Holy Land

Play up, play up, and play the game!
User avatar
Patriotic SMSian
Posts: 131
Joined: Wed Oct 05, 2016 4:24 pm

Holy Land

Postby Questers » Tue Sep 11, 2018 12:49 am

Let our song ring,
Their corpses sing,
Their corpses dance,
Their corpses jump to our ACOM trance.

Oki Dar! Oki Dar! Oki Dar!
Kill every rat - kill every last fat rat!

Let our song ring,
Their corpses sing,
Their corpses dance,
Their corpses jump to our ACOM trance.

Oki Dar! Oki Dar! Oki Dar!
Home Land! Clean Land! Holy Land!

Oki Dar!

It was 1989. Bright Night had released their most famous album of the decade. Young Dharmans were wearing drainpipe jeans and rubber flip flops. The black and white televisions still played the Praetonian sign-out for the night. It was 1989 and everyone still drank Harbourmaster, for God alone knows what reason. It was August 1989 and Gerald was in Hakara.

"Turn that damn radio off," Paul said, leaning back in the seat of the land rover. Paul was a big man. Paul liked Harbourmaster, but hated Hakara — an orthodox opinion in the Operation. Gerald hated Harbourmaster but also hated Hakara, which was damn near enough heresy. Paul cracked open a bottle with a lighter.

"I'll just change the channel," Gerald said. It was the news. Gerald waved over for Paul to hand him a bottle. Even if you hated Harbourmaster, the stores people thought that everyone liked it, so that was all they bought. No choice.

"Brothers! It's been reported that the insects have begun using their women and even their children in combat actions against our Army. Communism infects even the smallest minds. This is First Radio, and we're here to pass on a message from the Government. Gurutuzaki — go out and get ready. If you have to take any kind of insect, small or tall, man or woman, then do so. This is for the country's security!"

"Jesus Christ," Paul said. "Turn it off."

"Hold up," Gerald fiddled with another radio. "Battalion's calling." A sepoy in the back of the land rover passed him the chunky radio-telephone transceiver. "Yes, this is Tidal One. Uh-huh. Okay. We'll get there right away." He told Paul to start driving. Behind them, jawans in khaki shorts, big North Point rifles slung over their shoulders, piled into trucks. "Company's got to get to the Mazaran temple on Galkai road." The temple was a big building, with thick stone walls surrounding it, but the gates had been closed and locked. No, not locked, Gerald realised. They had been torn open, but closed behind them.

The streets were loud. Shouting, screaming, chanting. The chatter of automatic weapons fire. The Battalion radio was a mess. Gohano had seen so much bloodshed. A little more wouldn't hurt, Gerald imagined the residents saying. A crowd of Gurutuzaki in their orange pants came from the outside of the walls, almost out of nowhere; there could have been three hundred. "Company, to the position," Gerald ordered, keeping his eyes ahead.

Inside the temple, Gurutuzaki began to bring out a score of women; then another score, and then another, in their traditional dress. Screaming and kicking at the sand, pulling up dust. Praying. They pissed themselves, and the dirt became dark, and the Gurutuzaki laughed.

At that moment, Gerald understood that this would be one of those moments. Somehow, when he thought back later, he felt that the whole event revolved only around him, and that he was the only person there with agency, and that the poor and wretched people under the knife were just mere actors in a play handed to him by a watching God.

Gerald raised a loudspeaker. "Disperse at once." Paul looked up at him. "You've no lawful authority to do that, you know."

"It's okay to try," Gerald said, and did it again. They began to sing. They walked up and down the line of women pinned to the floor, and they sang. The dust flew to their orange trousers and coloured them.

Let our song ring,
Their corpses sing,
Their corpses dance,
Their corpses jump to our ACOM trance.

"Orders, Sir?" The Company Subedar-Major asked.

"Sing," Gerald said.

"Sing what, Sir?"

"I don't care," Gerald said, and several seconds later, the sound of his own troops began to drown out the Oki Dar Chant.

Qadam Qadam baṛāye jā, khushi kē gīt gāē jā!
Yē zīndagi hai qâum kī, tū qâum pē lūtāē jā!

Gerald looked over. Paul was tapping his foot along. "Stop that," Gerald said. The orange trouser men looked over, pausing for a moment to see who had usurped them.

"Orders, Sir?"

Gerald stood up and pointed. "Smoke bomb, that target, now. Four shots."

Within three seconds the grenade launchers had popped, and thick red coloured smoke filled the street. It seemed like forever, but some of the women ran towards Gerald's cordon. He ordered the sepoys to pass them behind the trucks. Out of the smoke came charging the Gurutuzaki, but they stopped hard at the sight of a hundred .303 barrels. The lead Gurutuzaki began to walk up to Gerald.

"Would you like me to shoot that man, Sir?" the Subedar-Major asked.

"Not yet," Gerald said, and drew his revolver. It was loaded. Good. He let the man get to thirty paces. He could see his face; thick eyebrows. Square head, for a Parsiwan. "Take one more step towards me and I'll put a bullet in your head," Gerald said, raising his gun. The Gurutuzaki man stopped.

"Our prisoners are over there. Get out of the way."

"Under the Articles of Military Assistance, this is an official cordon of the Hakaran Stabilisation Operation, and as such I am in my lawful power to resist the movement of any persons armed and intent on warlike behaviour beyond this position. If any of your people take another step further, we shall open fire."

"We more than you." the Gurutuzaki man said. "We kill you, then we kill the insects. No problem. You like die? We four, you one."

"Yes," Gerald said, "You haven't nearly enough men."

"When you go," he said, "We kill. We take them, then we kill. Their blood come to the soil."

"Not today," Gerald said.

"Tomorrow," the Gurutuzaki man grinned, and began to laugh.

"Today is not tomorrow," he said.

"You are funny man. What your name? When we kill insect, and kill your soldiers, I save you."

"Captain," Gerald said. "Captain Gerald Richard George Hood."
Continent of Dreams - Official Questers Canon Compendium

[Tue 22:53:29] <colo> holy shit you are the fucking worst guy

User avatar
Patriotic SMSian
Posts: 92
Joined: Tue Oct 04, 2016 7:42 pm

Re: Holy Land

Postby Srf » Tue Sep 11, 2018 11:41 am

Loud, sharp cracks had been ringing throughout Tormud throughout the night, but they intensified around 6am and woke Esa up. He dragged himself of bed and peered out of his fifth floor window while fishing the last cigarette out of a faintly crumpled carton. He saw a row of mostly identical shop-fronts with faded, peeling paint and shattered windows. Here and there, fires smouldered in darkened shops and blackened cars. The air stank of decay, like an unclean butcher shop in a hot market. It was deserted, which was good.

Esa checked his fridge - the electricity had been down all night, and he had to step over a puddle of defrosted ice to peer inside - and found a couple of warm Questarian beers inside. His stomach gurgled. He would have to venture outside. He slipped on some shoes and stuffed a Songian handgun into his waistband and slipped down the five flights of stairs. There was a dead body and a big blood stain in the lobby which Esa had to step over, that had been there at least six days. Esa coughed once and peered out the front door of his building.

The early morning sun was very strong, and briefly blinded Esa. A pack of dogs led panting in the shade of a bullet-riddled garage while their alpha tore into another corpse lying in the gutter. A second dog made an attempt to take a bite from the body, but was chased off by the alpha's snarling teeth and rabid spittle. A few blocks away, the fleeting silhouettes of a mother and child running, hunched like animals, across the road caught Esa's eye. He said a quick prayer for them and set off on his own crouch-run across the street.

Esa's target was four blocks away - he could see the roof of the supermarket, with its gutted generator, from his own window - and the shots had been coming from the river-front area further south, so he had assumed he would be safe. He should have been, but he was unlucky. He was in the middle of the road, halfway to the supermarket, when a car he had thought was empty suddenly roared into life, and several screaming and jeering faces leered out of the windows. One held a megaphone.


Esa took off running as the car pulled out onto the road, and the laughs and shouts of the men inside grew louder.

Let our song ring,

Esa dived into another apartment building and pulled the gun from his pocket, spent a second aiming at the building's doorway before breaking and running up the stairs.

Their corpses sing, their corpses dance,

One of the damned animals was still screaming away on his megaphone, while the others piled out of the car and charged up the stairs after Esa. The cacophony of yelling and laughing behind him was indistinguishable from the rabid barks of the dogs outside his apartment.

Their corpses jump to our ACOM trance!

He body-slammed his way through the doorway to the rooftop and heard another scream, as a family of at least seven or eight who had been hiding up there ducked for cover. Breathing hard, Esa looked around frantically. The building was at least two storeys higher than any of its neighbours and a fall would almost certainly be fatal. The fire escape had been damaged by some kind of explosive a few weeks ago. The family that he had condemned to death was huddled in the corner together, whimpering.

Oki Dar! Oki Dar! Oki Dar!

Loud footsteps crashed up the last flight of stairs as Esa began running. He saw a flash of orange as the Gurutuzaki men burst onto the roof and made for the softer family target, raising their farming hoes and wood-axes and bringing them down into the screaming mass of people. Within three seconds Esa was over the edge of the building, and the sounds of wet meat being butchered receded and faded to the rear while the hard tarmac of the back alley rushed toward him.

Kill every rat - kill every last fat rat!

Return to “The Great Game”

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest