Gunmage-Chapter 10: The hollow Legion

BANG!

A bullet punched through the skull of a former officer, the body crumpling to the deck like a broken puppet. Lugh and the captain whirled around, their movements almost as synchronized as the apparitions they were about to face, to stare at the shooter

The man shrugged, unrepentant

"What?!"

He asked, voice laced with dry amusement.

"We're still going to kill each other, aren't we?

Might as well start now."

As if his words were a trigger, the things which were once men lunged– moving with terrifying, inhuman coordination.

The world exploded with the roar of gunfire.

Lugh's grip tightened around his rifle. The irresponsible drunkard who had offered him a drink, the soft-spoken youth, the group that had urged him to tell a joke only to greet it with silence—he recognized their faces.

Even as they charged toward him with dead, glassy eyes. He felt something—something dull, something distant—stir within his chest with every bullet that tore through someone he had, however briefly, known.

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But regret was a luxury he couldn't afford. These things were no longer human.

He fired, but his bullets did not find their mark as often as he wished. A seven-foot-wide lizard had been a simpler target—instinctual, bestial. These were still shaped like men, and that made all the difference.

He could blame his injured arm, but Lugh didn't have a habit of ignoring his shortcomings.

Perhaps Sergeant Sparky had been right about him. Sergeant Sparky... may her soul find the peace this world clearly denied.

Lugh's contributions were minor, but the captain and his partner fought like something out of a nightmare.

Each shot was a desperate prayer, a fleeting moment of control in the face of encroaching madness.

The two marksmen, their faces etched with a grim resolve, moved with a practiced and terrifyingly efficient grace.

Every motion was calculated, their rhythm precise—a dance of gunpowder and death. The bullets all landed where it mattered: head, knees, spine.

They barely moved their bodies more than necessary, wasting neither bullets nor motion, an execution refined to its most lethal efficiency.

Yet even that was barely enough. Their inhumane skill was constantly put to the limits, a fragile shield against the tide of inhumanity that threatened to engulf them.

The horde moved without hesitation, their eyes vacant and glazed, advancing with a terrifying, relentless, single-minded purpose.

It was unnerving how they didn't flinch at the sting of bullets, didn't cry out in pain, didn't even slow down when the projectiles ripped through flesh and bone.

A bullet tearing through an arm might leave it dangling uselessly, a mangled mess of bone and sinew, but the seemingly possessed human would keep coming, driven by the dark, unholy force that puppeteered its broken body.

Bullets shattered limb and tore through torsos, yet the legion simply continued advancing.

They had no instincts left, no sense of self-preservation. The force controlling them demanded only one thing—forward.

The captain exhaled, his breath slow and measured as he reloaded.

"They just keep coming"

he muttered.

His voice was hoarse—not with fear, but exhaustion.

He sighted down the barrel, his finger tightening on the trigger. The rifle roared, the bullet punching a hole through the chest of an approaching figure. The apparition stumbled backwards, a dark, viscous fluid blooming around the wound, but it didn't fall.

It simply staggered, its blank eyes never wavering from the targets.

Beside him, the brown-haired spy swallowed hard before pulling the trigger, the rifle recoiled against his shoulder.

A sharp crack echoed as his bullet ripped through the throat of a female recruit. She stumbled back, clawing at the gaping wound, a hoarse, rasping sound escaping her lips, but the wound was too severe.

Her legs buckled, and she crumpled to the deck, eyes staring vacantly at the twisted sky.

Lugh adjusted his aim, steadier this time. His bullets punched through the torso of a massive soldier, but the man did not slow. Unfazed, unbroken, his body a patchwork of blood and ripped clothing, he continued his charge.

Calm. Steady.

The bullet found its mark, shattering the bone in the kneecaps. The hulking man's legs gave way, and he crashed to the ground, moments later a well placed shot sent brain matter splattering across the deck.

Head, knees, spine —each bullet found its mark with chilling precision, instantly executing or crippling their targets.

The captain showed no hesitation in dispatching his former subordinates. Lugh suspected he'd have done the same even if they still retained their personalities; these vacant shells were merely easier to kill.

Though their single-bolt rifles had a slow rate of fire, lugh and the two marksmen held the inhuman soldiers at bay, their superior firepower compensating for the numerical disadvantage.

So much so that against all logic, the tide slowed. The inhuman soldiers, once heedless in their advance, began to retreat.

"What the–"

Just then—

A single figure emerged.

It walked stiffly to the center of the deck, its movements wrong in a way the eye could not quite follow.

The brown-haired spy tensed, his rifle rising. The captain held up a hand.

"Wait."

His voice was tight.

"I think it's trying to—"

The thing opened its mouth.

A sound tore free—guttural, inhuman.

"#@%^!$%"

It struck like a hammer to the skull.

The captain and the spy staggered, their rifles nearly slipping from their grip. Their faces contorted in pain, confusion, the fragile stability of their bodies lost.

But Lugh—

Lugh felt weightless.

The words—if they were words—resonated in his mind, familiar yet foreign, like something half-remembered from a dream. He could almost understand. He could almost grasp the meaning, the shape of something vast and terrifying.

Closer. Just a little closer. Perhaps if it spoke again—

"...d."

What?

"Kid!"

The captain's shout jolted him back to reality.

He was on his knees, choking, his vision swimming in a haze of red.

Something warm trickled down his face. His ears. His mouth. Blood pooled at his feet, dark against the deck.

"Dammit, kid!"

Through the haze, he saw them—his two unlikely protectors, struggling to right themselves, their footing unsteady.

And behind them—

The horde, sensing their vulnerability, surged forward, a tide of silent, relentless death.