The Will To Live✔️

Chapter 21: The Comms Tower

"On it, Corporal!" Larsen replied and shot to his feet.

As he began opening fire with his battle rifle, Greg and Izzy dismounted from the vehicle, shotguns at ready. The Combat Forms were sprinting mindlessly towards them now. Greg felt a wave of icy fear ripple through him and tried to ignore it, but there was a deep discomfort in its wake. He focused on the task at hand. He immediately saw that the skill with which the man had saved his life earlier was no fluke. The first three-round burst connected squarely with the chest of the lead Combat Form, and blew it out in a spray of pale green gore that stained the ice and snow around it as it toppled over onto its back. Immediately, Larsen fired again, and repeated the process, putting down a second Flood.

Greg and Izzy held their ground, shotguns at ready, in case any of them got close enough. But Larsen was a quick and accurate shot, and only two of them managed to rush the Warthog, and they were put down easily enough with shotgun blasts. Just about the time they were starting to wrap it up, and Greg felt like they had finally gotten through an encounter without running into a serious problem, he heard a very deep, oddly familiar growl come from his right. His heart leaped into his throat as his stomach dropped out and he turned sharply.

And he saw.

"Oh shit!" he screamed.

"What-drub!" Izzy yelled.

"What the hell is that?!" Larsen demanded, his voice shot through with panic.

Greg's mind froze for a split second, then rebooted and kickstarted hard. "Keep it away from the Warthog!" he snapped, racing away from it, strafing away from the front of the vehicle while also getting a bit closer to the drub. Izzy joined him, both of them raising their shotguns. "Hold your fire, Larsen! Until I say!" he screamed.

It wasn't just a drub, though.

Honestly, Greg would have preferred a drub. Hell, he'd have taken two of the mean bastards. Because what he was facing right now was an infected drub. A drub that had been taken over by the Flood, something he hadn't even considered. He was still trying to process the fact that he was having to fight them at all, let alone the notion that they could infect the wildlife. Oh God, was he going to have to face infected vargs?

Time enough for that later.

If there was a later.

The infected drub looked like it had gained at least fifty percent in sheer bulk. Its fur and flesh had come off in several places, revealing a leathery, hardened hide beneath. Its chest was a lot bigger, and its limbs rippled with raw power and new musculature. Its claws looked enormous and tentacles had sprung from its broad back.

"You have got to be kidding me," Izzy groaned. "How are we going to do this?"

"Go for the chest, same as the others. Keep away from it," Greg replied quickly.

The mutated drub was slowly coming out of the dead forest, not quite heading for the Warthog, but not quite heading for them, either. It seemed to be making up its mind. Greg decided to help it out. He let his shotgun hang and pulled out his pistol, took aim, and fired a shot. It nailed the big bastard in its broad chest, but didn't seem to do a lot of damage. The thing turned towards him and regarded him with maddened, malignant red eyes.

It began coming towards him.

Not running or charging, but walking. And there was something even worse about that. Deciding now was as good a time as any, Greg zeroed in his sights on its misshapen head, hoping something important was there since its chest didn't exactly seem like a good target of opportunity, and opened fire. The M6G jerked in his grasp, and he heard a second pistol open up as Izzy joined him, keeping her distance from him and the Warthog for when they'd have to move, which would be soon, no doubt. The monstrous drub rushed them as the bullets began chewing into its flesh, driving geysers of decayed gore from its deformed body.