Fireteam Delta J. Halpin (top 10 books of all time TXT) 📖

up a token fight, but they were stretched thin, and the sheer amount of people fleeing for the safety of the walls overwhelmed them in an instant.

When it came down to it, Rhodes wasn’t trained for this kind of warfare, and they knew that with the right push, he’d make a mistake. The refugees would be ground between the gates and the enemy if they did nothing, so they’d planned to find some excuse to open them. Scouting, an assault—no matter what they chose, with the men the city had at their disposal focused on defending the walls, the rest would be a forgone conclusion.

He just wished it hadn’t been this messy.

Summers fired at a few men training arrows on Nowak’s group. His gun ran dry as the last man fell. He reached into his vest and realized he was down to his final magazine. He bit back his irritation. He’d been picking his shots, which meant the others were likely worse off than he was.

“Move!”

As they got closer, the gates began to shut, despite the mass of refugees still pressing in against them.

Then automatic fire cut through the crowd.

“Shit!”

Summers fell prone just as the gates began to close in their faces. About a hundred refugees must have been between them and the walls, and they were all still rushing for the gate in front of them.

It only took Summers a moment to realize why they’d started to shut the gates. Hoofbeats pounded the ground nearby, and he turned to see nearly fifty horses charging directly at him.

He had one grenade left. He fired it into the head of the charging horse only a dozen feet away from him.

Boom!

The blast washed over him in an instant. He fired until his gun was empty, watching as men dropped from their downed mounts. His men did the same, but the enemy had committed to the charge. The only way they’d survive was to take the gate.

A single elf broke toward Summers, their eyes colored blood-red. Tired as he was, Summers could still recognize the effects of the fog at a glance. He thrust a spear at Summers’ chest, screaming with a bare, animalistic rage.

Summers gripped the barrel of his rifle and slammed the stock into the side of the man’s head.

He skittered across the ground in the next instant, his head crushed.

Elves were pouring from the trees, more making it through the massed fire coming from the walls than Summers would have expected. It was a killing field, but there were too many to truly slow them down.

As Summers’ mind raced for a solution, the corpse at his feet twitched, and the spear in its hands thrust upward.

“What—?” Summers had no time to react as he felt the tip of a spear sink into his side.

Orvar turned and fired the last of his magazine into the body at Summers’ feet. It fell, now truly still.

Summers pulled the spear loose, watching as hot blood spilled onto the snow below him.

The sound of gunfire above only intensified. The gate was still open. He could see the gates themselves struggle with the bodies in their path.

But what worried him the most was that there was no pain.

Summers looked to the headless corpse in front of him and felt at the glass bottle tied to his own belt.

Orvar clubbed a man in the head with the butt of his rifle. Two more thrust spears in his direction. The others weren’t fairing any better. They’d be overrun in just a few seconds. The refugees behind him screamed, clawing their way over their dead, only to be cut down by more gunfire.

Summers opened the bottle and put it to his lips. He felt the cool liquid drain into his mouth before tossing the rest to the ground.

His breathing calmed. His heart was racing now, pumping hard in his ears. He stood.

The dull hunger he’d dealt with previously intensified, slamming into him like a physical force. But he refused to lose control. He focused on that like a mantra.

Summers took a step forward, then another. Then he was in deep, dark water.

The battlefield seemed to disappear, and all that stood in front of him was a black, tar-like being. It was covered in melted rock, watching him with a thousand dead eyes.

Another step, and a spear was inches from his head.

But he was already in motion, allowing the spear to pass by, his arm reaching out to the face of the elf in front of him. He felt the snap of the man’s neck as his hand slammed into the man’s head. Summers sat there, regarding it for a moment before he tossed the body at a group of others.

Three more men yelled something as they charged forward. Summers grabbed the dead man’s spear and slammed it into the chest of the elf in front of him. Pat was beside him then, warding off the others as Summers broke the spear on the second man’s head.

The third ran.

Summers looked at Pat. There was terror in the man’s eyes, but he made no move to attack.

He could wait.

It could have been minutes, hours—Summers couldn’t really tell how long he fought. Most of the men were running now. He saw them fall as those on the walls cut them down. But he still felt the blood running down his leg, distantly, and he realized he couldn’t do this for long. His heart was pumping faster, and no matter how strong he was, he’d still bleed out if he didn’t get help.

So, he just needed more blood.

He rushed to the man in front of him. The man raised his shield to ward Summers off. Summers grabbed it, and then froze.

He could see his face in the shield’s reflection. His eyes, his mouth—they were