax any more. Derome was not shitting his pants as others, though. They were simply overgrown insects. If the army could hold back men, why couldn't it hold back big termites? "Officer! Officer!" A little old lady came running towards him, looking worried. "What is wrong, madame?" "It is...a German! He does not look natural! Please come!" He followed her through a wisp of fog to find a good-looking man in German uniform calmly walking forward. Except that his mouth was stretched into a grin, his skin was pale like a corpse, and his chest was covered in bullet holes and his uniform in dried blood. "Stop right there!" shouted Derome, producing a revolver. "How did you get here?" "The normal way." said the man in flawless French. "Please take me to your leaders. I must talk to them... ** The strategy was walking perfectly. It had been chosen to take its time against the Bipeds; it gave them more time to muster more troops, thereby easing the process of locating and consuming them. In the mean time, spreading panic and cutting apart their military machine would suffice for now. The presence in the remote icy and desert regions was growing and spreading rapidly, in the meantime. The question now was locating appropriate Biped facilities to replicate weapons superior to those fielded by the primitive Bipeds. Of course, it would hardly be much in the way of technology, but all information indicated that modifying it would not be hard... ** Papal Offices, St. Peter's Basilica, the Vatican Pope Benedict XV glanced at the various newspapers and reports before him. The signs were there: monsters, bent on the extermination of humans regardless of nationality or creed, having arrived from the
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 heavens, striking where they pleased and overcoming any weapons directed at him. The Archbishops and Cardinals in the room agreed with him: God had tired of Man's sinning, and thus the end was almost at hand. "How should we break this?" sighed the Pope. "Father," began Leon-Adolphe, Archbishop of Paris, "surely there must remain some hope. After all, these demons, be they of God or Lucifer, have not yet overcome us..." "But all signs indicate that they will." snapped one of the Cardinals. "If God has decided that Man's Judgement is at hand, then attempting to resist is fruitless." "That does not mean we should make the people plunge into despair." argued Leon. "With despair, people will reject God, and therefore when their judgement comes innocents will join the genuine sinners in Hell all because of our short-sightedness." "Be silent." snapped the Pope, gesturing at them dismissively. "Our sources tell us that these demons can snatch away the bodies of mortal men. What more obvious sign that these can tempt God-fearing men away from the Lord himself? I am beginning to agree with Leon; the people must be strengthened for judgement, and all must be done to keep them in God's favor." "What if the demons should strike here?" asked one of the Cardinals. "They are currently restricted to France, are they not? I think any attack on here will be seen coming, and then we will have no option but to abandon this sacred sight, as painful as it may be, and continue providing spiritual direction for as long as possible. After all, God's duty on Earth must be carried out to the end." The Vatican members nodded in agreement. "In the meantime, let us remain silent on this issue beyond words of spiritual support. The consciousness of humanity has been darkened enough; first this war, and then these demons. I believe that for now I must address the masses in the Piazza San Pietro..." ** The Winter Palace, Petrograd, Imperial Russia Grigori Rasputin sat in his room within the palace in silent contemplation. The Tsar had been growing increasingly paranoid following his assassination attempt, arguing and lashing at people at every opportunity. News was not helping either. The Central Powers forces were not relenting in the West, and all signs indicated the forces diverted to stop the emergence of the demons in Siberia had failed. Now, rumors were spreading among the Tsar's upper circles of some Bolshevik Party threatening the unity of
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 sacred Russia. His stress was understandable. Rasputin sat up as he felt some presence in the room. He looked around. Nothing there. "Grigori." he jerked in shock. The soft, accentless voice had come from within his head. "At least one here is worth consideration." "What...?" "Don't worry. Your purpose will soon be divulged. Now, just listen..." ** Albatros-Flugzeugwerke testing ground, near Berlin, Germany Herman Von Der Lieth-Thomsen watched as engineers scurried around the machine on the testing field before him. The company, in response to the developments in the West, had greatly rushed out development of the new vehicles they had been commissioned with, almost outright skipping the prototype stage. But as long as their new machines could fly and bring death, he wasn't overly concerned. "This new machine can reach an altitude of almost 5000 meters and over 150 miles per hour." An engineer was saying excitedly. "We will equip it with a machinegun for self-defence and plenty of bomb capacity for ground attack, which it take it is something you had exactly in mind." "Precisely." said Herman. "The aerial arm of the German army is about to be strengthened, on orders of the Kaiser. We are going to initiate an operation in France that should hopefully destroy the new threat preventing us from assaulting the Allies. Our first squadron should be formed soon." "How very exciting!" beamed the engineer, adjusting his glasses. "Let me tell you, mein herr. This thing is the future. You will not be disappointed."
BlackWave
15th January 1915, Palais Bourbon, Paris Winston Churchill rubbed his eyes. Yesterday afternoon, he, along with several other important British military and political figures, had been told to head urgently to Paris, on a meeting of 'great significance'. He had spent the night travelling across the channel and taking an express train down to Paris, and the reasons hadn't been properly explained to him. He had heard that these Roach 43
SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 things were running amock, wrecking havoc with military lines and now beginning to spread into Belgium. Probably, the Frenchies had dragged him down here to tell him more bad news. He was led into a conference room, with about a dozen people sitting around a table. He recognized John French, Lord Kitchener, several men from the BEF, and others from the French army, including Ferdinand Foch. Prime Minister Asquith was there too, to his own surprise. Just what else had they kept him in the dark about? "Gentlemen," announced the French prime minister, "yesterday a man entered Paris and approached us, apparently a German officer. It was immediately evident that he was not normal. Several bullets had been found lodged in his chest, although he experienced no discomfort or detriment. He had suffered wounds that would kill a normal man. He spoke French, German, and English perfectly, and apparently knew his way around Paris just fine. We have come to the conclusion, based on his own words, that he is connected to the Grex...or Roaches, if you will." "Have you searched him? All of us gathered here..." began Kitchener. "Relax. We have searched him thoroughly; he was unarmed to begin with. Even so, we will take all available security measures. If you are ready, gentlemen, I will let him in." They nodded. The prime minister opened the door a bit and called. Moments later, the doors fully opened as a pale man in German uniform, his chest covered in several bullet holes and his uniform dirty with dried blood and dirt, with his mouth stretched into a disturbing grin, was escorted in by several guards, with their rifles trained on him at near point blank range. He took a seat at the top of the table per the prime minister's gesture, with the guns still trained on him. "You wanted to speak with us." said the prime minister gently. "Indeed." said the man in lightly accented English. "Bipeds, I speak for the consciousness. You call us the Grex, or Roaches." "You...you..." Asquith sat up. "You are intelligent? Then why are you attacking us! We have so much to share! Our culture, our progress, our arts...." "Your culture is irrelevant. Your progress is irrelevant. Your arts are irrelevant. What is relevant is this." He took a drink of water from a bottle and glass on the table before him. Some of it seeped out through the holes in his chest. "You cannot defeat us. We outclass you in every way. Your victory is impossible. Therefore, we propose this." He paused. "Surrender yourselves to us. The process will be quick and systematic. Why delay the inevitable? Offer yourselves for consumption. You will be aiding in our development as a species, thereby giving
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 you some purpose in this universe. If any members of your kind display physical or mental attributes that could be useful for us, we will not consume them." The people around the table dropped their jaws in shock. "It is logical. Your works will be left intact. You will not have to disgrace yourselves in defeat. What is your response?" The others continued to gape in horror. Churchill scowled in anger, and produced a revolver. "This is our response." he snarled, and fired, sending a round straight into his head. "We." Bang. "Do." Bang. "Not." Bang. "Negotiate." Bang. "With." Bang. "Bloody." Bang. "Cockroaches." Bullet ridden, the body of the man collapsed to the ground, with the guards dragging it away. Churchill pocketed his gun. "Apologies, chaps. It is the season for pest removal, after all."
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 ** Surgut, Siberia, Imperial Russia Shurik Chekov, officer of the Imperial Russian army, sat on his horse as he oversaw the setting up of barbed wire and trenches around the city of Surgut. Artillery emplacements were being set up in various hidden positions along this encircling defensive line, along with cavalry and Cossack troops. As many civilians as possible had been conscripted by order of the Tsar, given whatever weapons were available, be they pistols, swords, or simple kitchen knives. The cold wasn't helping; even in his warm coat and ushanka, far better quality than whatever the grunts were wearing, he was still shivering slightly, and the horse didn't seem comfortable either. He had read all available intelligence on these demons apparently coming from the heart of Siberia. These things, resembling monstrous insects, had apparently already enveloped a good chunk of land, with the landscape itself somehow being reshaped. Rumors were spreading among the officer corps--that they were heading towards Alstuna. That they were invading Korea and China. That they were actually shapeshifted Jews--god, he loved that one. Regardless, the Tsar's orders were to defend this town, and he would defend it for the sake of honor and the motherland. He looked at the snowy expanse before him. It was slightly foggy and snowflakes were drifting down--damn weather wouldn't help the artillery spotters. Snipers had been put on rooftops, just in case, and he was confident that the Tsar's cavalry would shine in such an environment. "Sir!" called a sergeant with binoculars, studying the horizon. "I think there is something coming!" The troops in the trench tensed. Chekov rode over and took the binoculars. Yes, there was definitely something moving across the horizon. The fog cleared a bit. Chekov almost retched at the sight. Some huge, seething mass covering the horizon was rapidly approaching the city. His horse whinnied, as if feeling his fear. "Tell the artillery to open fire!" he shouted. "Where?" "Anywhere! It hardly matters!" He sergeant shot off a flare, to give the signal to the artillery crews. Bracing himself, Chekov cried out in shock as suddenly things began to burst out of the snow all over the space in front of the line. His horse reared as the troops began shouting and firing their weapons madly. Growling, the things, with spindly forelegs, teeth-filled mouths and armored bodies, pounced forward into the trench, tearing apart the troops with jaws and teeth or spitting out some sort of liquid that dissolved them. Yelling, some of the other troops outside the trench began lobbing grenades, blasting off chunks of
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 the things. Screaming, the horse leapt around, finally knocking Chekov off. Getting up, he could finally see what the huge mass was: a gigantic tide of demons, charging at speed towards the city over the snow. Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? He didn't know or care. Explosions dotted the mass as the artillery fired. Moments later, high-pierced screeches came down as suddenly return artillery fire rained down on the city. The orthodox cathedral in the city was blasted apart by the impact of several shells. Scanning the mass, he could faintly make out enormous beetles with artillery guns apparently fixed to their sides, firing at an incredible rate. Fuck, he thought. More shells rained on the city, levelling buildings and troop positions, as soldiers screamed and began to retreat. "Traitors!" he shouted hysterically, shooting one in the head with his revolver. "Scum! You dishonor Russia! You dishonor the Tsar! You dishonor god! You disho--" He heard more screaming as he saw the cavalry charge out, only for the horses to scatter as the tide bore down on them. Overwhelmed, the Cossacks were torn from their mounts as the swarm engulfed them. Turning around, he found himself staring into the dribbling maw of one of the armored ones. As it opened and lunged, he had time to utter a prayer to god for the sake of the motherland. ** The Pacific Ocean Captain James Wayne, of a US coast guard vessel on patrol from Kauai, surveyed the ocean around him. Reports were coming lately of a Russian vessel that had been intruding into waters without permission, ignoring and endangering other vessels, and moving at an unusually fast rate. His bosses had considered demanding an explanation from the Russians, but they had decided that it was not worth it until they had a better understanding of the situation. "I think I see it!" one of the crewmen in the small vessel, surveying the blue Pacific waves with binoculars, cried out. Snatching the binoculars, Wayne scanned the waters. Yes, there was certainly some vessel bearing in their direction that matched its description. "This may be it, boys. All ahead full!" Heading forwards, the small coast guard vessel proceeded towards the boat, which became gradually more visible. Observing it all the while through the binoculars, Wayne could indeed see that there was something strange about it. It seemed to have a purple color of some kind, and it did indeed seem to be heading towards them at an unnaturally fast rate.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Send 'em the signal. Tell 'em to stand down or be boarded." snapped Wayne to another crewman, who began flashing at them in Morse. The mysterious vessel did not respond, and continued bearing down. "Well, we can't say we didn't warn them. Take us a bit out of their way, and prepare to go alongside." The crew complied. Within a few minutes, the vessel was only several dozen meters away, heading along very quickly. Passing by them, almost dragging the boat along in its wake, it was now close enough for a good look. Almost the entire forward half was encrusted in this purple, almost corallike stuff, and there didn't seem to be much in the way of crew or cargo visible. "Hey!" shouted Wayne through a megaphone. "Stop your tub, you vodka-drinking bums, or you'll be held accountable to the United States Navy!" There was a pause as they desperately tried to keep up. Then, a man appeared on the deck of the larger freighter. "There. You the captain?" called Wayne. The man did not respond. Instead, he leapt, like a frog, right onto the boat. His clothes were tattered and smeared in some stuff, his skin was pasty, and he looked greatly underfed, yet he was grinning widely. "Who the fuck--" The man suddenly produced a pistol and began gunning down the crew of the Coast Guard vessel one by one. Wayne produced his own gun and shot the man two times in the chest, but he didn't even flinch. Running towards him, Wayne hit the man over the head with his pistol butt, only to get knocked over into the sea. Within a minute, the coast guard ship was purged of life, and the man leapt back onto the freighter, which continued on its cause. ** Predictably, the Bipeds had refused the offer. No matter. Already, their efforts were on the verge of crumbling. Some of their gas weapons were proving to be annoyances--samples would be needed for full adaptation. In the meantime, vast gains of land in the snowy and arid wastelands had been made--there was no need to hold back there as there was in the region designated as the Bipeds as 'Europe'. The region designated as the 'United States of America' would, in time, also become a nonissue. **
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East Belgium Driver Aldar Schreiber of the German army felt his stomach churn slightly as the truck drove over another pothole on the rough dirt path snaking through the Belgian countryside that they were driving along. In the back of the truck was a large consignment of chlorine gas, destined for the front, with every rattle of the containers that accompanied each bump making his nerves jump. As well as that, three soldiers were accompanying him, armed with shotguns and high-caliber revolvers. He knew all about the Schaben rampaging around the Somme area and here in Belgium, from word of mouth. They were making hell for the British and French too, and rumors were starting to seep down that they may also be present in Russia too. He didn't know much else beyond that, apart from the fact that they were wrecking havoc--they had attacked trains and rails, and purged entire towns and villages of life. Ypres had been covered in this same gas to try and stop them, presumably killing any Schaben within it...and presumably any man. His gas mask hung from his belt, but that didn't stop him from feeling nervous. "Stop driving like a gorilla, arschloch." snapped the soldier seated beside him, his cigarette falling out of his mouth. "I'm about to fucking vomit, and we've got several crates of poison gas in the back, so try and avoid the holes, ja?" "You try driving this damn box." muttered Aldar as they turned a corner, passing several cornfields. He glimpsed something in the corner of his eye, and momentarily gazed out of the window. Beyond several fields and a small wood was a village ablaze, with smoke rising into the sky. He narrowly avoided veering off the world as the soldier pulled him back. "What was that? What was that?" he began panting. "Schaben?" "Calm down, dummkopf. It could be anything. We are near the front lines, so it could be Tommy artillery. Why are you so concerned over a bunch of Belgians, anyway?" Seconds later, something slammed into the truck, sending it veering and crashing into a stone wall lining the track. Lurching forward, Aldar looked out of the window to see several monstrous, deformed insects the size of ponies on the road scurrying towards the truck, their mandibles twitching as if in anticipation. "Mutterficker!" shouted the soldier as he broke open the window and fired with his shotgun, blasting part of the face off one of the things. Another one pounced onto the front of the truck, denting the bonnet and cracking the windscreen, as the other soldiers got up and opened fire, shooting down the wounded one. Screeching, one of them was pounced upon and torn to pieces, splattering the truck with blood and organs. Trying to suppress the urge to vomit, Aldar produced his
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 own Luger and fired at the thing in front of him through the windscreen, blasting out one of its eyes. Screaming, its forearms smashed through, feeling him as he emptied the magazine straight into its face. Unpinning a grenade, the soldier threw it down onto the road just as he was skewered by a jagged claw. Moments later, the grenade detonated, throwing some of the Schaben upwards with the blast and cracking them open. As the other soldier took over behind a fence on the other side of the world and fired at the one on the bonnet, one of the Schaben scurried behind the truck and reached inside, extracting one of the containers with its forearms. As shotgun shells impacted on the ground around it, it burrowed into the ground, taking the container with it. With that, the remaining Schaben followed, throwing up dirt as they rapidly tunneled out of sight. "Scheisse." sighed the surviving soldier as he joined a trembling and semi-traumatized Aldar in the front of the truck. "Verdammt bugs. Still, they only took one container--why I can't imagine. What possible harm could come of that?" ** Osaka, Japan Seaman Nauki Nagama surveyed the Honshu coast from the forward deck of the Satsuma-class battleship Aki, as it steamed towards Osaka harbor after being recalled from patrol. Apparently, some internal crisis was beginning in Japan that required the attention of its military. Nauki couldn't understand what it could possibly be--the city looked perfectly all right to him, with the Aki being the only military object visible. It was very strange. Stranger stories were also creeping in among the crew. Some of the newspapers were spreading tales of giant insects from the heavens invading Europe, bringing hell to the gaijin. It sounded very fanciful, but the papers and some gaijin at the embassies were adamant that it was true. Still, he had his doubts. Just where could such insects capable of posing a threat to the power of the world come from? "Look!" someone called from one of the observation nests. Looking upwards, Naoki could see what looked like...flying men, rapidly approaching the Aki. Some of the other crew on deck looked up in shock. Just how was this possible? "Well, this is certainly a sight you don't see every day." someone mused. Seconds later, his chest burst inwards as the sound of a gunshot rang out as the things suddenly swooped towards the ship. Naoki could see them in more detail now--horrible insect-men, with faces full of eyes and mandibles and bodies like starved children. They held what looked like heavy machineguns, partially fused to their arms, with which they immediately opened fire. Naoki dived behind cover as the crew on the deck were mowed down.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Creeping along the forecastle of the ship, he broke out in sweat as screams, cries, and gunshots rang out all over the ship. He considered running in and confronting these monsters. If he succeeded, he would be honored by the Emperor himself. His family and descendants would respect him for generations. Then, the decapitated head of the captain flew overhead. Not hesitating, Naoki dived over the edge of the ship and began swimming for land, leaving the vessel to whatever fate awaited it. ** I]British front lines, Northern France[/I] Huddled in a dugout in a BEF line near the land occupied fully by the Grex, three men of the British army tried to keep warm as nearby artillery emplacements tried to keep up a constant bombardment while combat engineers and troops set up on furiously digging trenches, their faces covered by gas masks. In the dugout sat two officers, one lanky and relatively pristine and one with a grumpy face and a mustache, and a short, dirty little man with glasses. "Amazing." mused the mustached one as he read through a news pamphlet. "Apparently overgrown weevils are doing a better job than both the British and German armies, led by the biggest egos in the world, could do in a year. Doesn't surprise me in the slightest, to be frank." "I do think it's all so horrifying, in a way!" commented the lanky one in an effeminate voice. "I mean, at least we were fighting men before, and now we're fighting these things straight out of a HG Wells book!" "Frankly, the main difference between a dribbling Boche trying to tear my face off with a bayonet and a dribbling oversized termite trying to tear my face off with its teeth is a matter of aesthetic." sighed the mustached one dryly. "It could be worse, sir." said the small one. "They could be drivin' boilers on stilts with dem 'eat rays or whaddya call 'em..." "Badrick?" asked the officer with the mustache. "Yes?" "It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if these Roaches or whatever the toffs decided to call them were your long-lost relatives come to find you and take you away to some dark corner of the solar system." "Charmin', sir."
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Have you heard the stories?" asked the lanky one. "I heard that some of these things can take on human form. Some of them tried to kill our leaders at a meeting in Paris yesterday, or so I heard, only for Lord Churchill to mow them down with a machinegun before rescuing a cat off the tree." "Yes, and I've also heard that the war will end by Christmas, that Lord Kitchener himself can destroy the enemy with a mean stare, and that the prime minister is heterosexual." said the mustached one sardonically. "If you believe everything you hear, George, I'm surprised you haven't thrown yourselves at the enemy lines in the hope that Saint George will descend from the heavens riding a dragon and help you smite them." "Well...it's just rumors..." said George. More artillery volleys started up. "Damn it! Just how many shells do we need to throw at them? How can we make them shut up, before my eyes look like I've been dunking my face in a fireplace?" "Sir?" "Yes, Baldrick?" "I have a cunning plan..." "Baldrick?" "Yes?" "Sod off." ** 16th January 1915, Adelaide, Australia David Robin surveyed the city of Adelaide, stretched out beneath him, from the basket of his own personal hot-air balloon, as he hung about a kilometer above the city. Worrying rumors had been spreading through these parts lately, from women at the train station to his mates at the bar; tales of giant insects wrecking havoc in the trenches of the front in Europe, taking on human form and capable of appearing at will. With Melbourne having announced plans for a new mass draft, and with many of the newspapers sharing the same view, he was starting to take these stories seriously. But worrying about monstrous insects didn't do a guy good, which was why he taken solace in his balloon, looking up into the cloudless sky and down at the city and the green land around it, taking in the relaxing, soothing view. This was Australia; what was there to fear here?
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 He noted something wrong as the balloon drifted towards the town outskirts. There appeared to be a black patch superimposed on the green of the terrain surrounding Adelaide --on closer look, it was moving. And shifting its shape too. Looking beyond it, David's jaw dropped as he saw an even larger patch, covering a huge amount of land, moving gradually towards the town. It was as if someone had spilt a glob of ink onto a relief map. Adjusting the balloon's gas output, he began to descend for a closer look. The first patch appeared to be dissolving into smaller constituents as it reached the city boundaries. He could see people standing in the streets, frozen in shock, then scattering as the things moved fast, pouncing onto them. Descending further, he was at a height that he could more or less make them out--giant bugs? Almost immediately, he vomited over the side of the basket. The streets of outer Adelaide were now almost black with the things as they swarmed towards the city center, apparently cutting down all in their way. He noted what looked like giant beetles the size of houses smashing aside buildings, apparently to flush the occupants out. Beyond that, more swarms of the things, at least several square kilometers in size, were advancing rapidly towards the city. Increasing the gas, he began to head upwards again as he got low enough to make out individual trees in the streets. Sounds of screaming, yells, and roaring were coming from everywhere. Some buildings were being knocked down by the sheer weight of the little buggers as they continued charging inexorably forward. Quickly, David got a hold of himself and resolved to make up his mind. Australia was not the safe haven he had hoped it would be. Her men needed to be mobilized. Loosening some of the ballast, he began adjustments to take the balloon towards Melbourne, as below him the streets of Adelaide were engulfed with the demons. ** University of Paris, France "Gentlemen, I'd like to announce that these recent sleepless nights and periods of overwork have paid off. Although we still have much to study, we have garnered more information than we had hoped." Lafeete spoke to the professors in the room with him, with a British and a French officer standing in the corner observing. Of course, he thought, they really hadn't made much progress, but the uniform-wearing fools didn't want to hear that. So, he would tell them what little they had found out and prolong it. "Now, good sirs," he said to the army officers, "this is our first exhibit."
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 He picked up a beaker marked 'THAN-6E', containing the purple substance he had found in the Grex specimen and on the accompanying objects. "This substance, as far as we can tell, is the ichor of the Grex. Although they appear to have other bodily fluids, a quantity of this is found in their bodies. It gradually spreads over any given surface, and when encouraged can grow at an exponential rate. Our studies of the captured weapons show that it specifically covered the various firing components and create an ammo feed of sorts to the body. If our microscopic findings our correct, this ichor is made up of many smaller organisms--it is as if they have managed to control themselves right down to the cellular level. Furthermore..." "I will be frank. I do not give a fuck." snapped the French officer. "What everyone wants to know is, how do we effectively defeat these things?" Lafeete blushed. "Alas, monsieur, it is not as simple as that. We are scientists, not miraclemakers. It will take time, and more research, to make any specific..." "In that case, perhaps other minds thrown into the mix would help. We have been told to take some of your samples for delivery to Oxford university, as well as other classified military facilities. Thankfully, we have managed to gain other specimens for people like you to study, but the research you have already made is appreciated. We will go and speak to the university chiefs for now." As soon as they had left, Lafeete slammed on the table in frustration. "The greatest scientific discovery of all time, creatures complex in biology beyond our recognition, and all those morons can think of is destroying them? No wonder we entered this pointless war in the first place! We are ruled by idiots! Idiots!" He stopped as soon as he realized the whole room was staring at him. "Apologies. Let us continue. If those fools cannot appreciate the scientific beauty of these creatures, at least we can have the satisfaction of doing so." As the scientists got to work, one of the beakers began to crack from the pressure of the growing substance inside. ** North France, near the Somme Private Horst Born watched as the men around him unloaded fresh new flamethrowers, supposedly straight from the factory, from the trucks and carts that were coming and going. A large field had
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 effectively been turned into a resupply camp--the Kaiser had decreed that the Schaben were to be purged, and it would be done. Artillery emplacements were already being set up among trees and tall grass, and soldiers equipped with simple rifles were making sure their bullets were literally of the highest calibre. He had heard enough details of this new offensive--Operation Hemimetabole--to know that soon they would be moving to retake the trenches near the Schaben nest, and then to finally destroy it. "Nice toys, nein?" Lindemann, part of his company and his friend, weighed one of the flamethrowers nearby. "Have they not thought about training us with these damn things?" sighed Born. "What is there to know? We point, and fire, the same as a gun. Besides, the longer we wait, the more the Schaben multiply. That is what the unteroffizier said." He gestured to an officer with a scrawny mustache nearby, shouting at a man who had apparently handled his flamethrower wrong. "Who is that man?" "Some guy named Hitler. An Austrian, or so I've heard. Seems to think that the Schaben are Jews in disguise, or something. Got promoted for saving an officer a few days ago. Well, as long as he's got balls, I'm all up for him." "Men! Do not let fear overtake you!" Another officer was shouting from nearby. "Disregard all rumors you have heard of the Schaben! They are but mindless overgrown garden ants, who cannot stand against the firepower of Germany! Steel yourselves!" Some of the soldiers cheered. Others, Born included, rolled their eyes. "I wonder what the Tommies and French are making of them." "The Tommies are no doubt cowering in their dugouts and drinking tea while the French complain about the lack of room service. I'd say the glory will belong to us." grinned Lindemann. "You'd think they'd attack too." muttered Born. "Well, maybe they are planning to do so. But we shall do it first, and the Vaterland will take all credit. Now..." "Soldiers of Germany!" A screeching voice came from nearby. It was the Unteroffizier, Hitler, walking up and down and shouting at the soldiers nearby. "You will not fail! You will not retreat, nor will you cower! If we can fight men, we can fight insects!" Born actually found himself listening. The man's voice was hysterical, yet somehow oddly pulling.
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"If they kill one of us, we kill ten! We shall destroy them as you would destroy a termite infestation in our house! It is man who is the dominant creature on this world, and man shall remain so! Exterminate these cockroaches without fear!" The men cheered. Born found himself grinning with pride too, to his own surprise. "No faltering! No cowardice! All those who betray lack of will are food for them! Kill them with fire! Kill every last one of the damned things! He held aloft his own flamethrower. Cheering, the men yelled enthusiastic approvals, before breaking out into the national anthem. Born joined them as the words of 'Heil dir im Siegerkranz' echoed around the fields. ** Cherbourg Anita Roux looked upon the others in the darkened room around her, illuminated only by candles. She held in her hands the latest newspapers, screaming about the monsters from the Somme. The day had come, just as it had been prophesized. God had lost faith in humanity. The only option, as she and her associates had realized long ago, was to embrace Lucifer. "Now that nobody can doubt our teachings any more, we can finally expose ourselves." she said. "The masses will lose faith in the clergy, and turn to us. We will shown them the way." "What is your plan, leader?" asked one of the others in the room. "We must gather more people to our way of thinking. This should not be difficult. Then, we will embrace these minions of Satan, and see how we can serve them. We are damned to roast in hell anyhow, so let us go forth and do the bidding of the Prince of Darkness himself..." ** Versailles, France John French, Ferdinand Foch, Joseph Joffre, Horace Smith-Dorrien, Winston Churchill, Herbert Kitchener, and other top-ranking members of the British and French armies stood around a table covered mainly by a detailed map of France, dotted with markings indicating Allied, German, and Grex presence. The political leaders of both countries had more or less agreed to an unofficial unification of French and British command; there had been some grumblings, but when the reports from the front had been distributed, they had quickly ceased. "Gentlemen, the situation is grave." announced French. "From our limited intelligence, we know that
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 the Grex, or Roaches, if you prefer, have been spreading themselves through the countryside in the north of the country, and we have confirmed that they are now attacking Belgium as well. Our lines in the vicinity of what we presume to be their nest are still intact, but they had clearly been ineffectual in containing them." "What do we know of the German strategic response?" asked Foch. "Our scouts indicate that they seem to be preparing for a large offensive into the source of the Grex swarms. I never thought I'd be saying this, but I pray to God that they succeed." "I ask this question to Mr. Churchill." announced Joffre. "I have been told that you are in charge of a committee tasked with the creation of new weapons for the front. Is this correct?" "Yes. The arrival of these bloody Roaches forced us to accelerate things a bit." "May I ask what projects exactly you are working on?" "Well, I've had a group of boffins working almost around the clock lately on mobilized armored constructs, so to speak. We've made some breakthroughs in the last few days, thankfully. I trust such things would fare better against the blasted things than our poor boys there." "I see. Is there anything else?" "Well, given the fact that the disgusting little blighters can pop up and hit our troops seemingly when they please, we've also been intensifying our research into aerial presence. I'm told that some of the engineers in our laboratories have a few ideas they want to put into practice." "We've also been working on gas weapons, as much as I dislike the idea." added Kitchener. "If we have to cover the Somme and half of Belgium, so be it. The next shipments should be arriving in the next few days. I look forward to seeing what the wretched little creatures make of those." "This is all very well and nice, but I think we should finally decide on a strategy to eradicate these Roaches. What do you think?" interrupted Dorrien. "It may be best to make it concurrent with the German attack." mused French. "I doubt it. They may strike while we are still in the middle of preparations, and besides, if our forces clash, it would be as bad as meeting the Grex." replied Foch. "I've heard the German flame weapons have proved useful against the things. Perhaps we can somehow arrange to capture a batch for replication..." said Kitchener. "Yes, you are right. I've also been hearing suggestions that we initiate a ceasefire with the Germans,
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 perhaps exchange weapons to crush the Grex..." said Joffre thoughtfully. "I don't think the situation is so bad that we must kiss the backsides of the Boches." said Churchill curtly. "In any case, the behaviour of these Roaches make the implication of any firm strategy difficult. For now, we should remain on the defensive until fresh weapons, men, and supplies arrive. Hopefully, the Krauts will divert their attention away from us." "I agree." said Foch. "An offensive is too impractical for us at this moment. Besides, I want to experience the pleasure of seeing the Fritz bastards get what's coming to them..." ** The Winter Palace, Petrograd, Imperial Russia "Surgut has fallen. Our offensives into Siberia have proven ineffectual. Our diversion of forces from the West have proved detrimental to our efforts there." "Shit. Shit. Shit." The Tsar slammed onto the table with each word, with a huge black space covering a portion Siberia on the map before him being freshly marked. "The Central Powers encroach on us from one side, these demons from the other, I am under threat from assassins, internal dissent spreads among my people...if I do not receive good news soon, I will kill someone." "I have some suggestions, my Tsar." The generals around the table looked up as Rasputin entered. He seemed more energetic and fit lately, and more talkative, having been entertaining the Tsarina at recent dinners. This did stop them from looking daggers at him as he walked up to the table. "Give me some support, Grigori. Tell me all will be good." said the Tsar pleadingly. "It will, my Tsar. God is on our side; we cannot lose as long as you live." He indicated the map. "Are you fools blind? We have a barrier between us and the demons that cannot be breached: the Urals. We fill those with barriers and defences, and we will chew up any army of demons. It is only sensible." "We cannot devote too many forces from the West, otherwise the Germans, Austrians, and Ottomans will soon be marching through Moscow." glowered one of the generals. "Are you cretins as stupid as I think? We have an infestation of demons in our heartland, and all you can think of are petty geopolitical affairs? We will simply make peace with the Central Powers." This was met by looks of shock. "I refuse to entertain such an idea, Grigori." said the Tsar sternly. "Even if it was not in doubt that the bastards would even accept such an offer, it is still against principle."
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"As the Tsar decrees. But when the demons approach, perhaps you may reconsider..." ** The Somme, Northern France A short distance from the German lines, several figures quickly moved through abandoned trenches and dugouts, some of them dotted with mutilated bodies twisted beyond recognition. An eerie purple glow, illuminating the dusk sky, came from somewhere on the horizon, from the area of the suspected Grex nest. Aerial scouts had reported both Grex and German presence in the area. None of that mattered to the select group of British army personnel quickly moving to the area the same scouts had reported would be perfect for their objective. The leader of the group, sergeant Baker, a upper-class Londoner, gestured for them to stop as they quickly sneaked over a patch of barren, muddy no-man's-land and barbed wire and into an empty German trench. Not long before, there was constant noise in this area, be it artillery, machineguns, or the hubbub of soldiers in the trenches. Now, just silence. "Alright lads, keep it down and keep it quiet. We've come too far to toss this up." he hissed under his breath. "McDougal, are you sure you can provide the appropiate distraction? What makes you such a good demolitions expert anyway?" "What makes me a good demolitions expert? If I were a bad demolitions expert, I wouldn't be standin' 'ere, talkin' to you, now would I?!" roared McDougal, the Scotsman from Glasgow, with a backpack of dynamite slung over his back. "Keep it bloody down!" hissed Richardson, as he peered over the side of the trench and scanned the land ahead with binoculars. "We got Fritz not far off--and the objective, too." "Then let's bloody take 'em, y'sissies!" growled McDougal. "There's at least a dozen of them!" spat Richardson, eyeing a group of Germans in the distance ahead restoring a dugout, with a pile of crates behind them. "McDougal, could you please commence the arrangements we agreed on at the briefing..." "Well, at least it's somethin'!" Readying a roll of dynamite, McDougal set the timer and threw it over the side of the trench, where it detonated a few moments later. As some of the Germans ran off to investigate, the team quickly moved down the trench in the direction of the trench. "Moore, take down any Boche there silently." whispered Baker to the unshaven man beside him. Nodding, Moore produced a knife.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Running ahead of them, Moore found the dugout first. Two Germans were waiting there, looking alert, and facing in the other direction. Moving forwards, Moore lunged forward with his knife as the two men turned around at the sound of approaching footsteps. Stabbing the first in the throat, he grabbed the rifle out of his hand and quickly rammed the bayonet into the other man's forehead, bringing both down in the space of a moment. As the others reached the location, Moore was already opening one of the crates, and took out a flamethrower apparatus. "Excellent." grinned Richardson. "Now that we've got what we've came for, let's move." Seconds later, bullets shot overhead and impacted on the side of the trench near them as the remaining Germans came running back, shouting to each other. Producing their own rifles, the team began firing back out of the trench as they approached. Hearts leapt as suddenly something erupted out of the ground behind the Germans and pulled him back into the ground. Another also emerged, screeching loudly. Crying in horror, the Germans desperately began shooting the ground as they were pulled down one-by-one. "Shit! It's them bloody Roaches, or whatever y'wanna call 'em!" shouted McDougal as more of the things scurried down the trench towards them. As the others loaded their rifles, Moore calmly took aim with the flamethrower and held down the trigger, sending forward a stream of fire straight into their faces. Screaming, the Roaches convulsed as they were burnt alive, leaving a small pile of roasted bodies blocking the trench. "Excellent work, Moore." panted Baker as the others looked around tensely. "Now, let's return this paraphanelia to the brass, and see what they can do with it..." ** Luftschiffbau Schutte-Lanz hangar, western Germany Manfred von Richtofen, fresh new volunteer for the German Empire's Luftstreitkrafte, surveyed the huge mass filling the hangar before him. On order of the Kaiser, the aerial arm of the German military was to be expanded greatly in response to the bizarre new developments on the Western Front. Manfred, having just been transferred from the Uhlan cavelry, was looking forward to flying some of the new craft under intense development at plants across the Kaiser's lands. The future was in the air, as far as he was concerned. "We have been ordered to refit this craft from bombing purposes to ground support." An engineer was saying, pointing at the huge zeppelin filling the hangar, with scaffolding covering a good portion of it. "Artillery and battleship weapons will be fixed to it, slightly modified to allow for lift. I trust you've heard of the monsters in the west, mein herr?" "Of course." replied Manfred. "I first thought it a hoax, but by now I guess I cannot really deny it."
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"We've been ordered to refit a number of our zeppelins like this, with extra armament." continued the engineer. "You won't believe some of the abfall they ask us to put on--flamethrowers, machineguns. They've even asked us to increase the size of some of our upcoming projects, so that aircraft can land on them! They've gone insane!" "Whoever will rule the air, will rule the ground." mused Manfred, then turned to look at a sketch he held in his hand, of a zeppelin bearing huge weapons, and laying waste to a battlefield before it. ** 17th January 1915, North France Horst Born would have tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes where it not for the gas mask covering his face, with the oxygen nozzle snaking down towards his stomach. The sun was barely creeping over the horizon, and the soldiers crammed into the trench with him, mostly armed with bulky and cumbersome flamethrower apparatus, were silent. The officers had told them to make as little sound as possible--which was fairly unnecessary, considering all the rumors they had heard of the Schaben that they could be facing. The latest ones stated that Russia was being overrun by the damn things, and that they had been sighted in China. He had decided to pay these no heed, and think as many positive thoughts as possible. "Any cowards or defeatists will be shot instantly." The Unteroffizier Hitler, barely audible given his low tone and the gas mask muffling his voice, was pushing down the trench. "You have nothing to be afraid of from a rabble of brainless overgrown aphids." A few minutes later, he was drowned out totally as the artillery a distance back from the lines opened fire. Despite the space between the trenches and the guns, Born could still feel the constant booms reverberating in his ear. The soil vibrated as the shells impacted into the No Man's Land before them, spilling out poison chlorine gas. The entire area was to be blanketed in gas, he had been told, so that the protected troops could advance unhindered. As he watched the thick clouds engulf the land, obscuring the strange purple glow on the horizon that the troops were too afraid to comment on, he wondered whether these things would comprehend that sort of tactic. The barrage continued for over a quarter of an hour. Shell after shell slammed into the space separating them and the other trench they were going to take, which they would then defend until the artillery could come in closer, and then repeat the process, and so on, until they were right at the nest of the Schaben. And then, he presumed, they would level it with explosives--rumors, even from the officers, said that for some reason artillery fire did not work on the Schaben nest, as if there was some invisible umbrella protecting it. Finally, the shelling stopped. Born's ears were still ringing, and a thick fog of gas had formed in front of them. Gesturing to follow, the officers went over the top and began to slowly walk forward into
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 the thick gas. Nervously, the troops followed, stepping over the battered strands of barbed wire, their flamethrowers at the ready. Armed with a simple rifle, Born walked through the cloud with them. It was insane--he could barely see a few feet in front of him. Nearby, some poor soul who had forgot to put his gas mask on properly collapsed to the floor, his mask filled with vomit and drool. Nobody paid him any heed. He stumbled over something--the skull of a British tommy, still wearing a helmet. A victim of the Schaben? A poor soul who had died in one of the suicidal infantry charges at trenches over the top, from back when this war was sane? It was irrelevant. He could glimpse the dark shapes of his fellow soldiers, some looking deformed with the flamethrowers on their back, in the thick gas around him. With nothing to hear except heavy footsteps on muddy ground and his breathing amplified by the gas mask, he felt sweat running down all over his body and his nerves going into overdrive. There was a yelp from nearby. Born span to the side. One of the men who had previously been just a few meters away had disappeared. Nodody else seemed to notice. Panting in fear, he readied his rifle and looked around. "Move it, soldat!" snapped one of the officers, pushing him by the back. Resuming the slow walk, Born walked forward a few meters when he felt the ground shifting beneath him. In panic, he fired a round into the soil, with some purple fluid leaking out of the ground moments later. "Soldier! What the fuck is wrong with you?" someone shouted. "There's something under the ground!" Born shouted hysterically. The effect seemed instant. The previously stoic troops began to desperately look at the ground, some of them letting off shots or bursts from their flamethrowers. Confused mutters came from nearby. "Cease fire, you idiots, lest we lose the element of stealth!" shouted one of the officers. "Do not fire unless you are sure you have a target!" "In which case it'll be too late." muttered Born. Walking forward, some of the soldiers finally exited the gas cloud, finding themselves at the destined trench. Mutilated bodies filled it, along with wrecked equipment and battered pieces of wood. Clusters of yellow beetles were scurrying around--immediately, the troops let loose with theri flamethrowers, filling the trench with fire and incinerating them. "Where are all the Schaben?" asked a soldier as they stepped down into the trench. "Working out what we're up to." said Born grimly.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 ** Just as predicted, the Bipeds had launched a counter-offensive--more sustenance for consumption. The strategy of holding back had been a success. Predictably, they were making use of gas--but with the captured sample, adaptation procedures were already underway. Now, with the arid and frozen wastelands apparently designated by the Bipeds as 'Australia' and 'Siberia' respectively, holding back was not necessary. Total acquisition of those lands was inevitable. ** Melbourne, Australia Andrew Fisher, prime minister of Australia, sat within his office in the Parliament House in Melbourne, shifting through the reports on the desk before him and glancing up at the dirty, vacantlooking man in balloonist gear standing in front of him. Defence Minister George Pearce and Governor-General Sir Ronald Fergurson were also standing in the office, inspecting a map on the wall with several towns marked with pins. The atmosphere was grim; all of the men, especially the balloonist, understood just how severe things were. "Gentlemen," announced Fisher, looking up, "I believe that by now we have taken in all relevant information and can move to discussion. We must clarify a few things before I can meet with Parliament." "Mr. Prime Minister, sir, we gotta act fast." said the balloonist, who had introduced himself as Robin, hoarsely. "Every man who can hold a gun or carry a knife should get ready to fight for the Commonwealth, or god help us we're stonkered." Fisher sighed and held his head in his hands. Over the past few days, reports had come in of towns disappearing, of sheep herds vanishing, of railways being destroyed, of sightings of monstrous creatures. He had mostly taken it with a pinch of salt until all contact was lost with Adelaide. As Parliament panicked, this man had literally stumbled right up to the building, claiming to be from that town, and announcing that he bore important news. Deciding that he had nothing to lose, Fisher had granted him an audience, and now his fears had been confirmed. "We've also got cables from London describing similar creatures on the loose in France." Ferguson was saying. "The Fleet Street papers are raving about them. I must say, I don't think we can deny their existence any more." "You said they overran Adelaide in how long...?" said Fisher to Robin. "I dunno, sir. I just saw them filling up the outer streets when I flew away."
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Fisher turned to Pearce. "Do we know where these things are now?" "We sent some men into the Barossa valley. No contact." he said. Looking thoughtful, Fisher sat up. "The man here is right. Every fighting-capable man must be conscripted to fight in the defence of the Commonwealth. It is obvious that we are fighting a force that cannot be negotiated or pleaded with." "But sir, what about the English..." "Oh, to hell with the arsholes in London." he said dismissively. "I'm not going to sacrifice this country just for the sake of a patch of mud in France. But, just in case resistance proves futile, I want to start organizing evacuations. We must tell Melbourne to ready themselves, and Sydney likewise. If it comes to that, we'll transport the people to Tasmania and New Zealand. What we'll do then I'm not sure, but at least it'll give us something to counterattack with." "Parliament may not like this." said Ferguson. "But I do agree with your general idea. We can order a mass draft tonight, if need be. Those monsters could strike this city at any time..." "Right." said Fisher. "Everyone who can fight, will fight, while the woman, elderly, and children can head to safety. Gentlemen, it is time we took a stand before these things, and show 'em how we do things down under..." ** Tokyo Bay, Japan Admiral Shinamura Hayao stood on the front deck of the seaplane carrier Wakamiya, with several other ships of the Imperial Japanese navy with him. Just as stories of horrifying creatures and demons had come from Europe, now they came from the Home Islands. People were screaming about monstrous half-man, half-insect demons that had attacked several suburbs in Kyoto. Reports were coming from Tokyo of ferocious beetles that turned men into hideous creatures with their bites. The Emperor had declared a state of national emergency, with people to stay in their homes as much as possible and the army to be mobilized. Now, with reports of the Aki having been hijacked by an unknown force, the navy had been recalled to Honshu and put on alert. "Admiral-sama!" A crewman scanning the horizon gasped. "I think I see something!" "Let me see." He took the binoculars. Steaming towards them at an oddly fast speed was the Aki, indeed--but her prow was encrusted in something, and she looked oddly demonic, as if shaped from the crap of a demon. "Hail her. Tell her to stand down." he snapped. A crewman flashed the message towards the
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 approaching battleship. No response. "Arm our guns and fire a broadside across her bow. That will send a message." he said. As the crew rushed to comply, there was a booming sound as the Aki opened fire, and the forward deck of the Satsuma, floating beside the carrier, was engulfed in an explosion. "Return fire! Return fire!" screamed the admiral over the noise of yelling and screams. The ships complied, sending heavy shells slamming into the Aki as it continued to bear down, but it had less effect then expected. Returning fire, the Aki's next volley narrowly missed the carrier, throwing up a geyser of water. "Sir! In the sky!" Looking up, the admiral saw a group of hideous flying monsters--what looked like hybrids between man and wasp, armed with rifles, just as the rumors had said. As he tried to take in their sheer ugliness, the crew was already firing with pistols and rifles, knocking one of them out of the sky. Moving like pond skaters in the sky, the creatures returned fire, gunning down crewmen on the carrier deck. Producing his own pistol, the Admiral fired in their general direction. With a lucky shot, the bullet struck one of them in the head, causing it to fall out of the sky. The Aki fired again, blasting the forward guns off the Satsuma, just as the Fuso and the Kirishima finally entered the right positions and let rip with broadsides, tearing apart a good chunk of the rogue battleship. As she floundered, the admiral got up, shaken. The things had been shot down, but not without gunning down dozens of crew. The Satsuma was in critical damage, partly engulfed by smoke. All he felt was more determination. These demons had declared war on Japan, and now they would suffer her wrath. ** New England, United States of America Seated at a table within his residence, Howard Philips Lovecraft took a sip of coffee as he read over the day's newspaper. The stories circulated of rumors of giant monsters on the Somme in Europa had bee confirmed, with virtually every tabloid and broadsheet screaming the latest rumor to seep out from Europe. That they were spreading into Belgium. That they could take on human form. That they could hypnotize. That they could somehow use human weapons--God, that was a good one. Now, more disturbing things were coming in. Tales of monsters were coming from Japan--served those slit eyed monkeys right, he thought. Towns were disappearing in Australia, apparently. And now some seemed to believe that they were infesting Russia too. Clearly, this was developing into a global crisis, althought it appeared that the United States of America was still untouched. He continued to read the newspaper--it seemed just like something out of all the short stories he had been writing, to earn himself some cents. Perhaps he would gain some ideas for his own literary
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 paper he was planning to publish soon. Artists' sketches and impressions, supposedly based on eyewitness accounts, were splashed across the pages, showing either cartoon-like drawings of spiders or fleas charging towards trenches. This was clearly not right--why did these things have to bring hell the fine men of Britain and Germany, and not infest Africa, purging the problem of the negro from their source? Or even the Orient, where finally the issue of the Chinamen could be purged? In any case, he wondered, why was it proving so difficult for the great armies of Europe to rid themselves of these things? Some of the fools writing this paper had speculated that these creatures were intelligent and had arrived on Earth with a purpose--nonsense, all of it. As if ants or wasps had any intelligent purpose behind their actions, beyond basic instinct. Humanity was so alone and insignificant in this universe, he thought, that no intelligent force from beyond the stars could possibly take an interest in them. It would be like a nigger reading and comprehending a book, he thought with scorn. Thus far, it seemed, flicking through the pages, with the entire paper apparently having devoted itself to reporting on these beasts, that the American government would continue to remain neutral in regards to this--logical enough. No point in risking white American blood when Europe could surely take care of its own problem--although come to think of it, he thought, this was a good way to rid themselves of the colored infestations in places like New York. But of course the government would never accept it, the damn nigger-loving zionists, he thought. He approved of Wilson's attitudes towards the lesser races like them--that new motion picture of his, Birth of a Nation--he would definitely go and see that when the release came. In any case, he thought, closing the newspaper, it was time to forget about all this nonsense about giant insects. These reports had given him some ideas for his next story... ** Downing Street, London Prime Minister Asquith flicked through the telegrams on his desk as David Lloyd George and several other ministers sat before him. While Churchill, Kitchener, and the others debated over strategy with the French in Versailles, he was forced to divert more money to munitions and weapons development to combat these damn Grex, or Roaches, or whatever they were being called. Churchill's armored vehicle project was proceeding very quickly, as were the new aircraft designs, but they were not proving cheap. "We have this for you, Mr. Prime Minister." said Lloyd George, handing him a card. "It's from Fisher, down in Australia--it transpires that they've got a Grex problem too." "Dammit!" spat Asquith. "These confounded Roaches are popping up everywhere! And we still have made no progress with them in France!"
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"Sir, we've confirmed that the Germans have just launched a large offensive towards what we presume to be their nest earlier today. We must keep our hopes up." "Yes, I'd never thought I'd be hoping for Boche success." "One other thing, sir. More bad news--from our embassy in Tokyo." "What? Don't tell me they've spread to Japan too?" "It certainly looks like it, sir." Asquith looked thoughtful. "We're allies with the Japanese at the moment anyway. I'll compose a message for Tokyo and Hong Kong--our yellow friends in the Orient will surely need the assistance of the Empire and Commonwealth if we are to eradicate these things everywhere..." ** Pas-de-Calais, Northern France Colonel Andre Lambert observed the factory in the distance as French and British troops assembled howitzers and heavy machineguns in the bushes around him. Smoking, tinted purple for some odd reason, was belching out of its chimneys. He could just about make out the mutilated bodies of locals scattered around it, along with an overturned horse cart. Having just spoken with some traumatized-looking people who lived nearby, he had gathered that the Grex had indeed seized the factory for an unknown reason, and had killed anyone who approached. "So, what do we do, sir?" asked one of the French soldiers. "Why do we not simply raze the place?" "That would be wasteful." said Lambert curtly. "We need every facet of industry we can against this thread, and besides, learning just what they need with this place would be most useful." "I don't understand it." murmured one of the British soldiers in heavily accented and grammatically poor French. "They're insects, for God's sake. Overgrown cockroaches. How on earth could they use a factory? Or understand what one is?" "Monsieur," snapped Lambert, "these things managed to strike hard at our front lines. They clearly have a concept of raiding attacks. They have targeted specific towns and villages and infrastructure. I think it's safe to say that they're a bit more intelligent then we permit ourselves to think." "Can't understand why god would create such things to torment us." muttered the British soldier, in English. Lambert rolled his eyes. Having seen the horrors of Ypres and the Yser in 1914, he had concluded that if there was a god, he was an exceptionally spiteful and sadistic one. The concept of
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 him unleashing these monsters on the world was not one he could not understand. "Guns loaded?" He called to the howizter crews, as the men began to place earplugs in their ears. They were being loaded with light, fragmentation shells loaded with tear gas, the same that had been used against the Germans the previous year. The shells were not intended to do much physical damage, lessening the harm to the factory, but the gas would hopefully exterminate all the Grex inside. The crews nodded in confirmation. "Fire at will." nodded Lambert. The howitzers fired, impacting into the factory courtyard and piercing through the roof, spilling out gas that billowed out in all directions. Several more volleys of shells were fired out over several minutes, by which point the courtyard was peppered with craters and the factory windows steamed up with gas. "Masks on. Now we investigate." ordered Lambert, as he began to put on the gas mask hanging from his belt. Complying, the troops readied their bayonet-tipped rifles and walked along the country path to the factory, some of them visibly nervous. "I heard that they can dig underground. What if they just burrowed down to escape the gas?" uttered one of the French soldiers, his voice touched with hysteria. "Rubbish. I cannot imagine them having enough time to react, and even then I cannot see them burrowing through stone and concrete." assured Lambert. After a few minutes of slow walking, they were approaching the factory gates. Lambert readied his revolver as the gates were opened and they stepped into the courtyard, peppered with dead bodies of workers, policemen, and craters. The gas still hung in the air, with the soldiers breathing more heavily through their masks as they went in. Lambert found himself breaking out in sweat as they began to knock the doors down--the fact that the surroundings were utterly silent did not help. No birds, no wind, just the sound of footsteps and filtered breathing. The doors were smashed open, and they stepped inside. Some of the machinery was wrecked, presumably by the shelling. The production line had been utterly altered, dominated by bizarre machinery covered or molded from some purple substance. Strange-looking howitzers had been piled up in a corner, but he could see no sign of Grex. That was surely a good sign. Renoir, the weapons expert who had been brought along, immediately moved over to inspect the weapons. After a few moments, he looked up. "Extremely intricate, these things." he mused. "I can see elements of some sort of magnetic apparatus--maybe to somehow accelerate a round?"
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "That hardly matters now." said Lambert. "Secure this place until reinforcements can arrive. Our scientists will be very curious as to what the Roaches have done to this place." As they set about to work, Renoir noted something moving in the shadows. Dismissing it as nothing, he continued inspecting the strange howitzers. ** 18th January 1915, North France Huddled in his dugout, Born pulled his coat closer to himself as the sound of rain came from outside, broken occasionally by the sound of artillery fire. Crammed around him were other soldiers, some still wearing their gas masks, covered in mud. Shivering and chattering their teeth, most of them were trying to find space for the flamethrowers they were equipped with alongside the ammo and ration boxes. Born's division had made some progress the following day, although it had ground to a halt and been ordered to camp out in this trench--who it belonged to previously nobody really cared--after reports came in that other forward strike forces had encountered heavy counter-resistance from the Schaben. The artillery emplacements had been laying down chlorine and mustard gas shells everywhere, practially coating a good portion of No Man's Land in it, but rumors were spreading of some Schaben simply ignoring some of the gas. If that was true, thought Born in horror, then the old men in charge would have some serious rethinking to do. "This is stupid." one of the men muttered. "We can't fight these demons. Have you even heard what they can do? They can dig under the ground and strike us when and where they please. They can use our own weapons against us. They can--" "Soldier," said a snarling, growly voice that Born recognized as the Unteroffizier Hitler, "one more word of defeatist talk, and I will feed you to the Schaben myself!" The man murmured something indistinct under his breath, and continued to look brooding. Small bits of earth fell down as the artillery let loose another volley. Born wondered if they even had a target, or were just firing wildly to flush out or suppress the Schaben. Gott, he thought, at least the British were human. At least they could be reasoned with, at least you could surrender to them. These things? They would eat you alive, be you English, French, or German. He recalled the descriptions he had heard from the few people who had seen them and survived: mouths full of mandibles and jaws. Faces like demonic spiders. Carapaces like lobsters. A messenger suddenly poked his head into the dugout. "Herr Unteroffizier," he announced, "we have been ordered to go over the top and advance." "And do what?" demanded Hitler.
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"Exterminate all the Schaben you find, and then relocate to the nearest trench." There was a brief pause. "You heard him, you wretches. growled Hitler. "Get up! Move! Germany and the Kaiser demand it!" Briefly pondering the irony of an Austrian ranting about Germany and Kaiser, Born followed the others as they filed out of the dugout. The rest of the force was already filling the muddy trench, with drizzle sprinkling from the sky--he wondered if this'd have any effect on the flame weapons. Stretched out before them, with the horizon covered by mist and cloud, was the muddy expanse between the trenches, dotted with the odd skeleton or dead tree. Mud--good stuff to dig through, he thought darkly. As officers gave orders, the men clambered over the side of the trench, the flamethrower-armed ones with more difficulty, and began moving forward. Some put their gas masks on, as a precaution. Others loaded their rifles and readied them. Some made a run for it as their nerves broke, only to receive a bullet through the head. After a few minutes of slowly walking in a row along the muddy wasteland, Born was beginning to wonder just what the Schaben were thinking. Were they like ants, responding only to direct threats? Where they like bees, stinging anything that came near? His thoughts were broken as the sound of drizzle and artillery booming was broken by an unearthly shriek as something burst out of the mud, leaping onto one of the nearby troops and tearing him apart. In front of them, countless dozens at least of monstrous shapes burst out of the mud and leapt towards the men. Shouting, the soldiers activated their flamethrowers, some refusing to work, and putting up a wall of napalm as they arced. Screaming, some of the monstrous things were engulfed in fire and keeled over, while others simply leapt over it and pulled some of the soldiers down into the earth, reemerging moments later with flamethrowers fused to their side. Born let off several rounds from his Luger into the faces of one of these things as it momentarily let off a burst of purple-tinted flame. Nearby, the Unteroffizier Hitler had drawn a sword and bayonet and cut into one of the things as it reared up in front of him, splattering himself with purple fluids. Around him, morale was collapsing as the things began to pop everywhere, or simply charged towards the men regardless of the flame. Screams, both of men and insect, drowned out the artillery as the men lost coherency, running or simply attacking of their own accord. Born, despite feeling oddly calm, almost felt his heart collapse as one of the things burst up right between his legs, then retracting down as he fired downwards. Something huge suddenly burst up right among the troops--an enormous, monstrous black beetle
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 thing almost the size of a house, with a heavy machinegun fused to its side. At the sight of this, all of the troops sprinted back into the trench and dived into it--Born followed. Behind him, the beetle sprayed with its gun, mowing down several wounded or those who were not fast enough. In the trench, the remnants of the force put up flame as the things charged. Most of the flamethrowers were almost out, as were the machineguns and rifles. Some of the things pounced into the trench, tearing apart whoever was unfortunate to be in their sights, and others covered their eyes as the huge beetle sprayed in their direction. "Cover your ears! Incoming!" shouted one of the men over the sound of battle. The men did so as artillery shells impacted around them. One of them struck the huge beetle, damaging its carapace. Making an angry rumbling sound, it burrowed back under the ground, with the rest soon following. Born found himself shaking and panting as he looked around him. The field was covered in dead bodies of man, Schaben, and artillery craters. They had held their own, but in this case it was a pyrrhic victory at best. ** Near Dunkerque, North France Dressed in her red-and-black, pentagram and blasphemy-covered robes, Anita Roux and her followers approached the Belgian border, where some of the demons with human form had been sighted. They had attracted stares and shouts from others on their journey here, but none of it mattered. Their cult had been put down by the church and authority for centuries; now, with the end times clearly in sight, they could rear themselves. "Are we sure we will find what we seek?" asked one of the followers. "The chances of that are slim. Plus, we may get seen by one of the soldiers of the warring nations here..." "It matters not at this point. If we die, we will be sent to hell to join the damned legions of the Dark Prince. If we live, we shall serve him here as mortals on Earth." she replied curtly. After another hour of walking through fields, dirt paths, and through villages were inhabitants or clergymen threw abuse in their direction, she finally spotted a uniformed, solitary figure walking along a path. Could this be it? Moving quickly towards him, they approached the man as he turned around to reveal that half of his body was covered in some purple crystalline stuff. Seconds later, monstrous, insect-like demons burst out of the ground around him. "I wish to talk." said Anita. "I wish to serve you."
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 There was a pause. "You wish to assist your own consumption?" he said, speaking perfect French in a strange accent. "We wish to serve the forces of Satan. We will do as you order." "This is a most welcoming sight, as irrational as you sound. But, all assistance will be appreciated." Anita smiled and knelt down. The others followed. "What is thy bidding?" "There is already a purpose for you. Please listen attentively..." ** I]Barossa valley, Australia [/I]Charles Damien of the 3rd Light Horse Brigade of the First Australian Imperial force surveyed the expanse of the Barossa valley before them. The famous vineyards that had once been the pride of this area were desolated, torn down, with the occasional wrecked cart or building dotting the landscape. Once a green and fertile place, it was now a ruined, beige wasteland. He held his hat to his chest as some of the other riders behind him uttered prayers for the souls who had no doubt perished. Reports were sketchy, but from what he could tell Australia, along with France, if the papers were correct, was being attacked by some vicious force of monsters. At first he and the others had dismissed it as some hoax written by some drongo who had been reading too much Wells, but when it was confirmed that Adelaide had been purged of life, and traumatized refugees bringing stories of monstrous insects had swept into Melbourne and Sydney, he had quickly changed his mind. The mission of him and the small group of cavalry present was to scout this area; a force of infantry had already been sent in to investigate, but had not returned. Hopefully, with the advantage of speed that came with horses, they would fare better. Charles did not intend to come into combat with whatever foul monstrosities lurked here; good ol' Australian horse breeding would see that they'd be able to come back as fast as possible. "Alright mates", he said quietly, "keep yer heads down and keep together. I don't know what kinda shit is waiting for us, but all we gotta do is see what's out there and head home for beer. Sound nice?" The others murmured in acknowledgement. Clicking his stirrups, Charles galloped his horse forward through the devastated vineyards and along the dirt roads. Occasionally, the mutilated body of a person or livestock animal could be seen sprawled on the ground. Whatever things responsible for this were going to get it, he thought angrily. Worse than fucking abos.
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As they galloped on, Charles suddenly halted, and the others followed. "What's wrong, sir?" asked one of the men. "Swore I heard something..." he mused. He could swear that there was a low buzzing emitting from somewhere. "Sounds like a fucking blowie. Hate the damn things." muttered another. "No blowie's that big..." said Charles nervously. They then looked up to see at least several dozen...things in the sky above. Like ungodly crosses between dragonflies, mantises, mosquitos, and god knows what thrown inbetween, and huge; over twenty feet long, he estimated. Zooming across the sky at very fast speeds, more of them, almost arranged in formations like geese, followed. "What the fuck are those?" was all he could say. For a moment they stared mesmerized up in the sky when the horses suddenly reared and whinnied. Looking around, Charles could see a huge mass moving rapidly through the devastated vineyards towards him; of huge insects, ranging from the size of large dogs to small horses, pushing aside plants and objects. Sitting up, Charles could see more of the things coming his way, as far as the eye could see. "Oh, shit!" he shouted. "I think we've seen all that needs to be seen, lads. Let's ride!" Turning around, the cavalry group galloped back the way they came, with the things simply moving quicker. Some of those giant flying things began to descend towards them, making screeching sounds as they did. Foaming in panic, one of the horses lost all control and began to jump around on the spot, knocking off the rider. One of the flying things swooped down and scooped up both, tearing them apart in its mouth. Charles jabbed the sides of his horse repeatedly with his stirrups as suddenly more of the things burst out of the ground to all sides, lunging at the group. One of them managed to tear poor Johnny off his steed, and moments later both were being ripped to shreds alive. Producing a revolver, he let off several shots behind him as another one of the flying things swooped down and tore another one of the lads off his horse. With the group now dwindling, he uttered a prayer of thanks as the rail station from which they had came became visible ahead, with the train waiting there. One of the machineguns that had been modified onto one of the carriages started up, mowing at the things; galloping right up to the train, Charles leapt off and through an opening into a carriage, along with the other survivors. They quickly
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 slid the door shut and peered through the gaps in the wood as the train started up; it looked like an infinite mass of scurrying monsters sweeping towards them, with the sky full of the flying creatures. Descending on the horses, Charles could not feel some regret as his steed was torn apart by dozens of mandibles and claws. But at least they were alive, he thought as the train gained pace away from the valley, and they could spread the word. ** Imperial Palace, Tokyo, Japan Emperor Taisho sat with his advisors as Prime Minister Okuma Shigenobu and Field Marshal Uehara Yusaku presented several documents to him. The situation was grave. All knew that Japan was in crisis, under threat from some foul, non-human menace. The countryside was being terrorized, the cities were paralyzed, and the army was tense after the naval battle not so long ago. They were still trying to establish why one of the premier battleships of the Imperial navy had gone rogue. "My Emperor," announced Yusaku, "we have mobilized our forces, but these monsters which plague us strike where they please, and we cannot predict..." "Explain to me the nature of these monsters." demanded the Emperor. "As incredible as it may seem, my Emperor, they appear to resemble foul combinations of man and insect. Our information is shady, to say the least, but..." "I want as many fit men as possible to be readied for war on our home soil." announced the Emperor. "Such is the duty of every man of Nippon to repel all threats to the Home Isles." "If I may interject," said the prime minister, "we have a guest. May I present Conyngham Greene, ambassador from the United Kingdom..." A white gaijin entered the room, bowed, and hung his bowler hat. A translator accompanied him. "Honorable Emperor," he began, the translator processing his words, "the Commonwealth of Great Britain is also under threat from these creatures, in Europe and in Oceania. We have a proposition ** Washington DC, United States of America In a hall of the Capitol Building, Chief of Staff William Scott, assistant chief of staff Hugh Scott, Thomas Marshall, and a few Congressmen had gathered together. They had made sure that the president was unaware of this meeting--in fact, the president's motives would be on their agenda.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Our European-based intelligence have informed us that the German offensive against these things is underway." announced Marshall. "Any word as to its success?" asked Scott. "The German papers indicate that it has made excellent progress. Naturally, we must assume the actual case to be the opposite." The men looked grave. "And the British and French?" "Currently making their own plans, as far as we can tell. I wouldn't be surprised if they were hoping that the Germans eradicate these Grex, as they appear to have been named, but opening themselves up to attack, or if the Germans get destroyed, thereby enabling them to finish off these monsters and the Krauts at the same time." "So much for the spirit of international co-operation." said Scott dryly. "The President wants us to continue to remain neutral..." "Understandable. These things haven't yet affected us. Although I have heard from my intelligencers that Russia and Japan have suffered their own infestations..." mused Marshall. "Infestations? Just where the hell do these things come from?" sighed one of the Congressmen. "All signs indicate that they are extraterrestrial in nature." said Scott. "Sounds like something out of a book written by that English chap, Wells, I know, but it's the only logical conclusion." "In any case," continued another congressmen, "we're considering making a proposal to the president. Even if he refuses to let our country enter, there's no reason why we can't help along the destruction of these monsters, and earn ourselves a little buck in the process." "There's one more thing." said Scott to Marshall. "Pass this to Teddy, will you?" He handed him a dossier of papers. The title read: 'ROUGH RIDERS'. ** North France Duke Albrect of Wrttemberg watched from the saddle of his horse, watching over the desolate wasteland before him, as his troops, clad in gas masks, marched out of their trench below as the artillery ceased fire. The offensive would go perfectly, he was confident. These were mere insects, if surprisingly potent and intelligent ones; what possible harm could they cause to the Fatherland? He had chosen to observe the progress of his men from the battlefield itself; the British and French dogs
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 had pulled back from this area, frightened by some overgrown Schaben, and the things themselves had no way of hitting anything in the sky, or so he was told. "I wonder when these things will show themselves." mused his lieutenant, to his side. "Perhaps they have an inkling of intelligence, and are cowering." smiled Albrecht. "I am not so sure. They haven't seemed intent on holding back against the Tommys and Frenchies..." mused the lieutenant. "That says more for the Tommys and Frenchies than us." grinned Albrecht, puffing his chest out. Seconds later, shouting came from ahead. A huge expanse of earth in front of the troop line appeared to be heaving. After a moment, a huge mass of Schaben burst out and immediately began charging towards the troops, who mostly screamed and dispersed in panic. Among the Schaben were spindly-legged, toothed, armored things that spat large globs of acid, dissolving men alive. A big black beetle thing with two artillery guns fused to its side also emerged, and opened fire. More Schaben scurried out, tearing apart the men, as the huge mass moved rapidly towards the trench. Albrecht ducked as some of the little monsters, with guns somehow fixed to their sides, fired in his direction. "Take us away! Take us away!" he screamed hysterically as some of them began to jump forward with terrifying speed. He was going to tell the Kaiser himself: these things were not to underestimated. He also had to warn the rest of the commanders of the offensive. Gott help us, he thought. ** 19th January 1915, near the Irtysh River, Siberia Maxim Ekaterin stood on the boundary of the small village near the river behind him. He hadn't memorized the name--some incomprehensible Siberian shit, diluted by Kazakhs and Mongols. His breath came out like vapor as he looked upon the expanse of snow and tundra before him--just why he had been pulled out to this godforsaken place he had not been told. The troops had been spreading rumors of monsters rampaging through Siberia, and in France, with cities like Surgut vanishing. The papers had been supportive of this, but Maxim put it down to overzealous access to vodka. He noticed several figures ahead, stumbling through the snow, dressed in the uniforms of the Tsar's army. Holding down his ushanka, he ran towards them over the snow. Meeting them, he found a group of conscripts, two of them holding up a wounded officer, their faces red and purple with cold and frostbite, with visible wounds and openings, semi-cauterized by the cold. Panting, they lurched towards him, and he quickly produced a flask of vodka from one of his pouches, which they grabbed
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 at like rabid dogs. "What happened?" he uttered. "Thousands. Millions." breathed one of the men, his voice audibly touched with hysteria. "Behind us. Run. Head for the Urals. We can hold them there. But out here...no chance. No chance." Maxim found his anxiety increasing as they headed back towards the village. If those stories of monsters were true, then what did this mean? What sort of monsters were these anyway? Where did they come from? And why, if God was on the side of the Tsar like the priests said, had they been inflicted on the motherland, and not on those German, Austrian-Hungarian, and Ottoman dogs? There was a booming sound--the sound of artillery. He recognized it, from his service at the front, and instinctively threw himself down. Up ahead, one of the houses of the village exploded, and to his surprise he saw the wood literally being burnt and eaten through by some dark substance that splattered out of the shell. More shells came down around them, throwing up dirt and snow, with the ground somehow being eaten through by that same substance--what was it, some sort of acid? As adrenaline pumped through him, Maxim saw a glob of the acid strike one of the men on the arm, burning through his clothes and flesh in almost an instant, with the end half of his arm falling off seconds later. As he shouted out in pain, Maxim took some binoculars from the officer and scanned the horizon, trying to identify the attackers. He spotted them after a few moments, and his jaw dropped. Sitting in a row, over a kilometer away, were several enormous, monstrous beetles, their hides streaked white as if for camouflage, with artillery weapons somehow fused to their sides, firing at an incredible rate. He didn't have much time to wonder as more shells impacted around him, the acid they were clearly filled with burning huge craters in the earth. Screams came from the village as locals ran around, being dissolved alive by any of the stuff they had the bad luck to come into contact with. "What do we do? Where do we go?" panicked one of the conscripts as they stumbled towards the river. Looking over his shoulder, Maxim noted a mass of things...like some demonic insects, charging towards the village over the snow, several hundred at the very least. Picking up the pace, they solidified their course for the river, heading towards a boat moored there. "We need to loose some weight!" cried Maxim as the swarm headed towards the village. He gestured at the officer. "Drop him!" "You insane?" retorted one of the conscripts. "We have carried him for miles! We will get medals, promotions! Are you saying we leave him for these things?" "Yes! At this rate, they'll catch us and we'll all be dead! Besides, he'll die of frostbite at this rate--look at him, he is barely alive as it is! It's him or us!" Looking confused, the soldiers finally dropped him onto the snow, and they all set off sprinting for the boat. A hundred or so meters away, the swarm
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 finally entered the village, and more screams came from within. More of the things burst out of the snow around it. Maxim didn't look back. As they finally reached the boat, several of the things erupted out of the earth around him, mandibles twitching. Crying out in shock, Maxim aimed with his Nagan revolver and opened fire, hitting it in the eye. One of them pounced and tore one of the men apart as they clambered into the boat, splattering his guts all over the snow, which was tainted red. Jumping into the boat, Maxim emptied the rest of his bullets into the nearest monster, causing it to recoil backwards. Letting go of the moorings, they began to push the boat down the river away from the village, with some of the things jumping into the ice-cold water and swimming after them. "Fucking little demons!" shouted one of the men, as they opened fire with rifles and revolvers. Searching in his satchel, Maxim produced a grenade and lobbed it. Landing in the water just beside one of the things, the grenade exploded, tearing a good chunk of its flesh away. The rest quickly began to vanish under the water as they intensified their fire. The village, in the distance, appeared to be covered in the things. Uttering a prayer for their souls and his, Maxim turned around and helped with the boat, not looking back. ** The Winter Palace, Petrograd, Imperial Russia The Tsar sat in his chair at a table in one of the staterooms, angry and stressed, as his generals, family, and aides stood around. He was faced with a dilemma--there was the matter of diverting forces to crush the monsters infesting Siberia, but at the cost of letting their human enemies strike towards their heart? Holding his head in his hands, he went into deep thought. "I want as many soldiers as we can muster from the Urals." he said finally. "Men, women, anyone capable of fighting or holding a weapon." "Women?" uttered one of the aides. "My Tsar, are you--" "I'll let damn children fight if I had to." said the Tsar bitterly. "My Tsar, that may not be necessary." Rasputin bounded in, looking as cheerful as ever. Many had been confused over his more energetic behavior lately--proof of his healing skills? "If you would let me, I can travel to the enemy, and convince them to a temporary truce. In that time, we can crush these monsters, and then resume on bringing defeat to the Central Powers." "A truce? But that would be--" said the Tsar. "A necessary measure. Perhaps I could merely delay them in negotiation while we reroute our
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 forces." "But what makes you so sure..." "Trust me, your highness. I can confident that I can reach out to them." "Very well. Meet me later to confirm things. Dismissed." As the meeting dispersed, one of the nobles, Felix Yusupov, went up to the mystic briskly. "You sniveling little priest." he hissed. "Do not think we have not guessed. You think you can pull our Tsar like a puppet on a string and bring humiliation to Russia, can you?" "Nonsense." grinned Rasputin, his eyes surprisingly clear and alluring. "Trust me, Felix. This is all for the greater good..." ** Melbourne, Australia Michael Craig, of the 1st Division of the First Australian Imperial Force, loaded his Lee Enfield as other soldiers around took up positions on the roof of a building, part of the outskirts of the city. All hell was breaking loose; people were streaming out of the city, up north to Sydney, where he heard they were going to move the capital to, or out sea to Tasmania and New Zealand. Several fires had broken out in the city following looting and riots in response to the government's order to pack up as many things as everyone could carry and flee. The men were telling stories of monsters coming from the outbreak; a few were adamant and the government seemed convinced, so it was obvious that something was coming, thought Craig. Barricades had been set up in the outer city streets, along with artillery positions further back; but apparently these things could burrow under the ground and strike where they pleased, so as many troops as possible had been garrisoned inside or on top of buildings. As many fighting men as possible had been drawn from the streets; some didn't have uniforms or even proper weapons, armed with knives, bayonets, or even brooms. "They're coming!" A man on horseback rode down the street below them, looking as if he had seen Satan himself. "Thousands of the little buggers! Get ready!" Loose chips of masonry fell from the side of the building as he became aware of a low buzzing sound. The men pointed upwards as suddenly waves of what appeared to be giant flying insects of some kind appeared in the sky ahead, swooping down in the direction of the city center. Some of the soldiers fired upwards, but Craig merely held on tighter to his rifle and tried not to let fear take hold of him.
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Moments later, several rooftops ahead vanished, followed by the sound of screams, as the sound of scurrying approached, like a million charging dogs. Young boys, filled with gramophones and other looted items, ran down the street below, and were followed seconds later by a huge mass of things-giant insects, the size of animals. Immediately Craig opened fire into the mass, and others threw down grenades, blowing up limbs and bits of flesh. Undeterred, they continued flooding down into the city streets, filling the streets like some river. Craig covered his ears as artillery came in, blasting straight into some of the mass or smashing open some of the buildings, momentarily blocking their path with rubble before they climbed over it. He fired again, although with the speed at which they were moving it was hard to tell if it was actually doing anything. "Come on, mates, keep it up!" shouted a nearby sergeant. Craig then cried out as some of them began to pounce upwards, nearly getting close enough to pull some of the men down, before some of them began to crawl up the wall or charge inside. Craig stabbed at one of them with his bayonet as it came close enough for him to stare right into its horrible face, before he finally knocked it off. "It's no use! There's too many of them! We're gonna die! We're gonna--" someone blubbered before the sergeant fired a revolver round into his skull. Grenade blasts came from somewhere within as some of the troops began throwing down homemade paraffin bombs, blowing temporary gaps in the huge mass of the creatures moving below them. Some of them successfully crawled onto the roof, only to be filled full of Lee Enfield rounds. One managed to leap up and rip one of the men apart, before it was knocked down with bayonet stabs. "Shit!" spat Craig as another lept up, almost pulling him down. He looked over his shoulder--several buildings once prominent on the skyline had vanished. He just hoped all those people trying to escape had done so successfully. Roaring came from ahead as suddenly he saw what appeared to be several giant building-sized beetles crawling over the rubble of destroyed structures or smashing aside anything in their way. Alongside them galloped weird armored things, with teeth like porcupine spines. Melbourne was already fallen, that much was clear, he grimly thought. Didn't mean he was going to go out with a whimper. With that, he reloaded his rifle, and fired straight at them screaming as they came in. ** Northern France Oswald Boelcke, pilot of the Imperial German air forces, peered over the side of his cockpit as he flew over the front lines of the Kaiser's forces in the boundaries of the Somme. He had been pulled here in this fancy new plane--he had heard of the Schaben, the monsters which Germany had decided to eradicate as the rest of the world cowered, but until he saw them he had decided to
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 remain skeptical of the reports and stories. The plane, a Fokker 'Valkyrie', as it had been nicknamed, was supposedly one of the best in the world, pressed quickly into service by the presence of the Schaben. It was outfitted with both front and rear machineguns, one operated by his co-pilot, and could pull off quite a few tricks, the technicians had said. Oswald had resolved to see for himself before he made any judgment. "Mein herr!" The co-pilot shouted over the roar of the engine and the engines of the two other planes accompanying them. "I think I see something! Eighty degrees, starboard!" Oswald momentarily ignored him as he glimpsed the men in the trenches below firing at something with flame weapons--what was that, he wondered? Seconds later, he began aware of a strange, insect-like buzzing. Looking up, he saw several things coming rapidly out of a nearby cloud. He pulled to one side, along with the other two planes--just as one of the things, some giant insect, moved rapidly in and caught the rear plane, tearing it to pieces. "Gott!" spat Oswald in shock as the rear gunner of the second biplane opened fire. He pulled up as one of the things went for him, with the co-pilot returning fire. Emptying several dozen AP rounds into the face of the monster, Oswald breathed in relief as it pulled off before leveling out. "More of them! I do not know how much ammo we can afford to expend!" cried the co-pilot as the other biplane joined them, firing with its front machinegun as one of the things as it pierced the clouds around him. It clearly had scored a few lucky shots, as it suddenly crumpled and fell down. "We're getting out of here." muttered Oswald as he pulled down and began heading back to the airstrip. Behind him, two of the things were moving rapidly in, like demented locusts. The co-pilot opened fire again, before his gun clicked, signifying an empty magazine. "Hold on!" cried Oswald as he jammed down on the brakes. The plane temporarily stalled as the things overtook it, then he pushed forward, opening fire with the forward gun. He pierced the wings of one of them, causing it to pull off, then produced one of the dart-bombs he had been equipped with and threw it down as he overtook above it. The bomb exploded against its carapace, causing to spiral away to the fields below. Exhaling, Oswald flew down over the fields below him, wondering just how he had survived that. **
[/I]Ferdinand Foch and John French, along with several other Allied commanders, looked over the intelligence reports from the Somme. The Germans, unfortunately, had been ground to a halt by relentless Grex counterattacks, and, according to several deserters, were waiting to deploy some new weapons they had rushed out to counter the Grex threat. Rubbing their bleary eyes as the light of the morning sun pierced through the window, they took swigs of wine.
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"So...the Krauts have put some new toys on the table. Do we know what they are?" A little man in glasses from the Deuxime Bureau coughed and stood up. "Monsieur, we do know that they have deployed new flying machines, quite capable from what I've heard, and are intensifying production of gas weapons. However, from what we've heard from our deserter friends, the Roaches have somehow developed immunity to at least one type of gas--chlorine, I think." "That's not all." said another French intelligencer. "We recently recaptured an ammo factory in the north of the country from the creatures. They were apparently producing weapons of a very advanced sort...we've shipped them over to London, for safe and constructive analysis." "These things have engineering too? Good god, what next? Lizards from the stars coming with motorized armor and rocket aircraft?" groaned French, taking another sip of wine. "News from elsewhere is not good either, I'm afraid." General Douglas Haig indicated several marked spots on a map. "They're definitely starting to infest Belgium. Many villages and towns in the Ardennes have been found purged of life...not just human life, livestock and wild animals too. We've had unconfirmed reports that they may have reached as far as Brussels, although we can hope that this is down to some jumpy men on patrol." "Any more good news to throw my way?" sighed French. "Asquith," said Haig, his face becoming grimmer, "has told me that there is a confirmed infestation in Australia as well. Adelaide is...gone...and Melbourne fell last night, although most of the populace was evacuated. They've moved their capital to Sydney, although how long that'll last I'm not sure, and lots of them are moving to Queensland. Furthermore, Japan is also receiving a similar treatment, though to a lesser extent. We've made a deal with their government; I'm not sure what, it's apparently mainly a naval matter." "I trust you won't mind if I'll express myself in the most blunt manner possible?" asked French. "Not at all." "Thank you. Damn. Damn. Damn." he slammed down on the table with each profanity. He took a deep breath. "How's Churchill's little landship project going?" "Very quickly, I'm happy to say. We should be deploying prototypes on the front soon. Thankfully, the Roaches appear to be fixated on the Germans for now." "There's more." General Smith-Dorrien interrupted. "I was told that we received a communiqu from the Americans this morning."
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"The bloody yanks? I trust they're sitting on their arses and laughing as these things overrun us, am I right?" "I'd imagine so, but that's beside the point. They have some very potent hardware to sell to us, and are willing to lend troops once certain arrangements have been made." "I can't imagine their president being willing to that." "Supposedly, some former president called Roosevelt is handling such matters. He's got quite a reputation, you know." "I see." French sighed. "Well, gentlemen, I trust we'll agree that we've got no option for now but to see how circumstances dictate. Until we've got some clear idea of what's to come, let's let fate decide..." ** 450 kilometers off the Californian coast Captain Abraham of the small fishing trawler Marin covered his eyes as drizzle came down along with the spray of the waves. Miserable fucking time of year, he thought; not much catch, awful waves, and now the guys back at San Francisco were talking about giant monsters in Japan, destroying Tokyo. Well, whatever kept them on their beer, he thought grimly. He became aware of something large approaching at high speed to starboard. Turning, he saw what looked like a freighter coming very fast towards him, with no sign of stopping. "Hey!" he grabbed a light and flashed a message to them. "Stop!" As the thing drew closer, he became aware that it was almost entirely covered in some sort of dark crystal-like substance, with various protrusions and strange lights. He smelt himself--no, he hadn't touched the beer. He looked up a second time to see it filling his entire field of vision. Seconds later, he and the trawler were crushed as it careered ahead towards the West coast of the United States. ** En route to Sydney, New South Wales, Australia Seated in a first-class compartment of an express train that had been previously scheduled to leave for Perth the following day, Andrew Fisher took another swig of whisky. The crying of women and children came from other parts of the train; hundreds of refugees had crammed themselves aboard, ignoring all attempts to stop them. Seated with him was George Pearce, Ronald Ferguson, General
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 William Throsby Bridges, and several other politicians, all looking sleepless and weary. "Did all the other members of Parliament get away?" groaned Fisher finally, as he watched the passing fields out of the windows. "From what I've heard, most were accounted for. Most. Some, I think, tried to take as much possessions as possible. Serves the corrupt bastards right." murmured Ferguson finally. "And the populace?" "The majority too. However, housing is going to be a problem, and we don't know how much of a safe haven Sydney will prove. I recommend we move further up to Queensland, to be safe." "Yes, you're right. Brisbane may be better...how well do you think we can defend Sydney, general?" General Bridges groggily sat up. "Frankly, with the way they overwhelmed our Melbourne defences...we'll need the support of the navy. Although I heard that the shits in London will be requisitioning it soon--something to do with the bloody Japanese. In any case, I don't know if offshore support would arrive in time." He took another gulp of whisky. "Furthermore, we've problems of starvation, provisions...these things are destroying our agriculture. We need assistance--from India, from Britain, even from the Yanks if we have to to, it doesn't matter." said Ferguson firmly. Fisher groaned again and looked as if he was about to throw up. "I want order maintained at all costs. If we have to go to people's houses with guns then so be it. I also think we may need to start recruiting abos--an abhorrent idea, but I'd rather our chances were maximised. When we get to Sydney, I want to talk to London over the possibility of reinforcements from India..." "Mr. Prime Minister, sir?" Two bodyguards, one of them tall, muscular, and blonde, with a thick Brisbane accent, entered. "There's a well-dressed chappie who wants to speak to you. Two, in fact. Awfully quiet. Not surprised, after what happened to the city..." "Let them in." Two gaunt-looking men in suits appeared outside in the carriage corridor. Fisher could not help but notice tears in identical places in their trousers. That was certainly strange. "Take a seat, gentlemen. I hear you want to talk. Want some whisky?" Both men suddenly made a high-pitched screaching sound as their chests burst open, revealing two sets of clawed arms. Their shoes burst open to revealed taloned feat, and their jaws split into mandible-like mouthparts, drooling all over the carpeted floor. They lunged forward as Pearce rose
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 to shield the prime minister, only to get skewered straight through the chest. "Oi, mate." said the bodyguard calmly, gripping both on the shoulders. "That just ain't proper." With that, he knocked both down onto the floor as the other bodyguard rushed to cover the prime minister. Producing a shotgun, he fired a shell straight into the face of one of the things as it got up almost at point blank range, shattering its head. The other leapt back up, twitching violently, and lunged at him, only for the bodyguard to smack it back against the wall with the shotgun. At that moment, Fisher and the others produced revolvers and opened fire, riddling it with bullets. As it stood wounded and stunned, the bodyguard reloaded the shotgun and fired again, splattering purple fluid all over the wall. "That's how we teach manners down under, mate." he breathed. ** The Pacific Ocean Rear Admiral George E. Patey stood on the front deck of the battleship Satsuma, having just been brought aboard. Japanese admiral Shinamura Hayao, with the crew of the huge vessel standing assembled behind him, was there to meet him. "Greetings." announced Patey, with a translator processing his words. "I am the representative of the Empire of Great Britain. I trust that our meeting here will go a long way to strengthening the ties between our nations, in these dark days." The translator spoke, and Hayao replied. "The honorable admiral Hayao says that we should get straight to business. The basic plan of the Japanese government is as such. As far as they are concerned, the naval forces of the British dominions in the Pacific area are insufficient to combat this new threat. Therefore, Japan will accept army soldiers to combat the menace on her shores, in exchange for providing whatever naval backup is necessary. We can discuss details inside, he says." "That sounds like a good plan to me." said Patey with a grin on his face. Damn Orientals, thinking they can dictate what Great Britain should and shouldn't do, he thought--but in any case, from what he had heard of the horrors in Northern France and Australia, playing along was unfortunately necessary. He followed the Japanese admiral inside the ship, along with the diplomats accompanying him. Time to prove to the world that Great Britain honored her ties... ** West Flanders, Belgium
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Terrace Ryan, of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, crept down through the field of corn along with the rest of the group of CEF soldiers with him. Accompanying them were several colonial soldiers from British India, muttering among themselves in Gujarati. Glancing at his compass, he made sure they were heading in the right direction--west, towards France and Dunkerque, where they intended to get the first ship to Great Britain and to safety. They had known all about the Roaches, or the Grex, or whatever they were called, for days now-then, just as their division was being moved down towards the south of the country to combat the damn things popping up there, they had been ambushed and scattered. Split off from their division, Ryan and his men had resolved to head down out of the country to friendly territory. With the Roaches springing up all over the country, both the lines of the Allies and Germans had been scattered; all they could do was pray that they didn't bump into anyone vicious. "C'est des conneries!" spat Paul, a burly man from Quebec. "We've been walking for hours! I need a damn rest!" "Quiet." hissed Ryan. "Every moment we're here we're at risk from Boche snipers or those damn Roach things. The sooner we get the hell out of here, the better." "It would also be a great shame to die here." mused Pradesh, the only man in the Indian squad who could speak English. "Far from our native lands, in the service of the British Empire...I doubt they would even mark our graves, if there was anything left of our bodies." "No talk of dying! I don't want defeatism!" spat Ryan. "Those monsters strike where they please. We cannot..." continued Pradesh. "Was I asking you, darkie? Shut your mouth!" Pradesh fell silent, casting him a look of venom. As they exited the cornfield and approached a nearby farmhouse, Paul finally sat down on a nearby log and stretched. "I just want one fucking minute, that's all." he snapped in response to Ryan's withering look. As he placed his helmet down beside him, he noticed that it was vibrating slightly. Pradesh looked up. "I think there is something coming. Perhaps--" Paul was impaled with several spindly forearms as something monstrous burst out of the earth around him, tearing him into bloody chunks of flesh. Shouting, the men quickly began to take position around the farmhouse as more of the things burst out of the ground.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Hold firm, men! Don't let yourselves be beaten by overgrown termites!" shouted Ryan over the noise as he fired with his Lee Enfield. "A Mari Usque Ad Mare!" One of the things lunged towards him, shrugging off the bullet he fired into its carapace. Stabbing it at with his bayonet, Ryan screamed out loud as the thing pounced towards his face, mandibles open wide. Moments later, Pradesh tackled the creature from the side, knocking it to the ground, and stabbed at its head repeatedly with the bayonet. The two exchanged looks before reloading their weapons and firing at the other creatures as they swarmed towards the farmhouse. "Keep firing! Keep firing! Are you not men?" yelled Ryan as another one of the things lunged at him. "Oh no you don't, motherfucker." he breathed. Grabbing a grenade, he unpinned and shoved it straight into the creatures face as it pounced towards him. Knocked back, the creature held the grenade in its mouth as it stood confused momentarily, and was then blown apart as Ryan ducked behind cover. "Little fuckers don't give up!" hollered one of the men as some of the Indians were cut down by razor-like rounds fired from guns somehow fused to the sides of some of the things as they burst from the foliage towards them. Ryan looked around. Their numbers were dwindling. As was their ammo. Fuck it, he thought. Today's a good day to die. As the things moved in and he closed his eyes, mortars rained down, tearing apart some of the things. Looking around the corner of the house, Ryan saw at least several dozen British troops moving in, with mortar units visible in the distance. As bullets burst in the ground around them, the ten or so Roaches present quickly burrowed under the ground and out of sight. Ryan let out a huge exhale of relief. "I take it you're auxiliaries from the Dominions?" said the British commander as he approached. "Bloody impressive job holding out here, old chaps. Now let's get you cleaned up..." ** Excerpt from a German government release to all major Berlin newspapers, 20th January 1915: Citizens of the German Empire! The Kaiser is aware of your concern over the threat of the Schaben creatures in France, which by now nobody can deny. Fear not! As we speak, our offensive against these beasts continues, although we still require fresh men and logistics to continue our push. Our scientists continue to release weapons of great advancement and power in response to this ungodly menace, as great heroes prove the worth of our new flying machines and our zeppelin hangars work to convert our mighty flying machines into vehicles that will exterminate the Schaben in whatever holes they cower!
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 However, be on the lookout for foreign traitors. We believe they may have sabotaged some of our gas supplies to the front, in the hope that we will crumble against the Schaben. Let us show them who will have the last laugh! Germany shall prove her dominance of the European military scene, and then once we have purged the Schaben, we shall be immortalized in the history books forever! Right now our troops in France rest, awaiting fresh supplies, after an excellent start. Untold numbers of Schaben have been killed. One German soldier can kill twenty of them! Make sure you do not fall for exaggerated rumors of Schaben capabilities, spread by foreigners, to sow discord in the hearts of the German populace! Long live the Kaiser! Gott mit uns!
** 21st January 1915, Northern France It was barely one in the morning as Erich von Falkenhayn climbed out of the military truck behind him and approached the group of uniformed and shellshocked-looking commanders assembled before him. Several soldiers with flamethrowers, the eye lenses of their gas masks glinting the moonlight, stood in a ring around the group, several kilometers behind the German front lines. Although he had been told that he had been taking a risk going so close to the front, Falkenhayn had decided that it would be better to come over there in person then divert the commanders from their duty. "The newspapers in Berlin say it'll be over in a few days." he announced dryly. "And we all know what they said in 1914. I trust everything's gone to shit?" "These things are relentless." Duke Albrecht said hoarsely. "They've somehow developed an immunity to chlorine gas--they now walk through it like it's air. I think our other gases work fine, but we stocked so much on chlorine that..." "Keep all our gas supply locations secret and under control." snapped Falkenhayn. "Our losses?" "Initially low, but as the things began to counterattack they began to mount." Karl von Blow, looking comparatively calm, announced. "We try to keep them pinned with artillery, but these...enormous beetle things keep digging behind our lines and tearing up our gun positions. Or even worse, somehow attaching the guns to themselves. I can't believe I'm saying us, but we've lost several trench segments to bombardment from these things. I think they're toying with us!" "So we're on the defensive now?" said Falkenhayn. "We have no choice!" exclaimed Albrecht. "Until we can properly consolidate, and establish some
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 order in the ranks, attacking is like throwing meat into the mouths of these monsters! Even those flying machines are being suppressed by these..." "Enough." snapped Falkenhayn. "The Kaiser does not want excuses, cowardice, or defeatism from weaklings like you. Neither do I. Very shortly, we'll have some new equipment that will bring to bear the true firepower of the German military." On that cue, several armored cars rattled into view, fixed with large-looking flamethrowers. "These are straight from the factories in the Rhineland. Infantry, artillery, and limited aerial power alone cannot defeat these things--it is about time we innovated..." ** Port of San Francisco, San Francisco, United States of America Colin Jameson yawned as the early morning sun crept over the horizon, casting light onto the Golden Gate. The city was barely waking up from the night, with the port around him still mostly empty-save for the opium dealers, with ware straight from China, who sometimes appeared around these parts. With the Ferry House opening up behind him, he was walking by the piers, looking for someone who could give him some good stuff in exchange for a few bucks. As he walked slowly along, he became aware of something approaching very rapidly out of the corner of his eye. Looking to the side, he saw a dark-colored ship moving very rapidly straight towards the port, showing no signs of slowing. As it smashed aside buoys and moored boats in this way, it occurred to Colin to run away from it, and began to move quickly in the direction of the Ferry House. Moments later, the ship slammed straight into the shore, knocking Colin straight into the floor and causing stacked crates around him to topple over. "Shit!" he spat, getting up and turning around. The thing was covered in some dark purple, crystallike encrustation, looking more like some coral sculpture than a boat. The bow was opening up like some kind of pore, revealing a pitch black interior. Raising an eyebrow, Colin walked towards it, halfawake and curious. Perhaps he had already taken some opium and it was playing with him, he thought. Peering inside, he lit a match, illuminating the dark, damp, smelly interior of the vessel. He cried out almost immediately. The walls, ceiling, and most of the floor were lined with sacs of sort--in fact, some of these sacs were men, with grotesquely bloated, semi-transparent bellies and rotting heads, fused to the surface with the same purple stuff. As he walked slowly in, the sacs began to stir, and he noticed some dark, eldritch shape in each one beginning to move.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Something moved in the dark ahead. Losing his nerve, Colin turned around and ran as the sacs burst open. Running outside, he turned around, to see some hideous shapes scurrying out of the dark ahead of him. Seconds later, something pounced out of the ship, knocking him onto the concrete and tearing him apart. Minutes later, most people around the Port area were aware of screams and smashing. About ten minutes later, policemen were running to Chinatown, roused from their beds, after hearing word of widespread disturbances there. They did not return. In twenty minutes, San Francisco was in the grip of chaos. ** I]Washington DC, United States of America [/I]"Mr. President, I'm afraid to tell you that we have a national crisis on our hands." Thomas Marshall, Chief of the National Guard Albert L. Mills, and the highest-ranking members of the Army General Staff stood in the Oval Office before Wilson, seated at his desk, looking very grave. Shifting through reports and telegrams, Wilson looked up. "So, I take it the monsters supposedly plaguing northern France have reached our shores, too?" "Yes, sir. According to the last cables, San Francisco is mostly overrun. At least several thousand are dead, and columns of refugees are heading for Sacramento and Los Angeles." said Marshall grimly. Wilson remained silent for a second. Looking into his eyes, Marshall swore he could see something snap, just like that. Wilson grinned, then spoke, his voice wavering and hoarse. "Excellent. Excellent!" Marshall looked at him in disbelief. "Excuse me, sir...?" "San Francisco and California have long been plagued by Chinamen, niggers, and other such rabbles. Wilsons voice trembled as he spoke.. "Seeing as they are naturally inferior and will be unable to escape as quickly, they will be eaten alive by these creatures. In a way, they're helping us-properly control their spread, and we'll be a step closing to a purer America." "Er...right, Mr. President. The point is, California is going into panic. We can assume by now that San Francisco is lost. We need to establish some sort of policy for the refugees and a response. Congress and Senate are about to discuss this, but I fear that the other cities of California will not remain safe havens for long..."
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Balderdash! These are dumb, overgrown insects we are talking about. Have you ever see an ant nest or a beehive with the intelligence and purpose you are implying?" snapped the president. "Mr. President, I have seen reports from Europe of the capabilities of these things. They are not to be trifled with, and..." "Pah! Until I see them with my own eyes, I will remain skeptical. Very well then. See that temporary accomodation is set up for all refugees...white ones, that is. Niggers and lesser races are not to take priority. Meanwhile, mobilize the local national guard and have militias formed. I see no reason in expending unnecessary resources beyond that to combat some overgrown termites." "These 'overgrown termites', sir, overran San Francisco in a few hours." "Mostly because that city was long polluted with the filth of humanity. Once this is over, we can repopulate it with the cream of American blood." said Wilson, his eyes glazing over. "We have other items to discuss, sir." said Marshall. "Teddy and several others wish to establish new units for the army and have a desire for a lending programme to Europe to combat these things. They have strong support in the Capitol and..." "We are already selling the Europeans what they need. I suppose Teddy can show what he is truly worth in California first. In any case, gentlemen..." Wilson poured some whisky. "Let us toast to what, as far as I can concerned, is a blessing in disguise." ** Sacramento valley William Scott clutched his rifle to himself as he crept over a hill. In the far distance streams of people from San Francisco were visible, heading towards Sacramento and San Jose. Stories had been scattered--he had heard of giant monstrous insects overrunning the city, of men being transformed into hideous freaks, of panic and looting. He had gathered up a posse, assembled behind him, to scout in that direction and find out what was really going on. Preachers were calling it the end of days already. Hell, this reminded him of all those stories from Europe of monsters in France. "You sure about this, boss?" said one of the men. "If it's the end of the world like da pastor says, these guns ain't gonna be much good." "You shut it!" snapped Scott. "Ain't no monster that can ignore a dozen rifle shots. We're gonna find out what the sam hell is goin' on, and if we can do anythin' about it, we will." They crept onto the top of the hill, with a fine view of the surroundings. Smokestacks were visible on the far horizon, along with more throngs of people. It was as if all of California was packing up and
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 taking flight. "Looks like everythin's gone to hell, boss." mused one of the men. "Well, if that be the case, then let's give hell a warm welcome." grinned Scott, stroking his gun. At that moment, they became aware of a faint, but rapidly increasing, buzzing sound. Looking up, they saw a cluster of shapes against the blue midday sky, coming down towards them. "Now what would that be?" uttered one of the men. The shapes then shot down towards them, at impossible speeds. Scott cried out as they began discernable: they had the basic shape of men, with some of them still wearing tattered clothes, but their limbs were more skeletal and their hands and feet distorted into claws, with anthropoid wings and faces that looked like unholy unions between man and a wasp. "That's must be what them pastors were talkin' about! Let 'em have it!" shouted Scott. At that moment, the monsters slammed down into the group, some of them pulverizing the bodies of the men they landed on. Scott dived to one side and fired his gun at the nearest one, striking it on the shoulder. Undeterred, it lunged towards him and snatched the gun out of his hand, hitting him over the head with it, moving more quickly and fluidly then he had imagined. Around him, the posse were being knocked down or torn apart by the monsters, with more of them now visible, flying through the sky like bees from hell. Scott closed his eyes and prayed to god honestly for the first time in his life, as the creature turned the gun towards him. ** Northern France Anita Roux took in a deep breath as she approached the small rural village before them, not far from Calais and the Belgian border. With the end times finally nigh, the time had come to finally open the eyes of the masses away from the misleading of the clergy and towards the only true salvation now. Having been blessed by a representative of the Morningstar himself, success was surely inevitable. That demon in Belgium had made go through some unholy ritual, summoning strange beetles which nipped each member of the group once, while uttering something about 'total conversion being impractical; this will suffice for now', which Anita didn't understand, but decided that it was good. Since then, as they had walked through the countryside, she had been hearing voices in her head and pains in her body, as if something was growing in her muscles, and had found herself subconsciously following a specific path, as if something was guiding her body. Some of her followers had taken it less well, complaining about pain, but yet they had all lost all sensation of hunger, thirst, or exhaustion. The important thing was that they now bore the taint of Satan; they
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 were now among his favored. Approaching the center of the village, she noted some people loading their possessions onto carts, shouting about 'Roaches'. So, that was how they termed the soldiers of Hell--by the time she was finished, they would be more respectful. They draw stares and profanities as they approached the small church in the center of the village. Some soldiers in British uniforms were setting up equipment of some kind there. "Who the hell are you?" shouted a nearby woman, pointing at them. "What do you want here?" "We are here to bring a message." announced Anita loudly. She had not willed herself to speak the words--it appeared that she was favored enough by Lucifer to be his mouthpiece. Nothing could make her more proud. "All faith in God is now futile." she continued. "Tired of our sin, he has abandoned us. He has sent these demons that lay waste to our armies and ignore all attempts to stop them--what more sign that what was predicted in Revelations is upon us? It is time to accept our destiny, and thus..." "Enough of your blasphemies!" A priest was running towards them from the church, with a crucifix. "Go back to whence you came, devil-worshippers! We are a people of God, and as such our hearts will remain with the Lord!" "God no longer cares for senile ramblers like you." continued Anita. "Our only chance now is to accept the embrace of Satan, and do all we can to gain as much favor as we can in Hell, for that is where all of us are doomed to be..." "What's going on here?" A British-accented voice in grammatically poor French cut her out as one of the soldiers approached. "Who are you? Why are you dressed in those...clothes?" Anita suddenly found herself raising her arm at him. Moments later, a purple-colored, sharpened flechette-like blade shot out from her wrist through her skin, piercing the man's chest. The man cried out, attracting the attention of the other soldiers, who picked up their rifles and began running towards them. Moving extraordinarily fast, Anita's followers sprinted towards them, blades of some kind extending out of their arms. The troops opened fire, scoring a few shots on their shoulders or limbs, but this had no discernable affect. In seconds, the followers were upon them and cut them to pieces, splattering their innards onto the ground. "As you can see, benefits exist to such service." said Anita, as a small crowd began to gather, looking shocked. The priest's face was white, and then he ran back to the church as the followers, with their bloodstained robes, moved towards him. "You will surely know that we cannot defeat the forces of hell. All those who want to postpone judgment...step forward." One man stepped forward. Then another. Then another. Anita smiled. It was time to preach the True
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Gospel. ** Zurich, Switzerland Vladimir Lenin looked upon the assembled socialists in the hall before him, chattering among themselves about matters of importance. The injustice of the war. The plight of the proletariat. And these monsters plaguing France, and if the newspaper rumors were to believed, Russia, Japan, and Australia as well. He had heard someone earlier mention that they had now reached America. It was almost apt--similar in nature to the inevitable revolution that would sweep the world, he thought. "Gentlemen," he announced, taking the podium. "Originally, my agenda for this would be a purely human one. Matters have changed. The balance of the world is about to be thrown into disarray. You will all know of the creatures in France--the Grex. Nobody can deny their existence any more. Nobody can dismiss them as a newspaper hoax. It is clear that some intelligence drives these creatures. They pursue specific objectives. They can identify targets of importance. It is evident that they cannot be reasoned with. No treaty would please them, no bribe would cajole them, no words would move them. This is the sort of enemy the capitalist bourgeoisie fears the most. My point is this. This may seem controversial, but after careful thought I have concluded we have no real other options. While the bourgeoisie threat, thrown from their plinth of superiority by these implacable creatures, the workers will soon see what overstuffed fools they are. They will wonder why they are being thrown to their deaths. They will wonder why the industrialists grow fatter and richer from this war. They will soon tire of this. And it is my desire to accelerate matters. My nation is too being plagued by these things; I can finally begin to implement measures that will bring the Bolsheviks to the forefront. As capitalism collapses under relentless assault from these monsters, Marxism will take its place. Then, Marxism will be the only hope humanity has. The time, my friends, has come for revolution." ** I]Northern France, near Reims [/I]British and French troops sat huddled in a trench dugout as drizzle pattered down. Although Allied troops had been retracted from the Somme area, they were still being reinforced to the north and south of it, with command not intent on totally abandoning containment of Grex or German. Now, leaflets were being passed around, the ink still fresh from the press, with each soldier expected to have a copy. Each leaflet contained both the same information in French and English, and even despite the mass printing that they had supposedly undergone some of the men still had to share. "Whazzis?" muttered one of the British soldiers.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Some leaflet. Written by a Frechie called Lafeet or somethin' in Paris. 'eard they got some of their information from Krauts who switched over." replied his superior, fingering the leaflet. They chuckled at the picture of the cover--it looked less like a Roach, they agreed, than a drunken man's drawing of a Roach from someone's bare description. Regardless, they flicked it open from the light of the oil lamp present, reading the words and the accompanying pictures. KNOW YOUR ENEMY: AN INFORMATION PAMPHLET By Professor Adel Lafeete of Paris University Honorable soldiers on the front! You are all by know surely aware of the new, nightmarish threat our nations currently face, one that cares not for nationality or alliance. You will have heard rumors and stories of these monsters, and while it is true that they present a most grave threat to the sanctity of all men, they can still be defeated! Here we have compiled information on all the various breeds of these monsters, each given a pseudonym for your benefit. Note, of course, that we cannot confirm that these are all of the various castes of the creatures, but be assured that you, the common soldier, will the first recipient of such knowledge! SCARABS These resemble regular, yellow beetles, but they are incredibly vicious and devious. They serve as the ears and eyes of the Roaches, and while they can be crushed underfoot like any regular insect, their bites are deadly. Report any sightings of them to your superior officer! WARRIORS Anyone who has had the blessing of facing these things and surviving already knows all there is to know. These are the regular drones of the creatures, and are heavily resistant to gunfire except for some select places. They can burrow and can somehow commandeer our weapons, but they are nothing a good stab with a bayonet cannot defeat! Should you ever see a group of these, send a message to your nearest artillery position, provided they do not see you! BOMBARDIERS Do not be intimidated by the size of these giant coleoptera. A well-placed artillery round will down them like anything else! And furthermore, due to their single-minded intent to destroy all scenery before them, they will easily overlook small targets like regular riflemen! Their danger lies in their affinity for attaching our artillery weapons to themselves, but being dim-witted insects they do not fully appreciate how to use such weapons! Nonetheless, avoid these when you can, and leave them for our guns to take out. DECABITES We have not seen much of these abominations, but do not underestimate them. They appear to spit acid capable of burning through a man, although surely this will be ineffective against non-corrosive 95
SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 sources. If you are brave enough, try stabbing them through the head with your bayonet! They are surely dim-witted enough for this to be a possibility. LOCUSTS As their name will suggest, this particular breed can fly, moving through the sky like a crazed wasp. They are strong enough to pick up a horse and throw it back down, but naturally, their wings cannot take much, so aim for those! With their ways of flight taken out, these things will die soon after, much like a bee dies with its sting removed, but even then you should wait for heavy weapons to finish them off! Remember, some foolish men, their minds broken by the horror of some of these, can turn against you in service of these hellspawn. Show them no mercy! Hopefully you will put the information in this pamphlet to good use, and strive to serve your nation! ** As artillery thundered overhead and machineguns clattered, Adolf Hitler, his uniform covered in mud, blood, and purple fluids, cleaned his sword and bayonet-tipped rifle, both of which had served him well thus far. The offensive seemed to have slowed drastically--could this indicate Jewish influence in command, he pondered? Although admittedly the Zionists would have nothing to gain from these creatures overrunning all of Europe, he thought, they, in their short-sightedness, would do all they could to destabilize Germany. Something began to bust out the ground next to him, as the gas-mask wearing soldiers in the trench around him cried out. A Schaben burst out, only for Hitler to quickly impale it on his sword, carefully aiming at one of the chinks in its carapace. He had quickly become a deft hand with the blade, viewing it as the best weapon against Schaben close up. Most of the troops, except of course for the cowards, had developed some grudging respectperhaps fearfor him as a result. Shrieking came from ahead, as shapes began to move out of the thick fog and gas on the No Man's Land Ahead. Hitler gritted his teeth. He and his men had persevered where other divisions were crumbling; if they could keep it up, they would immortalized in the history books forever. With that, he brought up his rifle, and, hands steady, aimed down the sights. ** Oyster Bay, New York state, United States of America 'MONSTERS IN CALIFORNIA', blared the New York Times. 'SAN FRANCISCO OVERRUN', announced the Wall Street Journal. And yet, from what his friends still in the Grand Old Party had said, that idiot, weak-willed fool in the White House by the name of Wilson, wasn't mobilizing as much as most
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 viewed would be necessary. That man, not content with shaming himself with his spineless foreign policy, appeared not to understand just what was happening. Enough was enough. It was time to rejoin the old party and head back to Washington. With that, Theodore Roosevelt put down the newspapers and began to pack his things.
**
22nd January 1915 Pronne, northern France Colonel Kurt Wagner of the German army stood at the edge of the small town as two of the new flamethrower-equipped armored cars trundled by onto the field before him and troops set up light artillery. Sweat was running down his forehead as he found himself seriously requisitioning his loyalty to Germany. This campaign to try and purge these Schaben was on the way to being a disaster; they attacked with such speed and numbers, striking where they pleased from under the ground, that it was almost impossible to hold against them. They had tried to minimize casualties from each strike by spreading out their forces in the Somme area, but Wagner felt that was merely delaying the inevitable. Now these troops around him, fresh recruits, were still high on morale, swallowing the propaganda that had assured them that the Schaben were little more than overgrown insects waiting to be crushed. Wagner had already seen the Schaben in action. He had seen creatures with teeth like demons burst from the ground and spit out acid that dissolved artillery guns into nothing, and flying things that could rip apart trucks. He was wondering whether his sanity would last for long at this rate. "We have two choices for ammunition, sir." one of the soldiers spoke to him, indicating supply boxes. "We have conventional explosive shells and mustard gas. Reportedly we are not to use chlorine--why is that, if you do not mind me asking?" "Because...chlorine leaks too easily." lied Wagner, thinking of the first explanation that came into his head. He had heard that the Schaben had somehow developed an immunity to that gas; reportedly, it may have been connected with them thieving some samples from a supply truck in Belgium. It was obvious that these things were intelligent--something the generals refused to accept, or so he heard. That did not bode well. "Sir?" A voice came from nearby. Wagner turned to see a soldier sitting on a rock, pointing at a flask of water, which was vibrating for no discernable reason.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "What...everyone! Get ready! Die waffen, legt an!" Wagner shouted, as loud as he could. The men were barely readying their rifles when dozens Schaben burst from the ground all over the field, some times mere inches from the soldiers. Screams and gunfired echoed around as the Schaben leapt onto their victims. Readying his Mauser, Wagner opened fire at the nearest Schaben several meters away, only for the bullets to hit its least vulnerable part. With its attention attracted, Wagner closed his eyes as the thing moved quickly towards him. The field was lit up orange as the flamethrowers on the armored cars lit up, spraying streams of fire across the field, burning some of the Schaben alive and in some cases some of the men. The crew of the cars also opened fire with machineguns through some gun ports in the side of the vehicles. With the Schaben momentarily scattered, Wagner and the surviving men ran to the vehicle closest to the village. However, the Schaben did not react well. Pouncing on the other car, they began to rip off the armor plating and tore off the flamethrower, while ones on the ground tore off the whels. Shouting incoherently, Wagner gestured for the men to open fire. Some of the Schaben were knocked off by the volleys of fire as they set about ripping the vehicle apart. The ground near the car then burst open as a gigantic black beetle thing the size of a building emerged. Wagner found himself screaming out loud as it lunged towards the doomed armored car and picked it up with its mandibles, scrunching it like paper. The troops opened fire at it with their rifles, but they had no discernable effect. Some of the Schaben were scurrying to the men and the car, undeterred by the stream of flame it was putting up. Lobbing grenades, Wagner cried out as more began to burst out of the earth right next to him, firing Mauser rounds straight into its face. There was a loud boom, cause Wagner's ears to ring, and a chunk of the huge beetle's side carapace was damaged. Wounded, the thing rapidly burrowed back underground as geysers of earth were blown up around the field following more booms, blasting some of the Schaben up. The rest followed the beetle, leaving the field covered in craters and dead men. Looking up and behind him, Wagner saw a zeppelin passing over the town, with naval guns fixed to its underside. He grinned, and felt a touch of patriotism returning to him. ** Hunan, China There had been certainly much to talk about lately. Stories had came in from both Japan and Russia of vile monsters from the heavens, capable of controlling the bodies of men and overcoming even the most well-trained soldiers. A few had dismissed it as a hoax, despite many bringing in newspapers from Great Britain and Japan which apparently confirmed it, and others were glad, happy that the likes of the Japanese and Russians were getting their just desserts.
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Sitting outdoors, Mao Zedong read through a newspaper one of his friends had supplied him with. Apparently, they had hit the American west coast now--and then, upon reading this, Mao could not help but feel genuine pain for all these people being hit by these monsters. If the rumors he had heard were true, nobody deserved such fates as these things could provide, not even landlords or landowners. And some people, he thought darkly, were already celebrating their presence. They had taken much of Siberia and Australia, he had heard--heaven protect us if they spread into the Middle Kingdom, he thought. Given the state of the nation, this land would be rich pickings for them. Regardless, he began to head for class--if these things came, hopefully the people of China would see sense and unite as one. ** Near Mt. Fuji, Japan Takei Hiro fixed the bayonet onto his rifle as the column of men he was in moved on the foothill path, with the mass of Fujisama looming up before them. Most of them were still confused about the situation. Stories had spread through the barracks of monsters infesting the country, but Takei had dismissed them. When his own mother sent him a letter hysterically telling him of some monstrous men with the wings of dragonflies who had attacked her village, he had immediately resolved to purge this threat, which now obviously existed. The question of where they came from or what their intentions were were still nagging him, however. And more importantly, why they had chosen to bring the wrath of Japan upon them. "Halt! Movement ahead!" someone from the front of line shouted, and everyone stopped, tense. A new column of figures emerged from some trees up ahead, waving. Walking cautiously forward, Takei made them out to be foreign gaijin--Caucasians, wearing European uniforms. Which ones specifically he could not tell. A fellow Japanese officer was accompanying who he assumed to be their commander. He overheard him informing his own colonel that these were men from the British Empire--they had been shipped from China on their quickest transport as per a new agreement between the governments of their two countries about crushing these monsters. He heard something mentioned about Australia--what could that mean? That they were striking all over the world? "Soldiers," announced the colonel, "these gaijin are here to provide us with support. You are to treat them with respect, for to not appreciate the help they are willing to give would be dishonorable." Takei glanced at the British men. They looked exhausted and bleary-eyed, their uniforms creased and dirty. They muttered to themselves in their language, casting suspicious glances at his fellow soldiers. So, Japan had resorted to help from gaijin, he thought. Oh well. Perhaps this way the paledfaced foreigners would finally respect those who dwelled on the Home Isles.
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"Many monsters have been seen in this area. Do not laugh." said the colonel, snapping at some giggling men. "Only fools can deny their existence now. They have been sighted in Tokyo itself. We are to find, and crush..." His chest suddenly burst open as a purple, sharpened flechette-like projectile pierced through it. Shouting, the men dispersed and took cover behind what they could as a cluster of things descended from the dark sky above, some of them clearly firing rifles. More of them emerged from the trees, charging the men. He saw vaguely human-like shapes, but with almost skeletal, segmented limbs and faces like insects, with the sound of buzzing filling the air. Earth was thrown up as some of the British began lobbing grenades, knocking some of the monsters down. More, equipped with dragonfly-like wings just as his mother had said, slammed down from above, skewering men with their blade-like arms or gunning them down with guns. As he watched the carnage before him unfold, Takei noted the body of the dead colonel nearby, with his ceremonial katana still sheathed. As adrenaline and an overwhelming sense of righteous patriotism surged through him, Takei grabbed it, unsheathed it, and charged. "BANZAI!" Sprinting forward, he attacked one of the monsters from behind as it gunned down one of the British with a rifle somehow fused to its forearm, decapitating it with a deft sweep of the katana. Leaping at another one, he stepped to one side as it lunged at him, before cutting down its legs. A bullet, either from the monsters or a friendly stray, grazed his shoulder, but he ignored the pain as he gritted his teeth and slashed at a nearby one. Inspired by this sight, the other soldiers cried out battlecries and charged, stepping over the mauled bodies of their dead comrades, firing at the things or stabbing with bayonets or blades. Within a few moments, the remaining monsters were pulling back into the trees. Exhausted, Takei sat down on a log, rubbing his wound. One of the British men approached him with a smile and offered him a flask. "Arigato." he said. ** Northern France Lieutenant Jurgen Ulli, crewman aboard the zeppelin LZ31, watched carefully through the window of the gondola he was in as it approached the front lines. The entire craft had been refitted at Fhlsbttel, with heavy guns, machineguns, and even some flamethrowers, all designed apparently to make it serve as a heavy conveyance for ground support and to give it better point defence. All this, of course, had come at the cost of most of its bombing capacity. Jurgen vaguely understood why--he knew of the Schaben, like anyone else, and the stories he had heard of them had sounded nightmarish. But surely no insect, no matter now large, determined, or relentless, could bring down
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 a mighty zeppelin? A buzzing sound passed as several biplanes passed by the zeppelin. He had heard some of the pilots complaining about the heavy machineguns installed on them, and the noise they made. Jurgen had heard that one variety of Schaben could fly, but could they really keep pace with a biplane? But then, he heard, a lot of the zeppelin refits, some of them rushed to fulfill the near-absurd deadlines they had been given, had come directly from the Kaiser's office, so there was surely a good reason. "We'll be coming over the trenches soon." someone said. "We'll blow those Schaben away from the air and allow our ground troops some breathing space. It's wonderful--artillery on the ground is good, but artillery from the skies is better." Someone suddenly gestured and shouted. Looking through the windows, Jurgen saw at least a few dozen...things...emerging from a nearby cloud. The biplanes immediately broke formation and prepared to fight back as some of the defence weaponry on the zeppelin opened fire, with bursts of flak appearing in front of the white clouds. Jurgen could make out the things now--monstrous insects, like dragonflies from hell, heading rapidly towards the zeppelin. One of the biplanes headed straight for the swarm, only to get torn apart like paper as one of the flying Schaben caught it. "Here they come!" someone yelled as some of the biplanes broke off, drawing some of the things away. The rest flew relentlessly towards the zeppelin, with some of the flamethrowers opening up. A few had their wings burnt off as they drew near, but some finally hit the surface of the zeppelin, tearing some of the weapons emplacements off. One suddenly burst through the window of the gondola, causing Jurgen to cry out, as it impaled an officer with its mandibles and swallowed him. Another man opened fire with a Luger and stabbed at it with a knife, only to get eaten himself. Jurgen took cover, whimpering, before the thing retracted. Some of the things flew by, somehow having fused machineguns or flamethrowers to their side, chasing down the biplanes. More had latched onto the side of the zeppelin, ripping off the hull, and more were attacking the rudder. Reaching out, Jurgen fired at some with his Luger, but it had no apparent effect. It was then that a biplane shot out of a nearby clouds and opened fire straight at the mass of them on the hull, using explosive rounds apparently. A few were blown off, and the rest tore themselves away and headed for the plane. Flak burst around them as they passed near ground guns. Jurgen took a deep breath. Yes, this armament truly was necessary. ** Near Soissons, northern France Gupta Singh, of Indian Expeditionary Force A, watched as other fellow Indians unloaded shells from a horse drawn cart, with the markings for an artillery position being set out near the small hamlet they
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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 were standing on the edge on. Their British officer, Henderson, directed them as a few French soldiers stood nearby, smoking on cigarettes. The trench line was a short distance away--every now and then, trucks and carts would pass by in that direction. "Forgive me, good sir," One of the soldiers, a Hindu by the name of Patel, was talking to Henderson, "but I do not understand why we do not attack the monsters shown there." He waved the pamphlet that had been passed around lately--some of the men had laughed at it, dismissed it as a joke, until newspapers screaming about these 'Roaches' were passed around and traumatized British and French veterans ranted about mandibles and horrific shrieks. "Surely this would be a disgrace to the Crown?" "The Crown has decided that it would be better for us to reorganize and gather intelligence on these monsters before we through men into their jaws." sighed Henderson. "Our French allies think likewise." "I have heard the Germans are moving in on the creature's nest, in the Somme." "Let 'em. If they destroy the Roaches, good for us, we'll then finish them. If the Roaches eat 'em, good for us, we'll finish them off. Either way, it'll turn out to our benefit." "How ironic." one of the nearby Frenchmen smiled. "The mighty British Empire trying to use the Germans as a lackey." He put on an exaggerated British accent. "Maybe it's not cricket, old chum, eh?" "Watch yourself, monsieur," said Henderson darkly. "Perhaps you should know what these things can do. I saw a man talk about these things digging up right next to an artillery battery and tearing the guns apart like they were paper. Shooting them doesn't do much good unless you hit the right spot, and what rifleman under stress being attacked by such hellspawn can aim so accurately?" "Ptuh." spat the Frenchman dismissively. "Any man will spin tales for his own purpose." As the men continued about their work, with music filtering from a nearby gramophone player, Singh suddenly paused as it became increasingly scratchy. The player was shaking--slightly, but enough for it the needle to jerk from side to side. As a sense of impending danger dawned on him, Singh readied his rifle. "There's no need for that." said Henderson calmly. "We're far away from German positions, and I'm sure--" There was a scream as two men were thrown from behind a nearby house, one of them missing his lower legs. The men stopped what they were doing as the two landed nearby with the sound of crunching bones. Singh noticed that the remainder of the mutilated man's body was slowly dissolving by some purple substance slowly creeping along him.
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"Run!" gasped the other hoarsely, in a Welsh accent. "One of those...the leaflet called it a Decabite...run!" "Everyone, ready weapons!" cried Henderson. As the Indians hurriedly prepared their rifles and the Frenchmen began to load ammunition into a nearby machinegun, the house was smashed aside as a monstrous thing burst out of the dust--some sort of armored, crustacean-like thing about ten feet high with many eyes and a mouth full of impossibly sharp teeth. A Decabite, it was called--Singh tried to not let fear overtake him and steeled himself. "Fire, you bastards, fire!" screamed Henderson as the charged forward. Not flinching, the Indians fired with their rifles, the bullets apparently harmlessly pinging off the things armor. The Frenchmen opened fire with the machinegun, causing it to stop and lurch backwards. Then, it spat out a black globule, which hurtled through the air and struck the machinegun, dissolving it instantly, with the operator having his arms burnt off. As he screamed out in pain, one of the other Indians charged at it with his bayonet outstretched, only to get impaled on one of its spindly limbs. "We cannot kill it! Run, lest you value your lives!" one of the Indians cried out, only for Henderson to put a pistol round through his head. As the creature opened its mouth again, Singh ran towards it, taking one of the grenades from his belt and unpinning it. As it spat, sending forward another acidic globule that dissolved several of the soldiers, he thrust the grenade straight into its mouth. A moment passed, in which the thing impaled him through the shoulder, some of the drool from its mouth striking his chest and burning through it. Then, its head exploded, knocking him back. Fluids leaked from its body, leaking into the ground. "Bloody hell." uttered Henderson. ** Sydney, Australia Sitting in a room within the Queen Victoria Building, turned into a temporary Parliament along with the city hall, Fisher was gulping down some whisky as he read through the reports. The city, and most of New South Wales, was in chaos as refugees struggled to find accommodation and basic necessities. He could not be sure just when the things would strike here--defences were being already set up, for all the good they could do. His first intention was to head further north, to Brisbane, but apparently the trains were busy or some nonsense like that. Letters and reports were coming in of towns and villages and farms disappearing, of huge masses of the things moving rapidly across the countryside--in any case, they had taken huge swathes of the country, although thus far they had not seemed to be targeting the western or north-eastern parts of the country. "I think I've got some good news, sir." It was some member of Parliament--his mind was too bleary from stress and alcohol to identify him. "Telegrams from London."
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"What? Does Asquith want me to know that I should give up all hope?" "No. London's solidified our agreement with the Japanese. Nipponese troops will be arriving at Cooktown and Brisbane, along with reinforcements from the Indian Dominion. Because the Japanese want to keep as many troops for themselves--they've got their own infestation, you see--their support will be primarily naval. We should get some ships arriving here shortly." "Excellent. We're part of the largest and most powerful Empire on the world, and we have to turn to some stunted rice-eaters for help." "We need every body we can have, sir. These things do not relent." "You don't say. Bring me more whisky--the world's gonna end, might as well make the most of it." ** Berlin, Germany "WHAT? All the might of the Vaterland, all this new machinery churned out of our factories, and the Schaben have not been crushed? You in fact tell me that we're losing?" Kaiser Wilhem's voice could be heard all over the Reichstag as he thundered at Falkenhayn and other generals. "Nein, nein, nein! I want the Schaben purged from the Earth by February! Nothing less will suffice!" "Sir, the creatures are proving to be most vicious, relentless, and resistant." said Falkenhayn stiffly. "Every time we introduce a weapon, they adapt. I really think we should consider a ceasefire or temporary alliance with the British..." "Pah! Let them beg first; what will the people think if I have to crawl on my knees to King George? In fact, tell the Austrian-Hungarians that we need men on the Somme--tell them that if we fail, the Schaben will go straight for them! Exaggerate them, if you must!" "Exaggeration won't be necessary." muttered Falkenhayn grimly. "In any case," continued the Kaiser in more reflective tones, "perhaps we are simply not applying enough firepower. Maybe greater concentration of artillery..." "Mein Kaiser!" An aide burst into the room.
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"I have excellent news!" The Kaiser beamed. "Well? What is it?" "It is the Russians. A message straight from the Tsar. They want to open peace talks."
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BlackWave
13th March 1915, near Ufa, Imperial Russia
Mustafa Kemal Pasha glanced around the sombre Slavic faces around him with not much confidence within himself either--he glanced at the present token Austro-Hungarian and German officers, who rarely spoke in such meetings, understandably enough. The map on the table in front of them had not shifted massively as far as the various markers and arrows placed on it were concerned. He had proposed suggestions that could've changed this. Most of them fell on deaf ears. As a result, he had taken to mostly being at the main Ottoman camp behind the lines, co-ordinating matters with his own generals who'd actually listen. But then, he could imagine how it felt for proud men like these to be forced to work with someone they had previously been working to destroy. "Gentlemen." General Kornilov spoke up, his voice hoarse and his face clearly betraying his lack of sleep. "I regret to announce that we are facing a problem we neglected to anticipate...there are rumors of growing discontent among the ranks. I am told that an advance column sent to test the level of the infestation beyond the foothills flat-out mutinied and is heading back...given the issues of supply simple execution may be a waste of ammunition and bodies. I ask for advice." "Shoot them all." Lieutenant-General Kvetsinsky, as Pasha remembered, spoke up. "We have no room to tolerate such dissidence in the ranks. Remind the soldiers what they are fighting for and who they are fighting against. Our current issues are no reason to suspend standard policy." "I disagree." General Plehve--a German general of the Tsar's army, amazing as it sounded, and as far as Pasha could tell had functioned at easing in the German staff
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"Get down!" As the things got into pouncing positions, Willis found his ears ringing in pain as a thunderous shot rang out, before the creatures were sent flying in a geyser of mud and smoke. The main gun of the armored box had swivelled around, delivering a shell into their midst. Picking up his rifle, Willis looked down along the scope towards some of their limp bodies nearby, trying to steady it despite his beating heart, and fired off as one of them began to get back up, somehow. Satisfied, he inhaled deeply as they carried on, leaving the bodies of their fallen behind in the mud. Perhaps they were the lucky ones after all, he thought grimly, as they approached the destination ahead. At least they weren't the men those monsters had once been. ** Dispatch to Brigade-Major Bernard Montgomery: TOP SECRET REPORT TO BRUGES IMMEDIATELY CONFIRM PRESENCE OF ONE ADRIAN DE WIART REQUIRED FOR MISSION OF HIGH PRIORITY ELIMINATION OF SUPER-ROACH 'SNEAKY WILLY' DISPOSE OF THIS MESSAGE AFTER READING THIS CANNOT BE COUNTERMANDED. -FIELD MARSHAL JOHN FRENCH ** Saigon, Cochinchina Finally, civilization. Not just some tents and half-starved townsfolk on a small island, but actual, honest-to-god civilization. Tea, newspapers, infrastructure, all that. Deckard could still feel pain in his shoulder from the wound Big Eddie had given him as he stepped down the gangway into the bustling landscape of Saigon port--beyond the coolies and Frenchmen swarming around containers and boxes he could see the mixture of European architecture, curved pagodas and housing crammed together. Soldiers were patrolling the waterfront down below, both French and colonial auxiliary by the looks of it, and were directing the passengers down towards large pens among the containers and cranes. He wondered briefly if the Roaches had managed to get in any of those damned little beetles in with the refugees...then he turned his mind to just finding a comfortable bed, maybe even a local girl, and preferably some strong whisky. "Please move to the designated assembly area." one of the French soldiers was saying, the words carefully enunciated as if he had just memorized the sounds without the meaning. "Sorry, mate, what's all this about?" Deckard put on a weary smile as he approached the man.
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"You are to be checked for...disease." The man replied with a heavy accent. "That is, ah, what I was told." "Diseases?" Deckard looked mortified. "Do I look bloody diseased to you? Wanna check my arse for warts? How about it?" "That's the man who killed Big Eddie!" Someone behind him called. "Show him some respect!" "What?" The soldier merely looked confused. "Here, I'll show you..." Deckard turned as a couple of men came down the gangway with a large crate, placing it before the soldier and pulling open the lid to reveal the decapitated head of Big Eddie crammed inside, smelling vile. He grinned as the soldier stared at the thing in shock, mouth agape. That had certainly done the trick alright. "Fichtre!" he spat. "What...what is that?" "That, my friend, is an Roach, and a proper 'un too." Deckard smiled. "How abouts you take me to whoever's in charge, so I can show up what we just ran from?" The soldier looked confused for a few moments, before clearing his throat. "Ah...follow me, s'il vous plait." Deckard went after the man as he took him into the streets, moving past throngs of people in coolie hats showing incomprehensibly and selling stalls of things he barely even recognized. As someone who had spent most of his life in the Outback, eating the meagre potatoes and bread that would come in from the towns, looking out into the redcolored expanse...this exotic little place seemed almost overwhelming in it's taste and smell. He spotted some ladies in alleyways and doorways as they passed through some tighter streets that looked inviting...he'd always considered himself someone open to new tastes. "Over there..." Finally, he was being brought towards a large, grand building in front of a grassy square built as fine as anything he'd seen on a postcard for Paris. He noticed the barbed wire spread out on some of the nearby green, and even the soldiers patrolling on the roof...he guessed that pictures of what had happened to Sydney and Melborune must've really made their mark to whoever was in charge here. At least they seemed to have prepared somewhat... "You see him." The soldier pointed near the entrance, where a short-looking mustached man in glasses was addressing a small number of caucasian-looking people. Walking closer, Deckard could detect an Irish accent in his voice--this was interesting. "Now who might you be?" The man turned towards him as he walked onto the steps of the grand hall. "Allow me to introduce myself--I am Hugh Mahon, Minister for External Affairs in the Australian parliament...for what it's worth. I have taken it as my duty to
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Soldiers looked upwards as a trio of biplanes buzzed overhead heading southward--they had sent them out to observe the state of the city, flying at the highest altitude to avoid being intercepted by Hornets. Quincy had heard of the navy's recent attempt to try and simply quash the bastards with bombardment, but he guessed they were like ants...you had to get down to the roots of the nest to properly clear them out. And the closer they got, the harder it'd get--after all, if the things they were going to encounter were once people who had lived in the city, then the Roaches had had plenty of time to shape them into all sorts of horrors... "I hear the city's in an even worse state than it was in that earthquake." he heard some men nearby say--the way rations were going most men were far from the muscular ideal the posters and pamphlets were promoting. "Wonder if the navy's gonna try for another go." "Damn well better. It's probably gonna make Sacramento look like fucking Coney Island..." Quincy looked up as the artillery flashes ahead ceased. Even though fresh supplies were coming in, they simply couldn't afford the massed field gun support like the European armies could. He wondered briefly about the men the country had been sending off there...he knew that they had to appease the Europeans somehow for technology and whatnot, but he couldn't help but wonder if the numbers being sent there would not make a difference here. Still, now that the monsters were probably going to start to emerge from their holes now, they had to keep on their guard... "Stay sharp, boys..." A nearby officer came by on a horse, alongside the rumbling vehicles. "There could be critters anywhere..." He glanced out of the corner of his eye as they passed a house by the path, partially destroyed and still sporting dried blood on the walls. Memories of hearing about the great exodus out of the San Francisco area, which now seemed like an eternity ago, came back...he wondered just how many had made it out, and just how many hadn't been corrupted by these filthy fucking creatures. "They can pop up anywhere, right?" A panicked voice nearby said. Quincy turned his head. A young soldier nearby--judging by the cleanliness of his skin and uniform, a new recruit just arrived by the looks of it. "Some of them can." Quincy replied. "But then you just make sure to shoot 'em in the head, okay?" Easier said then done, if the poor guy was going to brown his pants first. "Are we going to get those new guns that you can just hold down the trigger with?" The young recruit continued. "Wonder what they're going to call 'em?" Quincy wasn't going to blame him for babbling. Kept the nerves down a bit, he supposed. "They only just started mass-producin' 'em." he said. "Thank the lord they came up with them so damn quick. Guess hearing about these monsters motivated the designers not to slouch around..." Just as he finished speaking, something erupted out of the soil behind the young man,
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"Soldiers needed for Manchuria! Defeat the devil-insect menace! Support our comrades there!" Near the First Provincial School of Hunan, Mao Zedong sat in thought under the awning of the entrance of a small teahouse, as people shouted and bawled under placards and signs. Fresh news was coming in from the north of the country. Rumor was it that the armies there were getting desperate to contain these 'devil-insects' bringing the Great Powers of Europe to their knees and were now spreading in from Korea. Some people were now even actively encouraging collaboration with the Japanese 'supporters of the East Asian struggle'--he imagined mingling with island dwarves was a better prospect than being consumed alive by some drooling monster. What a thought...it felt like he had stepped into some European fantastical novel. "You!" He turned as some students bearing recruitment signs pointed at him. He knew some of their faces from the library and cafeteria... "You were in the revolutionary army three years ago, were you not?" "Er, yes..." How did they know? "Then it is your duty to defend the land! Go up to Manchuria, or shame be upon you!" Mao could only respond with a nod. He found himself quite reluctant to go up against monsters that could shape-shift like something out of a classical novel from the time of the dynasties...down here in Hunan, so far away from where it was all taking place, it all felt safely distant. "People still need to learn, monsters or no monsters." he breathed, just as they got out of earshot. At least, he thought, this crisis was giving China some unity. Even the KMT was willing to work with communists and Japanese to get rid of these creatures...which surely meant they were nothing that could be trifled with. Hopefully, the country would come out of this as one, unless victory taxed it to the point of breaking. ** 14th March 1915, Batavia, Duch East Indies Wasn't but a few months ago that he had been hoping to merely get some interviews up in the Mediterranean, and to give some people a good look of how their brave boys were giving Johnny Turk what for. Now, the Turks were suddenly shaking hands with them, the boys were heading back home but not in the name of peace, and the whole bloody world had gone upside-down once these Roaches had arrived. But, at the very least, it made for newspapers a damn sight more interesting then they once were. Keith Arthur Murdoch of the Australian Journalist's Association, surrounded by telegrams and wrinkled sheets, moved his fingers across the typewriter in front of him within this small office that nonetheless gave him a good view of the docks running along the coast of the Java Sea. It had seemed like an eternity ago when, at his office in Sydney, his writers and editors went into panic and frenzy as telegrams and reports came in of monstrous creatures running amok not only in the battlefields of Europe, but right here on the Australian continent as well. Everything had to be done to compress the maximum amount of information onto the morning sheets.
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And then news of the fall of Melbourne came in, and all thoughts of getting papers out on the stands in time vanished. The entire venue seemed to fall to pieces as writers and journalists decided to simply get as far away as possible from the impending swarm of monstrous insects by any means. Murdoch had been one of the latest to go before news that the creatures were bearing down on Sydney came in, but at that time his superiors had managed to book passage to here in the East Indies, effectively relocating the whole operation here. Along with many other refugees from Victoria and New South Wales, Murdoch had travelled up here crammed in with people panicked and tramautized out of their minds. He hadn't actually seen any of the Roaches, but looking even at murky pictures and sketches, he was thankful for this. Now, his chiefs had used what little change they had managed to secure from the banks-those that weren't looted in the evacuations--to get them this little building by the Batavian waterfront. The Dutch had set aside certain areas for Australian refugees, but more had gone further up to Indochina he knew, with the French effectively offering entry to anyone from the stricken continent. The sluggish response from London had left many people bitter and offended, but Murdoch knew that with all the confusion no doubt reigning up in Europe and telegram services thrown into disarray, he wasn't surprised. God knows, with those things rampaging in France, Parliament already had enough on their plate. And now, with not much of an audience left, the AJA had been tasked with relaying news up to Europe and with providing an official service for the skeleton government still active in Darwin, as well as for the refugees here and in Saigon. Less news and more words of encouragement that would seem empty to many. But, it at least was a job, and it gave him comfortable surroundings that many others were lacking. Seeing the poor souls crammed into the ship that had taken him here...seeing once well-off gentlemen reduced to tattered, unshaven beggars mingling with the coolies by the waterfront...it had certainly given him a whole new perspective. Right now, the main topic around the offices was that of the new effort being organized by the French and Dutch to launch a direct offensive straight for what was presumed to be the main hive of the Roaches in Australia, right in the heart of the continent. Take that out, the logic apparently was, and the rest could be taken care of at leisure. On paper it seemed sensible enough to Murdoch. If these things were anything like the insects they all knew, then surely without their queen or nest they would have nothing to come back to, nothing to replenish themselves. At the very least, it would be a desperately-needed morale boost. "Keith!" he heard someone call from outside his door. "Howzat coming on?" "Should be within the hour." he sighed, his tired fingers moving across the typewriter again. He paused to swat a mosquito buzzing by his ear. Enough trouble with the insects of this world, he thought bitterly, the ones that had come down from the sky. Leaning back, he scanned through what he had written of the article. These days, any man who didn't know of the Roaches would swear he had picked up some periodical instead of a newspaper. Talk of destroying hives and queens...it almost made him want to laugh. Of course, there was no longer any purpose for objective reporting. If people were told things starkly, there wouldn't be any hope. Some exaggeration and white lies were necessary, if only to keep people's minds in check. "Tea?"
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"Rockets away!" Some of the other aircraft shot off the basic rockets hanging between their wings in the direction of the creatures now turning towards them--simple projectiles filled with phosphorous timed to detonate, hopefully taking some of the things. As predicted, the flying monsters peeled away as the rockets detonated, causing momentary bright flares that hung in the sky. "Can you see them, Henri?" Jacquet shouted over the roaring of the wind and engine. "Closer!" He shouted. He hated that. Up close, those things could shred an aircraft with their talons, or rip a pilot from his cockpit. Nevertheless, he gently banked the biplane towards them, glancing to the side to make sure there weren't any more of the creatures lurking in the clouds to surprise them, as he heard from tramautized pilots that they were not unknown to do... Machineguns then clattered as the furthermost biplanes began to make contact, swooping by the things and then peeling upwards to try and avoid them. But the flying demons seemed to follow their pattern with the greatest of ease--it was moments before the first casualty was sustained, as one of them set on an unfortunate Sopwith and tore it to shreds. Jacquet could make out that some of these things were larger than the ones he had fought before...thicker-looking carapaces...but the rule was the same: go for the heads. "Down!" He didn't have to be reminded as he pulled the aircraft down, narrowly missing one of the creatures as it went straight for them at near blinding speed. Henri shouted obscenities as he opened fire with the machinegun--Jacquet couldn't tell if he had got it, but with the armor on these things, he wasn't sure they'd be as easy to down. "Did you get it?" "I don't know!" "Don't shoot unless you can see the heads!" "Easier said than done, goddamit!" Around him, aircraft were twisting and turning to avoid the slashing claws and razor-like mandibles of the buzzing devils, as more phosphorous flares lit up among the chaos of this aerial battle. Heart pumping, Jacquet took the aircraft around as Henri finally got a good shot at one of the things before it could set on another Sopwith, delivering a burst of explosive rounds straight to the eye. He watched in satisfaction as it's wings fell limp before it spiralled down to the wastes below. "Three behind us!" Henri shouted in panic. Glancing for a moment over his shoulder, Jacquet could indeed see a trio of the creatures buzzing down towards them, claws outstretched. Only one thing for it. Forcefully pushing on the throttle, he brought the aircraft into a sharp dive, heading down towards the embattled trenches below. As wind rushed in his face, he could only hope that he wouldn't pass out either from pressure or from sheer panic as the rows of men became visible below. He could make out creatures emerging from the earth in
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Emerging from the fog ahead came several monstrous shapes--those giant beetles, the ones sporting artillery guns they somehow fixed to their bodies. These ones seemed even larger than the descriptions said, covered in thick thorny carapaces and sporting various guns covered in such organic mass that they now looked like extensions of their own body...scuttling around them were crustacean-like things that he recognized as beasts that spat acid. Hakan paused as the huge building-sized monsters shook the ground under their footsteps as they approached the trench, walking through the smoke. Then, he raised his rifle and fired as more of the warrior things burst out from the ground in front of the trench, ripping through protective barbed wire. He heard chemicals were pumped into the soil underneath the trenches to stop the things from burrowing straight into them, but that seemed of little comfort now... The huge thorny beetle-beasts fired off their weapons, delivering organic shells that thudded into the trenches or gun batteries. Melting acid, yellow beetles, or poisonous strands were delivered straight into the midst of the men as machinegun rounds bounced off their carapaces. Shells and mortars came in on them, seemingly not even distracting them. Gunfire came from behind Hakan as some of the men turned around. He knew there was nowhere to run. The man next to him was hit with a spine to the face, his flesh swelling up before bursting, splattering him with blood. The urge to vomit surged through him, but he ignored it, firing off his rifle again into the face of an insect charging straight for him. More artillery came in onto the beetles, again serving only to prove that they seemed invulnerable. They were not even like the worst of the descriptions he had heard...where they some developed breed? It did not matter. He just had to stand his ground. Roaring, the beetles paused as mortars came down targeted for their guns, blowing some of them off or damaging them beyond repair. This gave Hakan a burst of hope, and he tightened the grip on his rifle as more shells came down, pummelling against their armored skins. As soon as they stopped, however, the beasts began to move forward with surprising swiftness. More munitions came down, splattering them with phosphorous or bursting gas into their hideous faces...again, it gave them little pause. The acid-spitters had by now reached some distant part of the trenches, spearing men on their appendages as flamethrowers and bayonets were thrust at them in desperate attempts. "Watch out!" A massive shell came screaming in, hitting one of the creatures straight on the head--a lucky shot! He cheered aloud as it's head was split open by the massive impact and the searing explosion, forcing the rest to burrow into the ground was they were engulfed in smoke. The blast blew dust in over the trenches, but Hakan still felt his spirit rise--they could survive this. They surely could! "What was that? It did not come in from our side..." one of the soldiers uttered. "It had to be a railroad gun." another said. "I heard from the Germans...the French are deploying ones firing seven-ton shells, I think. Look what it did to them!" "I heard it was six tons..." "It doesn't matter, they're just really big!"
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"...and allowing them to achieve such strength there would be catastrophic for the Chinese people and greatly problematic for the Japanese Empire. However, it is a fact that our army possesses superior equipment and soldiers, therefore we are in a better position to establish cordons for the purpose of containing the spread of these monsters." "And once they are eradicated?" Zuolin spoke up. "Will you retract you forces? Or will you retain them for the purposes of 'peacekeeping'?" "That decision will be dictated by circumstance." Shigenobu said simply. "Should the spread of the devil-insects become more virulent than anticipated, lawlessness and social order might occur, and it of course will be our responsibility to prevent anarchy." "That is a noble gesture." Shikai smiled. "But let me remind you, without the men we can provide, I do not think even your numbers will be sufficient for such containment. And...please tell me, has the infestation in Korea been quelled?" "Isolated outbreaks have been occurring over the last few weeks, but things have generally been contained there." Shigenobu said. "With some difficulty." "Some difficulty? Might you elaborate?" "We...we had to fumigate some areas with force we rather would have not used." Shikai stared coldly into his face for a few moments. "And you would be willing to inflict the same force on Chinese lands?" "Only should matters require such drastic action." Reclining, Shikai flicked through some more papers. "The only thing that has prevented outbursts of anti-Japanese sentiment in this country is the fear of these Roaches, as I think they are called. Now, while I have willingly made compromise with your people to avoid the same destruction in Europe and Australia, I must now request that my military leadership be permitted greater input within your command circles in Manchuria." "Our command circles are functioning fine without intrusion." "I am told otherwise. Our troops are becoming frustrated, and if they do not find Roaches to shoot then they might turn to you. I have already received reports of bombings on checkpoints..." "That may be the work of the devil-insects. We know they can assume human form. And we know from Europe that they can blend in with our kind almost perfectly." "Perhaps. That is why I have approved of your checkpoints, even if my advisors would much rather I did not. But I do not wish to be known as the man who threw himself at the feet of the island imperialists. I will take compromise only so far, monsters or no monsters. You should tell your Emperor, and your generals, that. My nation may be poor, but it is still large, and when we can bring it's strength to bear I am confident that we need not worry about these creatures for longer..."
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BlackWave
16th March 1915, near Loos, Northern France "Sergeant! Cover the side! Rest of you, keep moving!"
Colonel Lejeune cursed the stifling gas mask for limiting his vision as he rushed along the muddy planks of this trench, as mortars and field gun shells came raining down on both sides. Ahead, flares ignited against the orange-lit sky, signifying more positions being assaulted by Roaches. Through the corners of his eyepieces, Lejuene could make out the odd serrated limb or screeching mandible-filled face lurching out from billowing smoke and dust to the sides of the trench, as he looked out for any sort of shelter. He had been expecting this to be merely a short walk to reinforce a French position, when Roaches appeared out of nowhere and shells began raining down before he knew it. He remembered stories of trench warfare in the Civil War, and thought how naive it was to assume that the fact that Americans had fought in such things before would help them here. "Colonel! Watch out!" He ducked as a limb speared out of the smoke, narrowly missing his head, as Marines and US army solders shot back in panic. Then, through the dust and grime over his eyepieces, he spotted a dugout entrance in the side of the trench--as the characteristic vapor of some poison gas began to engulf the ground behind him, he dived towards it, opening the door and letting himself in. "Get in!" he shouted. "Won't be room, colonel, we'll find one further on..." Good luck, he thought gravely, as he closed the heavy door made of old steel plating and turned around, stepping through a narrow vestibule into a small chamber crowded in by several men of various uniforms. He recognized two Tommies, a Frenchman, two whom he presumed were Italians, and a negro in a uniform so dirtied he couldn't quite tell if he was a Buffalo soldier separated from his group or an African from one of the European colonies. Regardless, he slumped down against the plank-supported wall of dirt, and with an awkward smile reached into his pocket and offered the nearest soldier one of his last cigarettes. "So, you're one of them Yankees, eh?" one of the Tommies grunted. "Some of the lads thought that the whole thing would be over when you showed up." "Well, we got our own Roach problem back home." Lejeune chuckled. "Yeah, well by all accounts it ain't nowhere near as bad as the one we got. Can't imagine anything that can be, then again." "Nique ta mere." The Frenchman nodded, with a smile. "We've been here for days." The Tommy continued. "Livin' off dirt and rats. Don't suppose you've got a can of beans on ya at least?" "Sorry, pal." Lejeune shrugged. Well, he did have a bar of chocolate, but he was intending to save that for a suitable occasion.
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"Alright then..." The corporal said, visibly trying not to gag. "It's alright, I'll show you..." With that, he dug the blade in deeper, and finally produced a lump of purple-colored flesh, quivering on the end of the bayonet. "Go on, boy, take a bite." The sergeant laughed. "Imagine it's a nice toffee apple instead!" Closing his eyes, the corporal leaned in and took a bite, chewing it for a few moments. "Well, it tashtes...tashtes like..." He suddenly went bright red before gagging, spitting out the flesh before suddenly throwing up. "Tashtes like shit, ish what it ish!" The dugout burst into riotous laughter. Probably the first time anyone was laughing on this front for weeks, thought Lejeune, as he joined in. "Shame we don't have a daguerreotype machine." The sergeant guffawed. "We could all say we killed a Roach!" "Well, sarge..." The corporal wiped his mouth. "You win. Now, what are we supposed to eat?" "Roaches ain't the only bugs out here." The sergeant said, taking off his helmet and running his hand through his hair. Several white specks fell off into the helmet on his lap. "Who's up for some lice, lads?" ** Near Zaanstad, the Netherlands The marshes and fog were starting to thin out as Timmerman marched along with the Scandinavians and Danes trudging their way through the mud and along what semblance of roads remained, with the British Marines sticking to the back in their own little party. After leaving Alkmaar, they had met with more reinforcements that had arrived on the coast, mostly cavalry units and horse-drawn artillery. Right now, the objective was to march to Zaanstad, secure that town, and from there, head to Amsterdam, and, if all went to plan, the country could be considered liberated. Timmerman knew how naive that thought was, but newspaper headlines of Amsterdam back in it's rightful hands would surely boost the morale of the poor men fighting in France and Belgium. Fear and weariness hung on the men around him--the Roaches hadn't yet attacked in the great numbers they had during their initial invasion of the country. He imagined they had gone back down south, after laying waste to most of the lands here. But straggler remained, and it was their fear of what lurked in that fog, in the swampy pools of water, that lingered among these soldiers. Timmerman didn't know how many of them were aware of the mantis-like invisible Roach assassins, but he didn't think they should be told. "Hey!"
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As the morning sunlight crept over the calm waters of Lake Geneva, preparations were being discreetly made at a small lakefront chateau. Trucks of British and German soldiers were already turning up in the courtyard, both groups begrudgingly saluting each other. No flags were being raised, and citizens were discouraged from approaching. Later that evening, few people knew, one of the most important conferences of recent times would take place. The papers, if any of them were to find out, were forbidden from reporting on it. A car showed up, letting out Giuseppe Motta, President of the Swiss Confederation. As the neutral party, it was his duty to properly manage all functions and proceedings of this conference. That much the British, French, and Germans had decided to agree on for now. Visibly stressed, he was ushered inside, as guards made sure there was nobody watching. On a small boat on the lake, a figure watched the chateau from afar. There were lots of early morning fisherman out on the waters; nobody would notice one little boat. Lowering his binoculars, Vladimir Lenin smiled, reminding himself to congratulate his source. The bastards were finally seeing sense. But, he had other affairs to focus on for now... ** South-Western Queensland, Australia The winds seemed surprisingly calm as a lone Deperdussin biplane buzzed over the parched red dunes of the Simpson Desert, with the shape of the Lake Machattie faintly visible on the horizon behind it. Looking behind the aircraft was the seemingly infinitelystreching expanse of the Outback, under clear blue skies--and ahead of it were lands shadowed in darkness under black purple-lined clouds that overcast the sky ahead. It almost seemed as if the clattering little biplane was about to enter into hell itself. Within the cockpit, Lieutenant Terrace White didn't try to deny to himself that he wasn't daunted by the apocalyptic sight ahead. But he was a pilot of the Australian Flying Corps--perhaps one of the last few, he reckoned. Most of the rest had been shipped to Europe, against the Turks or into German New Guinea when the nation had realized the threat assailing it, leaving what little pilots and aircraft remained to essentially be used as message couriers or scouts. And given the swarms of flying terrors these Roaches could produce, even with tasks as those most pilots had been extremely reluctant. Some had simply taken off in their planes and headed off to the East Indies or to the few remaining 'safe' corners of the country, such as Perth. They didn't care that they were deserting--and White couldn't blame them. He, however, had been among those who had decided to carry on their duty to the end. From the ragtag base his group had set up in the north of Queensland, they had relayed news to various holdouts of people too scared to consider leaving where they were, or telegrams from loved ones to loved ones. News was now coming in that reinforcements from abroad had arrived in the new capital of Darwin, and were calling on everyone able to join them in a grand offensive right towards the supposed nest of the Roaches right in the middle of the country. So, to this end, his superiors had asked for volunteers on a scout mission into the depths of the lands considered overtaken with Roaches, to see if there was any chance of giving the offensive leaders some expectation of what they would face. His aircraft was fitted
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"A plant?" "Aye. One capable of self-mobility and delivering a...well, it's what you come to expect from Roachy, but the toxins it delivers via the barbs is more potent than anything we've encountered. Truth be told, though, it's not really something we can reliably classify-that's what you get when you're dealing with something not of this Earth, I s'pose." "Very interesting." Lafeete murmured. "I will have to view your notes later. Any indications of relations with other Grex strains?" "Reports from the front indicate Bombardiers can deliver it via shells they secrete. We're not sure if they're spawned from those big things, but it's a theory we're working on." "Anything we can pursue will be worthwhile." Lafeete turned around. He hadn't eaten much all day, and the smell of boiled potatoes was making his stomach rumble. "I trust our friends in Berlin and Vienna have been making progress too--assuming our benevolent leaders don't make a mess of it, perhaps we'll have a new set of data to work from..." ** Near Morges, Switzerland The setting sun cast streaks of orange over the waters of Lake Geneva as convoys of luxury automobiles pulled into an anonymous-looking chateau by the lakefront. Gendarmeries and soldiers had set up checkpoints on roads leading up to it, politely informing anyone who approached them that the area was strictly out of bounds for reasons not to be disclosed to them. Outside the entrance to the chateau, soldiers of differing uniforms stepped out to face each other, and saluted with some sense of reluctance. Years of propaganda and hateful fear had not been washed away entirely. Inside the main hall of the luxurious home, hubbub filled the air as men in suits and uniforms took their places. Prime Minister Asquith, Lord Kitchener, and key members of his cabinet. President Raymond Poincar, Ferdinand Foch, and other members of the French general staff and political leadership. Across the table, Erich von Falkenhayn, Ludendorff, von Hindenberg, and others, with a curious lack of anyone not in a military uniform among them. Also present was a token presence from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, in the form of minister Burin and some others, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "Gentlemen." President Motta spoke up once all were settled, his voice wavering. Translators conveyed his words as he looked around the table. "We come here because a threat greater than all of us requires mutual co-operation to guarantee the future of European civilization. It is not a question of whether co-operation is necessary, but how we should co-operate. This is a question that will now be left to you, and without further ado, I declare these proceedings begun." "The matters that face us are simple." Falkenhayn spoke up in German, as translators muttered in English and French. "It is strongly felt in the current German leadership that a unification of European military command is necessary. The General Staff of the Entente, as we understand it, is required to combine itself with our own. This may not be a comfortable process, but to quash the horrors plaguing our sacred lands, it is a necessary one."
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Hinky-dinky parlez-vous. From gay Paree we heard guns roar, Parlez-vous, From gay Paree we heard guns roar, Parlez-vous, From gay Paree we heard guns roar, But all we heard was "Je t'adore..." "Shut it!" de Wiart suddenly snapped. "Something's happening!" Shuffling up to the firing slit, Montgomery nervously peered out. One by one, the guns were starting to stop firing as the blasted soil a hundred yards in front of them began to shift--then erupted outwards in a tremendous geyser of burnt earth. He felt his stomach sink as three--no, four--massive Bombardiers crawled out from the earth, chittering Decabites accompanying them, and seemingly going for the guns. "Bloody hell!" one of the soldiers exclaimed. "Them gun-beetles, and Jabberwocks too! I thought we poisoned that soil so they couldn't dig!" "Evidently the poison's worn off." Montgomery said through gritted teeth. These Bombardiers weren't standard ones--even larger than the norm, with thorny, thicker carapaced armor. Two of them sported long, sharp tusks by the side of their heads, while the other two had writhing serrated tendrils extending out from between their giant clicking mandibles. Montgomery could only feel thankful that he was a good distance away, and he hoped that those poor gunners could point their pieces down in time. "Fucking weevils don't play fair." de Wiart muttered, as he placed the gun on the bottom of the slit and took aim. "What? You can't expect to--" "Shut up." For a moment de Wiart paused, before squeezing down on the trigger. The gun let off a loud bang that resounded around in the inside of the bunker as it spat out a heavycaliber explosive bullet that shot over a hundred meters in less than a second, striking one of the Decabites right in the eye and burrowing into its head before detonating, blasting out the creature's skull in a burst of purple fluid. "Fuckin' hell!" one of the men exclaimed. "How'd you manage that, sir?" "It's called 'having balls', boy." Thankfully, the rest of the Roaches didn't seemed too distracted by them as they set on the artillery. Moments later, guns placed on rooftops in Bruges and on casements around the city opened fire as the line gunners desperately tried to re-orientate their weapons. Shells struck against the hardened carapace of the Bull Bombardiers, only slowing them down--defensive machineguns and mortars spat towards the Decabites as they charged forward. Although sheer concentration managed to put down some of the acid-spitting horrors, some nevertheless managed to pounce onto some of the guns and rip them apart in blurred frenzies of claws and teeth, or melt them into sludge through acid spit. Flares detonated above the line as the Bombardiers continued inexorably forward, simply ignoring the shells exploding against them.
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BlackWave
18th March 1915, near Andenne, Belgium
Ankle-deep in muddy water, Rommel slowly trudged his way up the trench alongside grime-covered soldiers in German and Austro-Hungarian uniforms, the straps of his gas mask now digging into his skin. Dispatches he had received indicated that talks between the General Staff and Entente leadership were underway and continuing--and they had also given him and his command instructions to push towards the nearest Entente lines, Schaben be damned. Rommel found it strange to think now that merely months ago they had been signing about God cursing the English and French, and now they were to get into bed with them, but he felt no animosity over this. From the murmurings he had heard, though, not all of the men felt the same way. They stopped as a flammenwerferapparaten-mounted armored car clattered over the trench ahead, with a trio of Landkreuzers following--Austria-Hungary was also contributing to the production of such metallic beasts, Rommel had heard, but he didn't imagine that took that much stress off the Rhineland industry constantly churning them out. He wondered how it was to drive one of these sluggish things, stuck inside their cramped bellies, with only enough training to drive them and operate the guns. Still, he thought, they were undeniably inspiring sights. He stopped in surprise as the armored car let off a burst of fire from its flamethrower, and stepped along with other men onto the step in front of the trench revetment to see. In front of the trench were several large artillery craters, partially flooded, positively writhing with those barbed worm things he had heard about--moments later, the flames lashed onto them, setting them alight. As the vehicles rumbled forward, wheels and tracks digging into the wet mud, Rommel hurriedly continued, not wanting to be any closer to those things. As the trench began to thin, he could make out a Luftkreuzer ducking out of the darkened clouds in the distance ahead, disgorging phosphorous bombs onto the No Man's Land below that detonated with bright discharges, while its light guns fired away at something unseen. It was already common knowledge among the men that the pilots and aerial fighters of Die Fliegertruppen had already gladly accepted unofficial cooperation with their counterparts in the Entente before--some angrily muttered about them being traitors, even now. All those posters and pamphlets and books decrying the Tommies and the Frenchies--all backfiring now, Rommel thought grimly. "Mein herr." One lieutenant turned to him as the column paused to rest. The Schaben
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"Evening to you too, boy." He raised his hat as he approached the train depot, hearing the sound of an incoming locomotive. Supplies were being desperately rushed here from the rest of the country--he suspected that the generals didn't want to prolong this any more, what with all the word of growing national dissent. He wasn't sure if this was folly or not, but with matters in Europe and Asia not looking good, seeking to end this campaign as soon as could be done was not unreasonable. "Colonel Roosevelt!" He looked up. It felt somewhat strange, to be referred to by his old Rough Riders rank again. Ahead, an officer was calling from the train yard, as the heavy cargo wagons of the new arrival were unloaded. "We have a pleasant surprise..." Stuttering into motion down ramps from the wagons came a row of metal box-like contraptions with tracks, marked with Army insignias. Men began to crowd around the yard as Roosevelt watched in bemusement as the clattering machines began to slowly move upwards towards the street. "I apologize for the lack of forewarning, sir, but to minimize risk of sabotage we kept this as secret as we could." The officer said. "A full squadron of FT Land Dreadnoughts for the Army, courtesy of the French--the least they could do, I think. The crews were rushed through training, but they're sure as hell eager." "I'll wager." Roosevelt chuckled boisterously. "Bring them down to the shore, there should be a barge rugged enough to carry the things." He turned around as the machines began their crawl towards the shoreline, followed by a line of both awed and intrigued soldiers. At least they were keeping the boys together-a new regulation had been passed saying that soldiers had to stick together in groups of at least three, especially in a time of delicate preparation as this. What would he have given to have devices like that back in Cuba...it spoke volumes of the ingenuity of European engineering to have them mass-produced on such short notice. No doubt Henry Ford was red with envy. "Better get some rest, sir." one of his lieutenants to his side spoke up. "No doubt you'll need it all for tomorrow." "Hold on." Roosevelt murmured. "I reckon the boys need some encouragement, before we throw them into the hornet's nest." Entering the staging area by the shore, he looked around at the ragged young men by tents or around fires, some of them exchanging what cigarettes or chocolate bars they had. Some were busy scribbling letters, possibly final ones, while others crowded around phonographs that warbled music out into the evening air. Stepping onto a stack of crates, Roosevelt find that he didn't even have to call for attention--heads already swivelled towards him as young eyes looked up with pride. "Boys," he began, letting his voice echo around the camp. "Tomorrow at the crack of dawn, we dive into the mouth of hell itself. I see that some of you are scared of that prospect, and you can have my word that I am more than acquainted with that very fear. But when we send the last worm-ridden abomination there down to hell itself, when we plant the flag on the Golden Gate itself, let me tell you, our children, our grandchildren, will look on you as some of the finest young lads our nation ever had the pride to give!" Cheers and claps rang out as Roosevelt stepped down, looking out across the waters to
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BlackWave
20th March 1915, San Francisco, United States of America
Midnight had just passed as Quincy found himself crouched in the burnt shell of a building disorientated by the reverberations of impacting naval shells and the constant discharging of rifles all around him. For the last few hours--although it felt more like an eternity--he countless others had pushed forward down the streets towards the city center, trying to overwhelm the creatures through sheer amount of waves. Trying to swarm a swarm--of course, it seemed like foolishness now, but there didn't seem like much other choice. Even with constant naval and artillery bombardment, the amount of blood spilt for every meter seemed too much. But nevertheless, at least progress was
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Near Namur, Belgium Even knowing that he could, Rommel still found it hard to approach Entente lines without fear of being shot at. Nevertheless, he was slowly becoming accustomed to it--and heading down this trench as mortars impacted into poisoned soil nearby, he found himself passing Belgian and French soldiers slumped against muddy planks. He could only wonder what looks they were giving him under those gas masks--he was becoming increasingly grateful for them, as they hid the faces of bodies he found mauled and halfburied in mud every now and again in trenches or in the fields. Just that little bit of anonymity seemed to dull the tragedy of it all, regardless of how right that was. Namur itself was in ruins, as far as he could tell--the towering smokestacks that had been coming from its direction for days seemed to indicate that. However, increasing numbers of French and British aircraft had been seen overhead, and the constant artillery fire suppressing the Roaches seemed to have intensified--he could only imagine that was the result of Entente guns being brought up into German and Austrian-held lands. And yet, the creatures did not seem to have softened the brutality of their strikes any less--when they hit the trenches now, they seemed to do it with greater number and force to make up for the increased resistance. Where they truly toying with them all? It didn't rate thinking about. "Sir!" Rommel stopped as a flare whistled up from the smoke-shrouded No Man's Land ahead-not a German one, it seemed. He could only think of one sort of soldier that would be calling from the middle of fields like that--Landkreuzer crews. "Bring up the first to third squads." he ordered. "The rest are to cover us. I will investigate that flare." "Mein herr," a lieutenant said softly, "it may be a Schabe trap..." "And it may not." Rommel said. "It is nice to think that our ranks and materials are as unlimited as those of the Schaben, but these days, every pair of hands to hold a rifle could make a difference. Now, where the hell are those squads?" It took a few minutes to assemble the squad, while Rommel sent a runner to the nearest field telephone to ask for the mortar fire to shift position. Assuming it was German mortar fire, after all--there seemed to be emerging one disadvantage to the new friendships, and that was not being certain just who was raining shells on the earth in front of you. Nevertheless, the rain of projectiles soon seemed to soften, and with the mud-covered unshaven troops of the selected squads ready, Rommel took in a deep breath and went over the top. Even with the mortars having indeed shifted their fire, making his way across the uneven, shell-blasted mud of the field felt harrowing. Each step he took seemed to come with the reverberations of bombs hitting the mud. In this relatively open space, the gas mask seemed to limit his peripheral vision to a maddening degree--he could barely see the men to his side. Nevertheless, as he neared the source of the flare's trail, he could make out large bulky shapes emerge from the smoke--a trio of French Landkreuzers, light things compared to German and English ones, but easier to manufacture, he supposed. They were surrounded by a small ring of French soldiers, a trio of them manning a machinegun, who turned towards the Germans as they emerged from the fog towards them. Just by their postures Rommel could tell that they were still being wary.
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"I am Captain Rommel of the German army." he called out in French. He knew his accent and pronunciation were terrible, the gas mask not being a help, but hopefully they understood it. "Lieutenant Voclain." one of the Frenchman spoke up. "Our...machines here have broken down. We are soon to fix them, but...the beasts might emerge at any time." Rommel nodded. He had heard from Landkreuzer crews that the machines had a tendency to have mechanical failures rather more than the official messages made out, but given that the things generally spent more time immobile and covering trenches than advancing, it hadn't been an issue too noticeable. With that, he turned to the other men behind him, looking around anxiously. "Mein herr, with all due respect, we cannot stay out here for too long." A man leaned forward, speaking hurriedly under his mask. "If Schaben do not get us, our own guns surely will!" Rommel nodded, before turning around. "We will stay with you for ten minutes. If the machines are not fixed by then, we will have to head back to our trench--and I will suggest you come with us." "Really?" Voclain seemed genuinely surprised. "Yes." "Well...merci." "My pleasure." Giving asylum to Frenchmen in their own lines. Rommel felt the urge to laugh--to think that such a thing would've earned him a bullet through the head but a few months ago. Turning around, he gestured for the men to join the Frenchmen's circle around the bulky armored vehicles, before walking over into the small ditch that had been dug around them to join them. Kneeling down and resting his rifle on a toolbox, he peered into the smoke and fog ahead as the French engineers continued their work, visibly rushing to get it over and done with. Sitting out here in the open, hoping that the Schaben didn't burst out and eat you...Rommel couldn't deny that he had half an urge to relieve himself on the spot. Several minutes passed. The Frenchmen seemed to be finishing up their work. Rommel's own men seemed to getting restless. He himself was feeling the urge to simply get up and go when one of men on the Landkreuzers spoke up. "Okay, I think it's done--we can move!" "Come on to our trench." Rommel turned around. "We are fortified enough to--" "Mein gott!" Adrenaline surged through Rommel as he span around to find the very soil around them writhing as if with maggots. Crawling out from the dirt were hundreds--maybe even thousands--of little yellow Schaben, twitching their mandibles and vicious limbs. In panic, Rommel turned around and clambered onto one of the Landkreuzers as its engine
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He paused as he came among what looked like the torn remains of an officer's uniform and satchel, stopping to catch his breath and rummage through. Digging into the mud, he retrieved a cavalry sabre, which he hung by his belt alongside the blade already there. Looking around, he spotted a steel dart also lying in the dirt--the type dropped from reconnaissance aircraft. Scooping it up, he produced a grenade and with some string in his satchel tied it and the dart together. He already had a plan. Now, enough time had been wasted by his stalling. Gathering himself, he continued to move down the trench, doing his best to ignore the weight of his gear. He finally dropped his ration satchel--he didn't intend to stop for a spot of brunch any time soon. With that load off, he quickened his pace, as the trail of purple blood continued to whittle down. The trench also began to thin out, into open No Man's Land--featureless brown dirt with only a wrecked truck for cover. He began to slow down, peering into the mist ahead for any sign of movement. Perhaps this thing had already escaped him. He considered for a moment giving up, heading away to regather his strength. No. He couldn't let it lick its wounds. It had to be somewhere nearby. He moved out into the open. A risk, but one he had to take. His eyes flicked around, again for any footprint, any drop of blood, anything. Then, he noted by the wrecked truck, something briefly flicker. He turned around, readying his modified flare gun, before a familiar black shape burst out from behind the wreck--the wound on the back had almost healed completely, and the face was heavily scarred--yes, that was Willy alright. The creature roared, a echoing, eerie noise, before it sent the truck wreck flying towards him with a kick powered by muscles more powerful than he could've imagined. He rolled for cover as the mass of metal impacted into the mud nearby--why hadn't it dissolved him like it had other things? In the split-second he had, he decided that it's wounds must've hindered it's mental abilities, before again he took aim, steadying his shaking hands. Was it going to charge him? That would at least make shooting it in the face easier. As if sensing this, the creature stood back, before around it several Roach warriors burst out of the ground. Gathering themselves, they leapt towards him--just enough time for him to holster his gun and draw both swords. Rushing forwards, as Willy span around to move away, he found himself entering an almost trance-like state as the spider-like monsters set on him--spinning and whirling like a dervish, he felt their purple fluids splatter onto him as he ripped forward with both blades. Fuelled by sheer adrenaline, he skewered the next creature right through the face, plunging each sword into a different eye, before racing forward towards Willy. The creature's wings hadn't healed yet--though it seemed they were in the process of doing so--but it could still run fast. Stopping, de Wiart got down on the ground and drew his rifle--just a normal round this time, but he reckoned another shot in that wound would finish that bastard for good. Again, Willy seemed to sense this--spinning around, the creature began to go straight for him, zig-zagging from side to side so fast it was almost a blur. Focusing, de Wiart tried not to let instinct take hold of him, before firing off a shot with recoil that jerked his torso back. Hurtling forward, the round seemed to graze the creature by the head, not even slowing it down. Tossing aside the rifle, de Wiart stepped back and drew his grenade gun--then, the monster leapt forward, impacting into the earth in front of him. Rolling over, de Wiart barely missed a stabbing set of claws, before pointing the gun upwards and firing, sending the magnesium round straight into the creature's chest. Another blinding conflagration erupted on its body--roaring, Willy, barely deterred by the white fire burning on its stomach, rapidly set upon him as, in desperation, he produced
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**
BlackWave
21st March 1915, San Francisco, United States of America "Hold this position! Hold it, you goddamn sons of bitches!"
Madness reigned around him as US Marine Lieutenant Elliot Mason ducked to avoid a screeching, jagged round that pierced through a wall in front of him and impacted against a door frame behind, gouging out a hail of splinters and brick. He cocked the pump-action Remington Model 10 shotgun in his hand, a bayonet tied around the end of the weapon, and blindly fired out through the nearest window, as mortars rained down overhead, shaking dust from the wooden ceiling above. Other Marines also desperately returned fire towards the unseen enemy with their own shotguns, or in the case of some of them, with the new 'California Typewriters' being distributed. Crouching down to insert a fresh magazine, Elliot prayed that he would see this nightmare to the end. The Marines had been meant to serve as the vanguard, rapidly clearing the way for the Army to land...right now, they had got as far as the end of the Golden Gate Park, these damned monsters bleeding them for every street they took. Elliot reckoned that were it not for the covering fire from the Navy, they would've been mauled long ago, but even that was no longer a sure thing--word had it that some battleships had already been forced to pull back as the Roaches somehow moved to sabotage them. Even the artillery firing from behind the southern boundary of the city had been struck. Though progress was being made, this would be no easily won victory. He stood up with the shotgun ready, as he glimpsed movement through the smoke and dust ahead on an rooftop on the opposite street. Most of the monsters they had encountered so far were horrible aberrations of men, twisted and mutilated until they were barely recognizable, or Roaches themselves, most of them sporting massive armor or tusks. Shotguns to their faces barely fazed those spider-like abominations--only concentrated fire would do it. This was no straightforward war like the Philippines, or Cuba. Here, anything could kill you, coming from anywhere. Even the man standing next to you could suddenly erupt claws and jagged teeth, as he had already learned the hard way. "Street looks clear, sir!" one of the Marines looked towards him, as smoke from incendiary mortars wafted inside. Elliot checked his watch--they had to move. Damn nearby suicide, but if they sat in here much longer, either this damn building would collapse from all the bombardment or they'd be swarmed by dozens of monstrosities spawned from hell itself. "We're moving, Marines. Take the point across. Taggert and Marcus, go up front. Come on, you little bastards! Move like you got a purpose!" Moving rapidly in double file, the Marines headed out of the room and down a flight of battered stairs to the ground floor--their loads were light, mostly spare shotgun ammunition. The idea was to allow them to rapidly move forwards, but instead, they had to try and ignore the dry throats and aching stomachs. Elliot sometimes wondered if he'd ever have the opportunity to find some of the planners of this nightmare and punch them--but then, who could've expected that these fucking creatures would put up such a
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"We barely have enough bandages for our wounds." The officer sighed. "Listen...I will be back soon. Frau Schrader here will keep you company." De Wiart faint a faint reverberation shake the rough metal frame of the bed, as small flakes of soil were sprinkled from the ceiling. There didn't seem to be anywhere the Roaches weren't these days--just the way he wanted it. "So then..." he looked over to the confused-looking nurse. "What sort of company's your ideal, eh?" ** San Francisco, United States of America "Keep them away! Keep them Roachy bastards away!" Robert Prescott gritted his teeth as he discharged a shotgun blindly through the LD vision slit before him--above him, the machine's heavy machine gun clattered as gunner Kowalski shouted obscenities. Around them, Marines, infantrymen, and Filipino gooks crowded around the cover of loose bits of masonry and the LD itself, filling the air with the cracking of rifle discharges and the smell of fresh cordite. After just a few days of fighting, they had made it this far, even if the monsters bled them for seemingly every step they took. And now, not only had the LD's engine broken down, it had run out of fuel--turning it into an armored pillbox sitting there by the side of a building. It hardly mounted--the thing had moved through the streets so slowly it may as well have been immobile. Now, with ammunition dwindling, Prescott prayed that his lucky streak would continue as spines impacted into some poor soul just by the side of the vision slit, causing his body to swell gruesomely in a eruption of bodily tumors before exploding, showering the front armor of the LD with gore. He turned his shotgun in the direction from where that abominable round had come from, letting off another shot. Barely able to see anything, barely able to move in this claustrophobic little space...but at least he had some comfort to take from the layers of armor plating surrounding him. "We stand! We fight!" he heard one of the Filipinos shout. The gooks had been almost insanely brave throughout the whole thing--he was feeling a strong sense of sincere respect towards them, to his own surprise. The Buffalos he had also seen on the way had also been bold as bulls...at this point, it seemed everyone was going color-blind in the face of these things. "Oh, you like this? Fucking like this? Well, fuck you! Fuck you, Roachy! Fuck you like this!" he heard Kowalski shout from behind him, as spent shells clattered down to the bottom of the cabin. More spines came raining down on the position--some missed, others struck other poor infantrymen, swelling them up and dousing their comrades with their fluids. Still the men held their position, as mortars and artillery began to rain down into the streets around them, shaking loose masonry from the building husks nearby. "Ah, hell!" A huge, screeching spider-like shape came leaping down from the smoke around them, right in the midst of the gook squad. Several were eviscerated so quickly it barely registered to the eye, but the remainder immediately leapt onto the creature's spiny carapace shouting, trying to dig their bayonets right into the gaps between the chitin. It
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He felt a quick lurch as the cable tensed, almost throwing up what little food there was in his stomach. As he and the first wave rappelled downwards, grenades were thrown down from the gondola down onto the swarming Schaben below, detonating among them and throwing up small geysers of dust and dirt. The gun of the Luftkreuzer opened fire, causing Martz's ears to ring and swinging him on the cable slightly. He felt the heat of the explosion from below as the shell impacted, showering the trench with wet soil and Schabe parts. More sturm und blitz to shock the monsters before they landed. He could hear the panicked shouts of Turkish troops as they descended, over the clattering gunfire and screaming of Schaben. "Gott!" As the ground came up, a roaring, massive abomination burst out from the soil amidst the other creatures writhing out, a beetle-like giant covered in thorny, jagged chitinous armor. A gun was there mounted by the side, covered in arteries and organic filaments. Pointing the weapon upward, the monster roared as the gun discharged, making a screaming sound as opposed to the boom of a conventional artillery gun--Martz felt his cable jerk wildly as he glimpsed something tear into the forward part of the airship. "Okay, go, go, go!" The ground came up rapidly, as he found himself descending into the ground in front of the trench amidst dust and screaming horrors--he unhooked himself from the cable moments before he would've landed, letting him fall a couple of feet onto the mud. Unslinging his shotgun, he immediately opened up into a mandible-filled face in front of him, feeling the power of the American Remington. Purple fluid was splashed onto him as he heard the big monster roar again, followed by another scream--a whipping sound like raining arrows followed, before dozens of flechette-like spines rained down on the trench behind him. A similar number of Turks were impaled by the raining blades, screaming in pain as their bodies then swelled up before exploding in showers of gore-and they held their ground. Brave, crazy bastards. His ears rang with pain again as the Luftkreuzer's gun fired another round, blowing the monster's weapon off. More of the platoon were landing, their cables thrown around as the airship shook with recoil--they fell onto the ground rather than hitting it on their feet, allowing more Schabe to pounce onto them and rip their bodies apart in seconds. However, the banging of shotguns was joining the rattling of the Turk's machineguns as the Schabe were forced to either rush for the trench or towards the shotgun-wielding defenders now coming in from the air. Martz felt like wetting himself as another monster leapt towards him--he barely avoided a swinging limb, that cut a gouge in his shoulder, before firing another round of buckshot straight into the mouth. He glimpsed another one of the platoon ripped apart as a creature casually stuck a limb through his heart-spinning around, Martz fired off another shotgun round in that direction, not sure if he was going to hit anything or not. Another roar, and he felt the ground shake violently as the big beetle monster began to lurch forward with horrifying swiftness, seemingly charging towards the trench. The remainder of the Ottoman troops were throwing out grenades to ward off the Schabe that got by the shotguns, some of them lying screaming as their guts fell out from their chests into the mud. There was one final card to play. "Magnesiumgranate!" Lowering his shotgun, and hoping one of the horrors wouldn't take the opportunity to
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AMSTERDAM RETAKEN
It was confirmed this morning that a combined force of Norwegians and Danes have retaken Amsterdam with minimal casualties, supported by a token unit of Royal Marines. This was hailed in the halls of Oslo and Copenhagen as a turning point in the fight to reclaim the Netherlands, with both nations already pouring in further force and supplies to the city via the Zuiderzee. The Dutch government-in-exile in London was also jubilant, and proclaimed this as proof that hope still exists for their nation. King Haakon VII of Norway declared his support and adoration of his soldiers, applauding them for 'ridding this stricken city of monstrosities with such great skill and so little loss', in an official speech made yesterday evening upon his receiving of the news. It has been suggested in announcements made by the combined Norwegian-Danish leadership that further landings will be made at the Hague and Middelburg, allowing forces to sweep across and eradicate any meagre traces of Grex infestation still present within the country. Prime Minister Asquith also expressed his congratulations for the liberating troops, but did not make any promise of a further British commitment, alluding to the continuing struggle in Belgium and France. It has been suggested that the Royal Marines present in Amsterdam will continue with the soldiers they have fought alongside, to show the Dutch that the Great Powers of Europe have not forgotten their plight. Germany and Austria-Hungary have released no comment.
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** San Francisco, United States of America Private Rafael Paragili, of the Philippines Expeditionary Force, wondered if all this smoke, noise and blood around him was simply some twisted dream, as he ducked by a pile of bricks to avoid the hissing spines shooting over his head. He had not slept for over a day, but still his body pumped adrenaline through his veins to keep him alert, even as he actively had to keep his eyebrows from drooping. A man next to him was struck in the face by a sharp piece of debris as something exploded amidst the rubble in front of him-as he toppled over, Rafael instinctively went for his ammunition pouches, to salvage whatever rounds he had. After all, it seemed that it had been decided that mere gooks as himself didn't warrant much in the way of bullets. Only months ago, the first stories of these creatures, these nightmarish abominations they were throwing him against, had circulated in his village back home on Mindanao, dismissed at first as some laughable rumors dreamt up by some fool who was reading too many pulp magazines. Then, ships from Japan stopped coming, and vessels packed with refugees from the Australian continent started arriving. Newspapers speaking of an attack on San Francisco by 'demons' began to swap from hand to hand. More refugees, rich and poor all crammed together, came, to be immediately ordered into tightly guarded camps. Rafael and everyone he knew understood little of what was going on. Clarification came as the order arrived to start drafting fit young males as himself into the new Philippines Expeditionary Force. America had been invaded after all, it seemed. Some celebrated quietly, but others considered what sort of a force could attack the strongest continent in the world, and if it would soon target them next. As he and many others underwent a rushed training programme, news seeped in of war in California, towns burnt down, thousands dead. Though duty called, most were reluctant to board the ships that would ferry them across the Pacific to join the carnage only their imaginations had thus been able to visualize. And now here he was, in the cover of a ruined shell of a building, gripping his Springfield rifle like it was the only love he had left in the world, while other men, mostly fellow Filipinos but also American and Canadian infantrymen, struggled to hold off the screeching abominations lashing and spitting at them through the smoke obscuring their sight ahead. He had only caught glimpses of the horrors so far, and his mind only substituted crazed insanity for the rest of them. He had seen the mauled bodies of soldiers as he and the rest of his regiment had pushed through the streets, while all the time mortars and artillery fell around them. He had seen the effects of the strange organic rounds these monsters fired at them, some seemingly going fast enough to such a man's internal organs out from his body, others laced with poison that swelled their flesh to the point it burst. Already, several of his comrades had become silent and glasseyed, quietly gibbering to themselves. Taken from their home and thrown into this--who could blame them? "H-help me!" He turned his head as a man came staggering out from a side-street--an American soldier, his leg apparently wounded. Difficult to make him out through the smoke, but Rafael didn't reckon he'd last much more than a few moments out in the open like that. "You, gook--go get him!" A Yankee sergeant pointed at one of his comrades, who dutifully emerged from cover to briskly head over to the wounded man. As he moved
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"Sergeant-Major Daniel Daly, Marine Corps!" A man whose face was blackened like something out of a minstrel show came into view ahead, sporting a wide grin. "Why, if it isn't the Teddy himself!" "How many with you?" "Several squads of my leathernecks, some army lads, and a couple of gooks...we've been to hell and back and with souvenirs, sir, so don't you worry." "Yes, well...do you hear that?" Roosevelt turned around, suddenly realizing something--the constant chatter of machineguns from blocks away, the incessant screaming of mortars...it all seemed to have died down. "Wait..." He turned, as more figures came down from the street to the side--Canadians, with several American troops in the front. "Sir, we haven't found many Roaches in the parts behind us--we've met other units coming this way..." "Do you think..." Roosevelt turned to Daly with a smile on his face. Leaning in, Daly looked more grave. "Sir, if there's one thing I've learned here, it's that these beasts are nothing if not cunning..." "Well, the nation is long overdue it's victory..." Stepping onto a mound of bricks, Roosevelt coughed for attention as eyes flicked towards him. "Men, you can hear that the machineguns are going silent and the mortars are cooling. You know what this means--after all the blood we have spilt, after all the brothers and friends we have lost, all our sacrifice has proved not to be in vain--San Francisco is ours! California is liberated! We've done it! We've damn well done it!" A second of silence, followed by cheers of genuine jubilance. Roosevelt smiled as he saw several men give each other tight hugs, wondering soberly for a moment if greater challenges did not await them in the future. "Send a runner." Roosevelt looked down to Daly. "Have it relayed to Washington that we've taken the city." "Sir, I'm not sure if..." "As I said, we need the victory." Roosevelt finally exhaled as he felt the fatigue of the battle finally start to get to him. But to feel like a young bull moose once more...it had been worth it. "Never thought I'd see this won." The Marine murmured.
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BlackWave
23rd March 1915, Washington DC, United States of America
Hubbub buzzed inside the halls of the Capitol, as Congressmen assembled at their seats with anticipation. The drowsiness of the early morning, and the initial surprise at the abruptness of the session the President had called, had been shaken off when word finally spread about what exactly this meeting was about. With all the news from Europe, the debates and discussions over the measures imposed on the nation in light of the crisis that had nearly led to fistfights, and looming specter of anarchist movements taking advantage of the tense public atmosphere, there had been little cause for jubilation in Congress and the Senate. Among the seats, Ohio Senator Warren G. Harding quietly checked his pocket-watch as the last people filed in. These last few months had been...uncomfortable experiences from men as himself. He remembered the first reports of the 'giant insects on the fields of France' back in January, which felt like a decade ago already. He remembered how he had laughed and treated them as hoaxes or exaggeration. Then San Francisco happened, and suddenly all talk of keeping out of the madness in Europe vanished. Though he had spoken out against the insistence from the likes of Roosevelt to intervene wherever these creatures had sprouted up, the newspaper images of hideous monsters out of some insane nightmare laying waste to once proud nations had shook his convictions to the core. Many other Congressmen felt the same. The entire balance of things had been changed. The measures taken by Wilson and then Marshall had also not sat well with him. Freezing the entire country...the effects on Wall Street and elsewhere were already being felt, and he could not imagine they could keep it up for long. With the great railroads of America now almost solely the province of the military, the nation simply did not feel the same. Naturally, desperate times required desperate measures. But surely there would soon come the time when none of this was necessary any more--but would it all come down to the whims of the White House? Trust a Democrat like Marshall to bring this all on them. Hushes soon put down the hubbub as Marshall finally appeared, taking his place at the podium ahead. Harding was surprised at the absence of Mr. Roosevelt, who appeared to had been badgering the President into implementing his own suicidal interventionist agenda, but considered that the man was still in California playing soldiers. "Gentlemen. Congressmen. My fellow Americans." Marshall cleared his throat. "I call this extraordinary session to bring you the news that late yesterday, the guns in San Francisco ran silent. The flag of the nation now rises over the Bay. We have made incalculable sacrifice in the process of this merciless campaign, and the nation has seen casualties unheard of since the Civil War. Many American families have lost a loved one, or a friend. But ultimately, we stand over what may be remembered as our greatest triumph. California has been liberated. The menace of the Grex there has been expunged.
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These were to be interesting times. ** Excerpt from the Evening Standard, 23rd March 1915: SAN FRANCISCO LIBERATED Dispatches from the American shores yesterday evening declared that the last Roach in the city of San Francisco has faced extermination, leaving the state of California to enjoy relief from the plague that has been afflicting it for over two months. It has become apparent that today President Marshall will call an immediate meeting of Congress to discuss whether the United States will now commit all the force at its disposal to support the struggle against the Grex pestilence in Europe and Asia. There exist strong parties for isolationism and interventionism in the houses of the Capitol. Theodore Roosevelt, prominent figure of the Californian campaign and vocal supporter of a full American commitment worldwide, was not able to be present, but was reportedly present in San Francisco when the last shot was fired. Currently, token American forces remain embroiled in the fields of France, and shipments arrive in ports on the coasts of this nation and those of the French and Germans. In particular, there has been a call for American manufacturers to begin shipments of the new 'Thompson Gun', a portable sub-machinegun that has seen limited usage in the Californian front. Lord Churchill of the admiralty has been quoted as supporting a greater American intervention, using language overly enthusiastic for print. ** The Bipeds make a greater issue over their new occupation of the region 'San Francisco' than would be logically anticipated. Their next sensible call would be to redeploy their assets to where is greater needed by the hives. Further deployment to 'France' would make situation there considerably more interesting. Greater sustenance guaranteed. Gratification also. Further encouragement may be needed to spur on their movements, to save energy for the swarms. Something noticeable. Something fun. ** Petrograd, Imperial Russia Seated within the back of a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, Frederick Mycroft, agent for the British Crown, cast a glimpse to the man next to him--Sir George Buchanan, ambassador to the Tsar. Due to meet Nicholas himself in the Winter Palace today to discuss urgent matters regarding support of the fight in Siberia, logistical aid, and other such business-Mycroft himself had a rather less savory task ahead of him.
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** Nothern Territory, Australia The red dust of the Outback never seemed to end. At the front of this rusted, clattering truck, Wun Cho-Yen, once a coolie worker on the railroads here, kept his eyes out to try and pierce the low-hanging clouds of dust being blown along the winds. Behind him, a couple of other fellow Chinamen and some Outback militia who had came along with them, surprisingly untroubled by being with the likes of his type. But then, Wun thought with some relief, in these days with the nation seemingly collapsed, not everyone judged by color any more. Of course, there were others who took advantage. He remembered the stories of whole towns that got rid of coolies like him as word came of these monsters plaguing the lands. Yes, the Roaches...he had yet to see one, but by now it seemed fairly apparent that they were there. With nothing but a handful of pennies and a pickaxe, he had joined the columns of people heading northwards from the small town in New South Wales where he had lived, but eventually it dispersed, with someone trying to get to the nearest place of leaving the country, others trying to get to Brisbane or Fraser Island or whatever the latest safe haven was. Eventually, he had been lucky enough to come on this abandoned truck, and took it off in whatever direction he found. On the way, he would bolt on any loose scrap he could find just as some extra protection, getting more from the passengers he would pick up. "Wait..." One of the men behind him leaned forward. Wun nodded. Though he spoke relatively good English, his throat was dry enough that he simply didn't feel like it. Up ahead, through the dust, he could make out a rough dirt road, heading northwards. Along it was a column of horsedrawn carts, loaded with people and crates. Driving the battered truck forwards, Wun leaned out to see the faces of the people there, black and red from all the dust blown at them. "Well, fancy bloody that! A Chinaman driving a motor!" he heard someone say. He braced himself. If they were to try and shoot him and take the truck, he wouldn't be so quick to oblige them. "You just keep your hands to yerself, mate." one of the others in the back shouted in return, seemingly thinking the same thing. "No worries...just a bit wonderous, that's all. Where you folks headed?" "Don't know where." Wun shouted back. "Wherever's safe!" "We're headin' up to Darwin. Didn't you see the flying machines, droppin' the leaflets?" "What leaflets?" A battered piece of paper came flying across from a nearby cart onto Wun's lap--a faded picture of a soldier with an outstretched arm on the front. Wun smiled. So, was this were they were going to make the last stand, now?
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"Where are they? Where are they?" one of the Tommies began to shout, his voice hysterical. "I swear, I'll go out there, kill every last one of the bastards myself--" "You'll do no such thing, or you'll be shot!" The lieutenant shouted. Giraud ignored them, scanning the dark ruins nearby for any movement, anything that would reveal whatever monstrosity was firing this abominable ammunition at them. The stench of blood and of exposed organs nearby was almost overpowering. Was this their intention? To demoralize and terrify them? Seemed to be working. "I'll go out there!" The Tommy continued to shout, seemingly having lost all reason. "I'll...I'll...I'll go out and..." Something caught Giraud's ear over the Briton's blubbering. He span around, looking up to the top of the crumbling house behind them. Was that-"Merde!" He discharged his rifle through sheer shock as something leapt down from the roof there onto the stuttering Briton, sending his limbs and organs flying around for meters instantly. Chaos seemed to reign in a microcosm almost immediately as the men around him struggled to bring their weapons to bear behind them, as Giraud caught a glimpse of a spider-like monster moving so fast to be just a flurry of motion, consuming the poor bastard's body in a matter of moments. A Belgian leapt towards it with his bayonet forward, shouting--a jagged sycthe-like limb skewered him right through the chest a second later. Gunfire began to open up into the creature a moment later, but more were coming out from the ruins nearby like disturbed ants emerging from their tunnels. Giraud's heart pounded as he gave out orders to his men, finding mere coherent thought a struggle. The orders were simple--fire at whatever targets presented themselves. As his Zouaves got into position, Giraud turned around as Belgians threw off grenades into the ruins nearby--dust billowed outward from windows and punctures in walls as the sounds of collapsing bricks and beams followed. The creature that had landed in their midst seemed to be put down, if still twitching--his first proper look at a Roach. Body camouflaged with a brown hue, dark to be almost black...a nightmarish face of jagged mandibles and eyes, all looking like something designed by the worst sort of impressionist lunatic. Trying to shake off the sight, he span around as more of this things came scurrying over the rubble, or leapt forward from nearby rooftops or ruins. Two more landed near the Belgians, who opened fire at point-blank range or lunged forward with bayonets--brave fools, almost to the point of foolishness. He had no time to see the outcome here as the nearby Vickers gun opened up, as did the Lebels of his men. The gunners of the Vickers were taken out mere seconds later as spines cut through their skulls, with such force to rip them off along with most of their upper spinal cords. With a hand signal, Giraud directed two of his men onto the gun as the creatures began to tear through the ramparts, shredding sandbags and barbed wire with their claws. His ears rang from an explosion nearby, as a someone dropped a grenade right in the midst of a position. "We can't hold this!" The British lieutenant cried. "We must fall back! To the Germans!" Fall back? Going to the Germans? The mere thought of either, after all his prior army
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Grey skies hung over the port of Danzig, making the dark blue waters of the Baltic lapping against the shoreline seem even blacker than they were. Merchant ships and freighters were moored at the docks in quantities far greater than those of a few months ago--many now coming in from America, courtesy of private manufacturers keen to exploit the end of official hostilities in Europe. Weapons, material, food...all were pouring in onto the embankment to give more fuel to the German Empire's war machine. Not only that, ships were departing too--heading further into the Baltic to the shores of the Russian Empire. Though angry mutters still rippled through the population at the sudden co-operation with the Tsar, Germany's own industries were quick to see extra opportunity for profit on the margins to send off surplus to the burgeoning Russian Empire. Berlin was ever pressuring to the industrialists to focus everything on the Western Front, but necessity rarely stood in the way of profit. That much was simple--such thoughts were seething in Vladimir Lenin's head as he slowly walked past one of the docks, his mustache shaved and a wig on his head. Oh, he could see that there was plenty of room for revolution here in Germany too. The oppressed local Poles here, the short-sighted industrialists who, instead of seeing these days as man's greatest plight, simply saw more ways to keep their stock afloat...one day, the bourgeois here would get their just desserts. But for now, he had to keep focus. Everything was going to change sometime in the next few days. The journey from Zurich had been frantic and rushed. Passports were falsified, disguises and identities were arranged, and all the time care had to be taken not to tip off authorities. Oh, Germany was no longer at war with her neighbors, but didn't mean that she was any less paranoid--perhaps moreso now, given the literal monsters now assailing her. Fortunately, whether through sheer luck or not, the train journey from Switzerland to here had been uneventful, and his rushed disguise appeared to have worked. Soon, he would board a freighter heading up to Petrograd--everything had been arranged by allies back home. If everything went as to schedule, he would arrive in a country ready to be turned around. If not, perhaps he would once again be at the Tsar's mercy. Of course, with everything going so quickly these days, there was plenty of room for error--but chances had to be taken. He had as such ignored his compatriots who insisted he stayed in Switzerland. No, as the saying went--'if you want a job done properly, do it yourself'. With such delicate times coming, his personal supervision would be essential. Naturally, the only reason this was possible was because of the compromises and promises he had made to other like-minded parties in the motherland, who, if they were keeping to their own side of the contract, would all be doing their part to bring Russia on track. He expected squabbling. He expected sudden demands. Either that would be resolved by giving them an illusion or power, or simple brute force. This revolution would have to be quick, and merciless. Success or disaster--there would be no middle. "Come, Vladimir." he turned as one of his Swiss compatriots, also in a rushed proletarian disguise, joined him there. He could hear chattering in German and Polish from nearby self-segregated dock workers--he wasn't sure how much the locals were allowed to speak in their local tongue, but with Germany stretching herself in the face of this crisis, he wondered just how far her subject peoples were going to go along with her. Would revolution also be needed here, to preserve Europe as well? "A few more minutes." Lenin murmured to the other man.
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"Steady..." They were walking rather fast. Perhaps they intended to deliver a telegram? All the better to hit them now. "Steady..." Arrogant Nipponese, striding like they owned these lands-"Fire!" Rifles cracked, sending bullets flying through the air towards the Japanese troops. Some of them staggered back, toppling over into the dirt. Shi Du grinned in satisfaction as he saw blood spurt even at this distance. This was his group's most successful raid yet. Now maybe the island dwarves would reconsider using this path after all... "Wait..." He lowered the rifle, and looked up in confusion. Some of the Japanese were getting back up, even as they bled profusely. This wasn't possible. No men could simply take such lethal hits. He continued to stare in bewilderment and confusion as they looked towards them, and suddenly broke out into runs, sprinting far faster than he had considered was humanly possible. At the same time, their limbs seemed to be stretching, deforming, bursting with liquid as flesh rearranged itself... "No..." It hit him. The stories. The damned stories were true after all. There really were monsters. "Run!" Some of the others were already sprinting as the horrors continued to deform and change, getting closer and closer. More rifle fire rang out--the bullets seemed to hit, but their only apparent effect was to momentarily slow them down. "Shi Du! Help us!" "To hell with you." he muttered, dropping his rifle and sprinting after the others. He still kept a revolver--perhaps that would be enough against them. The only course of action now was to spread the word that the Japanese were right after all. Perhaps even now he understood why some chose to ally with him. Behind him, he heard screams and inhuman shrieks as he ran for the forests, sprinting as fast as he could.
BlackWave
26th March 1915, New York City, United States of America
Crowds were gathered near Battery Park as early morning sunrise cast orange streaks over Manhattan Bay--the first soldiers from New York sent to California
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"You've not been resupplied?" "Nah, I reckon the generals think we're gone. Before, they had those big new aero-planes drop in boxes of supplies, on parachute--sometimes they'd just fall and break, and we'd have nothing but loose metal. Now it's not even that..." Nodding, Montgomery stood up onto the step at the bottom of the trench parapet, peering over the wire-lined side into No Man's Land. To his surprise, this section was covered in rows of jagged spines, sticking out of the ground like the back of some sort of porcupine. "Bombardiers. Kept us in the dugouts for days." The lieutenant breathed. "Sometimes they dropped those little Scarab buggers onto us. Made us burn out our own lads..." "Yeah...I can imagine it's been shit luck for lots of us." Montgomery stepped back down. "Well, it ain't all that bad." The lieutenant produced what looked like some sort of flare gun. "Saved me this. They're spreading across the front--some bright spark had the idea of modifying a flare gun to fire a magnesium charge. They're callin' 'em Jabber-wackers, 'cause if you've got a Jabberwocky in your face, it can buy ya a bit of extra time." "Bloody ingenious." Montgomery smiled, having a sudden feeling of familiarity. "Think I might know who came up with it." "Really? Oh...you're Monty, aren't ya? Of the Marauders." "In the flesh." "Heh. Perhaps now..." "Merde!" A Belgian-accented voice echoed up the trench as something impacted into the earth about fifty meters further on, sending wet, poisoned earth and shards of spines raining around for just as far around. Slumbering men jerked into action groggily, bringing up their rifles and fixing bayonets. Moving up onto the trench step, Montgomery readied his shotgun, letting adrenaline wash away his dreariness. "Bloody Bombardiers...has to be..." Just as the man finished speaking, Roach warriors began to burst out of the pools ahead, their abominable forms barely visible through the mist. Keeping himself down as the others fired off with their Lee Enfields, Montgomery waited for them to get closer, tightening his grip on the shotgun. A Vickers nearby clattered into action, spitting out glowing tracer rounds, before crackling Roach weapons responded in turn--he barely had time to duck as something purple and acidic struck the top of the trench nearby. "Holy--"
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"The Japanese have already been partaking in naval cordon operations." Roosevelt whispered back. "If we are to help them in China, we may as well help them there too." "We don't even know if we're helping them in China." Daniels snapped back. "President seems to want everything focused on Europe, so we may end up telling them to eat raw fish and leave us alone." Roosevelt nodded. Daniels had been especially irritable and stressed in the last few weeks, despite their close working relationship. Well, that applied to virtually anyone in any federal department connected to the war effort. At least if they were fighting a human enemy, one predictable and reasonable, there was the chance that peace would eventually come about with pens and negotiating tables. But this? He didn't envy those in Congress and the White House, faced with an enemy not human in the slightest. How were they meant to fight ants with intelligence? Though he wouldn't dare say it, he feared for the Europeans, and the Russians as well. "Have we considered supply deals with the Tsar?" he leaned back over to Daniels as the speaker continued to drone about the state of sea routes to Asia. "Don't ask me. I imagine that's also Marshall's call." Daniels murmured. "We've enough trouble trying to appease the Europeans and keeping ourselves afloat. We can just hope that the Russians are getting enough from the Brits and the Frenchies..." "You know," Roosevelt also added, "I reckon we start talking with the Royal Navy about moving the Atlantic Fleet down to England. That's if..." "That's if what...?" "Well, should the worst-case scenarios that we've been forecasting...were to occur." "Franklin, you worry far too much." Daniels snapped. "Look, for all we know, we'll be sending the fleet to Indochina. Now, just relax, and we'll cross these bridges when we get there..." Relaxation, these days, Roosevelt thought as he sat back. What a joke. ** Near Hulluch, France "Boys...when you go to visit Saint Peter, tell him there ain't no use sendin' you down to hell--you've already been there." Wet coldness bit at Colonel Lejeune's ankles as he stumbled through a waterfilled muddy ditch that was all that remained of a bombed-out trench, snaking between tattered clusters of barbed wire and smouldering craters from mortars and howitzers. Among him, the equally battered and muddied remnants of the Frenchmen and Tommies he had managed to get with him from Hulluch, which was now just a flattened patch of dirt and ground brick the last time he had seen it. A squadron of LDs had managed to divert the Roaches ravaging the place
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Alternate History Discussion Board (http://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/index.php) - Alternate History Writer's Forum (http://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/forumdisplay.php?f=8) - - Swarm on the Somme: Compilation Thread v.1 (http://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/showthread.php?t=237610)
BlackWave
8th April 1915, the Somme, northern France
Dawn was marked by the flashes of the latest round of incendiary bombardments racking the lifeless, ashen expanses of No Man's Land surrounding the sunrise-like purple light on the horizon; by now, it had multiple names attached to it. The Devil's Nest. The Roach-Hive. Le diable de montagne. Mort lumire. It hardly seemed to really matter. All they knew was that it was the hub of the Roach infestation. Beneath that light, which so far no living soul had managed to get near since the first falling-star that brought the pestilence landed, was the key to victory. Artillery could not destroy it, so naturally that had to come down to the men, slogging through wasteland destroyed and razed time and time again. The Roaches gave no quarter in return. The joining of new nations to the conflict just seemed to amplify the constant carnage. Emerging from the warrens of dugouts and bunkers along one trench, behind the main lines lit up by the constant flares of mortar strikes and field gun reports, dozens of men staggered out into air no better than the stale atmosphere they had just been breathing down--the amounts of poison gas poured onto these lands were such that their gas masks now practically became natural parts of their bodies. A mixture of uniforms stood out among the ranks slowly filling into the trench, but the grime and dirt subduing their colors made them hardly stand out. Sergeant-Major Thomas Reader, of the King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, stood up onto the trench step to peer out to the field ahead--one peppered with craters, jagged spines rising out from the poisoned soil, and organic fragments he couldn't identify. His company had been buried in their dugouts for weeks--it had become hard to estimate the time--while constant shells hurtled down onto the fields around them to try and cover the rear of the lines ahead from Roach attacks from below. Not much to do but play games, sleep, sing, and try not to lose your sanity. Some French soldiers had come down, joining them--none of them could speak a word of English, but at this point, any extra hands to hold rifles were fine. He wouldn't even have objected to Germans. Better Hun than Roachy, as they said. "What do we do, sir?" A young private nearby spoke up, his voice dry like sandpaper, and muffled through his mask. He looked like he had lied to join up. Reader wasn't going to put that against him. He hadn't been entirely honest at the recruiting officer either. "Wait." he replied simply. The tattered orders that had come in weeks ago simply instructed them to come out at this time. At least, he hoped it was the right time. He prayed that his particular bunch of KOYLIs hadn't been written off and now an artillery barrage was due on them.
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"Il est trs gentil, non?" Another voice chuckled nearby. It was one of the Frenchmen. Recognizable only via his helmet. His coat was the same dirt-covered rag just like the rest of them wore. "Yes, indeed." Reader simply murmured to him, continuing to look out beyond the trench rim. In some ways, the dugouts felt cosier. It was just like being at home in the mines. At least there you didn't have to worry about oversized woodlice trying to make dinner of you. Overhead, a gust of wind blew, carrying with it specks of ash and burnt wood. As the men nearby silently checked rifles and blades, Reader didn't feel much like breaking the silence. He was young for his rank; working-class like most of the poor bastards here. It was for that reason that he knew that fancy speeches or anthem recitals wouldn't perk their spirits here. What they wanted instead was an NCO who knew what he was doing. "Maybe the lads ahead of us got Roachy's attention instead." The boy from before spoke up. "Maybe we'll be safe." "And maybe one of those invisible mantis buggers will come and bite your arse off as soon as you say that." Reader snapped. "Keep your focus. I know it's hard, but better safe than sorry." "Est le beau temps?" The Frenchman spoke. "Of course." Reader sighed. He continued to stare out beyond the ragged lines of barbed wire, almost transfixed by the lights ahead. More men coming from America, Spain, Italy, they said. More Turks and Austrians on the Hun side. As soon as there was enough, they could finally push right into Roachy's nest and burn him out once and for all. That was the official promise. Bullshit, Reader thought. You couldn't try to beat these things by trying to out-swarm them. Like trying to stop a locust swarm by raising a sufficiently big mob. What other means were there? He didn't know. Maybe the scientists would come up with something. Maybe this was all futile. But regardless...he fancied getting himself at least one Roach fang to take back home. Just to impress the girls, at least. The wind and the ambience of distant guns was broken by a sudden screaming. "Oh, shit! Incoming!" Something detonated down the trench--Reader was immediately hit by the sound of burning, seeing faintly several men stumbling down the trench further down, screaming as their flesh dissolved from their bones layer by layer. Behind them, a stream of boiling liquid flowed out from a shattered, crystal-like shell, reminding Reader of some giant kidney stone. Any other thoughts were suppressed as he began to forcefully usher the men down the trench, away from the acid now burning its way along. More bombardment came as they stumbled down the trench, tripping over loose wood boards or discarded ammunition boxes. Spines showered around the trench on both sides--Reader glimpsed one man fall as a jagged round struck him in the back of the neck. He managed to see the flesh around it swell to bursting, before looking away quickly. He had lost track of time by the point they stopped running, reaching the blasted-out
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BlackWave
April 9th 1915, Indiana, United States of America
Traces of orange morning sunlight were rising over the cornfields of Indiana, near the borders of Illinois, which sat in silence broken by the occasional cold gust of wind. Farms and the occasional small town sat lifeless, evacuated to the larger cities or simply abandoned, sometimes next to fields burnt down to ash. Some had been destroyed once word came in of vegetation being deformed into things monstrous, or because that had already happened to them. With others, it was less clear, evidenced by the occasional trail of rushed exoduses or panics. A group of about a dozen men, brandishing shotguns and rifles, were making their way up a dirt path towards an isolated farmyard nestled among several fields of soybeans and cabbage. The road remained devoid of movement ahead of them, save for the occasional bird perching down on the wooden fences lining it. At the front of the group, one man, a grizzled middle-aged person in a tight jacket, checked the polished shotgun in his hand as he lead them on in silence. His name was
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Near a dozen burning paraffin bottles were thrown onto the house, igniting across walls and into windows--he stood in silence as the inferno rapidly spread, consuming most of the building's sides. Whatever damned aberration in there seemed to subside as the fire spread to the tendrils, finally forcing them to go limp. His eyes remained wide, and his soul...he wasn't sure if he even still had one, after seeing that. Finally, his urges took hold of him, and he threw up into the ground in front of him, as smoke from the burning house began to drift across the yard and into the nearby fields. The men behind him didn't seem to begrudge him. "We burn the rest." He breathed. "We burn this whole goddamn place." The men nodded, stepping out towards the nearby grain silo and the barn across the yard. His increasingly clammy hands remained tightly grasped on the shotgun as he watched them ready their second set of Tonics. Perhaps this whole damn state was like this, he thought, as fear began to take hold. Maybe it was best just to burn it all. Burn it all and hope to god that these monsters died. The crackling flames of the burning house were drowned out by a sudden screeching sound that caused Gilmore to spin around--from the crop field across the yard, several figures were bursting out from among the stalks, sprinting towards them. He saw deformed, skinny bodies, limbs that ended with bony, glistening talons tearing out from fingers and arms, and screeching mouths filled with multiple rows of jagged teeth and extra sets of eyes forcing themselves out from their skulls. These were perhaps the folk who once lived here. Not any more, he thought, paling. The devil could take these abominations back now. Shotguns and rifles discharged--limbs, chunks of flesh, even good parts of their heads were blown off, but most of them kept running, crawling across the ground even. One man nearby shouted in horror as one of the walking cadavers leapt onto him, immediately tearing his chest open with a slash of a sharpened bone ripping its way out from his arm, before half a dozen shotgun blasts finally put the creature down. Gilmore fired again--his blast blew the head off one of the creatures, putting it down, right as another one leapt at least twenty feet forward, knocking down another man and cracking his skull open with a strike from deformed clawed feet. More were coming from the fields. It was just like fucking judgement day. More of these things, these poor goddamn people these Roaches had turned into...into these things. "Burn it!" he shouted. "Just burn it all!" Some of the men had time to throw their paraffins as the next wave of creatures came in. A patch of flame leapt up the side of the silo, and several more burst across the yard. Some of these screaming horrors ran right through the fire, leaping onto their targets on fire, even as their bodies were perforated with shot. Some fell, their heads blown clean off--but yet more were bursting out from the crops across. "The barn!" Gilmore shouted, sprinting across the yard as he reloaded his gun. They could get in there, they had least had something to defend. Behind him, the silo toppled over as its wooden foundations gave way to the grain. His men, what remained of them, followed as they desperately tossed their remaining tonics towards the monsters running at inhuman speeds right towards them.
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BlackWave
April 10th 1915, Amiens, France
They said that sandbags and barbed wire had replaced cobblestones and dirt in the streets of Amiens; that not a single standing structure wasn't fortified, supported by corrugated metal or wooden beams, or that machinegun nests and pounder guns weren't placed to cover every conceivable angle. Supply trucks had to go through vigorous check points placed at almost every junction, while sappers had to ensure that chemical poison was regularly pumped into the soil below to make sure that Roachy couldn't launch any surprise burrowing attacks into what was unofficially known as one of the key lynchpins of the Entente war effort in the region. If only because so much had already been invested here, and if Amiens fell, then it was generally accepted that the consequences were not worth thinking of. Below the city, a concrete-lined bunker made out from an old cellar lay with its walls covered in maps and diagrams, containing tables littered with sheets of calculations and sketches. Standing over these, Sir John Nortons-Griffiths of the Royal Engineer tunnelling companies, wondered if he had already lost his sanity, spending so much time beneath the war-torn streets above, or if he was the only person here still lucid. Either way, if he truly remained a sane man, he thought, than it was a miracle that he had stayed this way for so long. He looked up, as murmuring voices came from the stairwell leading into the bunker. BEF sappers. French tunnel engineers. Belgians, of the same profession. A Canadian or two. These were the men he had requisitioned. What he was about to propose to them, well, he supposed that maybe they'd instead prefer to fight the Roaches in the trenches, all things considered. "Gentlemen." he cleared his throat. "I think it's best I be blunt here...what you are about to hear has been deemed classified. Sharing this information with the common ranks will, I'm afraid, lead to immediate executions." He scanned the expressions of the various sappers lined up. The Britishers looked mildly worried, the Frenchmen and their ilk impassive, but he wondered if they were really understanding him. Either way, by their whispers, some of them were translating for the benefit of their comrades. Maybe they had already faced enough firing squad threats, to motivate them, or to discourage retreats. Or maybe after facing all the lunacy going on above, it was simply difficult to truly shock them. "I've estimated that by now, the Roaches have established a tunnel system, like an ant warren, appropriately enough, stretching at least underneath the Somme up until Belgium. No doubt to save them the trouble of burrowing through so much soil, to hit us from beneath. I'm not sure of the total scale...but to consider the full implications, I think, is beyond our scope here." "I have heard of our tunnelling companies discovering such burrows." one of the Belgians spoke up. "They compare them to plant tendrils, through which their vile swarms can move. I was not there, but...oui, I can imagine it..."
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"That sounds right." Nortons-Griffiths sighed. "These tunnels, from the few survivors to have penetrated them, sound like they are lined with their ichor-based secretion, for some devilish reason...for support, I suppose, or as some sort of nourishment for their creatures that might be passing through them..." "So what are we meant to do about them?" A Frenchman uttered. "A while ago," Griffiths sorted through the papers on the table in front of him, "our tunnelling corps managed to plant a...rather intricate explosive beneath the lines at Flanders, in Belgium. We successfully detonated it in the midst of a Roach push, and at the very least, he granted our forces there some breathing room. I trust you will remember that occasion. It was felt as far as London and Paris, or so I'm told..." "What?" one of the British sappers stepped forward, to inspect the diagrams on the table Griffiths was pointing to. "The explosive itself is complex and will be difficult in setting up." He continued, scratching his chin. "Nevertheless, positioned at the right position, detonated at the right time...it could cause some rather cataclysmic events down below. Now, if we could somehow repeat this, across at certain points...I'm sure we could certainly cause some disruption." "To fight down below in the tunnels is hell." The Frenchman form before raised his voice. "There is nowhere to run from the blasted insects. There is no choice but to face their claws and teeth. But...I have already lost a brother to them. To kill as many of these vile cockroaches as possible...I will do whatever it takes." Nods and murmurings came down the line. Griffiths found himself genuinely surprised. He was expecting protests, and in turn threats of the firing squad. But these men seemed more than willing to organize some of the most dangerous fighting there was to be had on the front. The men in the trenches, he supposed, as torturous as their fight was, had the benefit of support from Land Dreadnoughts, field guns, aircraft...in the tunnels, there was nothing. Only your revolvers, shovels, and torches. And facing Roaches with these, and somehow surviving...he couldn't think of anything less that deserved the highest level of medal. "I need your best teams sorted out." he spoke up. "I need them to understand that this could be vital, and the secrecy of this. The Entente Combined Staff must understand how important this could be, and we must illustrate this very clearly to them. I know this is going to be vile work...but it's work that must be done, chaps." "Absolument." The Frenchman nodded. "What is it you want us to do?" "In the end?" Griffiths looked up with a wide grin. "We're going to shove some bloody big bombs down Roachy's throat."
BlackWave
April 11th 1915, Ural Mountains, Russia
From the top of a slope pockmarked with artillery crates and frosted grassy undulations, a concentrated trench fortification marked with machinegun nests dug deep into the hard
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BlackWave
April 12th 1915, Ypres, Belgium
For most men and women of the Entente serving in and around Ypres, there seemed to be little disagreement that they had arrived at the absolute hell on Earth. The town's Cloth Hall lay as a burnt-out shell, standing over an area shrouded in seemingly perpetual poison fog and smoke; craters and patches of empty ruins marked killzones for fortifications piled up over the remains of buildings. Bunkers and casements created out of old structures seemed to have replaced homes and shopfronts; with the ground beneath the area pumped with various corrosive chemicals, the outskirts and borders of the town were an almost solid line of trenches, defensive nests, field gun batteries, ammunition dumps, and bunkers. All had been placed with maximum redundancy and to ensure every segment of the line could fully cover the other. The shapes of aircraft and even German airships could often be made out in the overcast skies above the town; and almost constantly, the sounds of weapon fire and gun retorts could be heard from somewhere. With the level of investment in fortification and supply put into it, Ypres had been deemed an important 'pressure point' in the Entente defence line. As such, almost under constant Roach attack, from every conceivable angle. And even then, to those who could observe it all on the strategic scale, it continued to appear that the swarms were still merely toying with the defenders. Across the fields ahead of the defences, near barren expanses dotted with burnt skeletons of trees and craters flooded with poisoned water, the glows of tracer rounds would occasionally light up the fog and smoke, responding to the near constant light Roach raids. The larger swarms often came later. Without mercy or relent, it seemed. Not that it was possible for those manning the trenches or barricades to run or retreat anywhere. Ahead of one fortified trenchline, the figures of mounted horses could be seen moving out into the devastated No Man's Land--behind them the rattling, clanking forms of French Land Dreadnoughts. Beneath their ornate silvery helmets, the French cavalrymen wore dirtied gas masks--as did their scarred, visibly stressed mounts. Cavalry sabers, pistols, and polished spears hung from the bodies of the riders as they turned to escort the inbound vehicles. The machineguns and field batteries on the lines behind them already prepared to cover them. Breathing heavily through his mask, Flix Leandres, 7th Cavalry Division, cursed the limited visibility afforded to him by this thing. Nevertheless, with the air around Ypres
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BlackWave
April 13th 1915, Indianapolis, United States of America
The early morning sun rose slowly over the city of Indianapolis--shining against familiar landmarks from the Soldiers' and Sailors' Monument, the White River, and Lockerbie Square. Interspersed among the streets and buildings were checkpoints, glinting lines of serrated barbed wire, the occasional machinegun nest, and ammunition dumps. Recruitment posters for the Army and National Guard seemed to have replaced ones for food and commercial products. The reason for all this was simple. While the rest of the nation had celebrated the victory at San Francisco, the inhabitants of Indiana were still aware that in their fields, in their remote countryside and isolated communities, still lurked horrors without humanity or remorse. A lone motorcar was rattling its way down towards the city Statehouse--seated within was the state governor, Samuel M. Ralston. The stress of recent months had worn heavily on his body and spirit, as evidence by the lines across his face. Fellow state officials looked down at their feet across in the car's cabin--they too, were too weary to make conversation. The crisis facing the state, Ralston felt, was even worse than the riots that had hit Indianapolis two years before. National Guard and Army units had done their best to sweep the countryside, burning out and eradicating entire strips of farmland to destroy the unearthly pestilence plaguing them--yet, it always felt like whenever an infestation was eradicated, another sprung up in its place. The military had forwarded various
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BlackWave
April 14th 1915, Copenhagen, Denmark
The waterfronts and dockyards of Copenhagen, tucked together in the shadow of Amalienborg, were at a point of activity never seen before in years; military barges, ferrying supplies down to the military forces sent to liberate the Netherlands; ships bearing Russian flags, come in from the Baltic; and other private watercraft, a lot of which belonged to refugees coming up from Belgium or Holland. The streets of the Danish capital, though still feeling distant from the ravaged lands and nations further to the south, had found a strange feeling of tension descend unto them as soldiers began to appear on the cobbled streets, men in foreign uniforms began to sit by their restaurants and coffeehouses, and newspapers with increasingly sombre headlines flicked from hand to hand. Walking calmly towards the packed docks at the waterfront, French military intelligence agent Romain Bisset cast no eyes to the other well-dressed men filtering through the locals going about their business over the pavement. Mostly men from his own service and its British equivalent. Present to ostensibly represent Entente co-operation, although he rather surmised it was so that both nations could keep an eye on each other. What required their presence here was apparently something very...perturbing. "I see the locals will have the good luck to grace new guests." one of the other men with him murmured, gesturing toward a well-dressed couple shuffling their way along the road. Russian dress, by the looks of it. "Came in from Kovno, I heard." Bisset nodded. This man talking to him was apparently called 'Reno', though he doubted that was genuine. "A lot of them coming in from the Balts." Bisset uttered. "That little thing in Petrograd upset them, it seems." "Merde." His partner replied, with a smile. "Nobody tried to stop them?" "Apparently not. The men now in the Winter Palace apparently organized this thing...on a bit of a rush. They're a bit stretched to prevent upset nobility from running away to Sweden or here." "To think things went to hell in there so quickly..." "The ceasefire with the Turks and Fritz wasn't popular. The state of things in Siberia didn't help either. People like Vladimir Lenin would've been stupid not to take advantage of things developing as they were." "And the Tsarists haven't tried to counter-attack yet?" "That's the genius of it. With the Roaches in Siberia, they can only play along, or get struck from behind by those creatures. That's how they've apparently got the Tsar's general staff under their thumb. If the Cossacks try to fall back in the Urals, well, that just makes them good Roach fodder..." "And I presume this is all connected to what we've got here?" "We apparently have a rather important person from the Tsar's regime seeking asylum. He came in via the British embassy, although apparently the Anglais have decided that
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BlackWave
April 15th 1915, New York City, United States of America
Looking along the rows of figures seated down around the fine ebony table in what was once a dining hall within the Waldorf-Austria Hotel--the finely wallpapered surfaces now covered in notices, diagrams, and announcements--Nikola Tesla was hardly bothering to cover up his excitement. For the last twelve hours, he had been pouring over a
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"But I believe, that in unlocking these latent talents...this mind, this force, whatever you may call it, that manifests as the collective hive will of these creatures, may have inadvertently granted us a gift. It seems that these individuals have some form of control--uncontrolled as it currently may be--of energies perhaps not natural to the universe as we perceive it, but nevertheless may be harnessed. If my feelings are correct, and we may be dealing with sources of energy beyond simple electromagnetic generation...most of our impediments may not be so grave after all." "What do you mean, when you refer to these energies?" Einstein murmured. "I am reminded of the works of Planck and Poincar." Tesla murmured. "Their musings on 'energy quanta'--'quantum mechanics', even. What we have here, gentlemen, is, largely thanks to the workings of these beings, a whole new field of science unlocked years, if not decades, prematurely. One far beyond what is taught in our halls and universities. And one, I think, that could save us all." He took in a deep breath. "This report notes some of the strange abilities these latent extrasensory individuals have exhibited. Mind-reading. Tele-kinesis. Influencing objects and bodies around them. These energies are obviously focused by their minds, but I would not think they can be generated by them--drawing instead, from those aspects of the universe we do not yet fully understand. Matter that may not be perceivable to us, energy that is parallel instead of present. If they can harness this for the feats they perform...surely such power can be brought to our mechanical creations, thus enabling advancements exceeding even the leaps and bounds brought about in the last few months alone?" "Am I the only one completely lost here?" Edison stood up violently. "Dr. Tesla, do you truly understand what you are saying? Are you suggesting we are now meant to work with a model of physics that doesn't even exist yet? That we're meant to work with energies nobody knows anything about? Or perhaps the simpler answer is that you are full of..." "Herr Edison." Einstein cut in. "While I am uncertain regarding Herr Tesla's musings on 'energy quanta', these 'quantum mechanics'...we have all seen the reports from Europe. These creatures harnessing energies and abilities beyond biology and physics as we understand. If they can do so...why shouldn't we?" There was a moment of silence that hung in the air. "We already have a subject to work with. Provided by Mr. Secretary here." Tesla said, gesturing at Bryan. "One Victor Camporini, a man from Brooklyn, impounded at an asylum in Utica until he was recovered by government officials once his exhibited abilities came to light. He complains of voices, of objects in his vicinity moving involuntarily, and of moments of heightened emotion. We will study him, and learn how we can harness his uncovered mental energies to our science. More such individuals are promised, and my latest cable to the Welsh laboratory suggests they likewise commence such research, or otherwise accelerate it should they have already begun." He paused again. "Think about it. We have had reports of specialized Roaches deconstructing matter itself, freezing synapses, even producing intense charge from within themselves. Imagine if we can hone such ability to such individuals as Mr. Camporini..."
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"Wait." one of the scientists seated spoke up. "Do we know of any individuals who already exhibited such 'abilities' before these Roaches showed up?" "At least one." The Secretary spoke up. "He's Russian...but apparently the rest is classified..." "We must begin immediately." Tesla continued. "If we can control this power...we have opened up a whole new area of science that would have remained otherwise dormant forever, or at least unknown for decades, centuries. We must do so quickly, so rest must be minimum, moreso than it has been. Our every conscious waking moments must be devoted to this study for now, and the toll it may take on our bodies is something we must endure for all men." "Inspiring words, Mr. Tesla." The secretary grunted. "I must also interject with some announcements from the Federal Government...I'm afraid, as the result of a recent incident in Indiana, we must heighten security at this place. Some of us feel that this operation would be better relocated to someplace more...obscure." "Why?" said Tesla. "We are all comfortable here. Such a thing would disrupt our research unacceptably." "I'll keep that in mind when I report to President Marshall." Bryan nodded, with uncertainty. "Show me this man, then." Edison finally stood up. "I want to see these 'energies' for myself." "With pleasure, Mr. Edison." Tesla smiled. "With pleasure. Gentlemen, let's begin..."
BlackWave
April 16th 1915, near Dunkerque, northern France
Though the Entente lines near the coastal city of Dunkerque were mostly tucked away from the worst fighting raging across this region of France and Belgium, the freshly placed lines of barbed wire stretched across fortified trenches dug into the countryside were more than enough to signify that even here, the threat was existent. Fields still remained green and woods generally kept standing, in contrast to the desolate No Man's Land of the Somme further to the south, though the craters dotted over this rural landscape nevertheless kept it from being unspoiled. The defences here, however, remained in reach of the guns of the Entente navies grouping around the French coast-thus making up for the thinner concentration of artillery batteries and field guns. Not that it made the men manning these fortifications any less nervous. Towards the rear of the Dunkerque defence lines, a small convoy of trucks was pulling in from the fortified boundaries of the town itself--marked with United States Army emblems. A ragged group of Entente officers--Britishers, French, Belgian, Italian--had already gathered, with less than enthusiastic demeanours. They watched silently as American troops dismounted from the trucks, unloading various crates, as a man in a brigadier general's uniform stepped out to greet them. "Gentlemen." he reached out his hand to the nearest man with a smile, who returned
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BlackWave
April 17th 1915, near Bergues, northern France
Compared to the ash-colored clouds hanging over Belgium, the border of which was a
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"Probably worse." Aerts said. "Still...if anything will help kill the Roaches...it's more bullets. Lots and lots of bullets." "You think the Americans really care?" One of the other soldiers nearby spoke up. "They sold us these shotguns...and now these new things. I think maybe they figure that these goddamned bugs will just die off in time...and until then, they can just keep selling us this crap. You ever thought that if this is ever won, how much debt we might all end up in?" "Debt?" Vermeulen laughed. "In our case, we barely have a nation any more. Nobody wants to put interest on a place that has nothing to pay but dirt and rock." "We'll drive out the Roaches." Aerts said, seemingly as an assurance to himself. "Every last one of the filthy creatures. The Germans have one side, we have the other. Once the land is clean, we can rebuild, make it more beautiful than before." "You really thinks so?" Vermeulen said with genuine interest, looking up. "What else is there to think?" Aerts murmured. "The Dutch got it worse." The other soldier said. "Their cities flooded, everything else a marsh. Most of their people live as refugees with the Danish and English now..." "No, no, we got it worse." Vermeulen sighed. "Godverdomme...some places, I heard, I'm sure if anything will even grow for a hundred years..." "We can always go to Denmark." Aerts murmured. "Denmark? They got enough of the Dutch already..." Their voices were broken by the crackling burst of one of the incendiary mines buried under the soil in front of the trench going off. What effectively passed as an earlywarning system for Roach attacks. Enough to incite enough adrenaline through the platoon that the men were clambering onto the trench steps in an instant. Vermeulen found himself driven entirely by instinct, keeping himself behind Aerts, who was placing his American weapon on the rim in an effort to stabilize it. "Let's see how this thing does..." he uttered. Vermeulen drew his own revolver, catching a glimpse of phosphorous flash from in front of the trench. The flare, barely shielded by his mask eyepieces, seemed hot enough that even from there he could feel an unnerving sense of burning creep over some of his skin. "Cafards immondes!" he heard the French officer bark, as another mine detonated. The glint of an unsheathed cavalry sabre came from his direction. Crazy damned French, Vermeulen mentally chuckled to himself. They had every right to be as insane as Belgians. That inhuman shriek, that torturous sound that the men had prayed never to hear again, sounded off from in front of the trench. Through the barbed wire and the flickering conflagrations of detonated incendiaries, he could see arachnid-like shapes of chitin and claws leaping and scurrying right towards them. Rifles went off. Shotguns discharged. Barely comprehensible directions shouted off down the platoon. There didn't seem to be that many Roaches attacking. A tiny raid by the standards of the
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BlackWave
April 18th 1915, Petrograd, Russia
Observing silently through his characteristic reading glasses, Leon Trotsky watched the assorted members of the Revolutionary Coalition Committee take their seats around a finely carved table that once would've served the dining habits of the Tsar and his assorted aristocracy. Kerensky. Lenin. Chkheidz, Guchkov, Milyukov. It was only too fortunate that there was a common threat that had banded them all together, and would soon band the rest of the nation together. Otherwise, Trotsky knew, there were too many agendas, too many ambitions, that would prevent total harmony. He could only wonder what things would look like if triumph was ever attained, once the nation, having gone through so much in such a short space of time, could finally pick herself up. He glanced at a figure supervizing the guards ushering in the committee's guests. Some Georgian bastard, Joseph Vissarionovich. Pulled from the front in the nick of time by Bolshevik agents in the army's ranks, before he could be expended like so many prisoners of the Tsar's regime, and put in a high position supervizing security for proceedings here. A wise appointment. Enough power to satisfy him, but high enough also that there was little else to go without him resorting to...distasteful subterfuge. Hounds like him needed to be kept in check. And god willing, he would be kept well away from the seats of this committee. Trotsky had read well on his dossier--the man was a
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April 19th, near Loos, France The Roaches had been expunged from Loos. At the expense of most of the town itself. His lower jaw unshaven, his body dotted with scars from shrapnel to stray rounds, Charles de Gaulle slung a Lebel Model 1886 over his shoulder--a ragged weapon caked with thin layers of dirt and grime accumulated from so many weeks, such an eternity, of fighting in the defence of this shithole. Fields had been wiped of life by chemical and gas bombardment. Buildings had been levelled by artillery, the obscene weapons of the insects, explosives, and simple inability to withstand the madness of the fight around them. Bayonets were stained with the blood of their owners, and if they were lucky, with the mark of purple. Nevertheless, the defenders had prevailed. The Roaches had stopped attacking. Perhaps because there was nothing here of value left for them. Perhaps because there were more important fights elsewhere. But the insects did not seem to understand well how important some morale, any morale, was to the men of all nations fighting here. And finally, they had got some. Viva la France. Amidst the rubble of Loos, command camps, artillery positions, and supply dumps had already been set up. The trenches around the place were being refurbished, designed for easy transit of supplies to places on the front where they were needed most. Groups of Renault Land Dreadnoughts, most of them straight from the factories were the men and women of France worked with every iota of strength their muscles could summon, were parked near the trenches, awaiting men to pilot them into battle. Though most of the soldiers here wore the blue coats of the Arme de Terre, there were also dark-skinned Algerian auxiliaries, no doubt taken aback by the weather and the viciousness of the fighting. Tommy veterans. Australians. Italians. Some Spanish artillery groups, as inexperienced as their equipment was dated. But every man meant more bullets with which to kill the disgusting animals they faced. Now, new uniforms were coming. American Army. Their first wave, those men that had come in as their token Marine forces was extinguished, had proven itself here at Loos, partially. It too had moved on, as newer troops, some of them looking barely fit to hold a rifle, came marching in, taking their positions in readying supplies and establishing defences. Some of them, de Gaulle reckoned, had come in confident, that America had already beaten her own infestation, and thus need only show the Europeans how to do so. What shock hit their faces when they saw the true scale of the pestilence here. He did not disrespect them, however. He had fought alongside foreign troops long enough now to see they all shamed that same human valor. Whites, negroes, Indians...by now, everyone bore the same skin, one covered in scars and dirt, but a skin nonetheless. Merde. He wasn't sure himself if his own mind had made it through all this madness intact. Those memories of holding the Loos defences, praying that no leak would emerge in his gas mask as the chemical shells rained down, hoping no monster would erupt from the earth to drag him into whatever hell they came on, hoping no stray rifle shot or grenade explosion would riddle his ribcage with shrapnel...they all blurred together into one confused sensation of insanity and barely holding perseverance.
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BlackWave
April 20th 1915, New York City, United States of America
Lowering thick safety glasses over his face, Nikola Tesla kept his expression focused as he stood over a bronze control panel at the edge of one of the halls of the hotel, converted into a laboratory for testing unusual experimentals. The German, Einstein, and others, stood crowded behind him. Some of them clearly wanting for sleep. But Tesla's experiment had to be conducted as quickly as it could. So many things rested on it. Potentially the fate of mankind. Unlocking an ethereal source of energy, conducted by the human mind, no less. It seemed mind-boggling. But, ironically, it had been the Grex that had opened their eyes to the concept. Perhaps that would be what saved all civilization. Victor Camporini, the subject recovered from an institute, sat locked into a frame within the center of the room. Multiple electrodes fitted to his head, serving as conduits to a Tesla coil placed nearby. There would be no intermediate generator. He had to witness for himself what it would take to handle such power. And how to begin generation? That was the undefined part. Suggestions had been passed around. None of them particularly welcoming. But for the greater good, they had to be attempted. He was Tesla, after all. He had faced ruin once before. After this, after he would be the one to save humanity, nobody would have the name of Edison on their lips, regardless of what he contributed here. What his work would leave here would be something to
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