Meteor Soldiers - Episode 1-8

“Titties on toast,” exclaimed the General, “who are you pansies?”

            “We’re the end of your plans,” said Penta, authority subtly present in her words.

            “That’s right, chodebags,” said Chess coolly. “We’re the Meteor Troopers.”

            “Wasn’t it Meteor Soldiers?” asked Corey.

            “Whatever, it should have been Rangers anyway,” Chess replied. “Soldiers and Troopers both liken us to the enemy. If I’d heard the term ‘Meteor Soldiers’ before this ordeal began, I’d have been mislead to think it had something to do with joining the army.”

            “Enough!” ordered Kolanyde, and his grainy voice sent Corey back to that midnight corridor. Had he really been there just two hours ago? “I won’t tolerate bantering from some freaks dressed like clowns.”

            “Look who’s talking, Mr. Hood,” said Burt, stepping forward. “You still stuck in the 50 Cent phase?”

            “Tough words, fatty,” the beast hissed. “I’d feast on your entrails, but I’m on a diet.” He made a ‘right on’ motion like a reverse uppercut, while Scorch and the General high-fived.

            “So that’s why you look like a burlap sack full of bones?” Burt quipped. “I thought Madonna was infiltrating a potato farm.” Corey and Gina howled and hooted while Chess clapped in appreciation.

            “Oh wha-ever, beanbag,” said the General. “You talk big, but you ain’t got shit to back it up.”

            “Try me,” said Burt. “We’ve got a pain delivery. Have your arse sign here.”

            “Just bring it, honey.”

            “Oh, I’ll bring it, but do y’all want it?”

            “We want it alright. We want it bad.”

            “Well you’re in luck, girlfriend, ‘cause bad is how we bring it.”

            “Then stop singin’ and start bringin’.”

            “Don’t worry, I’ll bring it when you ask for it.”

            “Oh, I’m asking for it sunshine.”

            “Then I’ll reach into my bag and get it.”

            “Are we fighting them or picking up?” Gina whispered aside. Corey was wondering for himself, until the General lifted the whistle around his neck.

            “Fine, ladies. Since you’ve got two more players than our team, let’s even things out a little...”

            The tin whistle converted his full blow into a faintly audible siren, as if summoning a hound. If only it had been. Instead, trees were rattled as a wall of humanoids flooded the road behind the colourful heroes. The breath rushed from Corey’s lungs at the sheer number of Hellmarchers - all just metres away with their feral stares and lizard skin. Suddenly victory didn’t seem so plausible. All five Soldiers stood back-to-back, eagerly facing both enemy parties with weapons raised.

            “Sucks to be you,” said the General. “Company, attack!”

            Bone scraping bellows were unleashed by the lunging terrors; screams like those of a human’s lungs against a bulldog’s vocal cords. Arrays of bullets flew from the creatures’ pistols. Corey held his sabre defensively, which jerked back as a shot bounced off it. Milliseconds later, a bullet hit his arm. It stung. It hurt. It... would leave a bruise. But it hadn’t pierced the skin. The thick - yet conventionally so - fabric of his pirate vest had repelled the bullet, just as Tokusatsu had promised. And already Burt was exploiting the Hellmarchers’ shock by charging with his axe.

            It’s now or never, Corey thought, and raised his sword. One Hellmarcher aimed its gun for another attempt, so he quickly sprung. With no time for fear or remorse, he impulsively brought the blade down.

            KLURP!

            Right down the centre. This particular Hellmarcher wouldn’t be hell-marching anymore, as the Green Pirate’s sword enveloped half of its skull, dividing the two sectors of its undeveloped brain. My first kill. No time for an emotional response, as the enemy to his left was already aiming its pistol. So he unearthed his weapon - or more accurately, un-headed it - and prepared to preserve his life once again.

---

By now, Burt had downed two foes with his double-edged axe, encrusted with jewels and just heavy enough to remind him it was there. Truly it was splendid, made for his hands. And his tunic had thrice deflected bullets, though the impact had hurt like a fothermucker and knocked him off balance. But he was practically invincible.

            Gah!

            Or not. A shot had torn past his neck, cutting the fabric and leaving a gash. He ran a leather-clad finger along the wound and quickly examined it. Blood. Clearly the neck material wasn’t as resilient. He briefly fretted for the safety of his friends.

            No. The best way to save them is to pick off as many Hellmarchers as I can. Tucking his neck into his shoulders, he faced the nearest enemy. He raised his arm overhead and hurled the axe. One zombie-trooper fell sideways, oversize tomahawk protruding from its chest.

            “Alright! Time to get fat on these a-holes,” the Viking declared, then threw his fist at an oncoming victim. “Flying Burt Punch!”

---

Fresh waves of foes marched towards the Yellow Spartan. Though he’d felled two with his spear, Chess knew they’d trap him if they all came at once. Purple Private Gina flung her assault rifle around maniacally, still with her kill-virginity. While his golden armour had flattened many a bullet with a dignified ping, she was less protected and probably less eager to slaughter. He charged himself with defending her, so when the next demonic drone neared, he pierced its chest with his staff.

          Another approached, so he swiftly withdrew his polearm and faced them. There was no time to parry before they shot, but with his fancy-pants armour it didn’t even unbalance him. After concisely flicking the spearhead across their throat, he kicked them away. Though with the oncoming mutant horde, his attacks would be too cumbersome to serve him. His only hope was Gina.

            “Listen,” he said, “you have to shoot them. Use me as cover, then emerge and fire every few seconds. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

            “Pfft, I’m not retarded,” she said, cocking her rifle. As Chess became a human barricade - the very thing they fought Devil’s Maw to oppose
- she spun backwards around him and hosed the enemies with automatic fire before retracting to safety. Chess dared a glance to discover the six or so Hellmarchers falling dead. Regardless, Gina popped back around him and wasted another round of fire. She pulled back, then repeated.

            “It’s over!” he screamed over her thundering weapon. “Stop shooting!”

            “You’re over what?” she yelled, standing still but keeping the trigger compressed.

            “Take your finger off the trigger!”

            “Take my helmet off?”

            “Trigger!” he yelled over the deafening armada of stray bullets. “Finger off trigger!”

            “I don’t have a tiger!”

            He yanked the gun off her, then benevolently handed it back.

---

Hope was slowly dying.

            As each Hellmarcher fell, the enemy came closer to victory; something Scorch simply wouldn’t accept. With the instrument on his arm he could obliterate the lone fighters. All except for ‘Blue Ninja’, who turned towards him after effortlessly vanquishing three monsters. Clearly she was Penta, down to every katana stroke. Since this woman’s origins were unknown, however, her identity was meaningless. The real question was the ID of the other Meteor Soldiers.

            No, he wouldn’t call them that. That was a silly prophecy spewed by illiterate space rocks. As Penta strolled closer, he prepared to remind himself of that.

            “I have no reluctance to kill you,” she said, “though your surrender would serve us better.”

            “Pardon me while I shit a brick,” he said with a patronising grin. “You think you’re winning since some teens have discovered suits and swords? Blue Ninja my poop chute. Now allow me to demonstrate why they call me Scorch.” He raised his weapon and compressed the handlebar. A stream of pure water burst from the nozzle and squirted her chest.

            “Damn, hold on...” He twisted the weapon’s dial from ‘WATER’ to ‘FIRE’, then shot again. “Burn baby, burn!” Wraith-like clouds of orange flame barfed forwards, smothering his field of vision. For an instant Scorch was in paradise; the heat, the gasoline tang, his control over life and death. As he’d anticipated, the clearing of the fire unveiled a patch of browned earth. And in the centre stood Penta, speedily rotating her blade like a fan.

            “Your technique is barbaric,” she said, unfazed. Scorch caught her lightning-paced strike on his own steel fighting utensil, and the struggle to push one another down began.

---

Four Hellmarchers had been demolished by Green Pirate’s sword, and Corey was sick of the bullet-beatings he’d taken. One projectile had even smashed into his face, though the mask had saved his head from becoming stir fry. He’d killed enough cronies, and saw that his pals were handling the rest. The big fish - Kolanyde - watched from a safe distance. He turned to the demon who had slain his friend. Now he could do what he wasn’t strong enough for back at the camp.

            Revenge wouldn’t be enough.

            No vendetta would hold.

            Vengeance was obsolete.

            It was time to rectify David’s murder. It was time for-

            “Revendetta-engeance!” he yelled, and charged Kolanyde. The metres between them were consumed by his animalistic rage while his target stood unflinching. Corey would’ve thought ‘This’ll make things easy’, if his overconfident brain had room for logic. He raised his blade, skidded to a halt before the fiend, and slashed diagonally.

            If air could bleed, his bloodlust would’ve been sated. But Kolanyde sidestepped the attack, seemingly without lifting a leg. He slashed again, horizontally this time. The hooded hell-raiser bent backwards and evaded the strike. Frustrated, Corey begun stabbing, each thrust growing more zealously violent. Kolanyde shifted to-and-fro, side to side, dodging every blow. From what little of his shaded face was visible, he looked to be smirking. No matter how Corey struck he couldn’t succeed. Then, in one fateful overhead haul, the sword was pinched by a claw. He had caught the sabre.

            “My turn...”

          Corey was suddenly remorseful for diving into the deep end. A swift backhand flung his sword away, and while he was in shock Kolanyde tackled him down. A bruised spine was Corey’s smallest problem as he grasped Kolanyde’s wrist double-handed. By straining his muscles and will to live, he kept the foe’s deformed, rake-like claw from plunging into his throat.

            “Humans.... So quick to die.” Its raw-meat breath clogged Corey’s throat as he was pinned down. Those words it spoke reminded him how easily Dave was killed, and how Devil’s Maw saw no value in life. This could not be tolerated. He had to end things. Yet this righteous hatred - this lust for revendetta-engeance - couldn’t grant him the needed strength.

            I’m sorry, he said to Dave Bennington, himself, and the world. I’m not strong enough.

            Kolanyde cackled. “You’ll be easier to cancel than The Glasshouse.”

            A sudden tightness clutched Corey’s ribcage.

            “That..... was you?”

            Rage, passion, loathing. Again he was overwhelmed. Reason to avenge overshadowed his doubts, and he was practically lifting Kolanyde by the wrist. Slowly the tides turned until they were level. Then, with a roar even he didn’t anticipate, Corey slammed his whole self into Enemy One.

            Now free, he pulled himself up and dashed for his sword. He scooped it up without slowing and faced Kolanyde, who was already hysterically scrambling away. Shortly after, Corey’s friends rushed to his side, and he realised that the General and Scorch were also retreating clumsily - with a complete absence of Hellmarchers.


            “Curses!” Kolanyde yelled, looking back as he ran and waving a fist. “I’ll shit in your mailbox!” The three villains were soon across the border, out of the swamp.

          Victorious bellows were given by the heroes. Within the next minute, Corey found himself hugging Burt and Gina who otherwise irritated him. He found himself hugging the usually abrasive Chess. He guessed Penta wasn’t the hugging type, but when faced with her he felt compelled to nod.

            “You all did well,” she said, though seemingly just to him. “Now let’s get back to base.”

            When the commotion began several hours earlier, Corey wondered where it would end. He’d lost a good friend, and didn’t see what could come from it. Now he knew, and wasn’t sure he liked it. But he knew it was made for him, and he would uphold it. After all, he’d joined the army to give himself one iota of purpose; he ended up finding an arse-tonne.

            Before dying, Dave had said that someone would rise to stop Devil’s Maw. He’d also once said that Gina was the reason a callus was forming on his hand, but that didn’t matter. What mattered is that Corey would continue to avenge Dave and The Glasshouse. He looked to the empty sky with hope, for he was making a difference. Like birth control products in Texas, he and his friends were to cease the spread of evil. They were the blister on darkness’s cornhole. They were the proctologists of light that would-

            “-probe the unjust sphincter...”

            “You really need to stop finishing your inner monologues out loud,” said Chess. “It’s especially annoying when we’re revelling in victory.”



Next up, "Episode Two: Jocks 'n Bots" (http://www.thefatmandoor.com/stories/meteor-soldiers/ms_2-1.html)