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• Guerra de trincheras
• Frente occidental (Primera Guerra Mundial)
• Batalla del Somme
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• Nicolás II de Rusia

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013

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SWARM ON THE SOMME

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013

For millennia, they tore their way across the Orion Arm. Swarms of quintillions, from which planet nobody knew nor cared, ravaged their way across solar systems. Even technologically advanced races buckled under the sheer numbers and abilities they possessed. Some choose to ally with one another, trying to postpone the swarm as it carried on rampaging. One small scout vessel of the hive, sent to search the outer reaches of the galaxy to search for more planets to consume, by chance was drawn to a young sun, the center of a seemingly unimportant solar system. The scout group noted the presence of one life-bearing planet--a perfect opportunity to weaken it for the arrival of the swarm proper, perhaps even consume it. Had the scout decided to opt for the adjacent system, perhaps things would have turned out differently for that little blue planet. ** 5th January 1915, Northern France John Daniels, soldier of the British Expeditionary Force, sat crouched in his trench while the sounds of artillery and machinegun fire came from somewhere far away. He was shivering, covered in mud, his hair infested with lice, his food filled with maggots. His uniform was in tatters and his ammunition was low. Moments later, there was a huge scream, like an artillery volley but much louder, followed by a boom and a jolt, which knocked him off the box he was sitting and caused chunks of the trench wall to collapse. Some sort of new German artillery? He crept out and looked cautiously over the side of the trench. About a kilometer away, embedded in the ground, was some sort of enormous thing,looking like some sort of gigantic rock. He wondered what the sarge would make of this. ** Central Australia Harry Sanders, scholar from Sydney University, had been awoken by some sort of earthquake that morning. Staying out here in the Outback in his study of the Pitjanjatjara tribe, a venture his fellows had mocked him for, he had no idea just what could have caused this. Glancing around the seemingly endless stretch of parched wasteland, he noticed something wrong with Ayers rock, in the background. There seemed to be some sort of lump embedded on top of it. ** Central Siberia, Imperial Russia

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Grigor Liadov, guardsman of one of the Tsar's prison camps out here in this frozen wasteland, took a long at the expanse of tundra around him. Countless trees had been flattened by the earthquake earlier, thought what could have caused it he had no idea. That black mass in the distance--had that been there before? ** Northern France Infantryman Klaus Wagner looked over the trench at the falling rock now occupying a good chunk of the space between theirs and the Tommy trenches. He was surprised that a thing of such size hadn't made a bigger crater. The troops in the rest of the trench were still confused, and the scheduled artillery barrage had been put off. Messages had been sent to command to await instructions over what to do with the thing--perhaps they would blast it apart with artillery and resume the fight. Perhaps it would turn out that there was gold in it. He then noted what looked like a golden, ten-legged beetle scuttling nearby. Strange little thing--certainly didn't look like anything you'd find in these parts. As he bent down to take a closer look, it suddenly pounced onto his ankle and dug its mandibles straight through his clothes and into his skin. Crying out, he jerked spasmodically for a moment before he tore the thing off and stamped it into the ground. He pulled up his trouser to get a look--a purple patch was forming on his skin where it had bit him. Groaning, he limped down the trench as more of the little insects began scurrying into sight. ** Petrograd, Imperial Russia Tsar Nicholas II sat within his room in the Winter Palace as one of his aides entered the room. Were they about to bring him news from the front? "My Tsar, our astronomers at Pulkovo Observatory would like to report that earlier this morning they recorded a large falling star heading on a trajectory that would bring it into central Siberia." "And?" sighed the Tsar. "Why should I be concerned with one falling rock falling into that frozen wasteland?" "With respect, sir, they feel it may generate a cataclysm comparable to the one in 1908. It is possible that it may cause disruption in that area." "If by disruption you mean squashing a few peasant villages, then certainly. Now leave me alone until you

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 have something important to tell me." And with that, the Tsar rolled back into bed. ** France "A falling star, you say?" "Yes, sir. Message just came in from the Somme area. The troops are confused, and apparently its arrival has coincided with a sudden outbreak of strange yellow beetles." John French of the British Expeditionary Forces, within his place of command, eyed the messenger. "Reminds me somewhat of that yarn written by that Wells fellow back in '98, don't you think? Oh well, I guess we shall simply have to remove this impediment. With explosives, or artillery. Can't let one stone from the heavens interrupt the fight, can't we?" "Very good, sir. Oh, and by the way, the message would also like to add that some of our men have been bitten by these beetles, and are feeling very ill." "Well, this isn't my specialty. But no insects will survive for long in that hellhole. Just tell the soldiers to give them the same treatment they give their lice. Now, unless you have anything else to add, I would like to continue with my breakfast." ** Northern France "Message from the toffs, lads. Artillery's going to blast that big rock, and then we'll be able to get back to giving Jerry what for." For the past several hours the area had been surprisingly quiet. Daniels guessed that the Krauts had been just as stunned by the thing as they were. He took another peek over the side of the trench--the thing seemed bigger than before, and there appeared to be tendrils of some sort extending into the ground. "But sir, maybe there's somethin' of value inside that." asked one soldier with a loud London accent to the sergeant. "Nonsense, private. That rock is only of interest to crackpots who think that giant ants live on the moon." He checked his watch. "Okay, the guns will be firing any moment now."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 After a few moments, the booming of artillery started up, and Daniels covered his ears. Moments later, the whistling of incoming shells came in. He looked over the side again, expecting the rock to shatter like an egg, only to see a cluster of pinpricks hovering near it. Peering at them through his binoculars, he could see that they were, in fact, the artillery shells. Moments later, they dropped to the ground harmlessly. "What the devil happened there?" breathed the sergeant. He turned to another soldier. "Send a message back to the brigadier--tell him that for some reason shells won't hit that thing. We need explosives." "We're going to blow it up, sir? What about the Boche?" "To hell with them! There’s something unnatural about this rock, and I do not want it here any longer!" As he spoke, several cries came from down the trench. Looking down, Daniels could see countless insects swarming towards them--little golden beetles. Hundreds of them pounced onto some poor guy beside a machinegun, causing him to scream out in agony. Daniels ran down the trench as the others began firing into the swarm, some even lobbing grenades. He didn't know what the hell was happening, he didn't want to find out. ** Sergeant Matthias Schultz headed down the trench, with soldiers huddled together down by its walls. It was all due to that damn rock that had fallen out of the sky--the Britishers had suddenly stopped firing, his machingunners were complaining that it blocked their view, and now he was getting reports of strange biting insects crawling about. He noted, calmly walking towards him, was one of the troops--Wagner, or something like that. One of his trousers appeared to be slightly torn, as if something had bitten through it. "I request permission to access an infirmary, sir." he said calmly. "I have been bitten by an insect." "Show me." snapped Schultz. Damned cowards were always using injuries to try and keep out of duty. The soldier complied, pulling up his trouser to show that his ankle had turned purple and some sort of crystalline stuff was protruding out of his skin. Schultz felt faint. "Ah...very well, permission granted, soldier." He turned to the other soldiers. "If any of you see these insects which are supposedly crawling about, eliminate them. They are no doubt connected to that rock, which I trust either our gunners or the Tommies will have razed in good time." He took another look over the trench. The rock seemed to have changed shape, looking more bulbous and as if it was about to burst. The sooner that thing was destroyed, the better. **

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Dozens of guards and prisoners of the Tsar, once in animosity of each other, walked calmly across the snow towards a distant rail track. Scurrying around their legs were hundreds of beetles, some of them latched onto their clothes. Each man had a puncture in his trouser, and an empty expression on his face. The 15.00 supply train to Vladivostok was due in a few hours. ** Schultz observed the rock, safe in the knowledge that the artillery would soon let rip and send it back to wherever it came from. More soldiers had complained about bites from these damned bugs that had popped out of nowhere. Once this thing was blown up, he would see that they were all exterminated. "Mein herr!" cried a voice. "Look!" Schultz lowered his view. Across the desolate expanse before them, hundreds of...things...were apparently burrowing their way out of the ground. Giant moles? Badgers? What was going on? He finally got a close look of one of the things as it appeared, and his jaw dropped. It was some kind of giant insect, the size of a donkey, like a cross between an ant a spider, with ten legs and a drooling face fall of mandibles. It was colored black-and-red, like some monstrous Red Widow. He continued to stand gaping as at least a hundred of the things began to scuttle rapidly towards the trench. "Sir? Orders?" Schultz snapped back to reality. "Shoot, you idiots, shoot!" The soldiers aimed over the side of the trench and opened fire, with the MG 08 machineguns positioned on regular intervals likewise. Bullets hammered into the faces of the nearest bugs, but anything less than about ten rounds on a concentrated spot seemed to do little other than slow them down for a moment. As they finally came within meters of the trench, Schultz fixed a bayonet to his Gewehr 98 rifle. "Soldiers!" he screamed. "Fix bayonets!" They complied, just as the things began leaping into the trench. A soldier nearby screamed as it dug its mandibles straight into him, tearing into his stomach. As he clattered to the ground, it picked up his rifle with its forward legs, and then suddenly stuck it straight into its hide. A gooey, purple, crystalline substance spread from the spot where it was stuck and covered most of the rifle in a matter of seconds. Now armed, the thing fired the rifle now embedded in it, grazing Schultz on the shoulder. Crying out in pain, he looked around him and saw his men being overwhelmed by the things. Ahead, one of them had managed to incorporate of the MG 08s into itself, and was blazing away like a madman. Throwing down a grenade, he leapt out of the trench and began running to the artillery positions a distance back, hoping the explosion would buy him time. He was going to have the entire area pulverized and gassed.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Those things were not going to spread out more. ** Train driver Leonid Palenko sighed as his train braked to a halt. A crowd of people, some dressed in army uniform, some in prisoner fatigues, were standing still on the track ahead. What were those idiots thinking? Here he was, delivering an shipment for a company in Vladivostok, and they were delaying him. "What the fuck do you think you are doing, durak?" he shouted as one of them walked briskly up to him. "You are holding up the train! Get a move on!" He then noticed there was something wrong with the guy's face. Half of it was covered in this purple, shiny mucus, and the eye of that half was bulging so much that it looked like it would burst. "What's wrong with you?" he demanded as the man drew a revolver. "No! Put the gun down! Wait!" The man fired, the bullet slamming straight into Leonid's brain. Moments later, the others were also walking towards the train. Within a few minutes, it was continuing on its way, delivering a new shipment to its destination. ** Colonel Jacques Picard of the French army sat on a chair before a villa sipping from wine. Looking around him, it was difficult to tell that a matter of kilometers away was the Somme, and some of the worst fighting here on the Western Front. The soldiers and officers passing by here had being spreading ridiculous rumors of a falling rock that was invincible to artillery fire. Obviously, he didn't believe such nonsense, being a man of taste. Footsteps approached. He turned to see two British soldiers, their uniforms bloodied and muddy, carrying something in a bag between them. He wondered what these two uncouth English men wanted. "So many...those eyes, those eyes..." one of them was mumbling. "What is the matter?" demanded Jacques angrily. Sighing, one of the soldiers dumped the contents of the bag in front of him. Jacques spat out his wine in shock. It was some sort of monstrously large insect, like some deformed spider, curled up and holed by bullets. "What is this?" he breathed. "Hundreds of 'em attacked us, sir." said one of the British soldiers in a Cockney accent. "We think they comes from that big rock that fell from the sky. Me and Pete here managed to kill one of 'em and carry him here. They didn't seem to interested in us, y'see, and dug back into the ground when they killed all the lads in our bit of the trench. We think they gave the Krauts the same treatment."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "But did you not shoot them?" "These big lice can take a bullet to the face and they'll just keep on coming. Plus, there was a ton of 'em. When you killed one, twenty more appeared." "Did you not use artillery?" "Didn't 'ave time to send a message. Besides, like I said, they dug under the ground when they were finished. Nothin' for them to fire at even if they knew they was there." Jacques stood up. "You two will come with me and take that thing with you. There is a truck near here. We will take this to Monsieur French at command and inform him of the situation." "Very nice idea, sir." Scooping up the thing, they walked down to a nearby truck, not noticing the golden beetles scurrying in the nearby shadows. ** The Biped forces in the immediate area of the hive-meteor had been exterminated. More would no doubt come. Fodder for the warriors. Their ranged weapons would do no good. The Infiltrators had already managed to force several Bipeds into the consciousness of the Swarm. Their knowledge had been stripped from them and added into the Swarm's collective mind. These Bipeds were disunited, disjointed, squabbling and suspicious. They waged a war that was consuming a continent. Their industry, once converted, would do well to produce the weapons the Swarm had acquired from other worlds. But for now, their own primitive weapons would have to suffice. Targets for attacking had already been identified. The urban areas known as Paris, Berlin, London, and Moscow were the most important. Lesser strategic and tactical locations were also included into the plan. Warriors and other representatives of the war caste were being spawned. Inevitably, the Bipeds would succumb. `

** 6th January 1915, Berlin Kaiser Wilhelm II, Eric Von Falkenhayn, Paul von Hindenburg and Eric Ludendorff stood around a table in a room within the Reichstag itself. Apparently, reports of a very disturbing development had filtered in from the western front, and the Kaiser had demanded that he and all his most important members of the chief of staff be told in person.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Mein herren," announced a man from intelligence as he entered the room, saluting. "We have confirmation of very strange news that could potentially reshape this war entirely." "What would it be? Has God finally decided to wipe those Entente pigs from the face on the Earth?" said Falkenhayn. "Er...it is something like that, now that you put it this way. I shall be succinct. Yesterday morning, a rock of some sort fell down in the space between ours and the enemy's front lines in the Somme area, in Northern France." "Is that it?" scoffed the Kaiser. "A falling star necessitates the changing of our war effort?" "It is what came with the rock that will. Shortly thereafter, both us and the Britishers came under attack. I will not waste time attempting a description of the attackers, for you will take me for a madman. I shall let these photographs speak for themselves." He tossed a set of freshly developed pictures onto the table. They displayed enormous insects swarming over the land, attacking soldiers and pulling apart crates and trucks. The jaws of all looking at them dropped. "What...what are those?" gasped Ludendorff. "Enormous insects, as your eyes will tell you, that obviously accompanied the rock." "Preposterous! Insects of unearthly origin coming from fallen rocks? I refuse to believe this!" said the Kaiser. "You will have to." continued the intelligence officer dryly. "We also discovered these." He tossed several dead golden beetles onto the table. "What's this?" "These appeared shortly after the rock's impact. They apparently swarmed in some trench areas, and bit whoever came near them. Those who have been bitten are in care, but the symptoms are...strange, to say the least. Analysis is still being worked on." "So...what are these creatures doing now?" asked Hindenburg. "They exterminated all our troops in the immediate vicinity of their rock, and did not pursue a further onslaught." "Have we not destroyed the area with artillery?"

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "They are capable of burrowing underground, and trying to blow up the rock with ranged fire has not yielded much in the way of results." "What do you mean?" "We are simply unable to destroy it. I cannot properly word an explanation yet." "Enough." snapped the Kaiser. "This situation is confusing me, and I demand we take all measures necessary to defuse this. We shall destroy the area from above if we must. I think our zeppelins might be useful for this." "As you wish, Herr Kaiser..." ** John French wiped the sleep from his eyes as he stumbled into the meeting room he had been told to go. Supposedly, an emergency briefing had been called, with all top British and French officers available having been called. What was going on? Had the Boche broken through their lines? "Ah, Monsieur French." said a voice as he entered. "Please look at the table." French nodded, taking a look down, and swore he almost had a heart attack from the shock. Lying on the table was some gigantic ant...spider...thing. Dead, and curled up, but still hideous. "Wha...what is that?" "That, sir, is what came in that rock you were told fell from the sky at the Somme." "Just one?" "No, sir. Hundreds, at the least. They killed all our boys in the immediate area, and artillery did not seem to have much of an effect." "I...I...need some coffee. Make that beer." ** Northern France French Sergeant Derand accompanied the BEF and French army soldiers as they cautiously approached the perimeter beyond which the creatures in the meteor had not went. Apparently, they had exterminated every human in a kilometer radius around the meteor, and Derand was under explicit instructions not to head a meter beyond that radius.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 He watched as the troops began setting up barb wire lines and machinegun emplacements in a new defensive half circle. Clearly these things were intelligent, command had decided, and so an offensive on their part was inevitable. Thus, French had decided that to suppress them heavy concentrations of machineguns were needed, a tactic some of the British troops had taken to calling 'dacker', after the noise some of the guns made. Some had complained about the diversion of supplies from other parts of the line, but after seeing pictures of these things and what they had done, Derand had decided that it was necessary. Plus, the Krauts were no doubt doing the same. "Is it me, or has the topography of this area changed?" said a high-class British voice. Horace Smith-Dorrien, a BEF commander, was accompanying him. "Let me see." said Derand, taking his binoculars to his eyes. Yes, the closer to the meteor, the more elevated the terrain got, as if the area around it was being pushed up into a mound, like some enormous...ant hive... "I think, mon ami, that they are building a nest." he uttered. "What?" "We have established thaat they are insects, have we not? Therefore, they are going to have some base of operations." "In that case, I hope we will dynamite the place as soon as we get the chance. I don't fully understand these things or where they have come from, but by Jove, I'd be happy to get rid of them as soon as possible and resume fighting enemies who I know are human at least." "Indeed." said Derand, who turned around as a truck carrying more soldiers and boxes of ammunition parked on the grass nearby. "Let us just hope that those enemies have also switched their focus to these things, and will not take advantage of our little change in strategy here." "With that Kaiser bastard, it's very much possible." agreed Dorrien soberly. "Still, I wonder where this things have come from, and why they chose our planet." "I don't think we'll have an opportunity to ask them." said Derand as the soldiers around them began digging into the ground behind the barbed wire. "Let us just hope that the firepower we have with us will suffice to stymie these little demons..." ** Northern France In a triage behind German lines, Doctor Gerber looked upon the various soldiers who had supposedly suffered bites from the strange golden beetles that had been crawling around. Some of them had managed

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 to catch and kill some of the beetles, and he had been dissecting them to an extent. Their biology certainly was peculiar, what with their carapace proving surprisingly strong, and various organs he could not identify. The whole thing seemed like something had designed it--but what creator would see fit to put such horror on this world? He looked over the bitten soldiers lying on the mattresses in the tent, all of them unconscious. When they had entered the tent, they had seemed fine, albeit limping and some strange...stuff...on their ankles or places where they had been bitten, before complaining of headaches, vomiting, and even voices in their head. Now, they were all silent, with this crystalline, purple mucus-like substance having spread across half their bodies from the place they had been bitten. Its purpose he could not fathom. In any case, grabbing a scalpel, he decided to remove some of this substance and study it properly. Bending down, he jerked back in shock when the soldiers' eyes burst open. Jumping back as they all stiffly rose up in unison, he grabbed his own Luger from the table as they got to their feet. "Get back now! Jetzt! You must all be treated!" he shouted as some of them walked out of the tent, and some advanced towards him. "You will get down, or I will shoot you!" he shouted, as one approached him with his arm outstretched, his face looking increasingly more skeletal and his eyes bulging, and his blood vessels and nerves clearly visible under his skin. In desperation, Gerber fired off a shot into his eye, which had seemingly no effect. Scooping up a nearby surgery knife, the man dived towards him as he screamed. ** Northern France Colonel Dietrich watched as the sun set over the barbed-wire dotted horizon, with the ground around the place where that falling star everyone was talking about had fallen apparently forming into some kind of mound shape. Several squads had been sent into the trenches near it to reoccupy them, but none had returned. He had been getting vague reports of giant insects and infestations of mysterious golden beetles. Frankly, he didn't know what to believe--it was starting to sound like a Jules Verne novel to him. "Mein herr, the emergency consignment has arrived." said a soldier, saluting. Several trucks had pulled up, and soldiers were taking out various sets of apparatus. "What is this?" demanded Dietrich. "Flamethrowers, mein herr. They were originally designated for use further down south on the front, but they have been redirected here. Command requests that these be set up as soon as possible." "Against what enemy are these supposed to be used against?" "I have been hearing stories of rampaging giant ants from the moon, mein herr. I do not know what

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 nonsense to believe in these days." "Very well. Have these handed out and deal out instructions as to their use. Hopefully they will help against whatever horrors we're about to face..." ** London In a room within one of the various buildings allocated for the direction of war in London, First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill read over the message that had been passed down to him from high up. It detailed the formation of an 'Emergency Land Armor' committee, in response to some drastic development on the Western Front. Had the Kaiser’s men somehow reached Paris? Someone should’ve bloody well told him. In any case, the priority was accelerating one of the projects under his supervision—assembling a team of engineers and other such experts and focus their energies into construction a mobile armored defensive position. Most intriguing. Some would say that wars were fought with men, not glorified motor-cars. Still, he would do what duty called. Britannia was not going to defend herself. ** Warriors had been spawned. Intelligence and information, stripped from feeble Biped brains, had been analysed. For now, there was insufficient strength to launch a total swarm over this continent, but given the Biped's apparent bias towards strategies of attrition forcing them back a segment of land at a time would buy time for this. The first offensive was about to begin. It would be nothing compared to what would come later, but for breaking the morale and coherency of the Biped factions it could just suffice. ** 7th January 1915, Northern France Denard rubbed his eyes as morning broke. For something like twelve hours now, the troops had been constructing this new line, taking various shifts with some resting as others worked. A British artillery battery had been set up a few kilometers back, and had been instructed to target the general area in front of the line and be ready to fire at a moment's notice. They had let off a few shells about an hour ago to make sure their elevation was correct. Now, glancing at the mixture of British and French troops pulled from various parts of the front line, Denard continued scanning the area with his binoculars. What was definitely a huge mound of some sort had formed a distance ahead, with the ground very gently sloping up to it. If these things, whatever they were

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 and wherever they came from, could manipulate the Earth like this, he suddenly felt very worried for a reason he couldn't identify. "Sir! We have movement!" shouted one of the English soldiers. Denard looked around the plain before him with his binoculars, spotting something emerging from the ground about a kilometer and a half away. Yes, he could make out squirming mandibles and a heaving shape. Then his heart leapt and he found himself breaking out in sweat as countless other similar things began erupting out of the dirt around it. "Merde." was all he could say. "Alright, lads, here they come! Everyone prepare to fire!" shouted a British subordinate. Denard jumped back into the trench and readied his service revolver, for all the good it would do. So it was true--they were under attack by unearthly insects, as much as that sounded like something from a HG Wells novel. Now it was time to see if this hastily constructed defence line would hold them. "Fire as you have a clear target!" yelled Denard, as he continued to observe through his binoculars. It looked like a vast black tide was coming upon them--no need to be discriminatory against something like this. He suddenly felt a soggy sensation in his underwear, and uttered a prayer. If he got out of this, he would be heading straight to the nearest church. The machineguns placed along the trench opened fire as the swarm approached, the high-caliber rounds slamming into the first line of the tide. Denard saw quite a few of the disgusting, oversized woodlice crumple, but the rest simply scurried over their bodies and continued. How many were there? Hundreds? A thousand? The screaming of artillery shells came from overhead, slamming straight into the huge moving mass of the things. Dirt and flesh erupted all across the plain in front of them. And yet, the demons kept on coming, trampling over their dead. Some of them were now very close, close enough that he could see their black eyes and twitching mandibles. A few soldiers nearby cried out and feel down as some of the things fired with rifles somehow attached to them. More were almost upon the trench, casually scurrying over the layer of barbed wire. "Bayonets, ready!" screamed the British sergeant, and some soldiers firing with rifles fixed bayonets and stabbed at the things as they leapt into the trench, screaming. Aiming his revolver, Denard fired straight into the face of one of the things as it landed a few meters away. Screeching in pain, Denard finished it off with his knife, stabbing straight into its face and splattering purple blood all over his uniform. Before him, other soldiers were furiously jabbing at the things, which in turn physically tore some of them apart with mandibles and forearms. The machinegunners continued blazing away as more of them swarmed forward, and more artillery shells impacted straight into the mass of them, but they just kept on coming. Screams reverberated around as the soldiers began to find themselves being overwhelmed, with multiple insects attacking each one. "C'est des conneries!"[ this is bullshit] spat Denard to himself, and scrambled out of the trench as now the

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 machinegunners found themselves being torn apart. He had thought something like this would have happened, so command had put in a contingency. Something they had previously considered barbaric. Readying a flare gun, Denard fired into the sky as the trench behind him filled with bugs, before struggling on a gas mask. ** Dietrich was woken by the sounds of shouting, and clambered out of his bunk readying his Luger. Rubbing his eyes as he walked into the trench, he found the troops shouting among each other as rifles were loaded and flamethrowers were readied. Looking over the side of the trench, he could see about a kilometer away an incoming mass of disgusting creatures swarming towards the trench, and almost vomited at the sight of it. They were up against these things, spawned straight out of hell, and they were expected to survive? But there was no running back now. The Vaterland demanded nothing less. "Ready Flammenwerferapparaten!" [Flamethrower] he shouted uselessly, with the flamethrower-equipped soldiers already standing ready. Chunks of earth burst into the air as gunshots suddenly came overhead-looking at them through his binoculars, he could see that some of the demons had rifles and machineguns embedded into their sides. Hurensohn, [Son of a bitch] he thought. "Artillery, fire!" he shouted. Several field guns, placed a relatively short distance back from the trench and elevated low as to almost horizontal levels, opened fire, slamming shells straight into the mass of creatures. Dozens were blasted apart into the air, but they plowed on like nothing had happened. "Flame weapons, ignite!" he shouted as the creatures came within twenty meters of the trench, the maximum range for the flame weapons. The area was bathed in orange as the dozens of flame weapons ignited, spraying fire in arcs, roasting the incoming creatures as they came. Each weapon had two minutes worth of use--could they hold out that long? Nevertheless, some of them slipped past. Several leapt into the trench over the flames, tearing straight into the men with mandibles or gunning them down with the rifles attached to them, forcing Dietrich to empty his entire Luger clip into the nearest one, only for a soldier to have it finished off with a bayonet. Alongside the flamethrower men, machinegunners blazed away at the incoming tide, despite some of them being struck down by return fire. A neat, long pile of roasted demon bodies was now forming in front of the trench, but even with that they kept on coming, climbing over the bodies of their wounded. The planks lining the floor of the trench suddenly burst open as several of them emerged from underground, grabbing soldiers by the legs and pulling them down or simply emerging and tearing them to pieces. Some troops cried out in terror and jumped out of the trench. Dietrich let them go--no point wasting bullets on cowards and traitor filth, when these things were upon them. "I'm out!" shouted a flamethrower operator as his weapon ceased pouring out flame.

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"Same!" cried another. One by one, the flamethrowers began to go out. A pile of roasted creature bodies almost a meter high was piled in front of the trench, but there still didn't seemed to be any end to the swarm. As they began to scuttle into the trench, a shadow was cast over the area. Dietrich looked up to see the long, cylindrical shape of a zeppelin moving overhead. Thank god, he thought. Now it was time for some payback. ** Denard watched as the Allied trench was swamped in poison gas, hearing the screams of the creatures as they poured right into it. Some of them were already heading back. A pyrrhic victory at best, but at least they had killed a number of them. Standing by the artillery that had delivered the shells, he was preparing to jump into a truck waiting nearby to take him to an Allied command post to report. More men lost--but what made that so different from the rest of this war? "Sir!" cried one of the artillerymen, indicating several trees collapsing nearby. Denard jumped into the truck and began starting up the engine as something erupted from the ground nearby. It looked like an abominable beetle the size of a train locomotive, with massive pincers and clusters of red eyes. The artillerymen screamed as two more burst from the ground, the first tearing into one gun with its pincers and impaling the men on its forearms. The other two set about picking up the guns and shoving them straight into their sides, with purple mucus spreading from their bodies and onto the gun. Denard decided not to watch any more, and began driving off as fast as he could. Already he could see the image of the monstrous beetles repeating in his mind. What a goddamn war this was turning out to be. **

Dietrich watched as the zeppelin began dropping its payload, with the sounds of explosions and screaming ringing in his ear as the bombs impacted into the swarm. Screeching, the things all began to burrow into the ground, throwing up earth and showering the trench with it. "To hell with this!" he spat and clambered out of the trench away from the battlefield, and began running as fast as his legs could take him. Behind him, the zeppelin continued to drop its bombs, doing little other than blasting up more earth. The other troops in the trench had decided to follow Dietrich's example and were also running like hell, dropping their weapons and equipment. Command would be pissed, but who gave a fuck? The explosions subsided, and Dietrich took a glance over his shoulder. The entire area in front of the trench was cratered, with roasted and twisted pieces of those giant insects scattered everywhere. Several fires had started in the trench, scorching the mangled bodies of soldiers and the huge insects alike. A scream came from nearby, and Dietrich turned his head to see a soldier being dragged into the ground by wriggling mandibles and forearms. Another guy yelled as the same happened to him. Sweat broke out on

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Dietrich's head as he ran faster, with some of the men breaking down into tears and collapsing to the ground. "Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse!"[shit] he spat as one of the things burst out of the ground, impaling a sergeant on its forearm, before burrowing back into the Earth. Then, up ahead, parked by some trees, was an armored car. Some of the soldiers were already running towards it. "I am an officer, and therefore I am requisitioning this vehicle over you!” he shouted, shooting the nearest men with his Luger. Jumping in, he started the engine and began to drive off as the men began screaming obscenities at him, some even letting off pot shots. He was going to go straight to Ludendorff or perhaps even the Kaiser himself with news of what he had just seen. ** The offensive, though brief, had been a success. The Bipeds had been pushed out more, with insignificant casualties. However, the revelation that they possessed some degree of airpower was a surprise. Still, it was not an advantage unique to them, and the appropriate countermeasures were being created. Still, it was possible to take time with these Bipeds. Let them attempt to create feeble weapons in response to their incursions. Let them panic; it would make rounding them up easier. Let them debate and procrastinate, as the knowledge gleaned from their own skulls would attest. The two other hive-rocks were also well on the way to being established. Processing of this world was guaranteed to be successful. ** 8th January 1915, Paris, France Within the Palais Bourbon in Paris, all available Allied commanders on the Western Front had gathered around a table. Several photographs, as well as the roasted remains of what looked like and were giant insects were piled on. French Prime Minister Rene Viviani, John French, Ferdinand Foch, and other key command personnel took their seats around it. "Gentlemen," announced French, "we face a most grave situation. Three days ago, a falling star landed in the northern portion of the western front in the Somme. As utterly insane as this may sound, it has since disgorged what can best be described as…monstrous insects, equipped with intelligence, which have dealt losses to our forces in the area. We tried re-establishing a concentrated defence line, but that was taken out with impunity." "Merde."[shit] muttered Foch as the photos of the things were passed around the table. "Have the Germans not taken losses, sir?" asked a BEF officer. "Oh yes. Comparable, if not in excess, of ours. From what intelligence can gather, they were still marginally

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 more successful in their defence, making use of flame weapons to hold them back." "Then that is what we need. We must acquire the German flame weapons immediately." announced a French army officer. "Not so fast. Fritz also made use of a zeppelin. As far as we know, these things cannot stretch their presence into the sky. I've cabled Lord Kitchener and Churchill, and we've accelerated the development of a number of weapons projects." "Why are we so concerned?" sighed Viviani. "There is only one group of these things, are they not? We shall simply mass artillery and level them all." "That is the problem, sir. Not only do these things have some way of nullifying artillery fire on some areas, but they can also burrow right under our lines, giving them an innate tactical advantage." "Is there no way we can fight them, then?" "Perhaps if we asked the Germans to consider the possibility of a ceasefire..." suggested Foch. "Rubbish. They would backstab us immediately. Besides, can we, the most powerful nations in the world, not deal with one nest of overgrown fleas? We shall establish minefields, more artillery, trenches, and..." "Would it not be better to put in changes to our doctrine? Thus far, the policy of defence positions has not been effective against these things." "That is why I mentioned the projects we are accelerating." cut in French. "We formed a special committe to create for us a...mobile defensive position, if you will, and have accelerated their project with a healthy injection of funding. They're working as hard as possible on it now. Here's what we should hopefully have in our possession in good time..." He slid across the table a sketch of what appeared to be a large metal box on treads. ** London, Great Britain Herbert George Wells looked across the front page of the day's Times. Most unusual news had seeped down from the Western Front in France, apparently--an anonymous source had, for a price, provided the newspaper with pictures and information of a development that was most disturbing. The newspaper displayed a blurred photo of what looked like some enormous, monstrous insect attacking a BEF soldier, with the headline blaring 'MONSTERS IN FRANCE'. Reportedly, a rock had landed in the Somme a few days before, before disgorging enormous insects that

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 had attacked both the Allies and Germans. According to the source, the insects were intelligent, able to somehow use human weapons and attack tactical targets. He wondered, then, just who had attacked who-no doubt the fools manning this pointless war had simply shelled the rock in view of it blocking out their view, and the poor creatures had simply retaliated. Naturally, plenty of others in the city were dismissing it as a hoax, a fabrication. The government itself had provided no statement. But the photo provided did look so realistic, and others in the military had all but confirmed it. Had they at least tried to communicate with the things, he wondered. If they truly were from beyond the stars, they must know things that humanity didn't, and if they were able to calculate their descent onto a specific location onto a specific planet, it clearly meant that they possessed great mathematical skills. But, naturally, the fools who continued to squabble over irrelevant things would try to exterminate these poor things like regular cockroaches. So many things they could tell us, so much to gain from co-operation, and it was all squandered. And, he thought darkly, there was still the question if it was even possible to eradicate them, and if it was in fact the case that they would eradicate humanity, reacting like a disturbed beehive. Taking a sip of tea, he decided to turn to other news, to take his mind off this depressing information. ** Stuart, Northern Territory, Australia Bruce O'Donnel sat on the edge of the desert town, in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of kilometers from the nearest point of interest, Ayers Rock. About a week ago, some bloke from Sydney had passed through here, claimed he would be back tomorrow, and hadn't shown up. Probably tripped up on a stone and decided that it was a life-threatening injury--those blokes were as wussy as bloody poms, he thought. The glass of beer beside him began to vibrate slightly, as dust was suddenly kicked up on the ground and began to approach, despite there being no wind. Probably the beer, he thought. Despite a few of the lads in the town having been sent over to Europe to fight in the trenches, he had managed to avoid that. Why risk your life fighting for some toff in London, when you could relax around here and... A thing burst out of the ground in front of him--like some sort of enormous bloody spider. More erupted out of the sand and began scuttling into the town, and already he could hear screams, shouting, and smashing. He was knocked onto his back as the thing dug its mandibles into him. Ten minutes later, Stuart's population had dropped to zero. ** 9th January 1915, Ypres, Belgium

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Canadian soldier John Huck stood in the upper floor of a building on the edge of the town. So many fuckedup rumors had been seeping through these days. Supplies were being diverted from the front here supposedly because of some shit happening not so far away in the Somme down in France. He hadn't been told exactly what was happening, but one of the Brits had been babbling about giant cockroaches or some bull like that. "Foggy morning, eh?" Fellow Canadian Powell came in, with some boxes full of ammo. "Krauts are quiet this morning." muttered Huck. "They've also been pulling more stuff down to the Somme. Even though we've been hit hard down there, or so I heard." "You also heard the cockroach story?" "There might be some truth in that, eh. Some of the papers in London and Paris have already caught on, and a lot of troops coming by have been talking about it." "I don't know, but...shit! Look there!" A dust cloud was appearing in a nearby field, despite there being no wind. Moments later, the ground burst open and giant insects--just like the guys had said, dammit!--began scurrying out and making a beeline for the town. "Shit, shit, shit!" Huck opened fire with his rifle, but for some reason his shots didn't seem to have much of an effect. He prepared a grenade as Powell broke down and began crying, before suddenly throwing himself out of the window. "What the fuck are you doing?!" shouted Huck as he fell straight into the mass of giant insects, and was immediately torn apart as they swarmed over him. He could hear screams and gunfire from other parts of the town, and threw down a grenade as they began scurrying up the walls of the house he was in. It exploded, blasting back a good few of them, but more simply scurried in. Grabbing a sharp poker from a nearby fireplace, he began stabbing at them, as the sound of incoming artillery grew increasingly louder... ** Above the Somme Captain Geisel of the zeppelin L3 looked down at the landscape below as the huge thing, laden with incendiary bombs, moved over the desolate hell below. It looked like someone had just dumped a pile of brown sand onto a relief map of the Somme, with an enormous mound rising up. His orders were to bomb the thing out of existence. Wouldn't a problem. "We will be in position in a matter of minutes, Herr captain!" called a crewman.

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"Acknowledged. Ready bombs." They hadn't been clear to him exactly what was happening. He didn't know where this mound had come from. Rumors, in any case, had spread about giant insects from space. No idea if they were true, but regardless, this thing was not supposed to be here. "Herr captain! Something is coming!" called the crewman again. "What do you mean? What is coming?" "There is something else in the sky! Many things! Moving very fast, towards us!" Geisel had enough time to see a large, dark object zip past the zeppelin, and moments later there was a scream as a crewman fell down. High-pitched buzzing, like a dragonfly's wings, came from nearby, and he looked around in confusion. Moments later, he found himself starting into a cluster of beady green eyes, seconds before he was impaled on a sharp forearm. ** Private Adolf Hitler watched as the things shot around the zeppelin, tearing into like butter. Moments later, an explosion engulfed the aft part of the flying machine, causing it to slowly fall to the ground engulfed in smoke and flame. Around him, other soldiers readied flamethrowers as they carried fuel tanks off a nearby cart, along with piles of explosives. They had been told to move in and kill anything living as soon as the zeppelin had finished bombing. Now, standing a distance back from the former trench line, they could only stand in shock as the thing fell to the ground. "Those things are coming our way!" shouted a nearby unteroffizier. "Ready flame weapons!" Armed with one of those wretchedly heavy things, which they had received a brief demonstration on how to use a matter of hours ago, Adolf cursed. Like many of the other soldiers, he had heard the stories of the monstrous insects attacking both Allied and Central Powers forces here in the Somme. He had dismissed it as mere horror stories spread by Jews to promote fear and disharmony within the ranks. Of course, now his opinion had quickly changed. As the things drew closer, he half-expected a wet sensation in his pants. "Mein got (My God) !" screamed one of the soldiers as one of them swooped into view. It looked like an enormous cross between a dragonfly and a mosquito, with a face full of twitching mandibles and a carapace like a lobster, at least thirty feet long. Screeching, it impaled one of the men as the others let loose with their flamethrowers. Screaming in pain, it shot back up, its body ablaze. Another one swooped down and ejected some sort of black substance from its mouth, hitting a soldier. Shouting, the poor man writhed as his flesh was burnt off his bones. "No! No!” gasped Adolf as he hid behind the cart. Activating their flamethrowers, the men arced in the air,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 trying to force the things away. One was caught in several arcs simultaneously, and fell to the ground, screeching as it was burnt alive. Another swooped down and scooped up another soldier, flying upwards and dropping him at 200 feet. Adrenaline suddenly filled Adolf's body as the cart was tossed aside and he found himself staring straight into the hideous face of one of the creatures. As it prepared to lunge, he activated his flamethrower, wincing at the heat, sending a jet of fire straight into its face. "Help!" he looked around, to see the unteroffizier being pinned by one of the things nearby, with its forearms about to lunge. Igniting his flame weapon, Adolf launched a jet of napalm into it, causing to fly off screaming. "Danke schon, mein kamerad!" grinned the unteroffizier as he approached Adolf. "I will see that you will get promoted for this!" As he walked towards him, Adolf balked upon seeing a star of David medallion hanging out of his pocket. Looking around, he could see the things flying off, with mutilated corpses of brave German soldiers and weeping young men around him. ** Vladivostok, Imperial Russia Sergei Gogol watched as the train from Moscow pulled into the siding. It was earlier than expected, which was strange. What was stranger that half of the locomotive was encrusted in some purple...stuff. A man emerged from the cabin, dressed in a uniform and looking expressionless. The carriages opened, and men in prison fatigues also came out, marching in unison. "Hey, what's going on?" asked Gogol as they briskly advanced. "What ships leave...today?" asked the man in military uniform slowly. "Well, there's one to America--San Francisco...and I think there's one from Japan..." Seconds later, the man produced a revolver and shot him through the head. With that, the procession headed down in the direction of the docks. ** Ypres French army private Jacques Blanc lay prone at an opening at the top of the Cloth Hall of Ypres, firing at the clusters of things scurrying around in the square beneath him. Alongside him, looking stoic and holding a satchel full of grenades, was a German soldier. Sitting behind him and weeping were a few Englishmen and

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Canadians. Before this day, Blanc would have laughed at the notion of these men sitting in one room with each other. He didn't know where these monstrous things had came from, only that they were overrunning both Allied and German positions. Conventional defensive lines had been to them what a twig on a rail was to a freight train. Disorganized and cut off from command, troops of both sides had attempted to hole up in the larger buildings and push them back. From the screams and explosions he had been hearing, not all of them had been so successful. "Down! Shoot down!" cried the Fritz suddenly in accented French. A group of the things were climbing up the side of the tower, with one of them firing randomly with a rifle it had somehow attached to its side. Grabbing a grenade from the Fritz's satchel, Blanc unpinned it, waited a moment and then dropped it out of the window. It struck one of the things in the face and detonated, blasting them off the wall and taking a chunk out of it too. "We are running low on bullets." declared Blanc in English to the Brits and Canadians with them, as he continued firing away at more of the things pouring into the square. "Well, old chaps, I dare say duty'll forgive us if we cower in here for a bit." said one of the Englishmen calmly. Blanc rolled his eyes. They were being beset by the forces of hell, and the English still acted as if it were a mere tea party. "What if those things smell us out, eh?" said of the Canadians. "Or what if they search this place? There's only so many hiding places." "Then we take ourselves. And a few of them with us." said Blanc, indicating the grenades. "Absolutely not!" declared the Englishman indignantly. "You blasted frogs may find the idea of such things attractive, but as a servant of King George V, I refuse..." "Shut up! Something is happening!" snarled the German as the insects suddenly paused in their onslaught. A loud whistling sound grew ever louder. The German's eyes widened in horror. "I think I know what they're going to do. Do you have gas masks?" "Well, no..." "Handkerchiefs! Cover your face!" Seconds later, artillery shells impacted into the square and across the town, disgorging thick chlorine gas. Scuttling around as in panic, some of the insects began burrowing into the ground, while others were picked off by sniper fire as they milled around confusion. As the gas spilled across the city, troops ran out of buildings, coughing and screaming as they breathed it in. "Bastards." muttered Blanc as the gas began to form a thick fog. Thankfully, it appeared that they were too

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 high to be affected by it. "We wait now." he sighed. ** Paris, France Sitting in a coffee shop in view of the Eiffel Tower, Jean Bernard, member of the upper class, sat reading a newspaper. All sorts of bizarre things lately, straight out of a Jules Verne novel--the papers were filled with tales of monstrous arthropods from the heavens overrunning places on the Western Front. Nonsense, all of it, he thought smugly. The papers must have been truly short of imagination to concoct such hoaxes. "They are coming!" shouted a voice. He turned around to see a soldier in torn uniform and a bloodied face walking through the streets. "They will kill all of us! The eyes, oh those eyes...we cannot stop them!" "Go vomit in the Seine, drunkard." shouted Bernard. "No!" said another man seated at a table nearby. "I know some officers on the front--they too have told me about monsters!" Hubbub quickly filled the coffee shop and spread throughout the street. He could already notice people filling up carts with their belongings. He wondered just how far people were going to take these stories of giant insects. ** 10th January 1915, Winter Palace, Petrograd, Imperial Russia Tsar Nicholas II was pulling on his coat when he entered one of the staterooms he had been called to. Standing around the table was a number of Russian generals, including the commander-in-chief of the army, Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich. He had been pulled out of bed again for a briefing on some new development from the Western Front and for something happening in Siberia. Swearing under his breath as he took a place around the table, he turned to Nikolaevich. "Tell me what is going on." "Our friends in the West have sent us this." said the commander-in-chief, and slid across several pictures of enormous insects swarming across a field. He then passed over several large reports and dossiers, with the Tsar looked at with confusion. "I realize this will sound utterly insane, my Tsar, but our allies in the Western Front have come under attack from what can best be described as monstrous insects from the heavens."

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"What hoax is this?" snapped the Tsar. "Do you--they--take me for a fool?" "It comes with assurance from most of the British and French high command." continued Nicholas dryly. "I cannot hope to imagine what they could gain from a practical joke of such a type." The Tsar scowled. "Well, if it is true--and I have my doubts--I'm sure they can handle it. What threat can overgrown termites such as these be? Anyway, I was told that there was a second piece of important information requiring my attention." "Yes, my Tsar. I'm sure you're aware that a few days ago a falling star landed in Siberia." "Indeed, I was knocked out of bed for it. Continue." "We have approximated the area in which it landed. And lately, we have been losing contact with towns, camps, railway stations, and so on in that region." "What do you suggest?" said the Tsar, furrowing his brow. "Perhaps I can be of assistance." rasped a voice. They turned around to see a long-heared, bearded scrawny man in monk's attire enter the room. "Rasputin." growled the commander-in-chief. "What are you doing here?" "It is clear that these creatures, be they emissaries of the Lord God or Satan, seek to destroy the heart of Russia." continued the monk, ignoring him. "It would be most advisable to purge them before they grow into a cancer that will bring the Imperial family to ruin." "But how?" said the Tsar. "We are having problems enough with our own front. How should I go about this task?" "You are appointed in your task by God, your highness." replied Rasputin. "It does not matter from where you get the force. Satan does not care for humanly delays and hesitation." "Yes...you are right..." said the Tsar, looking thoughtful. "My Tsar, if we lax on the lines, the Germans will...surely you cannot say that you are listening to this insane, addled..." began Nikolaevich. "I will not tolerate a bad word about this most loyal servant of the Imperial household." snapped the Tsar. "Dear Rasputin here is right. I want at least one division to investigate. Nikolaevich, you are to make the arrangements for this, by order of the Tsar."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "As you wish." glowered the commander and chief as he walked off. As the conference dispersed, Rapsutin folded his arms as if in satisfaction. ** Versailles, France "We just lost Ypres." Horrace Smith-Dorrien of the BEF second army stood before John French and saluted, as other BEF officers sitting around the table in the room studied the reports he had brought. Several French and Belgian personnel were also in the room. "How?" breathed French. "From the few survivors, these...monsters tunneled out in the town outskirts. They utterly overwhelmed our positions in the area. After a matter of hours, the Krauts swamped the whole area in poison gas." There was a brief silence. "Did it work?" "We're...working to establish that." French held his head in his hands. Then he sat up and looked determined. "We are going to rearrange our defensive positions around the Somme. If these things can attack any location at will, we must be prepared for that. The Germans are now a secondary consideration." "Sir, some of us have been considering the idea of a ceasefire with the Germans in light of this..." "The idea is being discussed here too. Suffice it to say that it comes down to how temperamental old Kaiser Willy's thinking." "Also, how can be sure that the Germans will not seek to...interrupt our re-arrangement." "If they've any brains, they'll be doing the same. If they do, we can at least have the pleasure of watching them fare by themselves against these things." "There is also one more thing, sir..." "What is that?"

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "We need a name for these things. The lads have got a few ideas--Swarmers, Scurriers...do you have anything catchy in mind?" French considered for a moment... ** Wakasa Bay, Japan Fisherman Shinji Ichigo prepared his boat for today's catch. Reportedly, the fish were good this season. All he had to do was find a good batch of choi, and he would finally be able to purchase a new home for his family. As he tied his nets, something emerged from the fog covering the bay in front of him. Emerging from the mists was a steamship, bearing Russian colors, with no indication of slowing down. He quickly ran to one side as it ran aground into the shore, smashing his boat under its hull. Shinji began swearing violently in Japanese as figures appeared on the deck, and then seemingly jumped down onto the ground. Ignoring this, he walked up to the nearest one, demanding an explanation. He managed to glimpse of cold, staring eyes the 'man' grabbed him by the neck and squeezed. Assembling by the ship, the rest of them began to walk swiftly away. ** 11th January 1915, University of Paris Professor Adel Lafeete studied the creature on the dissection table in front of him as an army officer entered the room. Yesterday evening, this had been sent down to them, supposedly retrieved from the Somme, and they had been ordered to study it as much as possible overnight. Reportedly, it was one of many creatures that had come down in a meteor a few days before, and they apparently had been attacking military positions in northern France. The creature, a very large insect of some sort, had been a fascinating specimen. Looking like a strange combination of various families of insects, the internal arrangements had intrigued him greatly. Now, judging by the tapping of his feet, this simpleton from the army wanted something from him. "Yes, monsieur?" he asked. "What have you learned from this thing?" snapped the officer. "Not much, I'm afraid. We've only done a basic dissection thus far."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "My superiors will not be pleased." "Science cannot be rushed. We cannot learn all there is to learn from a specimen over one night." "Right. What have you done, then?" "We've named the species. Entomogrex impurus--vile insect swarm, as a basic translation. Grex for short, as some of us call them." "We and the men have our own name." said the officer. "Roaches." "Right." continued Lafeete. "In any case, this certainly is a fascinating creature. Very strong muscles, an impressively tough hide, and the eyes and various external sensory organs, as far as we can tell, are on our level, if not above." "Continue." "But what's more interesting is this." He took him over to the adjacent table, where a rifle covered in a purple, crystalline-like mucus was lying. "This was fused to the creature via this substance here. It managed to somehow selectively attach itself to the various firing components of the weapon, which we presume are triggered via nerves or something of this nature--almost as if this substance has a mind of its own." "How do we kill it?" "Well, it's tough, but shooting it can do the trick." said Lafeete dryly. "Monsieur Lafeete!" An assisstant professor entered the room, carrying a beaker partially encrusted in the purple substance. "This stuff has been growing over its container very rapidly. We are not sure what to do." "See how bad it gets. If necessary, burn it with a Bunsen." said Lafeete. "Anyway, one interesting thing is that the brain--at least, we think it's a brain--is a bit more diminished than we think. Presumably this species does not value individual intelligence." "Very well, professor. Report any further findings you make." As the officer left the room and the professors continued about their business, nobody noticed some fragments of the substance slowly growing over their surfaces. **

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Chimay, Belgium Farmer Daniel Duval was in a sour mood as he returned to his farm on the edges of town. Rumors were going around from the front, about monsters and unearthly insects. Soldiers, both German and Allied, had been coming in lately, babbling such tales and scaring the women and children. Some had even packed their belongings and left. Clearly, those soldiers had been raiding their officer's wine cabinets. "I am home, mon cherie!" he cried as he walked up to his farmhouse. No response. Strange. He then noticed his vegetable patch--completely ruined, as if a giant badger had been at it. Swearing violently, he headed around the back, to see what else the vandals responsible had done. His heart leapt at what he saw. What appeared to be a monstrous beetle of some sort, almost as big as the farmhouse, was chewing up the cows and the horses behind it, the huge mandibles tearing their bodies and the many forearms shoveling in flesh. "Merde!" he spat and ran inside, looking for his rifle. So, the tales were true. No matter--it was simply an overgrown beetle. Just a oversized aphid. What harm could it do? He ran back outside, armed with his weapon, to find smaller insects the size of large wolves waiting there, their mandibles twitching and their mouths dribbling. He tried to aim, but found himself frozen at the sheer ugliness. A soldier in German uniform appeared from behind the house, with the huge beetle behind him. At this point, he didn't care what nation a soldier hailed from, provided he could help. "Sir!" he cried out. "Please! Save me!" The soldier turned around to reveal that half of his body was covered in this purple...stuff. His eyes were bulging and his skin was pale. "Save you?" he said in a strange, eerie monotone. "Why should we deny ourselves nourishment?" Pain followed. ** Central Siberia, Imperial Russia Dmitri Zelin clutched his coat to him as the observation balloon moved gradually over the landscape of tundra and snow-covered pine forest below him. He had pushed out of bed a few hours ago and told to scout this area thoroughly for some reason that hadn't been explained to him. Apparently, there was little else in this place except one of the Tsar's 'penal correction facilities' and part of a trans-Siberian rail.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Fucking lousy job." muttered Grigor, one of the other guys, as he lit up a cigarette. "I could be screwing Ukrainian sluts and I'm gawking at snow." agreed Zelin under his breath. "Hey--what's that?" Passing over a hill, they noted what appeared to be an enormous mound rising out of the ground, engulfing a space nearly a kilometer wide, with what seemed to be purple, 350-meter wide crystals protruding out of it at diagonal angles. Cracks in the ground at least several feet wide spread from it through the forest, with trees around it felled. He could glimpse dark shapes scurrying around among the pines, but they were too far down for him to effectively make out. "What the hell is this?" spat Zelin. As they moved over the sight, he noted a large rock at the tip of the mound, which seemed to be partly coated with some dark purple stuff. "Looks like something termites would make. Very large termites." commented Grigor. "What ever the hell it is, I'm sure they'll have a few guns clear it away." sighed Zelin as he took a swig from a flask of vodka. As they cleared the mound, he violently spewed it out. A huge dark seething mass covered a large portion of ground on the other side of the mound, scurrying through the trees and tearing some of them down. He could glimpse the rail from the other side of the balloon--a train had been stopped, and was being swarmed by the dark things down there. "I...I..." Grigor was trying to say something, but looked too shocked and horrified to properly formulate a sentence. "I think we've seen it all. Turn this thing around." stuttered Zelin. Grigor began shouting orders to the others manning the balloon when one of the large crystal-like things began glowing. Zelin had enough time to wonder just what that meant when a stream of energy leapt from it, vaporizing the balloon. ** Zurich, Switzerland Vladimir Ilyich Lenin studied today's newspaper as he sipped from a cup of tea. Apparently the rumors of monsters on the Somme had been confirmed--the papers in Paris had been given exclusive information from an anonymous source from the University of Paris that the creatures were enormous, unearthly biologically advanced arthropods that had come to Earth in rocks. He, along many others, had met these rumors and news with incredulity, but now the paper displayed

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 pictures of a semi-dissected...thing...along with ones from the front. He considered the implications of this. No doubt the bourgeoisie and upper classes would panic--this would be a threat to their power that could not be bargained with, reasoned with, or pleaded with. The paper stated that the results of attempts to eradicate them with military force had been uncertain--unsuccessful, then. He had also been getting rumors that a similar object to the one in the Somme had landed in Russia at about the same time. This certainly was interesting. These things would sow panic and uncertainty--the perfect ingredients for revolution, giving the people the chance to usurp their oppressors while they fretted. After all, capitalism was an inherently vulnerable system, and these things were the perfect catalyst to bring the whole rotten system down. He had decided that it may not be worth the time to attend the Zimmerwald Conference--it was time to accelerate the plans he had in mind in regard to his homeland... ** Northern France "Tally-ho, lads! We reach that village and we'll all be safe!" Lurching through the field of long grass, a tattered group of BEF troops followed the lead of Captain John Hodgers at the front, who was waving a Union Jack flag for morale. They had been ordered to relocate to the village visible a few hundred meters ahead at the end of the field--no doubt due to those Grex, or Roaches. He had been quickly convinced by the reports and pictures he had seen, unlike some of the other idiots around him. "Will there be beer there, sir? I'm bloody parched." sighed one of the troops. "Just this short distance, and you'll have all the food and drink you'll want!" shouted Hodgers, pointing at the rural French houses and church steeple visible ahead. The men had been walking for hours, confused and uncertain, with those unable to keep up left behind. He couldn't blame them for having such miserable looks on their faces. "INCOMING!" The whistling of an incoming artillery shell pierced their ears moments before a geyser of dirt erupted nearby, showering them with earth and grass. Losing all coherency as a group, the men sprinted towards the buildings ahead with their remaining energy, while Hodgers croached down and brought his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the landscape in the direction from where it came from. In a few moments, he had identified the bastards responsible--two giant house-sized beetles with artillery guns fused to their sides, firing repeatedly, over a kilometer away. He got up and ran back after the others as shells impacted all around him.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Running across the partly-desolated field, his ears ringing from the noise of the impacts, he finally reached the village boundary as shells came in that direction too, with the top part of the church steeple smashed off. Stumbling onto someone's porch, he found a bottle of wine and took a swig from it as another shell smashed apart a nearby house. The sounds of gunfire and screaming came from nearby, but with a combination of shellshock and the wine Hodgers found himself strangely indifferent. Stumbling out and through the village streets, he noticed several of the men firing at some of the regular smaller Roaches as they scurried in. Some of the locals had joined in, stabbing at them with spades and pitchforks. A few of the little blighters had rifles and machineguns fused to them, gunning down some of the men, while others burrowed out of gardens and dragged down anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby. "They're coming! Thousands of them!" shouted a voice in French from nearby. Passing another street, he noticed a huge mass of Roaches, including the huge beetles--bombardier beetles, heh--swarming across the fields towards the town. Again, he found himself strangely lucid to all this--that French wine really did its job. He continued to stumble through the village whistling cheerfully as one of the dragonfly-like flying Roaches swooped down and scooped up a horse and cart trying to escape, tearing apart the horse with its mandibles and ripping apart the cart with its forearms. More of them came down, grabbing up some of the men and either tearing them apart or dropping them from a high distance. As Roaches began to swarm into the village from all openings, with nearly all the defenders dropping their weapons and running off, he continued to whistle and prance as one of the beetles smashed aside a house and lunged towards him. ** The White House, Washington DC, USA President Woodrow Wilson glanced through the stack of reports on his deck as Army Chief of Staff Hugh Scott and Vice President Thomas Marshall stood in the Oval Office before him. "Would you believe the claptrap the Europeans are sending us--like some drivel a damn fool would think would pass for a fantasy." he snapped, skimming through it. "What claptrap would that be, sir?" asked Scott. "This whole damn scenario they're postulating to us. That they're being threatened by enormous, intelligent, unearthly insects. What next? Termites destroying Paris? Ants bringing down London?" "Our sources in Europe vouch for this, sir, as unbelievable as it may seen." said Marshall.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "I still am doubtful. Besides, what do they expect us to do? Can they not even eradicate some insects without coming crawling to us?" "Sir, we've also had reason to believe that Russia and Australia have suffered similar incursions." "What would I care? What happens in those godforsaken wastelands is irrelevant. I'll abstain from a response or a reply to this--until giant spiders are tearing down the Capitol, I’d prefer to see more of these European termites before I make a decision..." ** ,Amiens, Northern France Nurse Pollinger looked upon the pour screaming soldiers contorted into various positions throughout the tent. Some had their limbs torn off, others were in states of convulsions and shock, and some were having their condition made even worse as the other sisters, tired and confused, hacked away at their wounds with saws and scalpels. She had heard enough of these monstrous insects, the Roaches, to know that they were real and posed a threat. Most of the injured men in the tent had been among the few survivors of their advances thus far. She had heard that the demons had been attacking villages and towns all around the front, purging them of man, woman, and child alike. They did not distinguish between soldier and civilian. Upon seeing what they had done to some of the poor lads here, she found herself doubting whether any sane god would inflict such monstrosities on the world. "This is curious." Nurse Granger had extracted something from the leg of a private, who was screaming in agony. She dropped it onto a tray with her tweezers. It was a small rifle round, except that it was partially encrusted in some crystalline purple stuff. "Some of this...mucus, I can only describe it as...was spreading into his leg from the wound. I may have to hack it off." "Can you tell what it is?" "What am I, Florence bloody Nightingale? All I know is that it shouldn't be there." "But how did this bullet..." "I've been 'earing that some of those Roaches or whateva you wanna call 'em can stick guns into their sides, or sumfink." said one of the more lucid soldiers, sitting up. "They can also some'ow fire without reloadin' and whatnot. Class, that is." And he slumped down. "That's not everything." continued Granger, picking up another object from the sample tray with her

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 tweezers. "I also found this lodged in another poor boy's ankle." She showed her an object shaped and sized like a bullet, but more jagged and sculpted, looking like a fragment of some purple gemstone. "Made out of the same stuff that other round was coated in, I'd say. Looks almost as if it was grown." Pollinger paused. "Just what did we do to warrant such spawns of Satan among us?" Granger laughed. "Think about what y'do with yer hubbie and you'll understand, old girl." As Granger picked up a instrument and prepared to cause another poor boy intense pain, Pollinger wondered just how people like her could stay so jolly in the face of such horrors. Oh well, just good old British tenacity, she thought. If Albion could laugh at the Krauts, she could laugh at monstrous cockroaches. ** Sitting in a farmhouse several miles back from the trenches, Adolf Hitler sat grumpily as other soldiers milled around and chatted. He would suffer syphilis than sitting around in this French dump, not fighting on the lines. But orders were orders. Supposedly, command was reorganizing their forces in this area, as were the Allies, in response to those monstrous insects--Schaben, the troops were calling them. Cockroaches. "I've been hearing many things, Adolf." grinned Jonas, one of the other privates. "They say you might be promoted, for saving that guy's arsch from those flying Schaben the other day. Or an Iron Cross, maybe. Your second, and in such short time." "Yes." sighed Adolf. "A pity we have to change our focus because of some giant garden pests. No doubt some punishment from above.” Jonas laughed. "Ach, Adolf. You should lighten up. You may need that state of mind.” He laughed. "Yes. I've also been hearing that they're accelerating development of a new air arm of the army. They were a bit embarrassed when those giant mosquitos ripped one of our zeppelins to shreds." "Flying? Pah. Flying is for cowards who cannot fight like real men on the frontline. But, I suppose it can have its uses." "You and your funny ideas, Adolf. You think you're going to be Kaiser one day or something?" he chuckled. A private suddenly burst into the house, looking tired. All eyes flicked in his direction.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "News." he panted. "We're going to on the offensive against those things. Very soon." ** 13th January 1915, Siberia Alexei Gorki shivered and hugged the fur coat he was wearing closer to him as the troops around him trudged through the snow. A few months ago, he had fought at the Siege of Przemysl, but, deciding that his life was worth more than the orders of the idiot officer who had ordered him and his fellow soldiers to charge a machinegun nest, he had ran. Soon afterwards, he had been caught stealing to try and get money to head home to Moscow, and as such had been shipped out here to a camp. Now, it seemed, some sort of penal battalion was being put together. Trains and trucks full of artillery and ammunition had arrived, along with soldiers, supposedly from the reserves, via the nearest urban area, Surgut. He had and the other prisoners were to be given guns, and were to fight or be executed by the other soldiers. The Tsar commands and God approves, they thought disgruntledly. "What's going? How could the Germans or the Austrians have possibly got this far?" he asked another soldier. "Fuck if I know. Rumors say that there's demons or something coming from the tundra. Likely some Tunguska durak stole some vodka from under the ass of some priest." grumbled the soldier before lighting up a cigarette. "Come on, you little pieces of shit!" shouted an officer, holding up a sword. "Move on!" Shuffling half-heartedly through the snow, the soldiers began to climb over a ridge, with some of them passing out as the cold and inadequate clothing took their toll. Some of the criminals tried to run; they were almost instantly shot down by one of the officers. The regular troops, used to this, did not react. Crossing over the ridge, the soldiers recoiled in shock. Beyond the hills of snow-covered pines and tundra before them was a bright purple glow, with some of the larger hills looking as if they were about to burst open. Some of the trees, if one looked closer, seemed to be partially encrusted in some purple crystalline stuff. "What the fuck?" muttered Gorki. One of the soldiers burst into tears and collapsed onto his knees. "It is as my mother said! The devil himself has brought his evil to the Earth! We must--" The fluids within his head were splattered onto the snow as one of the officers emptied a revolver round into his head. "Men, we do not know what to expect. We do know that something from that...thing...wishes to destroy the motherland? The Tsar does not permit it, and we shall not permit it!" roared a colonel, riding from atop

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 a horse and holding a sabre high. A second later, something burst from the snow and grabbed both horse and rider, dragging them down into the ground in the blink of an eye. "Oh, SHIT!" shouted Gorki as the ground before them began to burst open. The troops began to cry out in horror as...things...demons crawled out from the ground, dark lumps of legs and eyes. "Fight! Fight, maggots, fight!" screamed one of the remaining officers hysterically as his horse reared and whinnied, as the troops began either shrieking like little girls and running away or desperately firing as many rounds as they could into the faces of the things as they emerged. Alongside the demons were what looked like men...men in rotting prison fatigues, skin either dropping off or covered in more of that purple stuff, their jaws looking as they were about to split in half like mandibles and their eyes bulging, or simply not there at all. Gorki found himself feeling a wet sensation in his pants as one of these lunged towards him. Stabbing at the thing with his bayonet, Gorki cut open its stomach, only for what looked like little golden beetles to spill out of its chest, pouncing onto him and digging their mandibles into his coat. Thankfully, it was too thick for them to fully penetrate it, but he nonetheless screamed as he began shaking them off and stabbing at the rotting walking corpse as it continued trying to grab him. Around him, everything was going to hell. A swarm of demons had emerged from the ground and was showing no respite to the dwindling soldiers. Artillery shells rained down, blasting up snow, earth, and demon parts--so, they could be hurt--but they just kept coming. Firing a round into the head of another of the walking bodies, he began reloading as the bullet knocked its partially-decomposed head off, but it carried on. Nearby, the little beetles had pounced onto another of the soldiers, covering his face and all exposed flesh as he screamed in agony. More demons were approaching, this time charging out of the forest. These ones looked like hideous overgrown spiders, expect that their backs were covered in lobster-like armor and their front legs were spindly and sharp. Their mouths were less insect-like, with jaws and sharpened teeth, but arms still extended from under their jaws. Galloping forward and screeching, one of them pounced onto a soldier and spat some black fluid into his face. Screaming, the poor man was utterly dissolved, his liquidized flesh seeping into the snow. Around him, nearly everyone was dead. Almost no white of snow was visible for all the hellspawn covering it. Dropping his rifle in despair, Gorki dropped to his knees as they swarmed towards him. ** Kyoto Outskirts, Japan Makie Tanaka was heading to the family home through the forested hills in the outskirts of the city, with the Kiyomizu-dera temple visible a distance away. In a basket she carried fresh clothes for her husband,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 which she had picked up from elsewhere a while back. It was early morning, with the sun still barely rising; cautiously looking around her, she thought about the recent stories spreading about mysterious white gaijin, supposedly from Russia, bringing terror to anyone who crossed their path. The police had not taken these stories seriously. Walking over a crossroads, she glimpsed a group of about eight figures in the distance walking down one of the roads. Their gaits were oddly unnatural. Quickening her pace, she walked down a slope towards a street of wooden houses below, with other people already out for their morning business. "You are two minutes late." Her husband, Takashi, was waiting in front of their house. "Apologies. It took slightly longer than..." "Hey!" Takashi and some of the other men were glaring at the group of people she had seen as they calmly strode into the street. Their clothes, which seemed to be a mixture of uniforms and fatigues, were tattered, their skin seemed leathery and almost rotting, their eyes were either bulging or not there at all, and their mouths were stretched into wide grins. Some of the people blanched at the sight of them. "Who are you?" demanded one of the men, confronting the group as they stood there. "What is your business here?" All of the men in the group began suddenly convulsing violently, as if suffering a seizure. Their faces began to bulge, and then their jaws split in two, like insect mandibles. Some purple substance rapidly spread over their hands and fingers, deforming them into claws. The backs of their shirts burst open as what looked like deformed insect wings unfolded open, while the skin fell off their faces to reveal a second set of eyes in their forehead. Makie watched as the first one reached forward and casually impaled one of her neighbors with its arm. Pandemonium instantly broke out in the streets as the monsters took to the air, grabbing some bystanders and dropping them from a height. A few of them produced revolvers, also partially encrusted in the purple substance, and opened fire, gunning some people down. Running inside, Makie watched through the window as some of them literally smashed down through the roofs of some of the houses, with screaming following shortly. Shouts came as several policemen appeared, who cried out in horror upon seeing the things. "There is only one solution to this!" shouted Takashi as he too ran inside, heading for his room. Going to cower, no doubt, she thought. Outside, some of the policemen returned fire with their own weapons, holding the wings of the demons, only to get torn into bloody chunks as they swooped down. One of them, its chest splattered with blood, turned around and stared straight at her through the window. Clicking, it began to move rapidly forward. Takashi then burst out screaming, waving an ancestral katana. Charging straight at the demon, he cleaved it

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 in half at the chest with a strong swing. Another one in the process of dropping a bystander from above swooped down, only for him to stab it straight through the head as it came down. More police, cowering behind several nearby carts, emerged and resumed firing as he mutilated another one of the things with the sword. Cheering, people began to re-emerge from their houses wielding knives and other blades as the last of the things were either sliced up or riddled with bullets. Twisted bodies of both men and demon littered the ground as shouting came from adjacent streets. As the people began to mourn the dead or praise Takashi, nobody noticed the golden beetles scurrying in the shadows. ** Winter Palace, Petrograd, Imperial Russia "My Tsar, we have news from Siberia." Tsar Nicholas stood in one of the staterooms of the palace, along with his aides and Rasputin, standing in a corner, as one of the servants spoke to him. "He doesn't appear to be very well, sir. I am uncertain what this bodes." "I have been hearing enough bad news from the West. I am confident that whatever he tells me cannot possibly cause me any more concern." said the Tsar gloomily. "May I present Colonel Pavel." announced another aide as the door opened. A man in Imperial Army uniform, partly splattered in what looked like blood and another fluid the Tsar did not want to be identified, entered the room, looking vacant. "What news do you bring, Colonel?" asked the Tsar. Seconds later, his aide was pulling the Tsar to the floor as the colonel drew a gun and fired, narrowly missing him and smashing one of the windows. Drawing their own revolvers, the others in the room emptied several dozen rounds into him. Staggering and holed with wounds, the colonel fired again as the Tsar took cover behind a chair. Running up to him with a ceremonial sword, one of the generals proceeded to remove his limbs and head with several swift sweeps. Collapsing to the floor, the colonel began bleeding not blood, but some purple liquid. "What the hell was that?" gasped the Tsar. "As I told you, my excellency," uttered Rasputin as walked up, "the emissaries of Satan will do in their power to bring you down." "From now on, I want all visitors to the palace checked thoroughly." announced the Tsar. "And get me

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 someone with actual knowledge of news on Siberia." He looked down at the mess in the room as servants began to drag the body away. "Bring me some vodka. Lots of it." ** 14th January 1915, Picardy, Northern France British army officer Maxwell rubbed his eyes as BEF and French army soldiers set up barricades, barbed wire, and other defensive objects along a bridge over the River Somme. It was early in the morning, and all of them were bleary-eyed and tired. Across the other side was a village, which had been partially evacuated, or the locals conscripted into the French forces. A Rolls-Royce Armored car, one of the few available, was parked beside him, with the heavy machinegun fully loaded. It made him feel marginally safer. These Roaches had been spreading hell everywhere; they didn't care for things like defensive emplacements, rivers, and natural barriers. Despite the fact that the lines near the place where the rock from which they supposedly came from had fell were still strong, they had been popping up all over Northern France and even part of Belgium. Ypres had fell; he felt sorry for the Englishmen and soldiers of the Commonwealth who had been killed there. The Germans weren't coming off scot-free either; if some of the rumors were true, the Roaches were striking across the German border too. Although to be fair, the lads were liable to make up anything in times like this to give them hope. "What's the bloody point of this?" growled Private Jones, one of the soldiers, as he set up a Vickers machinegun. "I mean, I've heard what these Roaches or whatever the hell you wanna call 'em can do. Only way to fight 'em is to not fight 'em." "Man, you will do your duty for King and Country without question, or so help me I'll put a bullet in your head for cowardice." snapped Maxwell. Jones replied with a scowl. The man's attitude was understandable. Information about the Roaches were vague; and for that, the men were going to fill in the gaps with whatever nonsense they deemed appropriate. "At least we have a nice place from where to fish, non?" muttered Remi, the French officer in charge of the French troops there and the unofficial translator for the ones who couldn't speak English. "As command said, the perfect place from where to defend this spot. They can't burrow underneath us. They'll have to be funneled into a single chokepoint. We can easily defend this." "Oui. But if we must retreat, then we'll be cursing this place." sighed Remi as they looked around. The area was silent save for the sound of birds, insects, and the men working. The silence was broken moments later by a high-pitched buzzing noise. Dropping what they were holding, the troops cocked their rifles and looked alert. Maxwell produced his Webley Revovler and made sure it was fully loaded. It was time to see just how well thought-out this little plan was.

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Flying over the roofs of the village were three...things. A roughly human shape, with two arms and two legs, but with an otherwise purely arthropodic bodies, with segmented leg and arms and a torso that looked like a cross between a starved man and an insect's underside. The head was grotesque, with a cluster of large mandibles and two sets of small, yellow eyes. Each one of them held a weapon, with two of them holding Lee-Enfield rifles, and one of them appeared to have a MG08 machinegun, partially fused to its arm, with the ammo feed extending into its back. "Shoot them! Shoot them!" he shouted, coming to his senses. The men opened fire, with some of the bullets visibly hitting, but apparently not doing much. The three flying things opened fire, with volleys of rounds impacting straight into French and BEF soldier alike, splattering blood onto the bridge. A mass of Roaches appeared among the buildings of the village ahead, scuttling very fast towards the bridge. "Motherfuckers!" shouted the soldier manning the machinegun on top of the armored car as he opened fire. Dozens of rounds hammered into the head of the one with the machinegun, finally blasting it off and causing to fall down into the river below. He swept the gun in an arc as one of the men grabbed one of the other machineguns and returned more fire, knocking them out of the sky, but not before a round hit straight in his face and tore his head clean from his neck and spinal cord, making Maxwell wonder just what calibre they were using. "Someone get in that vehicle!" he shouted as they diverted their attention to the things now swarming onto the bridge. Explosions detonated at the end of the bridge as they detonated the mines placed there, and more came as the troops threw down grenades. The machineguns continued sweeping as the first line fell down just a few feet ahead of them. Their bodies were simply pushed aside and crawled over as more lunged forward, with the troops putting up as much ammo as they could. Bullets pinged off the armored car, both strays and ones fired by Roaches with weapons fused to their carapaces. "Keep it up! Keep it up!" screamed Maxwell hysterically as another one of the troops got in the turret of the armored car and continued putting up fire. One of the forward machinegunners was torn to pieces as the things pounced onto him, and soon the second one went as he ran out of ammo. Across the shore, one of the buildings crumbled and one of those gigantic beetles emerged, with at least half a dozen machineguns fused to its side. Maxwell almost vomited as the huge mass of Roaches now filled his vision. Seconds later, artillery shells screamed overhead and impacted straight into the mass, spilling out--gas. The Roaches suddenly paused, giving Maxwell time to shout: "Gas! Gas! Masks on!" The troops began to fumble and hurriedly force their gas masks one as poison gas began spreading rapidly in all directions as more shells impacted into the village. Some of the Roaches appeared to fall over as they were engulfed in it; the rest began quickly burrowing back into the ground. Maxwell had got his mask on as the gas spread over the bridge and the river. One of the men, who hadn't got it on in time, convulsed and drooled as he breathed it in. One of the wounded suffered a likewise fate. Maxwell felt angry. Not only to those filthy Roaches, but to the bastards who hadn't told him that he and

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 his men had been little more than bait. ** Paris outskirts, France Parisian policeman Derome was on his early morning patrol, with fog covering most of the city. Rumors and whispers were spreading about the cancrelats, the cockroaches, rampaging on the front. Too many traumatized men and villagers had entered the city with tales of them for most to dismiss the creatures as a hoax any more. Derome was not shitting his pants as others, though. They were simply overgrown insects. If the army could hold back men, why couldn't it hold back big termites? "Officer! Officer!" A little old lady came running towards him, looking worried. "What is wrong, madame?" "It is...a German! He does not look natural! Please come!" He followed her through a wisp of fog to find a good-looking man in German uniform calmly walking forward. Except that his mouth was stretched into a grin, his skin was pale like a corpse, and his chest was covered in bullet holes and his uniform in dried blood. "Stop right there!" shouted Derome, producing a revolver. "How did you get here?" "The normal way." said the man in flawless French. "Please take me to your leaders. I must talk to them... ** The strategy was walking perfectly. It had been chosen to take its time against the Bipeds; it gave them more time to muster more troops, thereby easing the process of locating and consuming them. In the mean time, spreading panic and cutting apart their military machine would suffice for now. The presence in the remote icy and desert regions was growing and spreading rapidly, in the meantime. The question now was locating appropriate Biped facilities to replicate weapons superior to those fielded by the primitive Bipeds. Of course, it would hardly be much in the way of technology, but all information indicated that modifying it would not be hard... ** Papal Offices, St. Peter's Basilica, the Vatican Pope Benedict XV glanced at the various newspapers and reports before him. The signs were there: monsters, bent on the extermination of humans regardless of nationality or creed, having arrived from the

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 heavens, striking where they pleased and overcoming any weapons directed at him. The Archbishops and Cardinals in the room agreed with him: God had tired of Man's sinning, and thus the end was almost at hand. "How should we break this?" sighed the Pope. "Father," began Leon-Adolphe, Archbishop of Paris, "surely there must remain some hope. After all, these demons, be they of God or Lucifer, have not yet overcome us..." "But all signs indicate that they will." snapped one of the Cardinals. "If God has decided that Man's Judgement is at hand, then attempting to resist is fruitless." "That does not mean we should make the people plunge into despair." argued Leon. "With despair, people will reject God, and therefore when their judgement comes innocents will join the genuine sinners in Hell all because of our short-sightedness." "Be silent." snapped the Pope, gesturing at them dismissively. "Our sources tell us that these demons can snatch away the bodies of mortal men. What more obvious sign that these can tempt God-fearing men away from the Lord himself? I am beginning to agree with Leon; the people must be strengthened for judgement, and all must be done to keep them in God's favor." "What if the demons should strike here?" asked one of the Cardinals. "They are currently restricted to France, are they not? I think any attack on here will be seen coming, and then we will have no option but to abandon this sacred sight, as painful as it may be, and continue providing spiritual direction for as long as possible. After all, God's duty on Earth must be carried out to the end." The Vatican members nodded in agreement. "In the meantime, let us remain silent on this issue beyond words of spiritual support. The consciousness of humanity has been darkened enough; first this war, and then these demons. I believe that for now I must address the masses in the Piazza San Pietro..." ** The Winter Palace, Petrograd, Imperial Russia Grigori Rasputin sat in his room within the palace in silent contemplation. The Tsar had been growing increasingly paranoid following his assassination attempt, arguing and lashing at people at every opportunity. News was not helping either. The Central Powers forces were not relenting in the West, and all signs indicated the forces diverted to stop the emergence of the demons in Siberia had failed. Now, rumors were spreading among the Tsar's upper circles of some Bolshevik Party threatening the unity of

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 sacred Russia. His stress was understandable. Rasputin sat up as he felt some presence in the room. He looked around. Nothing there. "Grigori." he jerked in shock. The soft, accentless voice had come from within his head. "At least one here is worth consideration." "What...?" "Don't worry. Your purpose will soon be divulged. Now, just listen..." ** Albatros-Flugzeugwerke testing ground, near Berlin, Germany Herman Von Der Lieth-Thomsen watched as engineers scurried around the machine on the testing field before him. The company, in response to the developments in the West, had greatly rushed out development of the new vehicles they had been commissioned with, almost outright skipping the prototype stage. But as long as their new machines could fly and bring death, he wasn't overly concerned. "This new machine can reach an altitude of almost 5000 meters and over 150 miles per hour." An engineer was saying excitedly. "We will equip it with a machinegun for self-defence and plenty of bomb capacity for ground attack, which it take it is something you had exactly in mind." "Precisely." said Herman. "The aerial arm of the German army is about to be strengthened, on orders of the Kaiser. We are going to initiate an operation in France that should hopefully destroy the new threat preventing us from assaulting the Allies. Our first squadron should be formed soon." "How very exciting!" beamed the engineer, adjusting his glasses. "Let me tell you, mein herr. This thing is the future. You will not be disappointed."

BlackWave

April 3rd, 2012 12:53 AM

15th January 1915, Palais Bourbon, Paris Winston Churchill rubbed his eyes. Yesterday afternoon, he, along with several other important British military and political figures, had been told to head urgently to Paris, on a meeting of 'great significance'. He had spent the night travelling across the channel and taking an express train down to Paris, and the reasons hadn't been properly explained to him. He had heard that these Roach 43

SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 things were running amock, wrecking havoc with military lines and now beginning to spread into Belgium. Probably, the Frenchies had dragged him down here to tell him more bad news. He was led into a conference room, with about a dozen people sitting around a table. He recognized John French, Lord Kitchener, several men from the BEF, and others from the French army, including Ferdinand Foch. Prime Minister Asquith was there too, to his own surprise. Just what else had they kept him in the dark about? "Gentlemen," announced the French prime minister, "yesterday a man entered Paris and approached us, apparently a German officer. It was immediately evident that he was not normal. Several bullets had been found lodged in his chest, although he experienced no discomfort or detriment. He had suffered wounds that would kill a normal man. He spoke French, German, and English perfectly, and apparently knew his way around Paris just fine. We have come to the conclusion, based on his own words, that he is connected to the Grex...or Roaches, if you will." "Have you searched him? All of us gathered here..." began Kitchener. "Relax. We have searched him thoroughly; he was unarmed to begin with. Even so, we will take all available security measures. If you are ready, gentlemen, I will let him in." They nodded. The prime minister opened the door a bit and called. Moments later, the doors fully opened as a pale man in German uniform, his chest covered in several bullet holes and his uniform dirty with dried blood and dirt, with his mouth stretched into a disturbing grin, was escorted in by several guards, with their rifles trained on him at near point blank range. He took a seat at the top of the table per the prime minister's gesture, with the guns still trained on him. "You wanted to speak with us." said the prime minister gently. "Indeed." said the man in lightly accented English. "Bipeds, I speak for the consciousness. You call us the Grex, or Roaches." "You...you..." Asquith sat up. "You are intelligent? Then why are you attacking us! We have so much to share! Our culture, our progress, our arts...." "Your culture is irrelevant. Your progress is irrelevant. Your arts are irrelevant. What is relevant is this." He took a drink of water from a bottle and glass on the table before him. Some of it seeped out through the holes in his chest. "You cannot defeat us. We outclass you in every way. Your victory is impossible. Therefore, we propose this." He paused. "Surrender yourselves to us. The process will be quick and systematic. Why delay the inevitable? Offer yourselves for consumption. You will be aiding in our development as a species, thereby giving

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 you some purpose in this universe. If any members of your kind display physical or mental attributes that could be useful for us, we will not consume them." The people around the table dropped their jaws in shock. "It is logical. Your works will be left intact. You will not have to disgrace yourselves in defeat. What is your response?" The others continued to gape in horror. Churchill scowled in anger, and produced a revolver. "This is our response." he snarled, and fired, sending a round straight into his head. "We." Bang. "Do." Bang. "Not." Bang. "Negotiate." Bang. "With." Bang. "Bloody." Bang. "Cockroaches." Bullet ridden, the body of the man collapsed to the ground, with the guards dragging it away. Churchill pocketed his gun. "Apologies, chaps. It is the season for pest removal, after all."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 ** Surgut, Siberia, Imperial Russia Shurik Chekov, officer of the Imperial Russian army, sat on his horse as he oversaw the setting up of barbed wire and trenches around the city of Surgut. Artillery emplacements were being set up in various hidden positions along this encircling defensive line, along with cavalry and Cossack troops. As many civilians as possible had been conscripted by order of the Tsar, given whatever weapons were available, be they pistols, swords, or simple kitchen knives. The cold wasn't helping; even in his warm coat and ushanka, far better quality than whatever the grunts were wearing, he was still shivering slightly, and the horse didn't seem comfortable either. He had read all available intelligence on these demons apparently coming from the heart of Siberia. These things, resembling monstrous insects, had apparently already enveloped a good chunk of land, with the landscape itself somehow being reshaped. Rumors were spreading among the officer corps--that they were heading towards Alstuna. That they were invading Korea and China. That they were actually shapeshifted Jews--god, he loved that one. Regardless, the Tsar's orders were to defend this town, and he would defend it for the sake of honor and the motherland. He looked at the snowy expanse before him. It was slightly foggy and snowflakes were drifting down--damn weather wouldn't help the artillery spotters. Snipers had been put on rooftops, just in case, and he was confident that the Tsar's cavalry would shine in such an environment. "Sir!" called a sergeant with binoculars, studying the horizon. "I think there is something coming!" The troops in the trench tensed. Chekov rode over and took the binoculars. Yes, there was definitely something moving across the horizon. The fog cleared a bit. Chekov almost retched at the sight. Some huge, seething mass covering the horizon was rapidly approaching the city. His horse whinnied, as if feeling his fear. "Tell the artillery to open fire!" he shouted. "Where?" "Anywhere! It hardly matters!" He sergeant shot off a flare, to give the signal to the artillery crews. Bracing himself, Chekov cried out in shock as suddenly things began to burst out of the snow all over the space in front of the line. His horse reared as the troops began shouting and firing their weapons madly. Growling, the things, with spindly forelegs, teeth-filled mouths and armored bodies, pounced forward into the trench, tearing apart the troops with jaws and teeth or spitting out some sort of liquid that dissolved them. Yelling, some of the other troops outside the trench began lobbing grenades, blasting off chunks of

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 the things. Screaming, the horse leapt around, finally knocking Chekov off. Getting up, he could finally see what the huge mass was: a gigantic tide of demons, charging at speed towards the city over the snow. Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? He didn't know or care. Explosions dotted the mass as the artillery fired. Moments later, high-pierced screeches came down as suddenly return artillery fire rained down on the city. The orthodox cathedral in the city was blasted apart by the impact of several shells. Scanning the mass, he could faintly make out enormous beetles with artillery guns apparently fixed to their sides, firing at an incredible rate. Fuck, he thought. More shells rained on the city, levelling buildings and troop positions, as soldiers screamed and began to retreat. "Traitors!" he shouted hysterically, shooting one in the head with his revolver. "Scum! You dishonor Russia! You dishonor the Tsar! You dishonor god! You disho--" He heard more screaming as he saw the cavalry charge out, only for the horses to scatter as the tide bore down on them. Overwhelmed, the Cossacks were torn from their mounts as the swarm engulfed them. Turning around, he found himself staring into the dribbling maw of one of the armored ones. As it opened and lunged, he had time to utter a prayer to god for the sake of the motherland. ** The Pacific Ocean Captain James Wayne, of a US coast guard vessel on patrol from Kauai, surveyed the ocean around him. Reports were coming lately of a Russian vessel that had been intruding into waters without permission, ignoring and endangering other vessels, and moving at an unusually fast rate. His bosses had considered demanding an explanation from the Russians, but they had decided that it was not worth it until they had a better understanding of the situation. "I think I see it!" one of the crewmen in the small vessel, surveying the blue Pacific waves with binoculars, cried out. Snatching the binoculars, Wayne scanned the waters. Yes, there was certainly some vessel bearing in their direction that matched its description. "This may be it, boys. All ahead full!" Heading forwards, the small coast guard vessel proceeded towards the boat, which became gradually more visible. Observing it all the while through the binoculars, Wayne could indeed see that there was something strange about it. It seemed to have a purple color of some kind, and it did indeed seem to be heading towards them at an unnaturally fast rate.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Send 'em the signal. Tell 'em to stand down or be boarded." snapped Wayne to another crewman, who began flashing at them in Morse. The mysterious vessel did not respond, and continued bearing down. "Well, we can't say we didn't warn them. Take us a bit out of their way, and prepare to go alongside." The crew complied. Within a few minutes, the vessel was only several dozen meters away, heading along very quickly. Passing by them, almost dragging the boat along in its wake, it was now close enough for a good look. Almost the entire forward half was encrusted in this purple, almost corallike stuff, and there didn't seem to be much in the way of crew or cargo visible. "Hey!" shouted Wayne through a megaphone. "Stop your tub, you vodka-drinking bums, or you'll be held accountable to the United States Navy!" There was a pause as they desperately tried to keep up. Then, a man appeared on the deck of the larger freighter. "There. You the captain?" called Wayne. The man did not respond. Instead, he leapt, like a frog, right onto the boat. His clothes were tattered and smeared in some stuff, his skin was pasty, and he looked greatly underfed, yet he was grinning widely. "Who the fuck--" The man suddenly produced a pistol and began gunning down the crew of the Coast Guard vessel one by one. Wayne produced his own gun and shot the man two times in the chest, but he didn't even flinch. Running towards him, Wayne hit the man over the head with his pistol butt, only to get knocked over into the sea. Within a minute, the coast guard ship was purged of life, and the man leapt back onto the freighter, which continued on its cause. ** Predictably, the Bipeds had refused the offer. No matter. Already, their efforts were on the verge of crumbling. Some of their gas weapons were proving to be annoyances--samples would be needed for full adaptation. In the meantime, vast gains of land in the snowy and arid wastelands had been made--there was no need to hold back there as there was in the region designated as the Bipeds as 'Europe'. The region designated as the 'United States of America' would, in time, also become a nonissue. **

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East Belgium Driver Aldar Schreiber of the German army felt his stomach churn slightly as the truck drove over another pothole on the rough dirt path snaking through the Belgian countryside that they were driving along. In the back of the truck was a large consignment of chlorine gas, destined for the front, with every rattle of the containers that accompanied each bump making his nerves jump. As well as that, three soldiers were accompanying him, armed with shotguns and high-caliber revolvers. He knew all about the Schaben rampaging around the Somme area and here in Belgium, from word of mouth. They were making hell for the British and French too, and rumors were starting to seep down that they may also be present in Russia too. He didn't know much else beyond that, apart from the fact that they were wrecking havoc--they had attacked trains and rails, and purged entire towns and villages of life. Ypres had been covered in this same gas to try and stop them, presumably killing any Schaben within it...and presumably any man. His gas mask hung from his belt, but that didn't stop him from feeling nervous. "Stop driving like a gorilla, arschloch." snapped the soldier seated beside him, his cigarette falling out of his mouth. "I'm about to fucking vomit, and we've got several crates of poison gas in the back, so try and avoid the holes, ja?" "You try driving this damn box." muttered Aldar as they turned a corner, passing several cornfields. He glimpsed something in the corner of his eye, and momentarily gazed out of the window. Beyond several fields and a small wood was a village ablaze, with smoke rising into the sky. He narrowly avoided veering off the world as the soldier pulled him back. "What was that? What was that?" he began panting. "Schaben?" "Calm down, dummkopf. It could be anything. We are near the front lines, so it could be Tommy artillery. Why are you so concerned over a bunch of Belgians, anyway?" Seconds later, something slammed into the truck, sending it veering and crashing into a stone wall lining the track. Lurching forward, Aldar looked out of the window to see several monstrous, deformed insects the size of ponies on the road scurrying towards the truck, their mandibles twitching as if in anticipation. "Mutterficker!" shouted the soldier as he broke open the window and fired with his shotgun, blasting part of the face off one of the things. Another one pounced onto the front of the truck, denting the bonnet and cracking the windscreen, as the other soldiers got up and opened fire, shooting down the wounded one. Screeching, one of them was pounced upon and torn to pieces, splattering the truck with blood and organs. Trying to suppress the urge to vomit, Aldar produced his

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 own Luger and fired at the thing in front of him through the windscreen, blasting out one of its eyes. Screaming, its forearms smashed through, feeling him as he emptied the magazine straight into its face. Unpinning a grenade, the soldier threw it down onto the road just as he was skewered by a jagged claw. Moments later, the grenade detonated, throwing some of the Schaben upwards with the blast and cracking them open. As the other soldier took over behind a fence on the other side of the world and fired at the one on the bonnet, one of the Schaben scurried behind the truck and reached inside, extracting one of the containers with its forearms. As shotgun shells impacted on the ground around it, it burrowed into the ground, taking the container with it. With that, the remaining Schaben followed, throwing up dirt as they rapidly tunneled out of sight. "Scheisse." sighed the surviving soldier as he joined a trembling and semi-traumatized Aldar in the front of the truck. "Verdammt bugs. Still, they only took one container--why I can't imagine. What possible harm could come of that?" ** Osaka, Japan Seaman Nauki Nagama surveyed the Honshu coast from the forward deck of the Satsuma-class battleship Aki, as it steamed towards Osaka harbor after being recalled from patrol. Apparently, some internal crisis was beginning in Japan that required the attention of its military. Nauki couldn't understand what it could possibly be--the city looked perfectly all right to him, with the Aki being the only military object visible. It was very strange. Stranger stories were also creeping in among the crew. Some of the newspapers were spreading tales of giant insects from the heavens invading Europe, bringing hell to the gaijin. It sounded very fanciful, but the papers and some gaijin at the embassies were adamant that it was true. Still, he had his doubts. Just where could such insects capable of posing a threat to the power of the world come from? "Look!" someone called from one of the observation nests. Looking upwards, Naoki could see what looked like...flying men, rapidly approaching the Aki. Some of the other crew on deck looked up in shock. Just how was this possible? "Well, this is certainly a sight you don't see every day." someone mused. Seconds later, his chest burst inwards as the sound of a gunshot rang out as the things suddenly swooped towards the ship. Naoki could see them in more detail now--horrible insect-men, with faces full of eyes and mandibles and bodies like starved children. They held what looked like heavy machineguns, partially fused to their arms, with which they immediately opened fire. Naoki dived behind cover as the crew on the deck were mowed down.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Creeping along the forecastle of the ship, he broke out in sweat as screams, cries, and gunshots rang out all over the ship. He considered running in and confronting these monsters. If he succeeded, he would be honored by the Emperor himself. His family and descendants would respect him for generations. Then, the decapitated head of the captain flew overhead. Not hesitating, Naoki dived over the edge of the ship and began swimming for land, leaving the vessel to whatever fate awaited it. ** I]British front lines, Northern France[/I] Huddled in a dugout in a BEF line near the land occupied fully by the Grex, three men of the British army tried to keep warm as nearby artillery emplacements tried to keep up a constant bombardment while combat engineers and troops set up on furiously digging trenches, their faces covered by gas masks. In the dugout sat two officers, one lanky and relatively pristine and one with a grumpy face and a mustache, and a short, dirty little man with glasses. "Amazing." mused the mustached one as he read through a news pamphlet. "Apparently overgrown weevils are doing a better job than both the British and German armies, led by the biggest egos in the world, could do in a year. Doesn't surprise me in the slightest, to be frank." "I do think it's all so horrifying, in a way!" commented the lanky one in an effeminate voice. "I mean, at least we were fighting men before, and now we're fighting these things straight out of a HG Wells book!" "Frankly, the main difference between a dribbling Boche trying to tear my face off with a bayonet and a dribbling oversized termite trying to tear my face off with its teeth is a matter of aesthetic." sighed the mustached one dryly. "It could be worse, sir." said the small one. "They could be drivin' boilers on stilts with dem 'eat rays or whaddya call 'em..." "Badrick?" asked the officer with the mustache. "Yes?" "It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if these Roaches or whatever the toffs decided to call them were your long-lost relatives come to find you and take you away to some dark corner of the solar system." "Charmin', sir."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Have you heard the stories?" asked the lanky one. "I heard that some of these things can take on human form. Some of them tried to kill our leaders at a meeting in Paris yesterday, or so I heard, only for Lord Churchill to mow them down with a machinegun before rescuing a cat off the tree." "Yes, and I've also heard that the war will end by Christmas, that Lord Kitchener himself can destroy the enemy with a mean stare, and that the prime minister is heterosexual." said the mustached one sardonically. "If you believe everything you hear, George, I'm surprised you haven't thrown yourselves at the enemy lines in the hope that Saint George will descend from the heavens riding a dragon and help you smite them." "Well...it's just rumors..." said George. More artillery volleys started up. "Damn it! Just how many shells do we need to throw at them? How can we make them shut up, before my eyes look like I've been dunking my face in a fireplace?" "Sir?" "Yes, Baldrick?" "I have a cunning plan..." "Baldrick?" "Yes?" "Sod off." ** 16th January 1915, Adelaide, Australia David Robin surveyed the city of Adelaide, stretched out beneath him, from the basket of his own personal hot-air balloon, as he hung about a kilometer above the city. Worrying rumors had been spreading through these parts lately, from women at the train station to his mates at the bar; tales of giant insects wrecking havoc in the trenches of the front in Europe, taking on human form and capable of appearing at will. With Melbourne having announced plans for a new mass draft, and with many of the newspapers sharing the same view, he was starting to take these stories seriously. But worrying about monstrous insects didn't do a guy good, which was why he taken solace in his balloon, looking up into the cloudless sky and down at the city and the green land around it, taking in the relaxing, soothing view. This was Australia; what was there to fear here?

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 He noted something wrong as the balloon drifted towards the town outskirts. There appeared to be a black patch superimposed on the green of the terrain surrounding Adelaide --on closer look, it was moving. And shifting its shape too. Looking beyond it, David's jaw dropped as he saw an even larger patch, covering a huge amount of land, moving gradually towards the town. It was as if someone had spilt a glob of ink onto a relief map. Adjusting the balloon's gas output, he began to descend for a closer look. The first patch appeared to be dissolving into smaller constituents as it reached the city boundaries. He could see people standing in the streets, frozen in shock, then scattering as the things moved fast, pouncing onto them. Descending further, he was at a height that he could more or less make them out--giant bugs? Almost immediately, he vomited over the side of the basket. The streets of outer Adelaide were now almost black with the things as they swarmed towards the city center, apparently cutting down all in their way. He noted what looked like giant beetles the size of houses smashing aside buildings, apparently to flush the occupants out. Beyond that, more swarms of the things, at least several square kilometers in size, were advancing rapidly towards the city. Increasing the gas, he began to head upwards again as he got low enough to make out individual trees in the streets. Sounds of screaming, yells, and roaring were coming from everywhere. Some buildings were being knocked down by the sheer weight of the little buggers as they continued charging inexorably forward. Quickly, David got a hold of himself and resolved to make up his mind. Australia was not the safe haven he had hoped it would be. Her men needed to be mobilized. Loosening some of the ballast, he began adjustments to take the balloon towards Melbourne, as below him the streets of Adelaide were engulfed with the demons. ** University of Paris, France "Gentlemen, I'd like to announce that these recent sleepless nights and periods of overwork have paid off. Although we still have much to study, we have garnered more information than we had hoped." Lafeete spoke to the professors in the room with him, with a British and a French officer standing in the corner observing. Of course, he thought, they really hadn't made much progress, but the uniform-wearing fools didn't want to hear that. So, he would tell them what little they had found out and prolong it. "Now, good sirs," he said to the army officers, "this is our first exhibit."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 He picked up a beaker marked 'THAN-6E', containing the purple substance he had found in the Grex specimen and on the accompanying objects. "This substance, as far as we can tell, is the ichor of the Grex. Although they appear to have other bodily fluids, a quantity of this is found in their bodies. It gradually spreads over any given surface, and when encouraged can grow at an exponential rate. Our studies of the captured weapons show that it specifically covered the various firing components and create an ammo feed of sorts to the body. If our microscopic findings our correct, this ichor is made up of many smaller organisms--it is as if they have managed to control themselves right down to the cellular level. Furthermore..." "I will be frank. I do not give a fuck." snapped the French officer. "What everyone wants to know is, how do we effectively defeat these things?" Lafeete blushed. "Alas, monsieur, it is not as simple as that. We are scientists, not miraclemakers. It will take time, and more research, to make any specific..." "In that case, perhaps other minds thrown into the mix would help. We have been told to take some of your samples for delivery to Oxford university, as well as other classified military facilities. Thankfully, we have managed to gain other specimens for people like you to study, but the research you have already made is appreciated. We will go and speak to the university chiefs for now." As soon as they had left, Lafeete slammed on the table in frustration. "The greatest scientific discovery of all time, creatures complex in biology beyond our recognition, and all those morons can think of is destroying them? No wonder we entered this pointless war in the first place! We are ruled by idiots! Idiots!" He stopped as soon as he realized the whole room was staring at him. "Apologies. Let us continue. If those fools cannot appreciate the scientific beauty of these creatures, at least we can have the satisfaction of doing so." As the scientists got to work, one of the beakers began to crack from the pressure of the growing substance inside. ** North France, near the Somme Private Horst Born watched as the men around him unloaded fresh new flamethrowers, supposedly straight from the factory, from the trucks and carts that were coming and going. A large field had

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 effectively been turned into a resupply camp--the Kaiser had decreed that the Schaben were to be purged, and it would be done. Artillery emplacements were already being set up among trees and tall grass, and soldiers equipped with simple rifles were making sure their bullets were literally of the highest calibre. He had heard enough details of this new offensive--Operation Hemimetabole--to know that soon they would be moving to retake the trenches near the Schaben nest, and then to finally destroy it. "Nice toys, nein?" Lindemann, part of his company and his friend, weighed one of the flamethrowers nearby. "Have they not thought about training us with these damn things?" sighed Born. "What is there to know? We point, and fire, the same as a gun. Besides, the longer we wait, the more the Schaben multiply. That is what the unteroffizier said." He gestured to an officer with a scrawny mustache nearby, shouting at a man who had apparently handled his flamethrower wrong. "Who is that man?" "Some guy named Hitler. An Austrian, or so I've heard. Seems to think that the Schaben are Jews in disguise, or something. Got promoted for saving an officer a few days ago. Well, as long as he's got balls, I'm all up for him." "Men! Do not let fear overtake you!" Another officer was shouting from nearby. "Disregard all rumors you have heard of the Schaben! They are but mindless overgrown garden ants, who cannot stand against the firepower of Germany! Steel yourselves!" Some of the soldiers cheered. Others, Born included, rolled their eyes. "I wonder what the Tommies and French are making of them." "The Tommies are no doubt cowering in their dugouts and drinking tea while the French complain about the lack of room service. I'd say the glory will belong to us." grinned Lindemann. "You'd think they'd attack too." muttered Born. "Well, maybe they are planning to do so. But we shall do it first, and the Vaterland will take all credit. Now..." "Soldiers of Germany!" A screeching voice came from nearby. It was the Unteroffizier, Hitler, walking up and down and shouting at the soldiers nearby. "You will not fail! You will not retreat, nor will you cower! If we can fight men, we can fight insects!" Born actually found himself listening. The man's voice was hysterical, yet somehow oddly pulling.

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"If they kill one of us, we kill ten! We shall destroy them as you would destroy a termite infestation in our house! It is man who is the dominant creature on this world, and man shall remain so! Exterminate these cockroaches without fear!" The men cheered. Born found himself grinning with pride too, to his own surprise. "No faltering! No cowardice! All those who betray lack of will are food for them! Kill them with fire! Kill every last one of the damned things!” He held aloft his own flamethrower. Cheering, the men yelled enthusiastic approvals, before breaking out into the national anthem. Born joined them as the words of 'Heil dir im Siegerkranz' echoed around the fields. ** Cherbourg Anita Roux looked upon the others in the darkened room around her, illuminated only by candles. She held in her hands the latest newspapers, screaming about the monsters from the Somme. The day had come, just as it had been prophesized. God had lost faith in humanity. The only option, as she and her associates had realized long ago, was to embrace Lucifer. "Now that nobody can doubt our teachings any more, we can finally expose ourselves." she said. "The masses will lose faith in the clergy, and turn to us. We will shown them the way." "What is your plan, leader?" asked one of the others in the room. "We must gather more people to our way of thinking. This should not be difficult. Then, we will embrace these minions of Satan, and see how we can serve them. We are damned to roast in hell anyhow, so let us go forth and do the bidding of the Prince of Darkness himself..." ** Versailles, France John French, Ferdinand Foch, Joseph Joffre, Horace Smith-Dorrien, Winston Churchill, Herbert Kitchener, and other top-ranking members of the British and French armies stood around a table covered mainly by a detailed map of France, dotted with markings indicating Allied, German, and Grex presence. The political leaders of both countries had more or less agreed to an unofficial unification of French and British command; there had been some grumblings, but when the reports from the front had been distributed, they had quickly ceased. "Gentlemen, the situation is grave." announced French. "From our limited intelligence, we know that

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 the Grex, or Roaches, if you prefer, have been spreading themselves through the countryside in the north of the country, and we have confirmed that they are now attacking Belgium as well. Our lines in the vicinity of what we presume to be their nest are still intact, but they had clearly been ineffectual in containing them." "What do we know of the German strategic response?" asked Foch. "Our scouts indicate that they seem to be preparing for a large offensive into the source of the Grex swarms. I never thought I'd be saying this, but I pray to God that they succeed." "I ask this question to Mr. Churchill." announced Joffre. "I have been told that you are in charge of a committee tasked with the creation of new weapons for the front. Is this correct?" "Yes. The arrival of these bloody Roaches forced us to accelerate things a bit." "May I ask what projects exactly you are working on?" "Well, I've had a group of boffins working almost around the clock lately on mobilized armored constructs, so to speak. We've made some breakthroughs in the last few days, thankfully. I trust such things would fare better against the blasted things than our poor boys there." "I see. Is there anything else?" "Well, given the fact that the disgusting little blighters can pop up and hit our troops seemingly when they please, we've also been intensifying our research into aerial presence. I'm told that some of the engineers in our laboratories have a few ideas they want to put into practice." "We've also been working on gas weapons, as much as I dislike the idea." added Kitchener. "If we have to cover the Somme and half of Belgium, so be it. The next shipments should be arriving in the next few days. I look forward to seeing what the wretched little creatures make of those." "This is all very well and nice, but I think we should finally decide on a strategy to eradicate these Roaches. What do you think?" interrupted Dorrien. "It may be best to make it concurrent with the German attack." mused French. "I doubt it. They may strike while we are still in the middle of preparations, and besides, if our forces clash, it would be as bad as meeting the Grex." replied Foch. "I've heard the German flame weapons have proved useful against the things. Perhaps we can somehow arrange to capture a batch for replication..." said Kitchener. "Yes, you are right. I've also been hearing suggestions that we initiate a ceasefire with the Germans,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 perhaps exchange weapons to crush the Grex..." said Joffre thoughtfully. "I don't think the situation is so bad that we must kiss the backsides of the Boches." said Churchill curtly. "In any case, the behaviour of these Roaches make the implication of any firm strategy difficult. For now, we should remain on the defensive until fresh weapons, men, and supplies arrive. Hopefully, the Krauts will divert their attention away from us." "I agree." said Foch. "An offensive is too impractical for us at this moment. Besides, I want to experience the pleasure of seeing the Fritz bastards get what's coming to them..." ** The Winter Palace, Petrograd, Imperial Russia "Surgut has fallen. Our offensives into Siberia have proven ineffectual. Our diversion of forces from the West have proved detrimental to our efforts there." "Shit. Shit. Shit." The Tsar slammed onto the table with each word, with a huge black space covering a portion Siberia on the map before him being freshly marked. "The Central Powers encroach on us from one side, these demons from the other, I am under threat from assassins, internal dissent spreads among my people...if I do not receive good news soon, I will kill someone." "I have some suggestions, my Tsar." The generals around the table looked up as Rasputin entered. He seemed more energetic and fit lately, and more talkative, having been entertaining the Tsarina at recent dinners. This did stop them from looking daggers at him as he walked up to the table. "Give me some support, Grigori. Tell me all will be good." said the Tsar pleadingly. "It will, my Tsar. God is on our side; we cannot lose as long as you live." He indicated the map. "Are you fools blind? We have a barrier between us and the demons that cannot be breached: the Urals. We fill those with barriers and defences, and we will chew up any army of demons. It is only sensible." "We cannot devote too many forces from the West, otherwise the Germans, Austrians, and Ottomans will soon be marching through Moscow." glowered one of the generals. "Are you cretins as stupid as I think? We have an infestation of demons in our heartland, and all you can think of are petty geopolitical affairs? We will simply make peace with the Central Powers." This was met by looks of shock. "I refuse to entertain such an idea, Grigori." said the Tsar sternly. "Even if it was not in doubt that the bastards would even accept such an offer, it is still against principle."

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"As the Tsar decrees. But when the demons approach, perhaps you may reconsider..." ** The Somme, Northern France A short distance from the German lines, several figures quickly moved through abandoned trenches and dugouts, some of them dotted with mutilated bodies twisted beyond recognition. An eerie purple glow, illuminating the dusk sky, came from somewhere on the horizon, from the area of the suspected Grex nest. Aerial scouts had reported both Grex and German presence in the area. None of that mattered to the select group of British army personnel quickly moving to the area the same scouts had reported would be perfect for their objective. The leader of the group, sergeant Baker, a upper-class Londoner, gestured for them to stop as they quickly sneaked over a patch of barren, muddy no-man's-land and barbed wire and into an empty German trench. Not long before, there was constant noise in this area, be it artillery, machineguns, or the hubbub of soldiers in the trenches. Now, just silence. "Alright lads, keep it down and keep it quiet. We've come too far to toss this up." he hissed under his breath. "McDougal, are you sure you can provide the appropiate distraction? What makes you such a good demolitions expert anyway?" "What makes me a good demolitions expert? If I were a bad demolitions expert, I wouldn't be standin' 'ere, talkin' to you, now would I?!" roared McDougal, the Scotsman from Glasgow, with a backpack of dynamite slung over his back. "Keep it bloody down!" hissed Richardson, as he peered over the side of the trench and scanned the land ahead with binoculars. "We got Fritz not far off--and the objective, too." "Then let's bloody take 'em, y'sissies!" growled McDougal. "There's at least a dozen of them!" spat Richardson, eyeing a group of Germans in the distance ahead restoring a dugout, with a pile of crates behind them. "McDougal, could you please commence the arrangements we agreed on at the briefing..." "Well, at least it's somethin'!" Readying a roll of dynamite, McDougal set the timer and threw it over the side of the trench, where it detonated a few moments later. As some of the Germans ran off to investigate, the team quickly moved down the trench in the direction of the trench. "Moore, take down any Boche there silently." whispered Baker to the unshaven man beside him. Nodding, Moore produced a knife.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Running ahead of them, Moore found the dugout first. Two Germans were waiting there, looking alert, and facing in the other direction. Moving forwards, Moore lunged forward with his knife as the two men turned around at the sound of approaching footsteps. Stabbing the first in the throat, he grabbed the rifle out of his hand and quickly rammed the bayonet into the other man's forehead, bringing both down in the space of a moment. As the others reached the location, Moore was already opening one of the crates, and took out a flamethrower apparatus. "Excellent." grinned Richardson. "Now that we've got what we've came for, let's move." Seconds later, bullets shot overhead and impacted on the side of the trench near them as the remaining Germans came running back, shouting to each other. Producing their own rifles, the team began firing back out of the trench as they approached. Hearts leapt as suddenly something erupted out of the ground behind the Germans and pulled him back into the ground. Another also emerged, screeching loudly. Crying in horror, the Germans desperately began shooting the ground as they were pulled down one-by-one. "Shit! It's them bloody Roaches, or whatever y'wanna call 'em!" shouted McDougal as more of the things scurried down the trench towards them. As the others loaded their rifles, Moore calmly took aim with the flamethrower and held down the trigger, sending forward a stream of fire straight into their faces. Screaming, the Roaches convulsed as they were burnt alive, leaving a small pile of roasted bodies blocking the trench. "Excellent work, Moore." panted Baker as the others looked around tensely. "Now, let's return this paraphanelia to the brass, and see what they can do with it..." ** Luftschiffbau Schutte-Lanz hangar, western Germany Manfred von Richtofen, fresh new volunteer for the German Empire's Luftstreitkrafte, surveyed the huge mass filling the hangar before him. On order of the Kaiser, the aerial arm of the German military was to be expanded greatly in response to the bizarre new developments on the Western Front. Manfred, having just been transferred from the Uhlan cavelry, was looking forward to flying some of the new craft under intense development at plants across the Kaiser's lands. The future was in the air, as far as he was concerned. "We have been ordered to refit this craft from bombing purposes to ground support." An engineer was saying, pointing at the huge zeppelin filling the hangar, with scaffolding covering a good portion of it. "Artillery and battleship weapons will be fixed to it, slightly modified to allow for lift. I trust you've heard of the monsters in the west, mein herr?" "Of course." replied Manfred. "I first thought it a hoax, but by now I guess I cannot really deny it."

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"We've been ordered to refit a number of our zeppelins like this, with extra armament." continued the engineer. "You won't believe some of the abfall they ask us to put on--flamethrowers, machineguns. They've even asked us to increase the size of some of our upcoming projects, so that aircraft can land on them! They've gone insane!" "Whoever will rule the air, will rule the ground." mused Manfred, then turned to look at a sketch he held in his hand, of a zeppelin bearing huge weapons, and laying waste to a battlefield before it. ** 17th January 1915, North France Horst Born would have tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes where it not for the gas mask covering his face, with the oxygen nozzle snaking down towards his stomach. The sun was barely creeping over the horizon, and the soldiers crammed into the trench with him, mostly armed with bulky and cumbersome flamethrower apparatus, were silent. The officers had told them to make as little sound as possible--which was fairly unnecessary, considering all the rumors they had heard of the Schaben that they could be facing. The latest ones stated that Russia was being overrun by the damn things, and that they had been sighted in China. He had decided to pay these no heed, and think as many positive thoughts as possible. "Any cowards or defeatists will be shot instantly." The Unteroffizier Hitler, barely audible given his low tone and the gas mask muffling his voice, was pushing down the trench. "You have nothing to be afraid of from a rabble of brainless overgrown aphids." A few minutes later, he was drowned out totally as the artillery a distance back from the lines opened fire. Despite the space between the trenches and the guns, Born could still feel the constant booms reverberating in his ear. The soil vibrated as the shells impacted into the No Man's Land before them, spilling out poison chlorine gas. The entire area was to be blanketed in gas, he had been told, so that the protected troops could advance unhindered. As he watched the thick clouds engulf the land, obscuring the strange purple glow on the horizon that the troops were too afraid to comment on, he wondered whether these things would comprehend that sort of tactic. The barrage continued for over a quarter of an hour. Shell after shell slammed into the space separating them and the other trench they were going to take, which they would then defend until the artillery could come in closer, and then repeat the process, and so on, until they were right at the nest of the Schaben. And then, he presumed, they would level it with explosives--rumors, even from the officers, said that for some reason artillery fire did not work on the Schaben nest, as if there was some invisible umbrella protecting it. Finally, the shelling stopped. Born's ears were still ringing, and a thick fog of gas had formed in front of them. Gesturing to follow, the officers went over the top and began to slowly walk forward into

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 the thick gas. Nervously, the troops followed, stepping over the battered strands of barbed wire, their flamethrowers at the ready. Armed with a simple rifle, Born walked through the cloud with them. It was insane--he could barely see a few feet in front of him. Nearby, some poor soul who had forgot to put his gas mask on properly collapsed to the floor, his mask filled with vomit and drool. Nobody paid him any heed. He stumbled over something--the skull of a British tommy, still wearing a helmet. A victim of the Schaben? A poor soul who had died in one of the suicidal infantry charges at trenches over the top, from back when this war was sane? It was irrelevant. He could glimpse the dark shapes of his fellow soldiers, some looking deformed with the flamethrowers on their back, in the thick gas around him. With nothing to hear except heavy footsteps on muddy ground and his breathing amplified by the gas mask, he felt sweat running down all over his body and his nerves going into overdrive. There was a yelp from nearby. Born span to the side. One of the men who had previously been just a few meters away had disappeared. Nodody else seemed to notice. Panting in fear, he readied his rifle and looked around. "Move it, soldat!" snapped one of the officers, pushing him by the back. Resuming the slow walk, Born walked forward a few meters when he felt the ground shifting beneath him. In panic, he fired a round into the soil, with some purple fluid leaking out of the ground moments later. "Soldier! What the fuck is wrong with you?" someone shouted. "There's something under the ground!" Born shouted hysterically. The effect seemed instant. The previously stoic troops began to desperately look at the ground, some of them letting off shots or bursts from their flamethrowers. Confused mutters came from nearby. "Cease fire, you idiots, lest we lose the element of stealth!" shouted one of the officers. "Do not fire unless you are sure you have a target!" "In which case it'll be too late." muttered Born. Walking forward, some of the soldiers finally exited the gas cloud, finding themselves at the destined trench. Mutilated bodies filled it, along with wrecked equipment and battered pieces of wood. Clusters of yellow beetles were scurrying around--immediately, the troops let loose with theri flamethrowers, filling the trench with fire and incinerating them. "Where are all the Schaben?" asked a soldier as they stepped down into the trench. "Working out what we're up to." said Born grimly.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 ** Just as predicted, the Bipeds had launched a counter-offensive--more sustenance for consumption. The strategy of holding back had been a success. Predictably, they were making use of gas--but with the captured sample, adaptation procedures were already underway. Now, with the arid and frozen wastelands apparently designated by the Bipeds as 'Australia' and 'Siberia' respectively, holding back was not necessary. Total acquisition of those lands was inevitable. ** Melbourne, Australia Andrew Fisher, prime minister of Australia, sat within his office in the Parliament House in Melbourne, shifting through the reports on the desk before him and glancing up at the dirty, vacantlooking man in balloonist gear standing in front of him. Defence Minister George Pearce and Governor-General Sir Ronald Fergurson were also standing in the office, inspecting a map on the wall with several towns marked with pins. The atmosphere was grim; all of the men, especially the balloonist, understood just how severe things were. "Gentlemen," announced Fisher, looking up, "I believe that by now we have taken in all relevant information and can move to discussion. We must clarify a few things before I can meet with Parliament." "Mr. Prime Minister, sir, we gotta act fast." said the balloonist, who had introduced himself as Robin, hoarsely. "Every man who can hold a gun or carry a knife should get ready to fight for the Commonwealth, or god help us we're stonkered." Fisher sighed and held his head in his hands. Over the past few days, reports had come in of towns disappearing, of sheep herds vanishing, of railways being destroyed, of sightings of monstrous creatures. He had mostly taken it with a pinch of salt until all contact was lost with Adelaide. As Parliament panicked, this man had literally stumbled right up to the building, claiming to be from that town, and announcing that he bore important news. Deciding that he had nothing to lose, Fisher had granted him an audience, and now his fears had been confirmed. "We've also got cables from London describing similar creatures on the loose in France." Ferguson was saying. "The Fleet Street papers are raving about them. I must say, I don't think we can deny their existence any more." "You said they overran Adelaide in how long...?" said Fisher to Robin. "I dunno, sir. I just saw them filling up the outer streets when I flew away."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Fisher turned to Pearce. "Do we know where these things are now?" "We sent some men into the Barossa valley. No contact." he said. Looking thoughtful, Fisher sat up. "The man here is right. Every fighting-capable man must be conscripted to fight in the defence of the Commonwealth. It is obvious that we are fighting a force that cannot be negotiated or pleaded with." "But sir, what about the English..." "Oh, to hell with the arsholes in London." he said dismissively. "I'm not going to sacrifice this country just for the sake of a patch of mud in France. But, just in case resistance proves futile, I want to start organizing evacuations. We must tell Melbourne to ready themselves, and Sydney likewise. If it comes to that, we'll transport the people to Tasmania and New Zealand. What we'll do then I'm not sure, but at least it'll give us something to counterattack with." "Parliament may not like this." said Ferguson. "But I do agree with your general idea. We can order a mass draft tonight, if need be. Those monsters could strike this city at any time..." "Right." said Fisher. "Everyone who can fight, will fight, while the woman, elderly, and children can head to safety. Gentlemen, it is time we took a stand before these things, and show 'em how we do things down under..." ** Tokyo Bay, Japan Admiral Shinamura Hayao stood on the front deck of the seaplane carrier Wakamiya, with several other ships of the Imperial Japanese navy with him. Just as stories of horrifying creatures and demons had come from Europe, now they came from the Home Islands. People were screaming about monstrous half-man, half-insect demons that had attacked several suburbs in Kyoto. Reports were coming from Tokyo of ferocious beetles that turned men into hideous creatures with their bites. The Emperor had declared a state of national emergency, with people to stay in their homes as much as possible and the army to be mobilized. Now, with reports of the Aki having been hijacked by an unknown force, the navy had been recalled to Honshu and put on alert. "Admiral-sama!" A crewman scanning the horizon gasped. "I think I see something!" "Let me see." He took the binoculars. Steaming towards them at an oddly fast speed was the Aki, indeed--but her prow was encrusted in something, and she looked oddly demonic, as if shaped from the crap of a demon. "Hail her. Tell her to stand down." he snapped. A crewman flashed the message towards the

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 approaching battleship. No response. "Arm our guns and fire a broadside across her bow. That will send a message." he said. As the crew rushed to comply, there was a booming sound as the Aki opened fire, and the forward deck of the Satsuma, floating beside the carrier, was engulfed in an explosion. "Return fire! Return fire!" screamed the admiral over the noise of yelling and screams. The ships complied, sending heavy shells slamming into the Aki as it continued to bear down, but it had less effect then expected. Returning fire, the Aki's next volley narrowly missed the carrier, throwing up a geyser of water. "Sir! In the sky!" Looking up, the admiral saw a group of hideous flying monsters--what looked like hybrids between man and wasp, armed with rifles, just as the rumors had said. As he tried to take in their sheer ugliness, the crew was already firing with pistols and rifles, knocking one of them out of the sky. Moving like pond skaters in the sky, the creatures returned fire, gunning down crewmen on the carrier deck. Producing his own pistol, the Admiral fired in their general direction. With a lucky shot, the bullet struck one of them in the head, causing it to fall out of the sky. The Aki fired again, blasting the forward guns off the Satsuma, just as the Fuso and the Kirishima finally entered the right positions and let rip with broadsides, tearing apart a good chunk of the rogue battleship. As she floundered, the admiral got up, shaken. The things had been shot down, but not without gunning down dozens of crew. The Satsuma was in critical damage, partly engulfed by smoke. All he felt was more determination. These demons had declared war on Japan, and now they would suffer her wrath. ** New England, United States of America Seated at a table within his residence, Howard Philips Lovecraft took a sip of coffee as he read over the day's newspaper. The stories circulated of rumors of giant monsters on the Somme in Europa had bee confirmed, with virtually every tabloid and broadsheet screaming the latest rumor to seep out from Europe. That they were spreading into Belgium. That they could take on human form. That they could hypnotize. That they could somehow use human weapons--God, that was a good one. Now, more disturbing things were coming in. Tales of monsters were coming from Japan--served those slit eyed monkeys right, he thought. Towns were disappearing in Australia, apparently. And now some seemed to believe that they were infesting Russia too. Clearly, this was developing into a global crisis, althought it appeared that the United States of America was still untouched. He continued to read the newspaper--it seemed just like something out of all the short stories he had been writing, to earn himself some cents. Perhaps he would gain some ideas for his own literary

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 paper he was planning to publish soon. Artists' sketches and impressions, supposedly based on eyewitness accounts, were splashed across the pages, showing either cartoon-like drawings of spiders or fleas charging towards trenches. This was clearly not right--why did these things have to bring hell the fine men of Britain and Germany, and not infest Africa, purging the problem of the negro from their source? Or even the Orient, where finally the issue of the Chinamen could be purged? In any case, he wondered, why was it proving so difficult for the great armies of Europe to rid themselves of these things? Some of the fools writing this paper had speculated that these creatures were intelligent and had arrived on Earth with a purpose--nonsense, all of it. As if ants or wasps had any intelligent purpose behind their actions, beyond basic instinct. Humanity was so alone and insignificant in this universe, he thought, that no intelligent force from beyond the stars could possibly take an interest in them. It would be like a nigger reading and comprehending a book, he thought with scorn. Thus far, it seemed, flicking through the pages, with the entire paper apparently having devoted itself to reporting on these beasts, that the American government would continue to remain neutral in regards to this--logical enough. No point in risking white American blood when Europe could surely take care of its own problem--although come to think of it, he thought, this was a good way to rid themselves of the colored infestations in places like New York. But of course the government would never accept it, the damn nigger-loving zionists, he thought. He approved of Wilson's attitudes towards the lesser races like them--that new motion picture of his, Birth of a Nation--he would definitely go and see that when the release came. In any case, he thought, closing the newspaper, it was time to forget about all this nonsense about giant insects. These reports had given him some ideas for his next story... ** Downing Street, London Prime Minister Asquith flicked through the telegrams on his desk as David Lloyd George and several other ministers sat before him. While Churchill, Kitchener, and the others debated over strategy with the French in Versailles, he was forced to divert more money to munitions and weapons development to combat these damn Grex, or Roaches, or whatever they were being called. Churchill's armored vehicle project was proceeding very quickly, as were the new aircraft designs, but they were not proving cheap. "We have this for you, Mr. Prime Minister." said Lloyd George, handing him a card. "It's from Fisher, down in Australia--it transpires that they've got a Grex problem too." "Dammit!" spat Asquith. "These confounded Roaches are popping up everywhere! And we still have made no progress with them in France!"

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"Sir, we've confirmed that the Germans have just launched a large offensive towards what we presume to be their nest earlier today. We must keep our hopes up." "Yes, I'd never thought I'd be hoping for Boche success." "One other thing, sir. More bad news--from our embassy in Tokyo." "What? Don't tell me they've spread to Japan too?" "It certainly looks like it, sir." Asquith looked thoughtful. "We're allies with the Japanese at the moment anyway. I'll compose a message for Tokyo and Hong Kong--our yellow friends in the Orient will surely need the assistance of the Empire and Commonwealth if we are to eradicate these things everywhere..." ** Pas-de-Calais, Northern France Colonel Andre Lambert observed the factory in the distance as French and British troops assembled howitzers and heavy machineguns in the bushes around him. Smoking, tinted purple for some odd reason, was belching out of its chimneys. He could just about make out the mutilated bodies of locals scattered around it, along with an overturned horse cart. Having just spoken with some traumatized-looking people who lived nearby, he had gathered that the Grex had indeed seized the factory for an unknown reason, and had killed anyone who approached. "So, what do we do, sir?" asked one of the French soldiers. "Why do we not simply raze the place?" "That would be wasteful." said Lambert curtly. "We need every facet of industry we can against this thread, and besides, learning just what they need with this place would be most useful." "I don't understand it." murmured one of the British soldiers in heavily accented and grammatically poor French. "They're insects, for God's sake. Overgrown cockroaches. How on earth could they use a factory? Or understand what one is?" "Monsieur," snapped Lambert, "these things managed to strike hard at our front lines. They clearly have a concept of raiding attacks. They have targeted specific towns and villages and infrastructure. I think it's safe to say that they're a bit more intelligent then we permit ourselves to think." "Can't understand why god would create such things to torment us." muttered the British soldier, in English. Lambert rolled his eyes. Having seen the horrors of Ypres and the Yser in 1914, he had concluded that if there was a god, he was an exceptionally spiteful and sadistic one. The concept of

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 him unleashing these monsters on the world was not one he could not understand. "Guns loaded?" He called to the howizter crews, as the men began to place earplugs in their ears. They were being loaded with light, fragmentation shells loaded with tear gas, the same that had been used against the Germans the previous year. The shells were not intended to do much physical damage, lessening the harm to the factory, but the gas would hopefully exterminate all the Grex inside. The crews nodded in confirmation. "Fire at will." nodded Lambert. The howitzers fired, impacting into the factory courtyard and piercing through the roof, spilling out gas that billowed out in all directions. Several more volleys of shells were fired out over several minutes, by which point the courtyard was peppered with craters and the factory windows steamed up with gas. "Masks on. Now we investigate." ordered Lambert, as he began to put on the gas mask hanging from his belt. Complying, the troops readied their bayonet-tipped rifles and walked along the country path to the factory, some of them visibly nervous. "I heard that they can dig underground. What if they just burrowed down to escape the gas?" uttered one of the French soldiers, his voice touched with hysteria. "Rubbish. I cannot imagine them having enough time to react, and even then I cannot see them burrowing through stone and concrete." assured Lambert. After a few minutes of slow walking, they were approaching the factory gates. Lambert readied his revolver as the gates were opened and they stepped into the courtyard, peppered with dead bodies of workers, policemen, and craters. The gas still hung in the air, with the soldiers breathing more heavily through their masks as they went in. Lambert found himself breaking out in sweat as they began to knock the doors down--the fact that the surroundings were utterly silent did not help. No birds, no wind, just the sound of footsteps and filtered breathing. The doors were smashed open, and they stepped inside. Some of the machinery was wrecked, presumably by the shelling. The production line had been utterly altered, dominated by bizarre machinery covered or molded from some purple substance. Strange-looking howitzers had been piled up in a corner, but he could see no sign of Grex. That was surely a good sign. Renoir, the weapons expert who had been brought along, immediately moved over to inspect the weapons. After a few moments, he looked up. "Extremely intricate, these things." he mused. "I can see elements of some sort of magnetic apparatus--maybe to somehow accelerate a round?"

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "That hardly matters now." said Lambert. "Secure this place until reinforcements can arrive. Our scientists will be very curious as to what the Roaches have done to this place." As they set about to work, Renoir noted something moving in the shadows. Dismissing it as nothing, he continued inspecting the strange howitzers. ** 18th January 1915, North France Huddled in his dugout, Born pulled his coat closer to himself as the sound of rain came from outside, broken occasionally by the sound of artillery fire. Crammed around him were other soldiers, some still wearing their gas masks, covered in mud. Shivering and chattering their teeth, most of them were trying to find space for the flamethrowers they were equipped with alongside the ammo and ration boxes. Born's division had made some progress the following day, although it had ground to a halt and been ordered to camp out in this trench--who it belonged to previously nobody really cared--after reports came in that other forward strike forces had encountered heavy counter-resistance from the Schaben. The artillery emplacements had been laying down chlorine and mustard gas shells everywhere, practially coating a good portion of No Man's Land in it, but rumors were spreading of some Schaben simply ignoring some of the gas. If that was true, thought Born in horror, then the old men in charge would have some serious rethinking to do. "This is stupid." one of the men muttered. "We can't fight these demons. Have you even heard what they can do? They can dig under the ground and strike us when and where they please. They can use our own weapons against us. They can--" "Soldier," said a snarling, growly voice that Born recognized as the Unteroffizier Hitler, "one more word of defeatist talk, and I will feed you to the Schaben myself!" The man murmured something indistinct under his breath, and continued to look brooding. Small bits of earth fell down as the artillery let loose another volley. Born wondered if they even had a target, or were just firing wildly to flush out or suppress the Schaben. Gott, he thought, at least the British were human. At least they could be reasoned with, at least you could surrender to them. These things? They would eat you alive, be you English, French, or German. He recalled the descriptions he had heard from the few people who had seen them and survived: mouths full of mandibles and jaws. Faces like demonic spiders. Carapaces like lobsters. A messenger suddenly poked his head into the dugout. "Herr Unteroffizier," he announced, "we have been ordered to go over the top and advance." "And do what?" demanded Hitler.

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"Exterminate all the Schaben you find, and then relocate to the nearest trench." There was a brief pause. "You heard him, you wretches.” growled Hitler. "Get up! Move! Germany and the Kaiser demand it!" Briefly pondering the irony of an Austrian ranting about Germany and Kaiser, Born followed the others as they filed out of the dugout. The rest of the force was already filling the muddy trench, with drizzle sprinkling from the sky--he wondered if this'd have any effect on the flame weapons. Stretched out before them, with the horizon covered by mist and cloud, was the muddy expanse between the trenches, dotted with the odd skeleton or dead tree. Mud--good stuff to dig through, he thought darkly. As officers gave orders, the men clambered over the side of the trench, the flamethrower-armed ones with more difficulty, and began moving forward. Some put their gas masks on, as a precaution. Others loaded their rifles and readied them. Some made a run for it as their nerves broke, only to receive a bullet through the head. After a few minutes of slowly walking in a row along the muddy wasteland, Born was beginning to wonder just what the Schaben were thinking. Were they like ants, responding only to direct threats? Where they like bees, stinging anything that came near? His thoughts were broken as the sound of drizzle and artillery booming was broken by an unearthly shriek as something burst out of the mud, leaping onto one of the nearby troops and tearing him apart. In front of them, countless dozens at least of monstrous shapes burst out of the mud and leapt towards the men. Shouting, the soldiers activated their flamethrowers, some refusing to work, and putting up a wall of napalm as they arced. Screaming, some of the monstrous things were engulfed in fire and keeled over, while others simply leapt over it and pulled some of the soldiers down into the earth, reemerging moments later with flamethrowers fused to their side. Born let off several rounds from his Luger into the faces of one of these things as it momentarily let off a burst of purple-tinted flame. Nearby, the Unteroffizier Hitler had drawn a sword and bayonet and cut into one of the things as it reared up in front of him, splattering himself with purple fluids. Around him, morale was collapsing as the things began to pop everywhere, or simply charged towards the men regardless of the flame. Screams, both of men and insect, drowned out the artillery as the men lost coherency, running or simply attacking of their own accord. Born, despite feeling oddly calm, almost felt his heart collapse as one of the things burst up right between his legs, then retracting down as he fired downwards. Something huge suddenly burst up right among the troops--an enormous, monstrous black beetle

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 thing almost the size of a house, with a heavy machinegun fused to its side. At the sight of this, all of the troops sprinted back into the trench and dived into it--Born followed. Behind him, the beetle sprayed with its gun, mowing down several wounded or those who were not fast enough. In the trench, the remnants of the force put up flame as the things charged. Most of the flamethrowers were almost out, as were the machineguns and rifles. Some of the things pounced into the trench, tearing apart whoever was unfortunate to be in their sights, and others covered their eyes as the huge beetle sprayed in their direction. "Cover your ears! Incoming!" shouted one of the men over the sound of battle. The men did so as artillery shells impacted around them. One of them struck the huge beetle, damaging its carapace. Making an angry rumbling sound, it burrowed back under the ground, with the rest soon following. Born found himself shaking and panting as he looked around him. The field was covered in dead bodies of man, Schaben, and artillery craters. They had held their own, but in this case it was a pyrrhic victory at best. ** Near Dunkerque, North France Dressed in her red-and-black, pentagram and blasphemy-covered robes, Anita Roux and her followers approached the Belgian border, where some of the demons with human form had been sighted. They had attracted stares and shouts from others on their journey here, but none of it mattered. Their cult had been put down by the church and authority for centuries; now, with the end times clearly in sight, they could rear themselves. "Are we sure we will find what we seek?" asked one of the followers. "The chances of that are slim. Plus, we may get seen by one of the soldiers of the warring nations here..." "It matters not at this point. If we die, we will be sent to hell to join the damned legions of the Dark Prince. If we live, we shall serve him here as mortals on Earth." she replied curtly. After another hour of walking through fields, dirt paths, and through villages were inhabitants or clergymen threw abuse in their direction, she finally spotted a uniformed, solitary figure walking along a path. Could this be it? Moving quickly towards him, they approached the man as he turned around to reveal that half of his body was covered in some purple crystalline stuff. Seconds later, monstrous, insect-like demons burst out of the ground around him. "I wish to talk." said Anita. "I wish to serve you."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 There was a pause. "You wish to assist your own consumption?" he said, speaking perfect French in a strange accent. "We wish to serve the forces of Satan. We will do as you order." "This is a most welcoming sight, as irrational as you sound. But, all assistance will be appreciated." Anita smiled and knelt down. The others followed. "What is thy bidding?" "There is already a purpose for you. Please listen attentively..." ** I]Barossa valley, Australia [/I]Charles Damien of the 3rd Light Horse Brigade of the First Australian Imperial force surveyed the expanse of the Barossa valley before them. The famous vineyards that had once been the pride of this area were desolated, torn down, with the occasional wrecked cart or building dotting the landscape. Once a green and fertile place, it was now a ruined, beige wasteland. He held his hat to his chest as some of the other riders behind him uttered prayers for the souls who had no doubt perished. Reports were sketchy, but from what he could tell Australia, along with France, if the papers were correct, was being attacked by some vicious force of monsters. At first he and the others had dismissed it as some hoax written by some drongo who had been reading too much Wells, but when it was confirmed that Adelaide had been purged of life, and traumatized refugees bringing stories of monstrous insects had swept into Melbourne and Sydney, he had quickly changed his mind. The mission of him and the small group of cavalry present was to scout this area; a force of infantry had already been sent in to investigate, but had not returned. Hopefully, with the advantage of speed that came with horses, they would fare better. Charles did not intend to come into combat with whatever foul monstrosities lurked here; good ol' Australian horse breeding would see that they'd be able to come back as fast as possible. "Alright mates", he said quietly, "keep yer heads down and keep together. I don't know what kinda shit is waiting for us, but all we gotta do is see what's out there and head home for beer. Sound nice?" The others murmured in acknowledgement. Clicking his stirrups, Charles galloped his horse forward through the devastated vineyards and along the dirt roads. Occasionally, the mutilated body of a person or livestock animal could be seen sprawled on the ground. Whatever things responsible for this were going to get it, he thought angrily. Worse than fucking abos.

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As they galloped on, Charles suddenly halted, and the others followed. "What's wrong, sir?" asked one of the men. "Swore I heard something..." he mused. He could swear that there was a low buzzing emitting from somewhere. "Sounds like a fucking blowie. Hate the damn things." muttered another. "No blowie's that big..." said Charles nervously. They then looked up to see at least several dozen...things in the sky above. Like ungodly crosses between dragonflies, mantises, mosquitos, and god knows what thrown inbetween, and huge; over twenty feet long, he estimated. Zooming across the sky at very fast speeds, more of them, almost arranged in formations like geese, followed. "What the fuck are those?" was all he could say. For a moment they stared mesmerized up in the sky when the horses suddenly reared and whinnied. Looking around, Charles could see a huge mass moving rapidly through the devastated vineyards towards him; of huge insects, ranging from the size of large dogs to small horses, pushing aside plants and objects. Sitting up, Charles could see more of the things coming his way, as far as the eye could see. "Oh, shit!" he shouted. "I think we've seen all that needs to be seen, lads. Let's ride!" Turning around, the cavalry group galloped back the way they came, with the things simply moving quicker. Some of those giant flying things began to descend towards them, making screeching sounds as they did. Foaming in panic, one of the horses lost all control and began to jump around on the spot, knocking off the rider. One of the flying things swooped down and scooped up both, tearing them apart in its mouth. Charles jabbed the sides of his horse repeatedly with his stirrups as suddenly more of the things burst out of the ground to all sides, lunging at the group. One of them managed to tear poor Johnny off his steed, and moments later both were being ripped to shreds alive. Producing a revolver, he let off several shots behind him as another one of the flying things swooped down and tore another one of the lads off his horse. With the group now dwindling, he uttered a prayer of thanks as the rail station from which they had came became visible ahead, with the train waiting there. One of the machineguns that had been modified onto one of the carriages started up, mowing at the things; galloping right up to the train, Charles leapt off and through an opening into a carriage, along with the other survivors. They quickly

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 slid the door shut and peered through the gaps in the wood as the train started up; it looked like an infinite mass of scurrying monsters sweeping towards them, with the sky full of the flying creatures. Descending on the horses, Charles could not feel some regret as his steed was torn apart by dozens of mandibles and claws. But at least they were alive, he thought as the train gained pace away from the valley, and they could spread the word. ** Imperial Palace, Tokyo, Japan Emperor Taisho sat with his advisors as Prime Minister Okuma Shigenobu and Field Marshal Uehara Yusaku presented several documents to him. The situation was grave. All knew that Japan was in crisis, under threat from some foul, non-human menace. The countryside was being terrorized, the cities were paralyzed, and the army was tense after the naval battle not so long ago. They were still trying to establish why one of the premier battleships of the Imperial navy had gone rogue. "My Emperor," announced Yusaku, "we have mobilized our forces, but these monsters which plague us strike where they please, and we cannot predict..." "Explain to me the nature of these monsters." demanded the Emperor. "As incredible as it may seem, my Emperor, they appear to resemble foul combinations of man and insect. Our information is shady, to say the least, but..." "I want as many fit men as possible to be readied for war on our home soil." announced the Emperor. "Such is the duty of every man of Nippon to repel all threats to the Home Isles." "If I may interject," said the prime minister, "we have a guest. May I present Conyngham Greene, ambassador from the United Kingdom..." A white gaijin entered the room, bowed, and hung his bowler hat. A translator accompanied him. "Honorable Emperor," he began, the translator processing his words, "the Commonwealth of Great Britain is also under threat from these creatures, in Europe and in Oceania. We have a proposition…” ** Washington DC, United States of America In a hall of the Capitol Building, Chief of Staff William Scott, assistant chief of staff Hugh Scott, Thomas Marshall, and a few Congressmen had gathered together. They had made sure that the president was unaware of this meeting--in fact, the president's motives would be on their agenda.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Our European-based intelligence have informed us that the German offensive against these things is underway." announced Marshall. "Any word as to its success?" asked Scott. "The German papers indicate that it has made excellent progress. Naturally, we must assume the actual case to be the opposite." The men looked grave. "And the British and French?" "Currently making their own plans, as far as we can tell. I wouldn't be surprised if they were hoping that the Germans eradicate these Grex, as they appear to have been named, but opening themselves up to attack, or if the Germans get destroyed, thereby enabling them to finish off these monsters and the Krauts at the same time." "So much for the spirit of international co-operation." said Scott dryly. "The President wants us to continue to remain neutral..." "Understandable. These things haven't yet affected us. Although I have heard from my intelligencers that Russia and Japan have suffered their own infestations..." mused Marshall. "Infestations? Just where the hell do these things come from?" sighed one of the Congressmen. "All signs indicate that they are extraterrestrial in nature." said Scott. "Sounds like something out of a book written by that English chap, Wells, I know, but it's the only logical conclusion." "In any case," continued another congressmen, "we're considering making a proposal to the president. Even if he refuses to let our country enter, there's no reason why we can't help along the destruction of these monsters, and earn ourselves a little buck in the process." "There's one more thing." said Scott to Marshall. "Pass this to Teddy, will you?" He handed him a dossier of papers. The title read: 'ROUGH RIDERS'. ** North France Duke Albrect of Württemberg watched from the saddle of his horse, watching over the desolate wasteland before him, as his troops, clad in gas masks, marched out of their trench below as the artillery ceased fire. The offensive would go perfectly, he was confident. These were mere insects, if surprisingly potent and intelligent ones; what possible harm could they cause to the Fatherland? He had chosen to observe the progress of his men from the battlefield itself; the British and French dogs

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 had pulled back from this area, frightened by some overgrown Schaben, and the things themselves had no way of hitting anything in the sky, or so he was told. "I wonder when these things will show themselves." mused his lieutenant, to his side. "Perhaps they have an inkling of intelligence, and are cowering." smiled Albrecht. "I am not so sure. They haven't seemed intent on holding back against the Tommys and Frenchies..." mused the lieutenant. "That says more for the Tommys and Frenchies than us." grinned Albrecht, puffing his chest out. Seconds later, shouting came from ahead. A huge expanse of earth in front of the troop line appeared to be heaving. After a moment, a huge mass of Schaben burst out and immediately began charging towards the troops, who mostly screamed and dispersed in panic. Among the Schaben were spindly-legged, toothed, armored things that spat large globs of acid, dissolving men alive. A big black beetle thing with two artillery guns fused to its side also emerged, and opened fire. More Schaben scurried out, tearing apart the men, as the huge mass moved rapidly towards the trench. Albrecht ducked as some of the little monsters, with guns somehow fixed to their sides, fired in his direction. "Take us away! Take us away!" he screamed hysterically as some of them began to jump forward with terrifying speed. He was going to tell the Kaiser himself: these things were not to underestimated. He also had to warn the rest of the commanders of the offensive. Gott help us, he thought. ** 19th January 1915, near the Irtysh River, Siberia Maxim Ekaterin stood on the boundary of the small village near the river behind him. He hadn't memorized the name--some incomprehensible Siberian shit, diluted by Kazakhs and Mongols. His breath came out like vapor as he looked upon the expanse of snow and tundra before him--just why he had been pulled out to this godforsaken place he had not been told. The troops had been spreading rumors of monsters rampaging through Siberia, and in France, with cities like Surgut vanishing. The papers had been supportive of this, but Maxim put it down to overzealous access to vodka. He noticed several figures ahead, stumbling through the snow, dressed in the uniforms of the Tsar's army. Holding down his ushanka, he ran towards them over the snow. Meeting them, he found a group of conscripts, two of them holding up a wounded officer, their faces red and purple with cold and frostbite, with visible wounds and openings, semi-cauterized by the cold. Panting, they lurched towards him, and he quickly produced a flask of vodka from one of his pouches, which they grabbed

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 at like rabid dogs. "What happened?" he uttered. "Thousands. Millions." breathed one of the men, his voice audibly touched with hysteria. "Behind us. Run. Head for the Urals. We can hold them there. But out here...no chance. No chance." Maxim found his anxiety increasing as they headed back towards the village. If those stories of monsters were true, then what did this mean? What sort of monsters were these anyway? Where did they come from? And why, if God was on the side of the Tsar like the priests said, had they been inflicted on the motherland, and not on those German, Austrian-Hungarian, and Ottoman dogs? There was a booming sound--the sound of artillery. He recognized it, from his service at the front, and instinctively threw himself down. Up ahead, one of the houses of the village exploded, and to his surprise he saw the wood literally being burnt and eaten through by some dark substance that splattered out of the shell. More shells came down around them, throwing up dirt and snow, with the ground somehow being eaten through by that same substance--what was it, some sort of acid? As adrenaline pumped through him, Maxim saw a glob of the acid strike one of the men on the arm, burning through his clothes and flesh in almost an instant, with the end half of his arm falling off seconds later. As he shouted out in pain, Maxim took some binoculars from the officer and scanned the horizon, trying to identify the attackers. He spotted them after a few moments, and his jaw dropped. Sitting in a row, over a kilometer away, were several enormous, monstrous beetles, their hides streaked white as if for camouflage, with artillery weapons somehow fused to their sides, firing at an incredible rate. He didn't have much time to wonder as more shells impacted around him, the acid they were clearly filled with burning huge craters in the earth. Screams came from the village as locals ran around, being dissolved alive by any of the stuff they had the bad luck to come into contact with. "What do we do? Where do we go?" panicked one of the conscripts as they stumbled towards the river. Looking over his shoulder, Maxim noted a mass of things...like some demonic insects, charging towards the village over the snow, several hundred at the very least. Picking up the pace, they solidified their course for the river, heading towards a boat moored there. "We need to loose some weight!" cried Maxim as the swarm headed towards the village. He gestured at the officer. "Drop him!" "You insane?" retorted one of the conscripts. "We have carried him for miles! We will get medals, promotions! Are you saying we leave him for these things?" "Yes! At this rate, they'll catch us and we'll all be dead! Besides, he'll die of frostbite at this rate--look at him, he is barely alive as it is! It's him or us!" Looking confused, the soldiers finally dropped him onto the snow, and they all set off sprinting for the boat. A hundred or so meters away, the swarm

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 finally entered the village, and more screams came from within. More of the things burst out of the snow around it. Maxim didn't look back. As they finally reached the boat, several of the things erupted out of the earth around him, mandibles twitching. Crying out in shock, Maxim aimed with his Nagan revolver and opened fire, hitting it in the eye. One of them pounced and tore one of the men apart as they clambered into the boat, splattering his guts all over the snow, which was tainted red. Jumping into the boat, Maxim emptied the rest of his bullets into the nearest monster, causing it to recoil backwards. Letting go of the moorings, they began to push the boat down the river away from the village, with some of the things jumping into the ice-cold water and swimming after them. "Fucking little demons!" shouted one of the men, as they opened fire with rifles and revolvers. Searching in his satchel, Maxim produced a grenade and lobbed it. Landing in the water just beside one of the things, the grenade exploded, tearing a good chunk of its flesh away. The rest quickly began to vanish under the water as they intensified their fire. The village, in the distance, appeared to be covered in the things. Uttering a prayer for their souls and his, Maxim turned around and helped with the boat, not looking back. ** The Winter Palace, Petrograd, Imperial Russia The Tsar sat in his chair at a table in one of the staterooms, angry and stressed, as his generals, family, and aides stood around. He was faced with a dilemma--there was the matter of diverting forces to crush the monsters infesting Siberia, but at the cost of letting their human enemies strike towards their heart? Holding his head in his hands, he went into deep thought. "I want as many soldiers as we can muster from the Urals." he said finally. "Men, women, anyone capable of fighting or holding a weapon." "Women?" uttered one of the aides. "My Tsar, are you--" "I'll let damn children fight if I had to." said the Tsar bitterly. "My Tsar, that may not be necessary." Rasputin bounded in, looking as cheerful as ever. Many had been confused over his more energetic behavior lately--proof of his healing skills? "If you would let me, I can travel to the enemy, and convince them to a temporary truce. In that time, we can crush these monsters, and then resume on bringing defeat to the Central Powers." "A truce? But that would be--" said the Tsar. "A necessary measure. Perhaps I could merely delay them in negotiation while we reroute our

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 forces." "But what makes you so sure..." "Trust me, your highness. I can confident that I can reach out to them." "Very well. Meet me later to confirm things. Dismissed." As the meeting dispersed, one of the nobles, Felix Yusupov, went up to the mystic briskly. "You sniveling little priest." he hissed. "Do not think we have not guessed. You think you can pull our Tsar like a puppet on a string and bring humiliation to Russia, can you?" "Nonsense." grinned Rasputin, his eyes surprisingly clear and alluring. "Trust me, Felix. This is all for the greater good..." ** Melbourne, Australia Michael Craig, of the 1st Division of the First Australian Imperial Force, loaded his Lee Enfield as other soldiers around took up positions on the roof of a building, part of the outskirts of the city. All hell was breaking loose; people were streaming out of the city, up north to Sydney, where he heard they were going to move the capital to, or out sea to Tasmania and New Zealand. Several fires had broken out in the city following looting and riots in response to the government's order to pack up as many things as everyone could carry and flee. The men were telling stories of monsters coming from the outbreak; a few were adamant and the government seemed convinced, so it was obvious that something was coming, thought Craig. Barricades had been set up in the outer city streets, along with artillery positions further back; but apparently these things could burrow under the ground and strike where they pleased, so as many troops as possible had been garrisoned inside or on top of buildings. As many fighting men as possible had been drawn from the streets; some didn't have uniforms or even proper weapons, armed with knives, bayonets, or even brooms. "They're coming!" A man on horseback rode down the street below them, looking as if he had seen Satan himself. "Thousands of the little buggers! Get ready!" Loose chips of masonry fell from the side of the building as he became aware of a low buzzing sound. The men pointed upwards as suddenly waves of what appeared to be giant flying insects of some kind appeared in the sky ahead, swooping down in the direction of the city center. Some of the soldiers fired upwards, but Craig merely held on tighter to his rifle and tried not to let fear take hold of him.

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Moments later, several rooftops ahead vanished, followed by the sound of screams, as the sound of scurrying approached, like a million charging dogs. Young boys, filled with gramophones and other looted items, ran down the street below, and were followed seconds later by a huge mass of things-giant insects, the size of animals. Immediately Craig opened fire into the mass, and others threw down grenades, blowing up limbs and bits of flesh. Undeterred, they continued flooding down into the city streets, filling the streets like some river. Craig covered his ears as artillery came in, blasting straight into some of the mass or smashing open some of the buildings, momentarily blocking their path with rubble before they climbed over it. He fired again, although with the speed at which they were moving it was hard to tell if it was actually doing anything. "Come on, mates, keep it up!" shouted a nearby sergeant. Craig then cried out as some of them began to pounce upwards, nearly getting close enough to pull some of the men down, before some of them began to crawl up the wall or charge inside. Craig stabbed at one of them with his bayonet as it came close enough for him to stare right into its horrible face, before he finally knocked it off. "It's no use! There's too many of them! We're gonna die! We're gonna--" someone blubbered before the sergeant fired a revolver round into his skull. Grenade blasts came from somewhere within as some of the troops began throwing down homemade paraffin bombs, blowing temporary gaps in the huge mass of the creatures moving below them. Some of them successfully crawled onto the roof, only to be filled full of Lee Enfield rounds. One managed to leap up and rip one of the men apart, before it was knocked down with bayonet stabs. "Shit!" spat Craig as another lept up, almost pulling him down. He looked over his shoulder--several buildings once prominent on the skyline had vanished. He just hoped all those people trying to escape had done so successfully. Roaring came from ahead as suddenly he saw what appeared to be several giant building-sized beetles crawling over the rubble of destroyed structures or smashing aside anything in their way. Alongside them galloped weird armored things, with teeth like porcupine spines. Melbourne was already fallen, that much was clear, he grimly thought. Didn't mean he was going to go out with a whimper. With that, he reloaded his rifle, and fired straight at them screaming as they came in. ** Northern France Oswald Boelcke, pilot of the Imperial German air forces, peered over the side of his cockpit as he flew over the front lines of the Kaiser's forces in the boundaries of the Somme. He had been pulled here in this fancy new plane--he had heard of the Schaben, the monsters which Germany had decided to eradicate as the rest of the world cowered, but until he saw them he had decided to

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 remain skeptical of the reports and stories. The plane, a Fokker 'Valkyrie', as it had been nicknamed, was supposedly one of the best in the world, pressed quickly into service by the presence of the Schaben. It was outfitted with both front and rear machineguns, one operated by his co-pilot, and could pull off quite a few tricks, the technicians had said. Oswald had resolved to see for himself before he made any judgment. "Mein herr!" The co-pilot shouted over the roar of the engine and the engines of the two other planes accompanying them. "I think I see something! Eighty degrees, starboard!" Oswald momentarily ignored him as he glimpsed the men in the trenches below firing at something with flame weapons--what was that, he wondered? Seconds later, he began aware of a strange, insect-like buzzing. Looking up, he saw several things coming rapidly out of a nearby cloud. He pulled to one side, along with the other two planes--just as one of the things, some giant insect, moved rapidly in and caught the rear plane, tearing it to pieces. "Gott!" spat Oswald in shock as the rear gunner of the second biplane opened fire. He pulled up as one of the things went for him, with the co-pilot returning fire. Emptying several dozen AP rounds into the face of the monster, Oswald breathed in relief as it pulled off before leveling out. "More of them! I do not know how much ammo we can afford to expend!" cried the co-pilot as the other biplane joined them, firing with its front machinegun as one of the things as it pierced the clouds around him. It clearly had scored a few lucky shots, as it suddenly crumpled and fell down. "We're getting out of here." muttered Oswald as he pulled down and began heading back to the airstrip. Behind him, two of the things were moving rapidly in, like demented locusts. The co-pilot opened fire again, before his gun clicked, signifying an empty magazine. "Hold on!" cried Oswald as he jammed down on the brakes. The plane temporarily stalled as the things overtook it, then he pushed forward, opening fire with the forward gun. He pierced the wings of one of them, causing it to pull off, then produced one of the dart-bombs he had been equipped with and threw it down as he overtook above it. The bomb exploded against its carapace, causing to spiral away to the fields below. Exhaling, Oswald flew down over the fields below him, wondering just how he had survived that. **

[/I]Ferdinand Foch and John French, along with several other Allied commanders, looked over the intelligence reports from the Somme. The Germans, unfortunately, had been ground to a halt by relentless Grex counterattacks, and, according to several deserters, were waiting to deploy some new weapons they had rushed out to counter the Grex threat. Rubbing their bleary eyes as the light of the morning sun pierced through the window, they took swigs of wine.

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"So...the Krauts have put some new toys on the table. Do we know what they are?" A little man in glasses from the Deuxième Bureau coughed and stood up. "Monsieur, we do know that they have deployed new flying machines, quite capable from what I've heard, and are intensifying production of gas weapons. However, from what we've heard from our deserter friends, the Roaches have somehow developed immunity to at least one type of gas--chlorine, I think." "That's not all." said another French intelligencer. "We recently recaptured an ammo factory in the north of the country from the creatures. They were apparently producing weapons of a very advanced sort...we've shipped them over to London, for safe and constructive analysis." "These things have engineering too? Good god, what next? Lizards from the stars coming with motorized armor and rocket aircraft?" groaned French, taking another sip of wine. "News from elsewhere is not good either, I'm afraid." General Douglas Haig indicated several marked spots on a map. "They're definitely starting to infest Belgium. Many villages and towns in the Ardennes have been found purged of life...not just human life, livestock and wild animals too. We've had unconfirmed reports that they may have reached as far as Brussels, although we can hope that this is down to some jumpy men on patrol." "Any more good news to throw my way?" sighed French. "Asquith," said Haig, his face becoming grimmer, "has told me that there is a confirmed infestation in Australia as well. Adelaide is...gone...and Melbourne fell last night, although most of the populace was evacuated. They've moved their capital to Sydney, although how long that'll last I'm not sure, and lots of them are moving to Queensland. Furthermore, Japan is also receiving a similar treatment, though to a lesser extent. We've made a deal with their government; I'm not sure what, it's apparently mainly a naval matter." "I trust you won't mind if I'll express myself in the most blunt manner possible?" asked French. "Not at all." "Thank you. Damn. Damn. Damn." he slammed down on the table with each profanity. He took a deep breath. "How's Churchill's little landship project going?" "Very quickly, I'm happy to say. We should be deploying prototypes on the front soon. Thankfully, the Roaches appear to be fixated on the Germans for now." "There's more." General Smith-Dorrien interrupted. "I was told that we received a communiqué from the Americans this morning."

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"The bloody yanks? I trust they're sitting on their arses and laughing as these things overrun us, am I right?" "I'd imagine so, but that's beside the point. They have some very potent hardware to sell to us, and are willing to lend troops once certain arrangements have been made." "I can't imagine their president being willing to that." "Supposedly, some former president called Roosevelt is handling such matters. He's got quite a reputation, you know." "I see." French sighed. "Well, gentlemen, I trust we'll agree that we've got no option for now but to see how circumstances dictate. Until we've got some clear idea of what's to come, let's let fate decide..." ** 450 kilometers off the Californian coast Captain Abraham of the small fishing trawler Marin covered his eyes as drizzle came down along with the spray of the waves. Miserable fucking time of year, he thought; not much catch, awful waves, and now the guys back at San Francisco were talking about giant monsters in Japan, destroying Tokyo. Well, whatever kept them on their beer, he thought grimly. He became aware of something large approaching at high speed to starboard. Turning, he saw what looked like a freighter coming very fast towards him, with no sign of stopping. "Hey!" he grabbed a light and flashed a message to them. "Stop!" As the thing drew closer, he became aware that it was almost entirely covered in some sort of dark crystal-like substance, with various protrusions and strange lights. He smelt himself--no, he hadn't touched the beer. He looked up a second time to see it filling his entire field of vision. Seconds later, he and the trawler were crushed as it careered ahead towards the West coast of the United States. ** En route to Sydney, New South Wales, Australia Seated in a first-class compartment of an express train that had been previously scheduled to leave for Perth the following day, Andrew Fisher took another swig of whisky. The crying of women and children came from other parts of the train; hundreds of refugees had crammed themselves aboard, ignoring all attempts to stop them. Seated with him was George Pearce, Ronald Ferguson, General

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 William Throsby Bridges, and several other politicians, all looking sleepless and weary. "Did all the other members of Parliament get away?" groaned Fisher finally, as he watched the passing fields out of the windows. "From what I've heard, most were accounted for. Most. Some, I think, tried to take as much possessions as possible. Serves the corrupt bastards right." murmured Ferguson finally. "And the populace?" "The majority too. However, housing is going to be a problem, and we don't know how much of a safe haven Sydney will prove. I recommend we move further up to Queensland, to be safe." "Yes, you're right. Brisbane may be better...how well do you think we can defend Sydney, general?" General Bridges groggily sat up. "Frankly, with the way they overwhelmed our Melbourne defences...we'll need the support of the navy. Although I heard that the shits in London will be requisitioning it soon--something to do with the bloody Japanese. In any case, I don't know if offshore support would arrive in time." He took another gulp of whisky. "Furthermore, we've problems of starvation, provisions...these things are destroying our agriculture. We need assistance--from India, from Britain, even from the Yanks if we have to to, it doesn't matter." said Ferguson firmly. Fisher groaned again and looked as if he was about to throw up. "I want order maintained at all costs. If we have to go to people's houses with guns then so be it. I also think we may need to start recruiting abos--an abhorrent idea, but I'd rather our chances were maximised. When we get to Sydney, I want to talk to London over the possibility of reinforcements from India..." "Mr. Prime Minister, sir?" Two bodyguards, one of them tall, muscular, and blonde, with a thick Brisbane accent, entered. "There's a well-dressed chappie who wants to speak to you. Two, in fact. Awfully quiet. Not surprised, after what happened to the city..." "Let them in." Two gaunt-looking men in suits appeared outside in the carriage corridor. Fisher could not help but notice tears in identical places in their trousers. That was certainly strange. "Take a seat, gentlemen. I hear you want to talk. Want some whisky?" Both men suddenly made a high-pitched screaching sound as their chests burst open, revealing two sets of clawed arms. Their shoes burst open to revealed taloned feat, and their jaws split into mandible-like mouthparts, drooling all over the carpeted floor. They lunged forward as Pearce rose

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 to shield the prime minister, only to get skewered straight through the chest. "Oi, mate." said the bodyguard calmly, gripping both on the shoulders. "That just ain't proper." With that, he knocked both down onto the floor as the other bodyguard rushed to cover the prime minister. Producing a shotgun, he fired a shell straight into the face of one of the things as it got up almost at point blank range, shattering its head. The other leapt back up, twitching violently, and lunged at him, only for the bodyguard to smack it back against the wall with the shotgun. At that moment, Fisher and the others produced revolvers and opened fire, riddling it with bullets. As it stood wounded and stunned, the bodyguard reloaded the shotgun and fired again, splattering purple fluid all over the wall. "That's how we teach manners down under, mate." he breathed. ** The Pacific Ocean Rear Admiral George E. Patey stood on the front deck of the battleship Satsuma, having just been brought aboard. Japanese admiral Shinamura Hayao, with the crew of the huge vessel standing assembled behind him, was there to meet him. "Greetings." announced Patey, with a translator processing his words. "I am the representative of the Empire of Great Britain. I trust that our meeting here will go a long way to strengthening the ties between our nations, in these dark days." The translator spoke, and Hayao replied. "The honorable admiral Hayao says that we should get straight to business. The basic plan of the Japanese government is as such. As far as they are concerned, the naval forces of the British dominions in the Pacific area are insufficient to combat this new threat. Therefore, Japan will accept army soldiers to combat the menace on her shores, in exchange for providing whatever naval backup is necessary. We can discuss details inside, he says." "That sounds like a good plan to me." said Patey with a grin on his face. Damn Orientals, thinking they can dictate what Great Britain should and shouldn't do, he thought--but in any case, from what he had heard of the horrors in Northern France and Australia, playing along was unfortunately necessary. He followed the Japanese admiral inside the ship, along with the diplomats accompanying him. Time to prove to the world that Great Britain honored her ties... ** West Flanders, Belgium

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Terrace Ryan, of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, crept down through the field of corn along with the rest of the group of CEF soldiers with him. Accompanying them were several colonial soldiers from British India, muttering among themselves in Gujarati. Glancing at his compass, he made sure they were heading in the right direction--west, towards France and Dunkerque, where they intended to get the first ship to Great Britain and to safety. They had known all about the Roaches, or the Grex, or whatever they were called, for days now-then, just as their division was being moved down towards the south of the country to combat the damn things popping up there, they had been ambushed and scattered. Split off from their division, Ryan and his men had resolved to head down out of the country to friendly territory. With the Roaches springing up all over the country, both the lines of the Allies and Germans had been scattered; all they could do was pray that they didn't bump into anyone vicious. "C'est des conneries!" spat Paul, a burly man from Quebec. "We've been walking for hours! I need a damn rest!" "Quiet." hissed Ryan. "Every moment we're here we're at risk from Boche snipers or those damn Roach things. The sooner we get the hell out of here, the better." "It would also be a great shame to die here." mused Pradesh, the only man in the Indian squad who could speak English. "Far from our native lands, in the service of the British Empire...I doubt they would even mark our graves, if there was anything left of our bodies." "No talk of dying! I don't want defeatism!" spat Ryan. "Those monsters strike where they please. We cannot..." continued Pradesh. "Was I asking you, darkie? Shut your mouth!" Pradesh fell silent, casting him a look of venom. As they exited the cornfield and approached a nearby farmhouse, Paul finally sat down on a nearby log and stretched. "I just want one fucking minute, that's all." he snapped in response to Ryan's withering look. As he placed his helmet down beside him, he noticed that it was vibrating slightly. Pradesh looked up. "I think there is something coming. Perhaps--" Paul was impaled with several spindly forearms as something monstrous burst out of the earth around him, tearing him into bloody chunks of flesh. Shouting, the men quickly began to take position around the farmhouse as more of the things burst out of the ground.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Hold firm, men! Don't let yourselves be beaten by overgrown termites!" shouted Ryan over the noise as he fired with his Lee Enfield. "A Mari Usque Ad Mare!" One of the things lunged towards him, shrugging off the bullet he fired into its carapace. Stabbing it at with his bayonet, Ryan screamed out loud as the thing pounced towards his face, mandibles open wide. Moments later, Pradesh tackled the creature from the side, knocking it to the ground, and stabbed at its head repeatedly with the bayonet. The two exchanged looks before reloading their weapons and firing at the other creatures as they swarmed towards the farmhouse. "Keep firing! Keep firing! Are you not men?" yelled Ryan as another one of the things lunged at him. "Oh no you don't, motherfucker." he breathed. Grabbing a grenade, he unpinned and shoved it straight into the creatures face as it pounced towards him. Knocked back, the creature held the grenade in its mouth as it stood confused momentarily, and was then blown apart as Ryan ducked behind cover. "Little fuckers don't give up!" hollered one of the men as some of the Indians were cut down by razor-like rounds fired from guns somehow fused to the sides of some of the things as they burst from the foliage towards them. Ryan looked around. Their numbers were dwindling. As was their ammo. Fuck it, he thought. Today's a good day to die. As the things moved in and he closed his eyes, mortars rained down, tearing apart some of the things. Looking around the corner of the house, Ryan saw at least several dozen British troops moving in, with mortar units visible in the distance. As bullets burst in the ground around them, the ten or so Roaches present quickly burrowed under the ground and out of sight. Ryan let out a huge exhale of relief. "I take it you're auxiliaries from the Dominions?" said the British commander as he approached. "Bloody impressive job holding out here, old chaps. Now let's get you cleaned up..." ** Excerpt from a German government release to all major Berlin newspapers, 20th January 1915: Citizens of the German Empire! The Kaiser is aware of your concern over the threat of the Schaben creatures in France, which by now nobody can deny. Fear not! As we speak, our offensive against these beasts continues, although we still require fresh men and logistics to continue our push. Our scientists continue to release weapons of great advancement and power in response to this ungodly menace, as great heroes prove the worth of our new flying machines and our zeppelin hangars work to convert our mighty flying machines into vehicles that will exterminate the Schaben in whatever holes they cower!

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 However, be on the lookout for foreign traitors. We believe they may have sabotaged some of our gas supplies to the front, in the hope that we will crumble against the Schaben. Let us show them who will have the last laugh! Germany shall prove her dominance of the European military scene, and then once we have purged the Schaben, we shall be immortalized in the history books forever! Right now our troops in France rest, awaiting fresh supplies, after an excellent start. Untold numbers of Schaben have been killed. One German soldier can kill twenty of them! Make sure you do not fall for exaggerated rumors of Schaben capabilities, spread by foreigners, to sow discord in the hearts of the German populace! Long live the Kaiser! Gott mit uns!

** 21st January 1915, Northern France It was barely one in the morning as Erich von Falkenhayn climbed out of the military truck behind him and approached the group of uniformed and shellshocked-looking commanders assembled before him. Several soldiers with flamethrowers, the eye lenses of their gas masks glinting the moonlight, stood in a ring around the group, several kilometers behind the German front lines. Although he had been told that he had been taking a risk going so close to the front, Falkenhayn had decided that it would be better to come over there in person then divert the commanders from their duty. "The newspapers in Berlin say it'll be over in a few days." he announced dryly. "And we all know what they said in 1914. I trust everything's gone to shit?" "These things are relentless." Duke Albrecht said hoarsely. "They've somehow developed an immunity to chlorine gas--they now walk through it like it's air. I think our other gases work fine, but we stocked so much on chlorine that..." "Keep all our gas supply locations secret and under control." snapped Falkenhayn. "Our losses?" "Initially low, but as the things began to counterattack they began to mount." Karl von Bülow, looking comparatively calm, announced. "We try to keep them pinned with artillery, but these...enormous beetle things keep digging behind our lines and tearing up our gun positions. Or even worse, somehow attaching the guns to themselves. I can't believe I'm saying us, but we've lost several trench segments to bombardment from these things. I think they're toying with us!" "So we're on the defensive now?" said Falkenhayn. "We have no choice!" exclaimed Albrecht. "Until we can properly consolidate, and establish some

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 order in the ranks, attacking is like throwing meat into the mouths of these monsters! Even those flying machines are being suppressed by these..." "Enough." snapped Falkenhayn. "The Kaiser does not want excuses, cowardice, or defeatism from weaklings like you. Neither do I. Very shortly, we'll have some new equipment that will bring to bear the true firepower of the German military." On that cue, several armored cars rattled into view, fixed with large-looking flamethrowers. "These are straight from the factories in the Rhineland. Infantry, artillery, and limited aerial power alone cannot defeat these things--it is about time we innovated..." ** Port of San Francisco, San Francisco, United States of America Colin Jameson yawned as the early morning sun crept over the horizon, casting light onto the Golden Gate. The city was barely waking up from the night, with the port around him still mostly empty-save for the opium dealers, with ware straight from China, who sometimes appeared around these parts. With the Ferry House opening up behind him, he was walking by the piers, looking for someone who could give him some good stuff in exchange for a few bucks. As he walked slowly along, he became aware of something approaching very rapidly out of the corner of his eye. Looking to the side, he saw a dark-colored ship moving very rapidly straight towards the port, showing no signs of slowing. As it smashed aside buoys and moored boats in this way, it occurred to Colin to run away from it, and began to move quickly in the direction of the Ferry House. Moments later, the ship slammed straight into the shore, knocking Colin straight into the floor and causing stacked crates around him to topple over. "Shit!" he spat, getting up and turning around. The thing was covered in some dark purple, crystallike encrustation, looking more like some coral sculpture than a boat. The bow was opening up like some kind of pore, revealing a pitch black interior. Raising an eyebrow, Colin walked towards it, halfawake and curious. Perhaps he had already taken some opium and it was playing with him, he thought. Peering inside, he lit a match, illuminating the dark, damp, smelly interior of the vessel. He cried out almost immediately. The walls, ceiling, and most of the floor were lined with sacs of sort--in fact, some of these sacs were men, with grotesquely bloated, semi-transparent bellies and rotting heads, fused to the surface with the same purple stuff. As he walked slowly in, the sacs began to stir, and he noticed some dark, eldritch shape in each one beginning to move.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Something moved in the dark ahead. Losing his nerve, Colin turned around and ran as the sacs burst open. Running outside, he turned around, to see some hideous shapes scurrying out of the dark ahead of him. Seconds later, something pounced out of the ship, knocking him onto the concrete and tearing him apart. Minutes later, most people around the Port area were aware of screams and smashing. About ten minutes later, policemen were running to Chinatown, roused from their beds, after hearing word of widespread disturbances there. They did not return. In twenty minutes, San Francisco was in the grip of chaos. ** I]Washington DC, United States of America [/I]"Mr. President, I'm afraid to tell you that we have a national crisis on our hands." Thomas Marshall, Chief of the National Guard Albert L. Mills, and the highest-ranking members of the Army General Staff stood in the Oval Office before Wilson, seated at his desk, looking very grave. Shifting through reports and telegrams, Wilson looked up. "So, I take it the monsters supposedly plaguing northern France have reached our shores, too?" "Yes, sir. According to the last cables, San Francisco is mostly overrun. At least several thousand are dead, and columns of refugees are heading for Sacramento and Los Angeles." said Marshall grimly. Wilson remained silent for a second. Looking into his eyes, Marshall swore he could see something snap, just like that. Wilson grinned, then spoke, his voice wavering and hoarse. "Excellent. Excellent!" Marshall looked at him in disbelief. "Excuse me, sir...?" "San Francisco and California have long been plagued by Chinamen, niggers, and other such rabbles.” Wilson’s voice trembled as he spoke.. "Seeing as they are naturally inferior and will be unable to escape as quickly, they will be eaten alive by these creatures. In a way, they're helping us-properly control their spread, and we'll be a step closing to a purer America." "Er...right, Mr. President. The point is, California is going into panic. We can assume by now that San Francisco is lost. We need to establish some sort of policy for the refugees and a response. Congress and Senate are about to discuss this, but I fear that the other cities of California will not remain safe havens for long..."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Balderdash! These are dumb, overgrown insects we are talking about. Have you ever see an ant nest or a beehive with the intelligence and purpose you are implying?" snapped the president. "Mr. President, I have seen reports from Europe of the capabilities of these things. They are not to be trifled with, and..." "Pah! Until I see them with my own eyes, I will remain skeptical. Very well then. See that temporary accomodation is set up for all refugees...white ones, that is. Niggers and lesser races are not to take priority. Meanwhile, mobilize the local national guard and have militias formed. I see no reason in expending unnecessary resources beyond that to combat some overgrown termites." "These 'overgrown termites', sir, overran San Francisco in a few hours." "Mostly because that city was long polluted with the filth of humanity. Once this is over, we can repopulate it with the cream of American blood." said Wilson, his eyes glazing over. "We have other items to discuss, sir." said Marshall. "Teddy and several others wish to establish new units for the army and have a desire for a lending programme to Europe to combat these things. They have strong support in the Capitol and..." "We are already selling the Europeans what they need. I suppose Teddy can show what he is truly worth in California first. In any case, gentlemen..." Wilson poured some whisky. "Let us toast to what, as far as I can concerned, is a blessing in disguise." ** Sacramento valley William Scott clutched his rifle to himself as he crept over a hill. In the far distance streams of people from San Francisco were visible, heading towards Sacramento and San Jose. Stories had been scattered--he had heard of giant monstrous insects overrunning the city, of men being transformed into hideous freaks, of panic and looting. He had gathered up a posse, assembled behind him, to scout in that direction and find out what was really going on. Preachers were calling it the end of days already. Hell, this reminded him of all those stories from Europe of monsters in France. "You sure about this, boss?" said one of the men. "If it's the end of the world like da pastor says, these guns ain't gonna be much good." "You shut it!" snapped Scott. "Ain't no monster that can ignore a dozen rifle shots. We're gonna find out what the sam hell is goin' on, and if we can do anythin' about it, we will." They crept onto the top of the hill, with a fine view of the surroundings. Smokestacks were visible on the far horizon, along with more throngs of people. It was as if all of California was packing up and

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 taking flight. "Looks like everythin's gone to hell, boss." mused one of the men. "Well, if that be the case, then let's give hell a warm welcome." grinned Scott, stroking his gun. At that moment, they became aware of a faint, but rapidly increasing, buzzing sound. Looking up, they saw a cluster of shapes against the blue midday sky, coming down towards them. "Now what would that be?" uttered one of the men. The shapes then shot down towards them, at impossible speeds. Scott cried out as they began discernable: they had the basic shape of men, with some of them still wearing tattered clothes, but their limbs were more skeletal and their hands and feet distorted into claws, with anthropoid wings and faces that looked like unholy unions between man and a wasp. "That's must be what them pastors were talkin' about! Let 'em have it!" shouted Scott. At that moment, the monsters slammed down into the group, some of them pulverizing the bodies of the men they landed on. Scott dived to one side and fired his gun at the nearest one, striking it on the shoulder. Undeterred, it lunged towards him and snatched the gun out of his hand, hitting him over the head with it, moving more quickly and fluidly then he had imagined. Around him, the posse were being knocked down or torn apart by the monsters, with more of them now visible, flying through the sky like bees from hell. Scott closed his eyes and prayed to god honestly for the first time in his life, as the creature turned the gun towards him. ** Northern France Anita Roux took in a deep breath as she approached the small rural village before them, not far from Calais and the Belgian border. With the end times finally nigh, the time had come to finally open the eyes of the masses away from the misleading of the clergy and towards the only true salvation now. Having been blessed by a representative of the Morningstar himself, success was surely inevitable. That demon in Belgium had made go through some unholy ritual, summoning strange beetles which nipped each member of the group once, while uttering something about 'total conversion being impractical; this will suffice for now', which Anita didn't understand, but decided that it was good. Since then, as they had walked through the countryside, she had been hearing voices in her head and pains in her body, as if something was growing in her muscles, and had found herself subconsciously following a specific path, as if something was guiding her body. Some of her followers had taken it less well, complaining about pain, but yet they had all lost all sensation of hunger, thirst, or exhaustion. The important thing was that they now bore the taint of Satan; they

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 were now among his favored. Approaching the center of the village, she noted some people loading their possessions onto carts, shouting about 'Roaches'. So, that was how they termed the soldiers of Hell--by the time she was finished, they would be more respectful. They draw stares and profanities as they approached the small church in the center of the village. Some soldiers in British uniforms were setting up equipment of some kind there. "Who the hell are you?" shouted a nearby woman, pointing at them. "What do you want here?" "We are here to bring a message." announced Anita loudly. She had not willed herself to speak the words--it appeared that she was favored enough by Lucifer to be his mouthpiece. Nothing could make her more proud. "All faith in God is now futile." she continued. "Tired of our sin, he has abandoned us. He has sent these demons that lay waste to our armies and ignore all attempts to stop them--what more sign that what was predicted in Revelations is upon us? It is time to accept our destiny, and thus..." "Enough of your blasphemies!" A priest was running towards them from the church, with a crucifix. "Go back to whence you came, devil-worshippers! We are a people of God, and as such our hearts will remain with the Lord!" "God no longer cares for senile ramblers like you." continued Anita. "Our only chance now is to accept the embrace of Satan, and do all we can to gain as much favor as we can in Hell, for that is where all of us are doomed to be..." "What's going on here?" A British-accented voice in grammatically poor French cut her out as one of the soldiers approached. "Who are you? Why are you dressed in those...clothes?" Anita suddenly found herself raising her arm at him. Moments later, a purple-colored, sharpened flechette-like blade shot out from her wrist through her skin, piercing the man's chest. The man cried out, attracting the attention of the other soldiers, who picked up their rifles and began running towards them. Moving extraordinarily fast, Anita's followers sprinted towards them, blades of some kind extending out of their arms. The troops opened fire, scoring a few shots on their shoulders or limbs, but this had no discernable affect. In seconds, the followers were upon them and cut them to pieces, splattering their innards onto the ground. "As you can see, benefits exist to such service." said Anita, as a small crowd began to gather, looking shocked. The priest's face was white, and then he ran back to the church as the followers, with their bloodstained robes, moved towards him. "You will surely know that we cannot defeat the forces of hell. All those who want to postpone judgment...step forward." One man stepped forward. Then another. Then another. Anita smiled. It was time to preach the True

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Gospel. ** Zurich, Switzerland Vladimir Lenin looked upon the assembled socialists in the hall before him, chattering among themselves about matters of importance. The injustice of the war. The plight of the proletariat. And these monsters plaguing France, and if the newspaper rumors were to believed, Russia, Japan, and Australia as well. He had heard someone earlier mention that they had now reached America. It was almost apt--similar in nature to the inevitable revolution that would sweep the world, he thought. "Gentlemen," he announced, taking the podium. "Originally, my agenda for this would be a purely human one. Matters have changed. The balance of the world is about to be thrown into disarray. You will all know of the creatures in France--the Grex. Nobody can deny their existence any more. Nobody can dismiss them as a newspaper hoax. It is clear that some intelligence drives these creatures. They pursue specific objectives. They can identify targets of importance. It is evident that they cannot be reasoned with. No treaty would please them, no bribe would cajole them, no words would move them. This is the sort of enemy the capitalist bourgeoisie fears the most. My point is this. This may seem controversial, but after careful thought I have concluded we have no real other options. While the bourgeoisie threat, thrown from their plinth of superiority by these implacable creatures, the workers will soon see what overstuffed fools they are. They will wonder why they are being thrown to their deaths. They will wonder why the industrialists grow fatter and richer from this war. They will soon tire of this. And it is my desire to accelerate matters. My nation is too being plagued by these things; I can finally begin to implement measures that will bring the Bolsheviks to the forefront. As capitalism collapses under relentless assault from these monsters, Marxism will take its place. Then, Marxism will be the only hope humanity has. The time, my friends, has come for revolution." ** I]Northern France, near Reims [/I]British and French troops sat huddled in a trench dugout as drizzle pattered down. Although Allied troops had been retracted from the Somme area, they were still being reinforced to the north and south of it, with command not intent on totally abandoning containment of Grex or German. Now, leaflets were being passed around, the ink still fresh from the press, with each soldier expected to have a copy. Each leaflet contained both the same information in French and English, and even despite the mass printing that they had supposedly undergone some of the men still had to share. "Whazzis?" muttered one of the British soldiers.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Some leaflet. Written by a Frechie called Lafeet or somethin' in Paris. 'eard they got some of their information from Krauts who switched over." replied his superior, fingering the leaflet. They chuckled at the picture of the cover--it looked less like a Roach, they agreed, than a drunken man's drawing of a Roach from someone's bare description. Regardless, they flicked it open from the light of the oil lamp present, reading the words and the accompanying pictures. KNOW YOUR ENEMY: AN INFORMATION PAMPHLET By Professor Adel Lafeete of Paris University Honorable soldiers on the front! You are all by know surely aware of the new, nightmarish threat our nations currently face, one that cares not for nationality or alliance. You will have heard rumors and stories of these monsters, and while it is true that they present a most grave threat to the sanctity of all men, they can still be defeated! Here we have compiled information on all the various breeds of these monsters, each given a pseudonym for your benefit. Note, of course, that we cannot confirm that these are all of the various castes of the creatures, but be assured that you, the common soldier, will the first recipient of such knowledge! SCARABS These resemble regular, yellow beetles, but they are incredibly vicious and devious. They serve as the ears and eyes of the Roaches, and while they can be crushed underfoot like any regular insect, their bites are deadly. Report any sightings of them to your superior officer! WARRIORS Anyone who has had the blessing of facing these things and surviving already knows all there is to know. These are the regular drones of the creatures, and are heavily resistant to gunfire except for some select places. They can burrow and can somehow commandeer our weapons, but they are nothing a good stab with a bayonet cannot defeat! Should you ever see a group of these, send a message to your nearest artillery position, provided they do not see you! BOMBARDIERS Do not be intimidated by the size of these giant coleoptera. A well-placed artillery round will down them like anything else! And furthermore, due to their single-minded intent to destroy all scenery before them, they will easily overlook small targets like regular riflemen! Their danger lies in their affinity for attaching our artillery weapons to themselves, but being dim-witted insects they do not fully appreciate how to use such weapons! Nonetheless, avoid these when you can, and leave them for our guns to take out. DECABITES We have not seen much of these abominations, but do not underestimate them. They appear to spit acid capable of burning through a man, although surely this will be ineffective against non-corrosive 95

SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 sources. If you are brave enough, try stabbing them through the head with your bayonet! They are surely dim-witted enough for this to be a possibility. LOCUSTS As their name will suggest, this particular breed can fly, moving through the sky like a crazed wasp. They are strong enough to pick up a horse and throw it back down, but naturally, their wings cannot take much, so aim for those! With their ways of flight taken out, these things will die soon after, much like a bee dies with its sting removed, but even then you should wait for heavy weapons to finish them off! Remember, some foolish men, their minds broken by the horror of some of these, can turn against you in service of these hellspawn. Show them no mercy! Hopefully you will put the information in this pamphlet to good use, and strive to serve your nation! ** As artillery thundered overhead and machineguns clattered, Adolf Hitler, his uniform covered in mud, blood, and purple fluids, cleaned his sword and bayonet-tipped rifle, both of which had served him well thus far. The offensive seemed to have slowed drastically--could this indicate Jewish influence in command, he pondered? Although admittedly the Zionists would have nothing to gain from these creatures overrunning all of Europe, he thought, they, in their short-sightedness, would do all they could to destabilize Germany. Something began to bust out the ground next to him, as the gas-mask wearing soldiers in the trench around him cried out. A Schaben burst out, only for Hitler to quickly impale it on his sword, carefully aiming at one of the chinks in its carapace. He had quickly become a deft hand with the blade, viewing it as the best weapon against Schaben close up. Most of the troops, except of course for the cowards, had developed some grudging respect—perhaps fear—for him as a result. Shrieking came from ahead, as shapes began to move out of the thick fog and gas on the No Man's Land Ahead. Hitler gritted his teeth. He and his men had persevered where other divisions were crumbling; if they could keep it up, they would immortalized in the history books forever. With that, he brought up his rifle, and, hands steady, aimed down the sights. ** Oyster Bay, New York state, United States of America 'MONSTERS IN CALIFORNIA', blared the New York Times. 'SAN FRANCISCO OVERRUN', announced the Wall Street Journal. And yet, from what his friends still in the Grand Old Party had said, that idiot, weak-willed fool in the White House by the name of Wilson, wasn't mobilizing as much as most

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 viewed would be necessary. That man, not content with shaming himself with his spineless foreign policy, appeared not to understand just what was happening. Enough was enough. It was time to rejoin the old party and head back to Washington. With that, Theodore Roosevelt put down the newspapers and began to pack his things.

**

22nd January 1915 Péronne, northern France Colonel Kurt Wagner of the German army stood at the edge of the small town as two of the new flamethrower-equipped armored cars trundled by onto the field before him and troops set up light artillery. Sweat was running down his forehead as he found himself seriously requisitioning his loyalty to Germany. This campaign to try and purge these Schaben was on the way to being a disaster; they attacked with such speed and numbers, striking where they pleased from under the ground, that it was almost impossible to hold against them. They had tried to minimize casualties from each strike by spreading out their forces in the Somme area, but Wagner felt that was merely delaying the inevitable. Now these troops around him, fresh recruits, were still high on morale, swallowing the propaganda that had assured them that the Schaben were little more than overgrown insects waiting to be crushed. Wagner had already seen the Schaben in action. He had seen creatures with teeth like demons burst from the ground and spit out acid that dissolved artillery guns into nothing, and flying things that could rip apart trucks. He was wondering whether his sanity would last for long at this rate. "We have two choices for ammunition, sir." one of the soldiers spoke to him, indicating supply boxes. "We have conventional explosive shells and mustard gas. Reportedly we are not to use chlorine--why is that, if you do not mind me asking?" "Because...chlorine leaks too easily." lied Wagner, thinking of the first explanation that came into his head. He had heard that the Schaben had somehow developed an immunity to that gas; reportedly, it may have been connected with them thieving some samples from a supply truck in Belgium. It was obvious that these things were intelligent--something the generals refused to accept, or so he heard. That did not bode well. "Sir?" A voice came from nearby. Wagner turned to see a soldier sitting on a rock, pointing at a flask of water, which was vibrating for no discernable reason.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "What...everyone! Get ready! Die waffen, legt an!" Wagner shouted, as loud as he could. The men were barely readying their rifles when dozens Schaben burst from the ground all over the field, some times mere inches from the soldiers. Screams and gunfired echoed around as the Schaben leapt onto their victims. Readying his Mauser, Wagner opened fire at the nearest Schaben several meters away, only for the bullets to hit its least vulnerable part. With its attention attracted, Wagner closed his eyes as the thing moved quickly towards him. The field was lit up orange as the flamethrowers on the armored cars lit up, spraying streams of fire across the field, burning some of the Schaben alive and in some cases some of the men. The crew of the cars also opened fire with machineguns through some gun ports in the side of the vehicles. With the Schaben momentarily scattered, Wagner and the surviving men ran to the vehicle closest to the village. However, the Schaben did not react well. Pouncing on the other car, they began to rip off the armor plating and tore off the flamethrower, while ones on the ground tore off the whels. Shouting incoherently, Wagner gestured for the men to open fire. Some of the Schaben were knocked off by the volleys of fire as they set about ripping the vehicle apart. The ground near the car then burst open as a gigantic black beetle thing the size of a building emerged. Wagner found himself screaming out loud as it lunged towards the doomed armored car and picked it up with its mandibles, scrunching it like paper. The troops opened fire at it with their rifles, but they had no discernable effect. Some of the Schaben were scurrying to the men and the car, undeterred by the stream of flame it was putting up. Lobbing grenades, Wagner cried out as more began to burst out of the earth right next to him, firing Mauser rounds straight into its face. There was a loud boom, cause Wagner's ears to ring, and a chunk of the huge beetle's side carapace was damaged. Wounded, the thing rapidly burrowed back underground as geysers of earth were blown up around the field following more booms, blasting some of the Schaben up. The rest followed the beetle, leaving the field covered in craters and dead men. Looking up and behind him, Wagner saw a zeppelin passing over the town, with naval guns fixed to its underside. He grinned, and felt a touch of patriotism returning to him. ** Hunan, China There had been certainly much to talk about lately. Stories had came in from both Japan and Russia of vile monsters from the heavens, capable of controlling the bodies of men and overcoming even the most well-trained soldiers. A few had dismissed it as a hoax, despite many bringing in newspapers from Great Britain and Japan which apparently confirmed it, and others were glad, happy that the likes of the Japanese and Russians were getting their just desserts.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Sitting outdoors, Mao Zedong read through a newspaper one of his friends had supplied him with. Apparently, they had hit the American west coast now--and then, upon reading this, Mao could not help but feel genuine pain for all these people being hit by these monsters. If the rumors he had heard were true, nobody deserved such fates as these things could provide, not even landlords or landowners. And some people, he thought darkly, were already celebrating their presence. They had taken much of Siberia and Australia, he had heard--heaven protect us if they spread into the Middle Kingdom, he thought. Given the state of the nation, this land would be rich pickings for them. Regardless, he began to head for class--if these things came, hopefully the people of China would see sense and unite as one. ** Near Mt. Fuji, Japan Takei Hiro fixed the bayonet onto his rifle as the column of men he was in moved on the foothill path, with the mass of Fujisama looming up before them. Most of them were still confused about the situation. Stories had spread through the barracks of monsters infesting the country, but Takei had dismissed them. When his own mother sent him a letter hysterically telling him of some monstrous men with the wings of dragonflies who had attacked her village, he had immediately resolved to purge this threat, which now obviously existed. The question of where they came from or what their intentions were were still nagging him, however. And more importantly, why they had chosen to bring the wrath of Japan upon them. "Halt! Movement ahead!" someone from the front of line shouted, and everyone stopped, tense. A new column of figures emerged from some trees up ahead, waving. Walking cautiously forward, Takei made them out to be foreign gaijin--Caucasians, wearing European uniforms. Which ones specifically he could not tell. A fellow Japanese officer was accompanying who he assumed to be their commander. He overheard him informing his own colonel that these were men from the British Empire--they had been shipped from China on their quickest transport as per a new agreement between the governments of their two countries about crushing these monsters. He heard something mentioned about Australia--what could that mean? That they were striking all over the world? "Soldiers," announced the colonel, "these gaijin are here to provide us with support. You are to treat them with respect, for to not appreciate the help they are willing to give would be dishonorable." Takei glanced at the British men. They looked exhausted and bleary-eyed, their uniforms creased and dirty. They muttered to themselves in their language, casting suspicious glances at his fellow soldiers. So, Japan had resorted to help from gaijin, he thought. Oh well. Perhaps this way the paledfaced foreigners would finally respect those who dwelled on the Home Isles.

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"Many monsters have been seen in this area. Do not laugh." said the colonel, snapping at some giggling men. "Only fools can deny their existence now. They have been sighted in Tokyo itself. We are to find, and crush..." His chest suddenly burst open as a purple, sharpened flechette-like projectile pierced through it. Shouting, the men dispersed and took cover behind what they could as a cluster of things descended from the dark sky above, some of them clearly firing rifles. More of them emerged from the trees, charging the men. He saw vaguely human-like shapes, but with almost skeletal, segmented limbs and faces like insects, with the sound of buzzing filling the air. Earth was thrown up as some of the British began lobbing grenades, knocking some of the monsters down. More, equipped with dragonfly-like wings just as his mother had said, slammed down from above, skewering men with their blade-like arms or gunning them down with guns. As he watched the carnage before him unfold, Takei noted the body of the dead colonel nearby, with his ceremonial katana still sheathed. As adrenaline and an overwhelming sense of righteous patriotism surged through him, Takei grabbed it, unsheathed it, and charged. "BANZAI!" Sprinting forward, he attacked one of the monsters from behind as it gunned down one of the British with a rifle somehow fused to its forearm, decapitating it with a deft sweep of the katana. Leaping at another one, he stepped to one side as it lunged at him, before cutting down its legs. A bullet, either from the monsters or a friendly stray, grazed his shoulder, but he ignored the pain as he gritted his teeth and slashed at a nearby one. Inspired by this sight, the other soldiers cried out battlecries and charged, stepping over the mauled bodies of their dead comrades, firing at the things or stabbing with bayonets or blades. Within a few moments, the remaining monsters were pulling back into the trees. Exhausted, Takei sat down on a log, rubbing his wound. One of the British men approached him with a smile and offered him a flask. "Arigato." he said. ** Northern France Lieutenant Jurgen Ulli, crewman aboard the zeppelin LZ31, watched carefully through the window of the gondola he was in as it approached the front lines. The entire craft had been refitted at Fühlsbüttel, with heavy guns, machineguns, and even some flamethrowers, all designed apparently to make it serve as a heavy conveyance for ground support and to give it better point defence. All this, of course, had come at the cost of most of its bombing capacity. Jurgen vaguely understood why--he knew of the Schaben, like anyone else, and the stories he had heard of them had sounded nightmarish. But surely no insect, no matter now large, determined, or relentless, could bring down

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 a mighty zeppelin? A buzzing sound passed as several biplanes passed by the zeppelin. He had heard some of the pilots complaining about the heavy machineguns installed on them, and the noise they made. Jurgen had heard that one variety of Schaben could fly, but could they really keep pace with a biplane? But then, he heard, a lot of the zeppelin refits, some of them rushed to fulfill the near-absurd deadlines they had been given, had come directly from the Kaiser's office, so there was surely a good reason. "We'll be coming over the trenches soon." someone said. "We'll blow those Schaben away from the air and allow our ground troops some breathing space. It's wonderful--artillery on the ground is good, but artillery from the skies is better." Someone suddenly gestured and shouted. Looking through the windows, Jurgen saw at least a few dozen...things...emerging from a nearby cloud. The biplanes immediately broke formation and prepared to fight back as some of the defence weaponry on the zeppelin opened fire, with bursts of flak appearing in front of the white clouds. Jurgen could make out the things now--monstrous insects, like dragonflies from hell, heading rapidly towards the zeppelin. One of the biplanes headed straight for the swarm, only to get torn apart like paper as one of the flying Schaben caught it. "Here they come!" someone yelled as some of the biplanes broke off, drawing some of the things away. The rest flew relentlessly towards the zeppelin, with some of the flamethrowers opening up. A few had their wings burnt off as they drew near, but some finally hit the surface of the zeppelin, tearing some of the weapons emplacements off. One suddenly burst through the window of the gondola, causing Jurgen to cry out, as it impaled an officer with its mandibles and swallowed him. Another man opened fire with a Luger and stabbed at it with a knife, only to get eaten himself. Jurgen took cover, whimpering, before the thing retracted. Some of the things flew by, somehow having fused machineguns or flamethrowers to their side, chasing down the biplanes. More had latched onto the side of the zeppelin, ripping off the hull, and more were attacking the rudder. Reaching out, Jurgen fired at some with his Luger, but it had no apparent effect. It was then that a biplane shot out of a nearby clouds and opened fire straight at the mass of them on the hull, using explosive rounds apparently. A few were blown off, and the rest tore themselves away and headed for the plane. Flak burst around them as they passed near ground guns. Jurgen took a deep breath. Yes, this armament truly was necessary. ** Near Soissons, northern France Gupta Singh, of Indian Expeditionary Force A, watched as other fellow Indians unloaded shells from a horse drawn cart, with the markings for an artillery position being set out near the small hamlet they

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 were standing on the edge on. Their British officer, Henderson, directed them as a few French soldiers stood nearby, smoking on cigarettes. The trench line was a short distance away--every now and then, trucks and carts would pass by in that direction. "Forgive me, good sir," One of the soldiers, a Hindu by the name of Patel, was talking to Henderson, "but I do not understand why we do not attack the monsters shown there." He waved the pamphlet that had been passed around lately--some of the men had laughed at it, dismissed it as a joke, until newspapers screaming about these 'Roaches' were passed around and traumatized British and French veterans ranted about mandibles and horrific shrieks. "Surely this would be a disgrace to the Crown?" "The Crown has decided that it would be better for us to reorganize and gather intelligence on these monsters before we through men into their jaws." sighed Henderson. "Our French allies think likewise." "I have heard the Germans are moving in on the creature's nest, in the Somme." "Let 'em. If they destroy the Roaches, good for us, we'll then finish them. If the Roaches eat 'em, good for us, we'll finish them off. Either way, it'll turn out to our benefit." "How ironic." one of the nearby Frenchmen smiled. "The mighty British Empire trying to use the Germans as a lackey." He put on an exaggerated British accent. "Maybe it's not cricket, old chum, eh?" "Watch yourself, monsieur," said Henderson darkly. "Perhaps you should know what these things can do. I saw a man talk about these things digging up right next to an artillery battery and tearing the guns apart like they were paper. Shooting them doesn't do much good unless you hit the right spot, and what rifleman under stress being attacked by such hellspawn can aim so accurately?" "Ptuh." spat the Frenchman dismissively. "Any man will spin tales for his own purpose." As the men continued about their work, with music filtering from a nearby gramophone player, Singh suddenly paused as it became increasingly scratchy. The player was shaking--slightly, but enough for it the needle to jerk from side to side. As a sense of impending danger dawned on him, Singh readied his rifle. "There's no need for that." said Henderson calmly. "We're far away from German positions, and I'm sure--" There was a scream as two men were thrown from behind a nearby house, one of them missing his lower legs. The men stopped what they were doing as the two landed nearby with the sound of crunching bones. Singh noticed that the remainder of the mutilated man's body was slowly dissolving by some purple substance slowly creeping along him.

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"Run!" gasped the other hoarsely, in a Welsh accent. "One of those...the leaflet called it a Decabite...run!" "Everyone, ready weapons!" cried Henderson. As the Indians hurriedly prepared their rifles and the Frenchmen began to load ammunition into a nearby machinegun, the house was smashed aside as a monstrous thing burst out of the dust--some sort of armored, crustacean-like thing about ten feet high with many eyes and a mouth full of impossibly sharp teeth. A Decabite, it was called--Singh tried to not let fear overtake him and steeled himself. "Fire, you bastards, fire!" screamed Henderson as the charged forward. Not flinching, the Indians fired with their rifles, the bullets apparently harmlessly pinging off the things armor. The Frenchmen opened fire with the machinegun, causing it to stop and lurch backwards. Then, it spat out a black globule, which hurtled through the air and struck the machinegun, dissolving it instantly, with the operator having his arms burnt off. As he screamed out in pain, one of the other Indians charged at it with his bayonet outstretched, only to get impaled on one of its spindly limbs. "We cannot kill it! Run, lest you value your lives!" one of the Indians cried out, only for Henderson to put a pistol round through his head. As the creature opened its mouth again, Singh ran towards it, taking one of the grenades from his belt and unpinning it. As it spat, sending forward another acidic globule that dissolved several of the soldiers, he thrust the grenade straight into its mouth. A moment passed, in which the thing impaled him through the shoulder, some of the drool from its mouth striking his chest and burning through it. Then, its head exploded, knocking him back. Fluids leaked from its body, leaking into the ground. "Bloody hell." uttered Henderson. ** Sydney, Australia Sitting in a room within the Queen Victoria Building, turned into a temporary Parliament along with the city hall, Fisher was gulping down some whisky as he read through the reports. The city, and most of New South Wales, was in chaos as refugees struggled to find accommodation and basic necessities. He could not be sure just when the things would strike here--defences were being already set up, for all the good they could do. His first intention was to head further north, to Brisbane, but apparently the trains were busy or some nonsense like that. Letters and reports were coming in of towns and villages and farms disappearing, of huge masses of the things moving rapidly across the countryside--in any case, they had taken huge swathes of the country, although thus far they had not seemed to be targeting the western or north-eastern parts of the country. "I think I've got some good news, sir." It was some member of Parliament--his mind was too bleary from stress and alcohol to identify him. "Telegrams from London."

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"What? Does Asquith want me to know that I should give up all hope?" "No. London's solidified our agreement with the Japanese. Nipponese troops will be arriving at Cooktown and Brisbane, along with reinforcements from the Indian Dominion. Because the Japanese want to keep as many troops for themselves--they've got their own infestation, you see--their support will be primarily naval. We should get some ships arriving here shortly." "Excellent. We're part of the largest and most powerful Empire on the world, and we have to turn to some stunted rice-eaters for help." "We need every body we can have, sir. These things do not relent." "You don't say. Bring me more whisky--the world's gonna end, might as well make the most of it." ** Berlin, Germany "WHAT? All the might of the Vaterland, all this new machinery churned out of our factories, and the Schaben have not been crushed? You in fact tell me that we're losing?" Kaiser Wilhem's voice could be heard all over the Reichstag as he thundered at Falkenhayn and other generals. "Nein, nein, nein! I want the Schaben purged from the Earth by February! Nothing less will suffice!" "Sir, the creatures are proving to be most vicious, relentless, and resistant." said Falkenhayn stiffly. "Every time we introduce a weapon, they adapt. I really think we should consider a ceasefire or temporary alliance with the British..." "Pah! Let them beg first; what will the people think if I have to crawl on my knees to King George? In fact, tell the Austrian-Hungarians that we need men on the Somme--tell them that if we fail, the Schaben will go straight for them! Exaggerate them, if you must!" "Exaggeration won't be necessary." muttered Falkenhayn grimly. "In any case," continued the Kaiser in more reflective tones, "perhaps we are simply not applying enough firepower. Maybe greater concentration of artillery..." "Mein Kaiser!" An aide burst into the room.

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"I have excellent news!" The Kaiser beamed. "Well? What is it?" "It is the Russians. A message straight from the Tsar. They want to open peace talks."

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BlackWave

April 3rd, 2012 02:04 AM

13th March 1915, near Ufa, Imperial Russia Mustafa Kemal Pasha glanced around the sombre Slavic faces around him with not much confidence within himself either--he glanced at the present token Austro-Hungarian and German officers, who rarely spoke in such meetings, understandably enough. The map on the table in front of them had not shifted massively as far as the various markers and arrows placed on it were concerned. He had proposed suggestions that could've changed this. Most of them fell on deaf ears. As a result, he had taken to mostly being at the main Ottoman camp behind the lines, co-ordinating matters with his own generals who'd actually listen. But then, he could imagine how it felt for proud men like these to be forced to work with someone they had previously been working to destroy. "Gentlemen." General Kornilov spoke up, his voice hoarse and his face clearly betraying his lack of sleep. "I regret to announce that we are facing a problem we neglected to anticipate...there are rumors of growing discontent among the ranks. I am told that an advance column sent to test the level of the infestation beyond the foothills flat-out mutinied and is heading back...given the issues of supply simple execution may be a waste of ammunition and bodies. I ask for advice." "Shoot them all." Lieutenant-General Kvetsinsky, as Pasha remembered, spoke up. "We have no room to tolerate such dissidence in the ranks. Remind the soldiers what they are fighting for and who they are fighting against. Our current issues are no reason to suspend standard policy." "I disagree." General Plehve--a German general of the Tsar's army, amazing as it sounded, and as far as Pasha could tell had functioned at easing in the German staff

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 present here. "Every bullet must be for a Roach. We send them out with nothing but bayonets and hopefully they will make a decent lure for the blasted weevils." "Gentlemen, if I may." Pasha spoke up, hoping his Russian wasn't too off. "Understand the position of the men. They are fighting in a hostile environment against an enemy that does not understand reason nor parlay. Their ammunition is dwindling. Their morale is lowering, as I understand. Should we surprised that when asked to walk out into the jaws of these creatures, they may feel a little...upset?" An awkward silence. Not surprising. No doubt they wondered what this uppity Turk, who had himself been partaking to kill as many of the men he now spoke out for, was interfering in their discussion. "Mutiny is mutiny." Kvetsinsky said simply. "You think, with half the land covered in those...those things, that we can show leniency just because they suffer hardship? Such is war. They should be used to it." Pasha sighed. This was harder than he had imagined. "The bigger question is what effect this will have on the efforts made by criminal parties to spread dissent among the men." Kornilov continued. "I recently received a further dispatch from Moscow warning that the Bolsheviks may be trying to...convert demoralized units. I have ordered officers to detain anyone suspected of such acts, execute them if need be." "I say again." Plehve grunted. "Bullets for the Roaches. Men serve as the bait. A far fitting way to get rid of the filth in the ranks." Of course, Pasha thought in frustration, they were essentially ignoring what he had been said. They mentioned the Bolsheviks...this all brought to mind the attempted revolution of a decade ago. Now, with the army here starting to crack at the seams, and the dissatisfaction building up among citizens...would this be seen on a bigger scale? It didn't bear thinking about. If Russia was to fall, it would be consumed by these monsters, who would sweep Eurasia. He reminded himself to emphasize this in the next report back to Constantinople--more men were needed up here. If nothing he could at least attempt to motivate them his own way. "I shall have the offending unit detained for now." Kornilov finally said. "If a use for them does not present itself, they will indeed be executed." Pasha nodded. And now, these men would continue to ponder elaborate but unworkable ways of trying to turn this entire front around. Something had to shake them up. If only for the good of the world, something had to. ** Ural Mountains, Imperial Russia "Steady, steady. God will smile upon us..." Borz Umarov gripped the reigns before him as the panting Siberian horse he rode upon prepared itself to charge, panting almost in time with the other steeds to his side. Below, a slope bombarded with field guns, forcing these damnable creatures, these insects fashioned by the devil himself, to present themselves in the open to be charged by the riders of the Caucasian Mounted Division--the Savage Division. All volunteers, all from

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 the Caucasus. A Chechen himself, Umarov had seen all the viciousness of war in Poland, charging forward against the German enemy, with whom they were somehow now allied. But that mattered not right now. Up ahead, scuttling shapes moved around in the smoke engulfing the slope below, strewn with partially melted snow. He readied his cavalry saber, not knowing just what these creatures could do. But this cavalry division had not earned it's nickname for nothing. He would do his duty for the Tsar or fall. "Charge!" Spurs dug into sides as the horses charged forward, throwing up lumps of wet earth as they pounded down the slope. Adrenaline rushed through him as he bellowed out, feeling sweat rush down the fur of the horse beneath him. Something burst out from the ground nearby, enough to give one of the nearby horses such a shock that it stumbled over. His own ride carried on, leaving Umarov with only the sounds of panicked shouting behind him, as another thing lunged at him from the side. The animal was surely made of steel--if only all cavalry mounts were like this. He pulled on the reigns as more horrible shapes began to emerge from the smoking ground, like nightmarish spiders of some sort. His horse whinnied as something ugly and fast lunged at it's side--swinging his saber, he knocked away scything limbs, but still almost found his blade knocked out of his hand by the force. Nearby, other cavalrymen tried to control their panicking mounts as the creatures came hissing and shrieking in, defiantly swinging back with their own swords or firing with pistols. They had withstood enemy artillery and machineguns but nothing like this...nothing at all. "Away!" he spat, pulling back his horse as more of the things came at him. He noticed in the corner of his eye these things descending on the others, ripping through horses or jumping onto their riders. They'd die fighting. So be it. A bugle rang out. He turned his head and even the abominations seemed to pause as more figures appeared on the top of the slope they had came from--more cavalry. Much more. Cossacks, by the looks of it. And now, like a single wave of men atop furred muscle and bestial sweat, they came down, shouting like madmen. He turned as one of the creatures slashed at his horse with a limb, while the ground shook under the hooves of the incoming cavalry. He didn't doubt that he wasn't likely to survive. But what a death to have. ** Near La Bassée, northern France For Private Willis Evans of the all-negro 24th Infantry Regiment, all church sermons and evangelising were redundant now. He had seen how hell looked like with his own two eyes, and he was walking through it right now. If he ever emerged from this pit alive, he thought, then surely this would be penance enough for his sins. Rain drizzled down from above onto his hat as he trudged through wet mud, with nothing but his uniform to keep him warm. Around him, fellow negro soldiers walked through this quagmire in escort of a rumbling 'Land Dreadnought'--a surprisingly small, boxy thing lazily crawling over the terrain. He understood that the Limeys and Frogs had them in mass production, this one belonging to the latter--when he and his comrades

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 had arrived to escort it from a dugin near Loos, the crew inside had made mocking comments towards them, something to do with chocolate. But, with his platoon apparently being the nearest available soldiers and the lines overstretched, they had to put up with them as they began trudging towards a new position in the remains of a hamlet up to the north. Flashes on the horizon were constantly flaring out from artillery batteries and after being told of how liberally gas shells were being used here Willis had been keeping his mask on for hours--after enduring the comments he had from his European 'comrades' so far, he found himself surprisingly thankful for the stifling thing. And now, all he had to do was hope no Roaches sprung on them before they could reach their destination, as they walked across this blasted No Man's Land--he had seen pictures, read the descriptions, and even heard distant, unearthly shrieking while he had been dug in at Loos, but he was dreading seeing the creatures in the live. At least one of his squad had been given a flamethrower, thankfully enough--he was surprised that they were being so generous to negroes, but then perhaps all this nightmarishness was going to render them colorblind. "Quiet!" he found himself snapping as a soldier nearby began to whistle a tune. He instantly chastised himself silently. Apart from their squelching footsteps and the rumbling of the machine they were escorting, their surroundings were in silence, the rumbling of distant artillery notwithstanding. He bet they felt just as tense as him. "Lighten up." The man snapped. Bronx accent, just like his own. "Looks like it ain't far." one of the others murmured, as the shapes of ruined and blackened houses appeared out of the mist of smoke and lingering gas in the distance ahead. Willis quickened his pace, hoping not to get caught by any damn overgrown chiggers when he was so close. He wasn't going to leave his mother knowing that he died in some mud-swept corner of France, filed away as just some dead nigger. "Wait." said the man from the Bronx. "Think I hear something." Willis angled his head to the air. "I don't know what you mean, man." "Just stay still and..." His heart leapt as man-shaped figures suddenly burst out from behind mounds of mud around them--they wore tattered uniforms too blackened by dirt to be recognizable, with faces like no men he had ever seen. Multiple blank eyes, jaws splitting into multiple mandibles...for a moment he was too shocked to respond, before one of them slit open one of his comrades with an arm warped into some sort of blade of exposed bone and flesh. Dropping his rifle, he went for the Colt in his pocket, firing at near point blank as another one of these aberrations landed in front of him, tendrils snaking out from it's face. Collapsing, the thing nevertheless managed to make a cut across his chest as he and the others went for the cover of the LD, which was starting up it's machinegun. "Mother of--!" Even as rifle fire cracked out, the creatures moved in undeterred, with one of them more deformed than the others suddenly lashing out with whip-like tendrils from it's chest, spearing another one of the soldiers and yanking him towards it. The surroundings were then lit up yellow as the flamethrower lashed out, setting alight several of the monstrosities before a spine penetrated through the operator's head, slamming his body against the side of the LD.

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"Get down!" As the things got into pouncing positions, Willis found his ears ringing in pain as a thunderous shot rang out, before the creatures were sent flying in a geyser of mud and smoke. The main gun of the armored box had swivelled around, delivering a shell into their midst. Picking up his rifle, Willis looked down along the scope towards some of their limp bodies nearby, trying to steady it despite his beating heart, and fired off as one of them began to get back up, somehow. Satisfied, he inhaled deeply as they carried on, leaving the bodies of their fallen behind in the mud. Perhaps they were the lucky ones after all, he thought grimly, as they approached the destination ahead. At least they weren't the men those monsters had once been. ** Dispatch to Brigade-Major Bernard Montgomery: TOP SECRET REPORT TO BRUGES IMMEDIATELY CONFIRM PRESENCE OF ONE ADRIAN DE WIART REQUIRED FOR MISSION OF HIGH PRIORITY ELIMINATION OF SUPER-ROACH 'SNEAKY WILLY' DISPOSE OF THIS MESSAGE AFTER READING THIS CANNOT BE COUNTERMANDED. -FIELD MARSHAL JOHN FRENCH ** Saigon, Cochinchina Finally, civilization. Not just some tents and half-starved townsfolk on a small island, but actual, honest-to-god civilization. Tea, newspapers, infrastructure, all that. Deckard could still feel pain in his shoulder from the wound Big Eddie had given him as he stepped down the gangway into the bustling landscape of Saigon port--beyond the coolies and Frenchmen swarming around containers and boxes he could see the mixture of European architecture, curved pagodas and housing crammed together. Soldiers were patrolling the waterfront down below, both French and colonial auxiliary by the looks of it, and were directing the passengers down towards large pens among the containers and cranes. He wondered briefly if the Roaches had managed to get in any of those damned little beetles in with the refugees...then he turned his mind to just finding a comfortable bed, maybe even a local girl, and preferably some strong whisky. "Please move to the designated assembly area." one of the French soldiers was saying, the words carefully enunciated as if he had just memorized the sounds without the meaning. "Sorry, mate, what's all this about?" Deckard put on a weary smile as he approached the man.

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"You are to be checked for...disease." The man replied with a heavy accent. "That is, ah, what I was told." "Diseases?" Deckard looked mortified. "Do I look bloody diseased to you? Wanna check my arse for warts? How about it?" "That's the man who killed Big Eddie!" Someone behind him called. "Show him some respect!" "What?" The soldier merely looked confused. "Here, I'll show you..." Deckard turned as a couple of men came down the gangway with a large crate, placing it before the soldier and pulling open the lid to reveal the decapitated head of Big Eddie crammed inside, smelling vile. He grinned as the soldier stared at the thing in shock, mouth agape. That had certainly done the trick alright. "Fichtre!" he spat. "What...what is that?" "That, my friend, is an Roach, and a proper 'un too." Deckard smiled. "How abouts you take me to whoever's in charge, so I can show up what we just ran from?" The soldier looked confused for a few moments, before clearing his throat. "Ah...follow me, s'il vous plait." Deckard went after the man as he took him into the streets, moving past throngs of people in coolie hats showing incomprehensibly and selling stalls of things he barely even recognized. As someone who had spent most of his life in the Outback, eating the meagre potatoes and bread that would come in from the towns, looking out into the redcolored expanse...this exotic little place seemed almost overwhelming in it's taste and smell. He spotted some ladies in alleyways and doorways as they passed through some tighter streets that looked inviting...he'd always considered himself someone open to new tastes. "Over there..." Finally, he was being brought towards a large, grand building in front of a grassy square built as fine as anything he'd seen on a postcard for Paris. He noticed the barbed wire spread out on some of the nearby green, and even the soldiers patrolling on the roof...he guessed that pictures of what had happened to Sydney and Melborune must've really made their mark to whoever was in charge here. At least they seemed to have prepared somewhat... "You see him." The soldier pointed near the entrance, where a short-looking mustached man in glasses was addressing a small number of caucasian-looking people. Walking closer, Deckard could detect an Irish accent in his voice--this was interesting. "Now who might you be?" The man turned towards him as he walked onto the steps of the grand hall. "Allow me to introduce myself--I am Hugh Mahon, Minister for External Affairs in the Australian parliament...for what it's worth. I have taken it as my duty to

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 serve as the liaison between refugees from that continent arriving here and the local authorities...I trust like these people here, you have something to ask of me?" "Yeah." Deckard grinned. "So, how much was the ticket that got you here? I take it parliament decided it was every man for himself?" "Frankly, I'd rather not take my chances with those...monsters." Mahon snapped. "I'll let you know that the prime minister is still in Darwin, with which we still have communications...forces from the East Indies, India, and here are gathering there for a grand push..." Deckard stopped. What was this? The great powers getting their heads out of their arses and getting their act together? Bloody unbelievable. And here he was, thinking about doing coolie women when there was still a good chance of killing some Roaches... "Really?" he smiled. "What do I have to do to get there?" "Unless you're a qualified soldier it's best you stay here." Mahon said simply. "The French authorities have provided comfortable quarters for refugees to stay in, unless of course you want me to ask special circumstances for yourself..." "Put it this way." Deckard placed the crate down and opened it. Similar reaction from before. He loved it. "I've qualifications alright." "I'll...I'll see what I can do." Mahon nodded. "You...you should also maybe consider heading up to Hong Kong. I hear that there's plans to send reinforcements up to Manchuria, if you're familiar with what's happening there..." Manchuria? Deckard thought. Well, that was even further in exoticness. But, he could hear the call of the homeland...decisions, decisions. Roachy really did seem to be getting everywhere, and it was about time someone showed people how to put the boot on his head... ** Near Palo Alto, California "Men, San Francisco is just ahead, over those hills. We've come this far, so let's not falter now!" Private Quincy could see the flashes from howitzer impacts in the distance, with the column of troops, trucks and armored cars around him marching in that direction. Some of the men carried the new 'portable machineguns' that had just entered field testing-the things were reportedly near impossible to aim, he heard, but he figured against what they were facing it didn't matter much. Others also said that they were finally going to see Land Dreadnoughts here, courtesy of the Europeans. For him, the hardware didn't matter much. After what felt like an eternity of slogging across this part of California, clearing out towns and dealing with constant harassment from these things...and now, the end finally seemed to be in sight. The end here, anyway. Most of the men had heard that these things were still popping up around Utah and in some godforsaken patches of the Midwest...but as far as the public was concerned, San Francisco was the heart of the whole thing. And it was about time the nation was given some hope. After all, the United States hadn't seen this level of death and brutality on her soil since the Civil War.

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Soldiers looked upwards as a trio of biplanes buzzed overhead heading southward--they had sent them out to observe the state of the city, flying at the highest altitude to avoid being intercepted by Hornets. Quincy had heard of the navy's recent attempt to try and simply quash the bastards with bombardment, but he guessed they were like ants...you had to get down to the roots of the nest to properly clear them out. And the closer they got, the harder it'd get--after all, if the things they were going to encounter were once people who had lived in the city, then the Roaches had had plenty of time to shape them into all sorts of horrors... "I hear the city's in an even worse state than it was in that earthquake." he heard some men nearby say--the way rations were going most men were far from the muscular ideal the posters and pamphlets were promoting. "Wonder if the navy's gonna try for another go." "Damn well better. It's probably gonna make Sacramento look like fucking Coney Island..." Quincy looked up as the artillery flashes ahead ceased. Even though fresh supplies were coming in, they simply couldn't afford the massed field gun support like the European armies could. He wondered briefly about the men the country had been sending off there...he knew that they had to appease the Europeans somehow for technology and whatnot, but he couldn't help but wonder if the numbers being sent there would not make a difference here. Still, now that the monsters were probably going to start to emerge from their holes now, they had to keep on their guard... "Stay sharp, boys..." A nearby officer came by on a horse, alongside the rumbling vehicles. "There could be critters anywhere..." He glanced out of the corner of his eye as they passed a house by the path, partially destroyed and still sporting dried blood on the walls. Memories of hearing about the great exodus out of the San Francisco area, which now seemed like an eternity ago, came back...he wondered just how many had made it out, and just how many hadn't been corrupted by these filthy fucking creatures. "They can pop up anywhere, right?" A panicked voice nearby said. Quincy turned his head. A young soldier nearby--judging by the cleanliness of his skin and uniform, a new recruit just arrived by the looks of it. "Some of them can." Quincy replied. "But then you just make sure to shoot 'em in the head, okay?" Easier said then done, if the poor guy was going to brown his pants first. "Are we going to get those new guns that you can just hold down the trigger with?" The young recruit continued. "Wonder what they're going to call 'em?" Quincy wasn't going to blame him for babbling. Kept the nerves down a bit, he supposed. "They only just started mass-producin' 'em." he said. "Thank the lord they came up with them so damn quick. Guess hearing about these monsters motivated the designers not to slouch around..." Just as he finished speaking, something erupted out of the soil behind the young man,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 grabbing him and rending him limb for limb in an instant. Quincy had barely enough time to leap for cover near an armored car on instinct as all hell seemed to break loose around them--spider-like shapes were starting to writhe out of the ground. And alongside them were aberrations closer to human form, muscle and skin stretched to make them tower over other men. He caught glimpses of gaping mouths with double sets of jagged teeth, tendrils writhing out from all across their body...if these things really were once just plain folk who lived around here, there was no better thing to do than to put them out of their misery. "Hold firm! Hold firm!" The horsebound officer shouted over the sounds of gunfire as the men opened up. Machineguns and Gatling weapons clattered from the armored cars even as the hideous creatures crawled up against their sides, puncturing their hulls with claws or talons. Trying to focus himself amongst the carnage, Quincy aimed at a towering monster with the barest resemblance to a man bearing down towards a soldier desperately trying to reload and squeezed the trigger, taking the abomination's head off. He span around as a spider-like thing--a real Roach--lashed out at him from atop the armored car he was hiding against. Fixing his bayonet, Quincy span around as it suddenly spat out a barbed tongue-like proboscis towards him, missing by barely a hair's breath. Gunfire from the soldier he had just saved blew off one of the horror's limbs moments later, forcing it to jump off out of the way...murmuring a thanks, he watched as the thing moved up behind another man, moving almost too fast for him to keep track of, and against shot out with the whip-like appendage, embedding it in his neck and seemingly draining his fluids within moments. Raising his rifle again, he went for the head, and with a grin of satisfaction put it down with a crack. The soldiers around him were now trying to form into a circle around the armored cars-the corrupted abominations, hardened musculature visible under pale torn skin, seemed damn more harder to put down than what they had faced before...even shots that took off jaws or went through their necks didn't seem to slow them down much. Some kept moving even as fire from Teddy tonics spread over them, turning them into screaming dervishes of fire. Sheer weight of gunfire, especially from the vehicles, appeared to be the only thing keeping these monsters from overrunning them... "Down!" Quincy barely managed to duck as the aircraft they had seen earlier came swooping overhead, machineguns on them clattering. A Roach about to pounce was put down from the bullets spitting down from ahead, and both a soldier and the abomination strangling him were cut through--in the former's case a blessing. With this additional fire, the creatures began to back off, retreating back into the soil from where they had come. "Head count!" The officer, his horse gone, shouted as silence returned. "We've got to link up with other columns..." "It ain't gonna get easier." Another soldier nearby murmured. "Lucky there weren't none of them flying things nearby...the planes can't be around all the time." "We haven't got far now." Quincy breathed. "We can still show these damned wormridden fuckers. We can still show 'em good..." ** Changsha, Hunan, China

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"Soldiers needed for Manchuria! Defeat the devil-insect menace! Support our comrades there!" Near the First Provincial School of Hunan, Mao Zedong sat in thought under the awning of the entrance of a small teahouse, as people shouted and bawled under placards and signs. Fresh news was coming in from the north of the country. Rumor was it that the armies there were getting desperate to contain these 'devil-insects' bringing the Great Powers of Europe to their knees and were now spreading in from Korea. Some people were now even actively encouraging collaboration with the Japanese 'supporters of the East Asian struggle'--he imagined mingling with island dwarves was a better prospect than being consumed alive by some drooling monster. What a thought...it felt like he had stepped into some European fantastical novel. "You!" He turned as some students bearing recruitment signs pointed at him. He knew some of their faces from the library and cafeteria... "You were in the revolutionary army three years ago, were you not?" "Er, yes..." How did they know? "Then it is your duty to defend the land! Go up to Manchuria, or shame be upon you!" Mao could only respond with a nod. He found himself quite reluctant to go up against monsters that could shape-shift like something out of a classical novel from the time of the dynasties...down here in Hunan, so far away from where it was all taking place, it all felt safely distant. "People still need to learn, monsters or no monsters." he breathed, just as they got out of earshot. At least, he thought, this crisis was giving China some unity. Even the KMT was willing to work with communists and Japanese to get rid of these creatures...which surely meant they were nothing that could be trifled with. Hopefully, the country would come out of this as one, unless victory taxed it to the point of breaking. ** 14th March 1915, Batavia, Duch East Indies Wasn't but a few months ago that he had been hoping to merely get some interviews up in the Mediterranean, and to give some people a good look of how their brave boys were giving Johnny Turk what for. Now, the Turks were suddenly shaking hands with them, the boys were heading back home but not in the name of peace, and the whole bloody world had gone upside-down once these Roaches had arrived. But, at the very least, it made for newspapers a damn sight more interesting then they once were. Keith Arthur Murdoch of the Australian Journalist's Association, surrounded by telegrams and wrinkled sheets, moved his fingers across the typewriter in front of him within this small office that nonetheless gave him a good view of the docks running along the coast of the Java Sea. It had seemed like an eternity ago when, at his office in Sydney, his writers and editors went into panic and frenzy as telegrams and reports came in of monstrous creatures running amok not only in the battlefields of Europe, but right here on the Australian continent as well. Everything had to be done to compress the maximum amount of information onto the morning sheets.

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And then news of the fall of Melbourne came in, and all thoughts of getting papers out on the stands in time vanished. The entire venue seemed to fall to pieces as writers and journalists decided to simply get as far away as possible from the impending swarm of monstrous insects by any means. Murdoch had been one of the latest to go before news that the creatures were bearing down on Sydney came in, but at that time his superiors had managed to book passage to here in the East Indies, effectively relocating the whole operation here. Along with many other refugees from Victoria and New South Wales, Murdoch had travelled up here crammed in with people panicked and tramautized out of their minds. He hadn't actually seen any of the Roaches, but looking even at murky pictures and sketches, he was thankful for this. Now, his chiefs had used what little change they had managed to secure from the banks-those that weren't looted in the evacuations--to get them this little building by the Batavian waterfront. The Dutch had set aside certain areas for Australian refugees, but more had gone further up to Indochina he knew, with the French effectively offering entry to anyone from the stricken continent. The sluggish response from London had left many people bitter and offended, but Murdoch knew that with all the confusion no doubt reigning up in Europe and telegram services thrown into disarray, he wasn't surprised. God knows, with those things rampaging in France, Parliament already had enough on their plate. And now, with not much of an audience left, the AJA had been tasked with relaying news up to Europe and with providing an official service for the skeleton government still active in Darwin, as well as for the refugees here and in Saigon. Less news and more words of encouragement that would seem empty to many. But, it at least was a job, and it gave him comfortable surroundings that many others were lacking. Seeing the poor souls crammed into the ship that had taken him here...seeing once well-off gentlemen reduced to tattered, unshaven beggars mingling with the coolies by the waterfront...it had certainly given him a whole new perspective. Right now, the main topic around the offices was that of the new effort being organized by the French and Dutch to launch a direct offensive straight for what was presumed to be the main hive of the Roaches in Australia, right in the heart of the continent. Take that out, the logic apparently was, and the rest could be taken care of at leisure. On paper it seemed sensible enough to Murdoch. If these things were anything like the insects they all knew, then surely without their queen or nest they would have nothing to come back to, nothing to replenish themselves. At the very least, it would be a desperately-needed morale boost. "Keith!" he heard someone call from outside his door. "Howzat coming on?" "Should be within the hour." he sighed, his tired fingers moving across the typewriter again. He paused to swat a mosquito buzzing by his ear. Enough trouble with the insects of this world, he thought bitterly, the ones that had come down from the sky. Leaning back, he scanned through what he had written of the article. These days, any man who didn't know of the Roaches would swear he had picked up some periodical instead of a newspaper. Talk of destroying hives and queens...it almost made him want to laugh. Of course, there was no longer any purpose for objective reporting. If people were told things starkly, there wouldn't be any hope. Some exaggeration and white lies were necessary, if only to keep people's minds in check. "Tea?"

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 He looked up at the Dutch-accented voice, coming from someone peering in through the door. A man by the name of Daan, a journalist unemployed before the AJA had made it's new home here. He had volunteered to help around in the offices, and unlike the coolies milling around in the streets here he could speak bloody English. "Yeah, just leave it here." Keith sighed. "I hear they're going to try and take back your country." Daan continued. "Think they'll do it?" "Mate, there's something you should know about us Australians." Keith turned around. "We're already used to bugs big enough to make you scream. Trust me, once we get our shit together, a buncha Roaches ain't gonna scare us..." ** Flanders, Belgium "Mother of God...would you look at that." Captain-commandant Fernand Jacquet, pilot of the Belgian forces--what remained of them, anyway--glanced over the side of the British biplane he was flying, looking down at the cratered, charred landscape below. The once lush fields of Flanders, turned into a poisoned, burned vision of hell...the sight of what had been done to his country had been more than enough to push him to kill as many of the filthy fucking creatures defiling it. Men at least had honor, mercy, compassion. All these 'Roaches' had was the impulse to destroy and consume, as far as he could tell. The sooner they were burnt off the face of this land, the better. Behind him, his gunner Henri de Vindevoghel checked the new explosive rounds he was feeding into the machinegun mounted on this plane. Jacquet would've preferred a Maurice Farman or even a Morane-Saulnier, but the British wanted all the pilots they could get, and beggars of course could not be choosers. Buzzing alongside him in a dozen-strong formation were other aircraft also mainly being flown by Belgian pilots, with some Britishers for escort. Their task was simple--to cover ground forces below by diverting as many flying Roaches as possible. He remembered facing those damned monsters not so long ago, at first wondering what sort of challenge some overgrown mosquitoes could pose. But these creatures were manoeuvrable and fast as any aircraft, in some cases more so, and when they somehow fused themselves with weapons they became even more potent. Now that word had come in with a ceasefire with Fritz, they were told they could expect assistance from German pilots, but deep down, Jacquet wondered if those Teutonic bastards wanted his nation to be swamped with these horrors, out of sheer spite. Perhaps, though, honor would prevail after all. "Sir! 10 o'clock!" Focusing all his attention on the control of the aircraft, Jacquet turned his head in the specified direction, spotting several distinctive shapes among the dark clouds hanging over the battlefields and No Man's Land below them. Hopefully there would be some of the new truck-mounted pounder guns below to give them some cover, but it was often best to assume that they were by themselves. Glancing over the side below, he could make out the flashes of weapons fire and the scurrying shapes of little horrors moving in on packed trenches.

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"Rockets away!" Some of the other aircraft shot off the basic rockets hanging between their wings in the direction of the creatures now turning towards them--simple projectiles filled with phosphorous timed to detonate, hopefully taking some of the things. As predicted, the flying monsters peeled away as the rockets detonated, causing momentary bright flares that hung in the sky. "Can you see them, Henri?" Jacquet shouted over the roaring of the wind and engine. "Closer!" He shouted. He hated that. Up close, those things could shred an aircraft with their talons, or rip a pilot from his cockpit. Nevertheless, he gently banked the biplane towards them, glancing to the side to make sure there weren't any more of the creatures lurking in the clouds to surprise them, as he heard from tramautized pilots that they were not unknown to do... Machineguns then clattered as the furthermost biplanes began to make contact, swooping by the things and then peeling upwards to try and avoid them. But the flying demons seemed to follow their pattern with the greatest of ease--it was moments before the first casualty was sustained, as one of them set on an unfortunate Sopwith and tore it to shreds. Jacquet could make out that some of these things were larger than the ones he had fought before...thicker-looking carapaces...but the rule was the same: go for the heads. "Down!" He didn't have to be reminded as he pulled the aircraft down, narrowly missing one of the creatures as it went straight for them at near blinding speed. Henri shouted obscenities as he opened fire with the machinegun--Jacquet couldn't tell if he had got it, but with the armor on these things, he wasn't sure they'd be as easy to down. "Did you get it?" "I don't know!" "Don't shoot unless you can see the heads!" "Easier said than done, goddamit!" Around him, aircraft were twisting and turning to avoid the slashing claws and razor-like mandibles of the buzzing devils, as more phosphorous flares lit up among the chaos of this aerial battle. Heart pumping, Jacquet took the aircraft around as Henri finally got a good shot at one of the things before it could set on another Sopwith, delivering a burst of explosive rounds straight to the eye. He watched in satisfaction as it's wings fell limp before it spiralled down to the wastes below. "Three behind us!" Henri shouted in panic. Glancing for a moment over his shoulder, Jacquet could indeed see a trio of the creatures buzzing down towards them, claws outstretched. Only one thing for it. Forcefully pushing on the throttle, he brought the aircraft into a sharp dive, heading down towards the embattled trenches below. As wind rushed in his face, he could only hope that he wouldn't pass out either from pressure or from sheer panic as the rows of men became visible below. He could make out creatures emerging from the earth in

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 front of them--pressing down on a switch, he lit one of the rockets and saw it shoot down into the midst of the horrors below, engulfing them in phosphorous. "They're almost on us!" As the burnt mud came up, he pulled the aircraft upwards, narrowly striking the ground with the undercarriage. With the creatures still following, they were suddenly met with the fire of dozens of machineguns from below. A little tit for tat, as the English said. "What now?" Henri said as he brought them back up. "We go back for fuel and ammunition." Jacquet said. "Then, we continue our work." ** Bruges, Belgium The beautiful and medieval city of Bruges, crown jewel of West Flanders, was now barely recognizable for the fortifications cast onto its buildings and the rows of trenches and artillery batteries encircling it. Over the last several weeks, it had gradually been transformed into the center for Entente operations in Belgium, supplied by the nearby port of Zeebrugge. Buildings and cathedrals had been converted into barracks, triages, or supply warehouses, and rooftops now sported anti-air pounder guns and light howitzers. What number of the local populace that had not been evacuated had been drafted into maintaing the various supplies and sanitation present there. Every street bore lines of barb wire or sandbags, and sappers had made sure to place canisters of poison gas if the Roaches were to attempt to launch Scarabs into the city via Bombardiers. In short, it had become one of the most fortified places in Europe. Covering his ears as he passed a constantly pounding 370mm naval gun placed onto a specially constructed casemate, Montgomery could barely see much of this fortress-city as he and his men behind him crept through the trenches patchworked around it. It pained him somewhat that they, being assets to the war effort, were being taken away from the lines to no doubt share some wine with a clean-tuniced general, but he supposed the men needed rest as much as anyone. Sometimes, given the time he and his comrades had spent out there knee-deep in mud in stinking trenches with nothing but rusted weapons against relentless monsters, he sometimes forget they were still but men. "Hold it." He finally emerged out of the trench to a large security checkpoint at a street entrance leading to the city--gas masked Belgian troops, speaking heavily accented English, were training machineguns on them from behind sandbags and wooden barricades. An armored car was even present, swivelling what looked like a flamethrower towards them. Slowly raising his arms, Montgomery stood patiently as they began to pull up his sleeves and inspect his skin, as his Marauders lined up wearily behind him. Understandable measures. Couldn't have anyone body-snatched by Roachy walking into the Entente's most secure location this part of North-Western Europe and buggering things up, so to speak. "You may go in." The man said, muffled through his gas mask, and a barrier was risen for him to walk in. The pretty, quintessentially European houses lining the streets were almost unrecognizable under the boarded-up windows and scrap-metal supports piled against their walls. In the dark overcast sky above, marred with the occasional eerie

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 purple lining, he could glimpse the occasional flash of explosive shells--was Roachy scoping the place from above, or were they expending ammunition just as a precaution? At least, he assumed it was ammunition... "Steady up, you bastard." Montgomery paused as de Wiart came up from behind, muttering something under his throat. "That bastard French pulled us up here, and he'll probably have someone waiting for us--bloody arsehole better have a damn good reason." "Perhaps he's just anxious about us resupplying." Montgomery murmured. "Then he wouldn't have marked the bloody dispatch top secret, now, would he? Ah, I think that's it..." They turned as several Tommies in remarkably clean uniforms came walking up to them and saluted, as the ground gently reverberated from the firing of heavy artillery. "Sir, are you Brigade-Major Montgomery?" one of them asked. "Affirmative." Montgomery nodded. "'eard a lot about you, sir. And your Marauders. Some of the lads would very much like to meet you..." "You here to take us to the Marshal?" de Wiart finally cut. "Uh, yes sir. Follow me." Wiping the remaining dirt from his face, Montgomery followed the men into the city's center, noting cobbles pressed down by what looked like LD treads or the wheels of heavy gun pieces. New and refined types of guns and shells were coming out from the factories of France and Britain, what with both nations throwing their industry into overdrive. That much he had gathered from the dispatches. Noting the occasional French LD stationed on a sandbag-lined street corner, he noted how fast these machines had progressed--from hurriedly put together tractors with armor and guns tacked on to dedicated fighting devices. It seemed like the threat of Roachy did more to get the worker's arses into shape than Kaiser Willy did. Finally, they approached what he guessed was the town hall, with machinegun nests placed around it and on the roof, and after another check at the entrance was taken inside. The interior of the grand structure was so at odds with the scene outside that he was nearly taken aback--marble and oil paintings on the wall as officers leaned against oak furniture sipping tea and drinks. Turning his head away, he followed the troops down a flight of stairs and into what seemed like a planning chamber made out from the building's cellars. A conduit between here and the Entente general staff down in France, he guessed. "Brigade-Major?" Montgomery exchanged salutes as Field Marshal French emerged into view, standing over a table-covering map of the country marked with dozens of pegs signifying artillery positions to areas marked 'overly infested'. He noted that the details of the Central Powers lines were more detailed than was to be expected--he hoped that was a sign that the other side was taking this ceasefire seriously.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Field Marshal." Montgomery nodded. "May I enquire as to the purpose of this summoning?" "We have a problem." The Marshal sighed. "And not much time. To get to the point...well, have you heard of Sneaky Willy?" "I believe I might have caught a glimpse of him myself." Montgomery remembered what he had seen in that ruined hamlet, his voice going slightly hoarse. "We are confident that so far that there is only one of these 'Alpha Wraiths' about." The Marshal continued. "However, I've conversed with Kitchener and the others and we feel it best that this individual Roach be eliminated as soon as possible for the purpose of morale, and before more of it's type can be bred." "A tall order." Montgomery uttered. "I'm not sure..." "You just tell us where to start, Marshal, sir." de Wiart leaned in. "I was about to discuss that." French continued, before pointing to the map. "He was last sighted here, but I'm sure that at this point..." "Never you mind." de Wiart said. "I think I have a plan already..." ** Near Ath, Belgium Crawling over a landscape dotted with partially flooded artillery craters and the remains of hamlets pounded into oblivion, a single figure headed towards the flashes of weapons fire ahead. Clad in a German uniform, the person was barely in his mid-teens, covered in mind and grime and breathing heavily. Young Ernst Gonell had nothing on his mind besides getting to the Entente trenches in the distance. His platoon had been hit by some sort of acid-filled shell while redeploying, and he had been left as the only survivor. The patriotism and will that had led him to lie about his age to the recruiting office in the name of destroying the wretched Schaben had evaporated--his own survival was his priority now. Besides, he thought, they were at peace officially with the Tommies and Frenchies now, weren't they? They may as well be fellow Germans now, he thought... He sighed in relief as he finally stopped what appeared to be a smaller trench ahead, with uniformed figures visibly standing around a machinegun nest there. Waving, he briefly covered his eyes as flashes from artillery hits flared on the horizon as he waded through the mud towards them. "Please..." his hoarse throat was making even simple speech difficult as he dredged up what English he knew. "Please...help." "It's okay, mate." He could see the soldiers more clearly now. They weren't wearing British or French flags. Australians? Canadians? "Help..." he repeated, as he stumbled around barbed wire and towards the trench edge. "Here, come in..."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 He took a hand and climbed down into the trench, as he heard the distinct buzzing of aircraft engines overhead. "Rough, isn't it?" one of them smiled. "Want some water?" He nodded, recognizing that word well enough. The man handed him a satchel, which he eagerly took. "There you go..." Opening the satchel, Gonell was momentarily surprised to find some sort of mass writhing around inside. His throat was too dry for him to even scream as a dozen little yellow beetle creatures leapt out onto his body, as the soldier stood over him with a grin. ** Ural Mountains, Imperial Russia These Russians could not be human. Willing to freeze their balls off in these temperatures. Not flinching as they were made to trudge over icy mountain paths and frost-covered forests. And above, willing to endure their own officers. Watching as nearby sappers began moving field guns into position, Austro-Hungarin soldier Jan Dreher found himself unable to identify his feelings for the huddled Russian soldiers nearby as admiration or pity. A few months ago, he had been shooting them like animals at the Vistula. Now, since these monstrous Schaben had appeared, things had gone upside down, and here he was told to fight alongside them. The Russians themselves didn't seem to react that much to his presence after the first week or so, focusing themselves on repelling the seemingly never-ending waves of creatures coming in from the Siberian wastes. Dreher wasn't even sure if some of them hadn't even already slipped through the mountains. Surely even the Tsar's legions couldn't cover the entire range? But, perhaps he was wrong. He hoped he was, anyway. He turned as he spotted two Russian officers standing in the distance, seemingly in an argument. He looked around this forested rocky outcrop that had been chosen for an artillery position, dredging up the Russian he had tried to learn on the way here. "I've heard there was some kind of mutiny down the lines." his fellow soldier Brunn uttered nearby, pulling down his snow mask slightly. "A group of Russkies got fed up with being told to throw themselves at the Schaben and shot their own officer. Now the other commanders are running around like chickens..." "Ach." Dreher sighed. That was all they needed. Not the monsters breaking down the lines, but the men themselves. "They're not sure about shooting them, because that's valuable men and ammo gone, and they're not sure about sending them out on a suicide run, because that means food for the Schaben...I wouldn't want to be in the Tsar's shoes now, I tell you." "Really?" Dreher laughed, before looking up as the sound of field artillery resounded from further down the valley they were overlooking. Schaben? He tensed slightly and gripped his rifle harder, but in this cold he didn't find quick movement coming easily. "You ever think we'll see home again?" Brunn finally said. "To see winter in

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Vienna...Christmas winter, and not this Russian frost. Makes you think, just how far away from home this really is..." "Focus." Dreher snapped. Last thing he needed was the man next to him to be getting teary-eyed from homesickness. He knew how distracting it could be. He had once been in Brunn's position too, after all. Shouts in Russian came from nearby, before something came screaming in overhead to impact near the gun battery, throwing up a small geyser of dirt and snow. Feeling adrenaline surge through him, Dreher readied his Steyr-Mannlicher as he spotted little crawling things beginning to emerge from the rocky-textured egg-like shell that had impacted there. Shouting in panic, the nearby Russian artillery operators began to throw down the simplistic grenades they had been issued, blowing away the scuttling things with ear-piercing bangs. Nevertheless, some of them managed to leap onto two gunners, sinking their mandibles into their ankles--instinctively, Dreher delivered too consecutive shots into their hearts. He didn't feel much emotion in doing so. He had already killed enough of their types before. "I think we've got a problem..." Brunn uttered as the artillerymen turned their attention to loading their guns. Covering his ears, Dreher headed over to the outcrop edge to see just what was happening. He glimpsed large black shapes emerging in the forested valley floor--those damn giant beetles, clearly. Flashes came from below as they let off another volley, seemingly directed towards a different target. The field guns nearby then rang out, shaking the snow off nearby trees and disorienting Dreher for a few moments. As he staggered back to Brunn, he took one last look over his shoulder. "Mutiny." he muttered. "If the Schaben continue like this, I don't see how they'll find time for a big one. We shouldn't have worried..." "Maybe it's because the Schaben are continuing like this." Brunn sighed, as they headed away from the piercing noise of the guns. ** Dispatch from Prime Minister Asquith to Lord Kitchener: We've exchanged telegrams with the current German ruling circle and the French--it's been agreed. Official talks will take place in two day's time at a chateau by Lake Geneva, with permission from the Swiss government. This is to take place under absolute secrecy, to prevent intervention by the Roach 'Stingwraiths' I've been briefed about. Your presence is suggested but not required, if the situation on the front demands otherwise. There is still the possibility of pro-royal factions among the Germans also staging an intervention. We may need a military unit as a security detail. In this matter I hope you can make a good selection. -Asquith ** 15th March 1915, Hayward, California, United States of America

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Lines of light artillery guns constantly pounded towards the ground overcast by purplelined dark clouds across the waters of San Francisco Bay on the horizon ahead. Situated on the outskirts of Hayward near the shoreline and surrounded by hurriedly-dug trenches and fortifications made out from partially-ruined buildings, the guns had been deemed the highest defensive priority for the men in the town. The town itself, found dilapidated and partially burnt, was now serving as somewhat of a supply hub now that the rail lines converging on it had been restored, bringing in fresh munitions and troops, including platoons of Canadians coming in from the north and even recruits from Alaska. More were expected to come; it seemed plain to many of the soldiers that from here a crossing across the bay would be mounted, to finally reclaim San Francisco from the monstrous hordes plaguing the nation. For artilleryman Elijah Taggart, the rhythmic process of loading and firing off a gun had become so ingrained that he found himself doing it with maximum economy of motion like a machine. Part of the 1st Field Artillery Regiment, the training back at Fort Riley had paid off, as he sent shell after shell heading off into the sunlight-streaked morning sky. He wasn't sure what they were really firing at--the commanders had told them to saturate a particular area over the bay, and they followed through. He hadn't seen much of the monsters beyond far-off figures clashing with men assigned to protect batteries such as his, but he had seen their handiwork at the various towns they had stopped off on the way here, and that had been enough. And now, after so many hours and days of loading and firing this gun, hoping that salivating creatures didn't descend on him, he felt more like a machine than a man, for the sole purpose of delivering death. He didn't feel particularly ashamed or uncomfortable. These things had wiped out entire cities, killed thousands, damn near destroyed half a state. If this is what it took to wipe them out, all the better. Throw down enough shells on their heads, and surely they would go down. The munitions supply they were getting was more constant now, at least. Before, every projectile had to be given a purpose, with the arrival of every batch uncertain. But now, with more train hubs taken and the nation's industry gone into gear, they could finally begin mass bombardment of the type seen in Europe. And by god, where they going to use it. "Stop now!" one of the operators held up a watch. "Let the barrel cool down..." Nearby, other gunnery crews who had themselves been letting their own howitzers cool off resumed--a system to make sure each battery kept up fire. Further shells were coming in over the sky from armored trains situated at the patched-up depot further within the town. Some of them were loaded with phosphorous or chemicals--not so much poison gas, given the immunity the creatures were building up to the mixtures available. Taggart had heard than in Europe, they kept bringing out new batches to the front on a regular basis to stop them from doing so, but here, just getting out enough gas had been a problem. Best to keep it straightforward. "There ain't gonna much left of San Fran when we get there." one of the other gun operators uttered over the booming of the other pieces in the battery. "You don't say." Taggart murmured. Well, at least it would be free of those...creatures. "Cease fire!" One by one the guns fell silent as an officer on horseback came riding up, dismounting and approaching the battery commander. As the two began quietly talking, one of

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Taggart's crew spoke up in confusion. "What's going on? We gonna be crossing the bay already?" "Be damn early." Taggart murmured. "Maybe it's ta catch 'em off guard..." "Men." They stood to attention as the battery commander finally turned to them. "A group of scout planes are to be sent in to evaluate the condition of the city...we'll be seeing if our bombardment has had any effect. We'll have to damn well hope we've left the Roaches buried in their holes..." Taggart took in a breath. Surely, after the shells they had unloaded, at least some damage had been done to whatever foul nest they had no doubt made of the city... "Permission to speak, sir?" the gunner behind him finally spoke up, looking towards the commander. "Granted." "Does this mean we're going to be crossing the bay." "Classified, son." The man smiled. "But you just think why we secured those boats down by the waterfront..." ** Vimy, Northern France Scurrying through the streets of the ruined village, a group of soldiers in mixed uniforms huddled in the burnt-out remains of a house, their faces blackened with ash and mud. The dark early morning skies above were lit up by the flashes of shells exploding beneath them, with the sounds of mass gunfire from trenches clattering away in the distance. Not many of the men in the wrecked structure could communicate, but with their throats dried with thirst and inhaling ashen air, all they could do was share their rations and water, what little of them remained. Few of them had much doubt that they'd last much longer, but they were determined to do what they could. A detonation uncomfortably nearby shook their hiding place, causing beams to creak and weakened walls to buckle. As dust and soot fell down upon them, they struggled on their gas masks and began to head out, not keen on being inside a place about to collapse. With that, they emerged onto one of the rubble-strewn streets of the village, as tracing rounds lit up in the sky above. Their uniform colors faded and sullied with dirt, they knew they were technically deserters, but that did not concern them. They knew they were worse things here than the wrath of their superior officers. Moving cautiously forward over the rubble and water-filled craters, they kept their rifles close to them. At the head, one man peered through what was once a window in a single wall standing, crouching in a pile of burnt splinters of wood. He suddenly shook his head in shock. Peering through the gap with him, the others saw a street faintly bathed in some blue light, with pieces of rubble and mangled objects like bicycles suspended in various levels of the air above it. Looking at each other for verification, they sat for a minute in confusion. Had the whole

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 thing finally cracked them? But it seemed...real. Nevertheless, crawling over the rubble, they drew towards it. It looked almost beautiful. Like some sort of impressionist painting, standing out among all the destruction around them. Reaching forward to touch one of the floating objects, one of the soldiers noticed the strange ethereal glow around it, staring in awe and bewilderment. Some product of his shell-shocked mind? Didn't feel like it. Perhaps even some sign from spirits... A rustle behind him. He span around, seeing one of their fellows gone. The others jumped to alertness, bringing out their rifles. This had to be something to do with Roachy. This all seemed like a... Then, they found themselves paralyzed, rooted to their spots. One by one, the floating objects fell to the ground, as something large, black, and monstrous materialized nearby among the rubble. Vaguely like some sort of mantis, with claws and jagged protrusions all over it. Leaping from man to man, it tore them apart and devoured them into it's mandible-covered jaw one by one, leaving the next one watching this helplessly as it did so. Finally, it consumed the last one, and looked out to the noises and lights of the faroff battlefields, fading away into nothingness. ** Berlin, Imperial Germany Seated within the Kaiser's old office within the Reichstag, Chief of the General Staff Erich von Falkenhayn flicked through the latest dispatches and reports from the front. With the General Staff now having secured it's power base here in Berlin, that made him effectively the de facto leader of the German state. The mere thought, along with the whole state of affairs now, was still something he had difficulty comprehending...before the arrival of the Schaben, he would've found the thought of him partaking in effectively deposing the Kaiser an affront to his honor and loyalty to the German state. But, as these sobering figures and telegrams on the desk before him spelt out, survival took priority over principle in days like this. Gott willing, he thought, posterity would forgive him for all this. The rest of the staff was currently preoccupied with managing the affairs of the front and keeping communication with Vienna and Constantinople. Moltke's health was starting to deteriorate, he heard, from all the stress of managing this nightmarish conflict, but still the man insisted on maintaing his position. Falkenhayn did not know whether to condemn or applaud the man for this. Hindenberg and Ludendorff continued as they had, trying to minimize conflicts among the staff--the early days of the fight against the devilinsects had sobered them up to the fact that infighting merely gave the beasts a further advantage. He did not know how matters where in the Entente's halls of command in London and Paris, but he hoped that they too had been strengthened by the principles of necessity this whole crisis had forced upon all. "Mein Herr." He looked up as Chancellor von Bethmann-Hollweg entered, his eyes dark from want of sleep and his clothes hurriedly ironed. There had been little correspondence between the military leadership and the civilian statesmen; perhaps he was hear to complain. "You are not scheduled for a meeting." Falkenhayn did not look up, speaking emotionlessly.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Your damned secretaries...they did not listen." The Chancellor panted. "I came here to tell you something important." "Oh? Such as?" "There are some with whom I correspond regularly who wish to express their...disapproval of the General Staff's power shuffle here. There are fears that the Kaiser's removal is going to lead to civilian action and possible failure of leadership...I merely thought you should know, lest this descends into overt conflict here in Berlin." "Name some of these individuals." "Foreign Secretary von Jagow, for one...then there's much of the Bundesrat..." "Then you should inform them to keep their concerns to themselves. Or they will be shot." The Chancellor took a step back in surprise. "I...but..." "Surprised at such forwardness, eh? I must inform you that me and my compatriots in the General Staff have undertaken these actions to preserve our Fatherland in this crisis. Therefore, any effort to undermine our own struggle can be considered tantamount to treason." "From your words, I must remain unconvinced that your motivations entirely stem from preservation of the nation." von Bethmann-Hollweg said coldly. "I wonder, when the menace of the Schaben is curtailed, what will happen then? Will you and your friends in the General Staff surrender this power you have decided to impose upon yourselves? Perhaps you will even have men on the streets of Berlin..." "If words of treason are on your lips, Chancellor, please do not try and disguise them." Falkenhayn continued to look through his reports. "It will make the paperwork so much simpler." "And now I hear that there's a conference at Geneva arranged with our friends in the Entente." The Chancellor continued. "Do you intend to have yourselves as the sole representation of Germany? Or are you just going to break wind in the faces of the entire government?" "You are trying my patience now." Falkenhayn's voice became sterner. "Your concerns are duly noted, Chancellor, but they are distracting me from my work here, and my work is keeping your behind from being consumed by monsters from hell itself. Have you seen these reports?" "What about them?" "Our commanders in Russia are demanding to be let back home, speaking of being pushed around by the Tsar's farts. I have work being rushed on our western border defence line. I have our forces struggling just to maintain positions in Belgium. Our Rhineland industrial plants are cracking at the seams trying to keep up. This is no easy work, mein herr. It is possible that every moment you distract me will cost a thousand lives. Do I make myself clear?"

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 The Chancellor finally shrunk down. "Very well. Have it your way, Herr General. But your actions here will not go without consequence, I can assure you. Auf widersehen." With that, he turned on his heel and left. Falkenhayn looked back down to his reports. Men on the streets of Berlin. Well, if it meant keeping the damned politicians and whining nobility in line, he wasn't going to exclude the option. Fatherland first, and Fatherland only. ** Near Cambrai, Northern France Corporal Hakan Bashar of the Ottoman Army crept out from his dugout bleary-eyed and hungry as shouts roused him and his platoon to their positions. They had been moved down from Belgium to France on orders from above, but still it was the same desolate fields, the same constant firing of artillery, called to repel waves of these demons coming from all sides, watching out for the dreaded yellow beetles, catching rats and frying their lice to eat. Still some of the men had not yet got used to the cold and wet of this European weather, complaining as to why their own nation had sent them to suffer needlessly here for the sake of their distant allies they knew and cared little about. But, seeing what these beasts had wrought, Hakan had resolved to fight, if only to see that they did not someday reach the borders of the Ottoman Empire itself. German and Austro-Hungarian troops filled the tight trench to both sides, faces covered by gas masks. A good portion of the initial waves of Turkish troops had arrived with no such masks available, and thus had died in gas attacks brought down by their own sides to kill the Roaches. Now most of them had finally received such things, but many still sported horrific burns or wounds from inhaling those poisonous vapors. Others remained merely traumatised, barely speaking and eating. Expecting merely to fight with the air of the Mediterranean in his face, Hakan wondered just how many felt as much hate to their own leader as they did to the Roaches. "They are coming! Ready weapons!" His heart leapt and adrenaline flooded his veins--the attacks of these demons came so suddenly that there was often little time to react. As he readied his Gewehr rifle courtesy of their German friends, mines to both sides of the trench were detonating as Roaches wormed out from the chemical-addled soil alarmingly close to them. Although some of them were blown apart by the detonations, more came out, stopping only to devour the bodies of their wretched fellow creatures before leaping over barbed wire towards them. Rifle fire cracked out to both sides, as did field guns and far off aerial guns from zeppelins hidden in the fog hanging over the battlefield. Spines and jagged organic bullets came in return--Hakan felt one foul biological projectile shoot by his face, not reacting. "Incoming!" His ears rang as a large explosion suddenly detonated in the field ahead, erupting smoke and soil around. Roaches were flown aside by the blast, and some men were even knocked back slightly. It looked like a large-caliber railway gun shell...surely these mere scuttlers did not warrent such a thing? They were doing fine as it was... "Siktir!"

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Emerging from the fog ahead came several monstrous shapes--those giant beetles, the ones sporting artillery guns they somehow fixed to their bodies. These ones seemed even larger than the descriptions said, covered in thick thorny carapaces and sporting various guns covered in such organic mass that they now looked like extensions of their own body...scuttling around them were crustacean-like things that he recognized as beasts that spat acid. Hakan paused as the huge building-sized monsters shook the ground under their footsteps as they approached the trench, walking through the smoke. Then, he raised his rifle and fired as more of the warrior things burst out from the ground in front of the trench, ripping through protective barbed wire. He heard chemicals were pumped into the soil underneath the trenches to stop the things from burrowing straight into them, but that seemed of little comfort now... The huge thorny beetle-beasts fired off their weapons, delivering organic shells that thudded into the trenches or gun batteries. Melting acid, yellow beetles, or poisonous strands were delivered straight into the midst of the men as machinegun rounds bounced off their carapaces. Shells and mortars came in on them, seemingly not even distracting them. Gunfire came from behind Hakan as some of the men turned around. He knew there was nowhere to run. The man next to him was hit with a spine to the face, his flesh swelling up before bursting, splattering him with blood. The urge to vomit surged through him, but he ignored it, firing off his rifle again into the face of an insect charging straight for him. More artillery came in onto the beetles, again serving only to prove that they seemed invulnerable. They were not even like the worst of the descriptions he had heard...where they some developed breed? It did not matter. He just had to stand his ground. Roaring, the beetles paused as mortars came down targeted for their guns, blowing some of them off or damaging them beyond repair. This gave Hakan a burst of hope, and he tightened the grip on his rifle as more shells came down, pummelling against their armored skins. As soon as they stopped, however, the beasts began to move forward with surprising swiftness. More munitions came down, splattering them with phosphorous or bursting gas into their hideous faces...again, it gave them little pause. The acid-spitters had by now reached some distant part of the trenches, spearing men on their appendages as flamethrowers and bayonets were thrust at them in desperate attempts. "Watch out!" A massive shell came screaming in, hitting one of the creatures straight on the head--a lucky shot! He cheered aloud as it's head was split open by the massive impact and the searing explosion, forcing the rest to burrow into the ground was they were engulfed in smoke. The blast blew dust in over the trenches, but Hakan still felt his spirit rise--they could survive this. They surely could! "What was that? It did not come in from our side..." one of the soldiers uttered. "It had to be a railroad gun." another said. "I heard from the Germans...the French are deploying ones firing seven-ton shells, I think. Look what it did to them!" "I heard it was six tons..." "It doesn't matter, they're just really big!"

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Hakan smiled. To get through this nightmare, and still remain men...that was something he hoped his comrades would keep pride in. ** Beijing, China The grey hall of the National Assembly Building within the checkpoint-dotted streets of Beijing was as active as it had ever been, as motorcars pulled up at front after passing lines of sandbags and barbed wire. A curfew had been placed on the city, as rumors and whispers spread of the monsters in Manchuria. Newspapers displayed graphic images of horrific creatures assailing trenchlines of European soldiers, and although some took pleasure in the knowledge that the arrogant gweilos were getting their just desserts, there was the nagging worry of what would happen when these demons entered the lands of the Middle Kingdom. It was also becoming common knowledge that the lands of Russia to the north were being overwhelmed by these things; what would happen if they turned southwards? Within the hall, regional leaders from across China were present, begrudgingly accepting the invitation for the conference with the knowledge that to be left out would starve their influence. The Japanese prime minister himself, Okuma Shigenobu, had arrived to initiate talks regarding a co-ordinated strategy to rid East Asia of these devil-insects, hence the presence of Nipponese soldiers outside and within the Assembly building. On the streets, anxious talk of a takeover by the island dwarves was now accompanying rumors about the 'Roaches', and some had taken to discreetly arming themselves should they now attempt to install themselves here in Beijing. Seated at a table in a conference chamber within the Assembly building, Shigenobu surveyed the faces around him. Closest to him was the official president of the Chinese republic, Yuan Shikai, in full military regalia. He recognized other provincial representatives, including Zhang Zuolin. Shikai was what was keeping all this together, Shigenobu thought; only he had kept China from fully fracturing, and only he had managed to keep order in the face of all that was happening. "Gentlemen." Shigenobu began, speaking in Japanese as a translator relayed his words. "I must commend you all for your clarity of vision in these troubled times. We Japanese have had a first-hand experience of what these monsters can inflict in our own lands and on the Australian continent, and to let them spread within your own would not be in the interests of everyone. I am pleased to announce that we have even secured the support of the likes of the Kuonmintang, who clearly recognize what is the greater issue. However, much of China's strength remains unused. Our generals have proposed a grand strategy, therefore, to marshal it in the interests of all of East Asia." "The support of the Japanese Empire is appreciated in this case." Shikai began, the translator uttering his words into Japanese through Shigenobu's ear. "However, I must inform you with frankness that there is concern both among my leadership and the citizenry that you may be taking your assistance...somewhat too far. I am told that you have effectively occupied the Manchurian lands as far as Shenyang. Now, let me tell you, that has got many of us rather anxious indeed." "Do not be concerned." Shigenobu retained a inscrutable face. "Against this menace, what other means are there? Our forces have engaged their full strength in Australia..." "Really? Your ambitions reach far!" someone uttered from down the table, before harsh looks silence him.

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"...and allowing them to achieve such strength there would be catastrophic for the Chinese people and greatly problematic for the Japanese Empire. However, it is a fact that our army possesses superior equipment and soldiers, therefore we are in a better position to establish cordons for the purpose of containing the spread of these monsters." "And once they are eradicated?" Zuolin spoke up. "Will you retract you forces? Or will you retain them for the purposes of 'peacekeeping'?" "That decision will be dictated by circumstance." Shigenobu said simply. "Should the spread of the devil-insects become more virulent than anticipated, lawlessness and social order might occur, and it of course will be our responsibility to prevent anarchy." "That is a noble gesture." Shikai smiled. "But let me remind you, without the men we can provide, I do not think even your numbers will be sufficient for such containment. And...please tell me, has the infestation in Korea been quelled?" "Isolated outbreaks have been occurring over the last few weeks, but things have generally been contained there." Shigenobu said. "With some difficulty." "Some difficulty? Might you elaborate?" "We...we had to fumigate some areas with force we rather would have not used." Shikai stared coldly into his face for a few moments. "And you would be willing to inflict the same force on Chinese lands?" "Only should matters require such drastic action." Reclining, Shikai flicked through some more papers. "The only thing that has prevented outbursts of anti-Japanese sentiment in this country is the fear of these Roaches, as I think they are called. Now, while I have willingly made compromise with your people to avoid the same destruction in Europe and Australia, I must now request that my military leadership be permitted greater input within your command circles in Manchuria." "Our command circles are functioning fine without intrusion." "I am told otherwise. Our troops are becoming frustrated, and if they do not find Roaches to shoot then they might turn to you. I have already received reports of bombings on checkpoints..." "That may be the work of the devil-insects. We know they can assume human form. And we know from Europe that they can blend in with our kind almost perfectly." "Perhaps. That is why I have approved of your checkpoints, even if my advisors would much rather I did not. But I do not wish to be known as the man who threw himself at the feet of the island imperialists. I will take compromise only so far, monsters or no monsters. You should tell your Emperor, and your generals, that. My nation may be poor, but it is still large, and when we can bring it's strength to bear I am confident that we need not worry about these creatures for longer..."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Shigenobu nodded, as the conference began to disperse for a break. He had expected such words. And while he had been instructed not to be too blunt with the Chinese leaders, it was the self-interest of Japan that took priority above all. ** Northern Outer Mongolia Gazing across the parched hills before him, yak herder Bolormaa sat on a rock in the scorching noon sun as his herd grazed and grunted in front of him. So many strange tales were coming into his village not too far away. Giant insects and monsters, assailing the Chinese lands to the south and the Russians to the north. The Bogd Khan had issued messages from Urga denouncing these stories as nonsense and hearsay, although he had also heard of groups of refugees coming in from Siberia, talking about creatures that swept away villages and forests. He had not seen these for himself, but the sheer volume of these stories make him nervously edge towards them being true. The yaks in front of him suddenly began to bray and fidget, as if disturbed. He looked around. There was nothing he could see that could upset them. "Calm yourselves!" he barked, knowing the futility of shouting at them. Perhaps it was the grass here... He froze, as he spotted several dots appear against the blue sky ahead. Birds? No, they were coming in too fast. As he felt a buzzing sound rise in his ear, he began to realize what had upset the yaks. "Come on!" he said to them. "Let's move!" The animals did not listen. He looked up again, to see the shapes in the air draw closer. He could make out very large dragonfly-like profiles, and the buzzing was becoming ever louder... "Come on!" he said, striking the nearest yak with a stick. "Come on!" Panic surged through him, before he forgot all thoughts of his flock and began to run. Moving across the dry earth under his feet, he stumbled on a rock, and turned around to see several giant, hideous, armored flying insects descend onto his herd, scooping up yaks and devouring them almost instantly, scattering chunks of flesh and bone onto the ground. The monsters looked vaguely like dragonflies, or mosquitoes...but all he could think about now was escaping. They were feasting on his cattle. Surely they would pay him no mind... Turning around, he continued to move over the earth and rocks. Perhaps he would make it out of here alive. He had to tell his village. He had to tell the leaders of the country. He had to... A sharp pain came from his chest, as he looked down to see the tip of a scythe-like claw jutting out from his chest. The next thing he saw was the biting mandibles of the mouth of one of the nightmarish creatures, before it all went dark. **

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BlackWave

April 3rd, 2012 02:05 AM

16th March 1915, near Loos, Northern France "Sergeant! Cover the side! Rest of you, keep moving!" Colonel Lejeune cursed the stifling gas mask for limiting his vision as he rushed along the muddy planks of this trench, as mortars and field gun shells came raining down on both sides. Ahead, flares ignited against the orange-lit sky, signifying more positions being assaulted by Roaches. Through the corners of his eyepieces, Lejuene could make out the odd serrated limb or screeching mandible-filled face lurching out from billowing smoke and dust to the sides of the trench, as he looked out for any sort of shelter. He had been expecting this to be merely a short walk to reinforce a French position, when Roaches appeared out of nowhere and shells began raining down before he knew it. He remembered stories of trench warfare in the Civil War, and thought how naive it was to assume that the fact that Americans had fought in such things before would help them here. "Colonel! Watch out!" He ducked as a limb speared out of the smoke, narrowly missing his head, as Marines and US army solders shot back in panic. Then, through the dust and grime over his eyepieces, he spotted a dugout entrance in the side of the trench--as the characteristic vapor of some poison gas began to engulf the ground behind him, he dived towards it, opening the door and letting himself in. "Get in!" he shouted. "Won't be room, colonel, we'll find one further on..." Good luck, he thought gravely, as he closed the heavy door made of old steel plating and turned around, stepping through a narrow vestibule into a small chamber crowded in by several men of various uniforms. He recognized two Tommies, a Frenchman, two whom he presumed were Italians, and a negro in a uniform so dirtied he couldn't quite tell if he was a Buffalo soldier separated from his group or an African from one of the European colonies. Regardless, he slumped down against the plank-supported wall of dirt, and with an awkward smile reached into his pocket and offered the nearest soldier one of his last cigarettes. "So, you're one of them Yankees, eh?" one of the Tommies grunted. "Some of the lads thought that the whole thing would be over when you showed up." "Well, we got our own Roach problem back home." Lejeune chuckled. "Yeah, well by all accounts it ain't nowhere near as bad as the one we got. Can't imagine anything that can be, then again." "Nique ta mere." The Frenchman nodded, with a smile. "We've been here for days." The Tommy continued. "Livin' off dirt and rats. Don't suppose you've got a can of beans on ya at least?" "Sorry, pal." Lejeune shrugged. Well, he did have a bar of chocolate, but he was intending to save that for a suitable occasion.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Well, we did send one chap out for food. Told the bugger not to go far. In fact, he should be..." The dugout door opened, as the sound of raining mortars momentarily flooded in. Lejeune turned to see another Tommy dragging something large behind him, struggling off his gas mask as he joined the others. "What the hell's he doing here?" He grunted, gesturing at Lejeune. "Just joined us. Can't blame him. Bloody brass would drop a million shells on our arses to kill some Roaches. Now, what you got there?" "Only thing I could find, sarge." He dragged the thing behind him into sight, and Lejeune nearly threw up what little was in his stomach at the sight and the smell. Lying there in the dirt was the carcass of a Roach warrior, all curled up like a dead spider. Even dead, the hideous thing still struck a feeling of dread into him as he looked into it's multi-eyed face, sporting a large highcaliber bullet hole. It stank of...he wasn't quite sure, but even being used to the various aromas of this war, it still make his stomach churn. And this Limey wanted to...eat this? "You gone crazy, mate?" The main Tommy exclaimed. "I'm not eating this fucking thing!" "It's that or go hungry, sarge." "You Anglais." The Frenchman spoke up with a grin. "All you eat is shit." "Shuddit." came the reply. "Alright, Corporal, you brought it in, you go first." "You outrank me, sarge. You try it first." "Where you gonna start?" The negro then spoke. New York accent. Definitely a buffalo. "The fangs, or the legs?" "Keep it down, darky." The Tommy sergeant spat. "Only reason you're let in here is because you've got a gun and two hands to use it with." He then turned back to the corporal. "Well, go on. If you think it's good for eating, eat it!" "Heard their blood itself is alive." Lejeune then interjected. "You sure about this?" "Nah, probably stops working when they die like anything else." The sergeant said dismissively. "Come on, now. Take a bloody bite!" "If you insist, sarge." The corporal sat down, getting out his bayonet. "It's perfectly alright, you'll see..." He dug the blade between the plates on the creature's underside, gingerly carving it open to reveal a mess of purple-colored guts and fluid. Lejeune had seen the innards of men wide open before, and the first thing that struck him was that it didn't look like any anatomy that made sense to him. Each soldier then coughed violently as the stench from the thing worsened.

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"Alright then..." The corporal said, visibly trying not to gag. "It's alright, I'll show you..." With that, he dug the blade in deeper, and finally produced a lump of purple-colored flesh, quivering on the end of the bayonet. "Go on, boy, take a bite." The sergeant laughed. "Imagine it's a nice toffee apple instead!" Closing his eyes, the corporal leaned in and took a bite, chewing it for a few moments. "Well, it tashtes...tashtes like..." He suddenly went bright red before gagging, spitting out the flesh before suddenly throwing up. "Tashtes like shit, ish what it ish!" The dugout burst into riotous laughter. Probably the first time anyone was laughing on this front for weeks, thought Lejeune, as he joined in. "Shame we don't have a daguerreotype machine." The sergeant guffawed. "We could all say we killed a Roach!" "Well, sarge..." The corporal wiped his mouth. "You win. Now, what are we supposed to eat?" "Roaches ain't the only bugs out here." The sergeant said, taking off his helmet and running his hand through his hair. Several white specks fell off into the helmet on his lap. "Who's up for some lice, lads?" ** Near Zaanstad, the Netherlands The marshes and fog were starting to thin out as Timmerman marched along with the Scandinavians and Danes trudging their way through the mud and along what semblance of roads remained, with the British Marines sticking to the back in their own little party. After leaving Alkmaar, they had met with more reinforcements that had arrived on the coast, mostly cavalry units and horse-drawn artillery. Right now, the objective was to march to Zaanstad, secure that town, and from there, head to Amsterdam, and, if all went to plan, the country could be considered liberated. Timmerman knew how naive that thought was, but newspaper headlines of Amsterdam back in it's rightful hands would surely boost the morale of the poor men fighting in France and Belgium. Fear and weariness hung on the men around him--the Roaches hadn't yet attacked in the great numbers they had during their initial invasion of the country. He imagined they had gone back down south, after laying waste to most of the lands here. But straggler remained, and it was their fear of what lurked in that fog, in the swampy pools of water, that lingered among these soldiers. Timmerman didn't know how many of them were aware of the mantis-like invisible Roach assassins, but he didn't think they should be told. "Hey!"

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Fingers and heads pointed upwards as a buzzing sound came from the clouds above. For a moment Timmerman tensed as he wondered if it was a flying Roach about to swoop, but his nerves calmed as he made out the outline of a biplane circling ahead. Possibly sent by the French or Brits, to check on their progress. "Wait..." someone uttered in Norwegian. After spending this time with them, Timmerman had picked up on the basics of their language. He looked closer as the aircraft descended closer--he could make out red colors, and Iron Crosses. Germans. Well, he'd be damned. He wondered briefly for a minute if they'd start strafing them for the Tommies they had at the back...but then the aircraft descended up into the clouds and out of sight, allowing him to relax once again. "Keep moving!" Another Norwegian called. "See! We've got someone behind us! How's that, eh?" Timmerman nodded as they continued marching, before suddenly a man up ahead dropped, a large spine dug into his neck. Guns span around and opened up into the fog as shouts of panic rang out. He swore violently--this was how the Roaches were trying to bring them down here. These random attacks, coming from nowhere...breaking down their morale, these poor men who had never seen a proper war against men, let alone these monsters. All he could hope for was that he wasn't going to be next. "Take his weapons and ammunition!" A horsebound officer called. "Nothing goes to waste!" "Come on!" Another voice called from down the line. "We stop for nothing! On to Amsterdam!" "Fuck Amsterdam." Timmerman heard a Danish voice grunt nearby. He didn't feel too surprised. Where they all here in this marsh of their own free will. "Stop!" One man was pointing into a large pool of muddy water--Timmerman could make out movement within it, for sure. Looking closer, he could see thin worm-like shapes moving through the water rapidly towards them like eels, lined with barbs...oh, no. "Grenades!" Bullets began to fly into the water--but these things were no big targets. "Grenades in!" Grenades, based on German models, flew into the water and detonated, blasting up geysers of mud and parts of these barbed creatures. However, several managed to slither right onto the ground, gathering themselves and launching at the nearest soldier. Timmerman heard screams of agony as the things lunged right into orifices, barbs digging into flesh. The sounds of the others digging bayonets into their own comrades followed, before again things were quiet. "Take weapons and ammo!" The call again cried. "To Amsterdam! We stop for nothing!" "Fuck Amsterdam." Another angry mutter. Timmerman almost agreed. ** Near Morges, Switzerland

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As the morning sunlight crept over the calm waters of Lake Geneva, preparations were being discreetly made at a small lakefront chateau. Trucks of British and German soldiers were already turning up in the courtyard, both groups begrudgingly saluting each other. No flags were being raised, and citizens were discouraged from approaching. Later that evening, few people knew, one of the most important conferences of recent times would take place. The papers, if any of them were to find out, were forbidden from reporting on it. A car showed up, letting out Giuseppe Motta, President of the Swiss Confederation. As the neutral party, it was his duty to properly manage all functions and proceedings of this conference. That much the British, French, and Germans had decided to agree on for now. Visibly stressed, he was ushered inside, as guards made sure there was nobody watching. On a small boat on the lake, a figure watched the chateau from afar. There were lots of early morning fisherman out on the waters; nobody would notice one little boat. Lowering his binoculars, Vladimir Lenin smiled, reminding himself to congratulate his source. The bastards were finally seeing sense. But, he had other affairs to focus on for now... ** South-Western Queensland, Australia The winds seemed surprisingly calm as a lone Deperdussin biplane buzzed over the parched red dunes of the Simpson Desert, with the shape of the Lake Machattie faintly visible on the horizon behind it. Looking behind the aircraft was the seemingly infinitelystreching expanse of the Outback, under clear blue skies--and ahead of it were lands shadowed in darkness under black purple-lined clouds that overcast the sky ahead. It almost seemed as if the clattering little biplane was about to enter into hell itself. Within the cockpit, Lieutenant Terrace White didn't try to deny to himself that he wasn't daunted by the apocalyptic sight ahead. But he was a pilot of the Australian Flying Corps--perhaps one of the last few, he reckoned. Most of the rest had been shipped to Europe, against the Turks or into German New Guinea when the nation had realized the threat assailing it, leaving what little pilots and aircraft remained to essentially be used as message couriers or scouts. And given the swarms of flying terrors these Roaches could produce, even with tasks as those most pilots had been extremely reluctant. Some had simply taken off in their planes and headed off to the East Indies or to the few remaining 'safe' corners of the country, such as Perth. They didn't care that they were deserting--and White couldn't blame them. He, however, had been among those who had decided to carry on their duty to the end. From the ragtag base his group had set up in the north of Queensland, they had relayed news to various holdouts of people too scared to consider leaving where they were, or telegrams from loved ones to loved ones. News was now coming in that reinforcements from abroad had arrived in the new capital of Darwin, and were calling on everyone able to join them in a grand offensive right towards the supposed nest of the Roaches right in the middle of the country. So, to this end, his superiors had asked for volunteers on a scout mission into the depths of the lands considered overtaken with Roaches, to see if there was any chance of giving the offensive leaders some expectation of what they would face. His aircraft was fitted

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 out with extra fuel tanks--they decided that all things considered there was little point to ammunition--and he was told that if he didn't make it back, they would at least know that there were Roaches out here. He felt oddly comfortable with the idea. The eerie clouds were coming up--winds were starting to get stronger, and he pulled his flight scarf up over his face. Pulling the Deperdussin up slightly, he began to align it with the nearest black mass, hoping to get some inkling of what was causing them. Common sense and his gut told him not to do it, but someone had to, he felt. Winds increased again as the aircraft finally penetrated into the cloud--his googles steamed up slightly as he was surrounding by a howling noise. His forward field of vision was completely obscured, and the wings were starting to shake alarmingly. Occasionally, he could make out some patches of purple haze inside, telling quite what they were seemed impossible--with that, he finally eased on the throttle and began to pull downwards. Vision began to return to normal as he dropped out, the shadow-covered dunes visible below. Glancing over to his wings, White could make out some faint traces of some sort of purple algae-like streaked across his wings--was that what was causing the strange glow? Regardless, he began to glance downwards towards the land below--he could see clouds of sand blown up by strong winds, and the odd dry tree seemingly overgrown and twisted. The entire landscape, especially in this light, just seemed surreal, almost unearthly. Was this what these Roaches did to the land as they spread over it? Thankfully, he couldn't quite make out any of the beasts...he presumed they were still swarming across to the inhabited areas. Banking the plane around, he suddenly spotted a faint purple aura on the horizon, coming from the direction of Alice Springs, if the compass was any indication. Feeling somewhat bewildered, he decided that perhaps it was best to turn back now. At least the word could be told that perhaps the offensive could have a clear shot straight for their nest. And if such a thrust like that could be pulled off, if nothing else, the nation would see a much-needed morale boost... Over the sound of the engine buzzing and the wind, he made out a faint shout from below--dipping the port wing to get himself a better view, he spotted what looked like a group of men on horseback riding out among the dunes below. Now he could see that some of the rocks and sand banks were cast in purple light from the clouds above, adding to their otherworldliness--but he was intrigued by what those men were doing down there, all the way out here in wilderness spoken to be infested with Roaches. Outbank rangers? Scouts, like him? He could make out some of them waving to him... His heart suddenly leapt as tendrils of some kind lashed out from clumps of shrubs, spearing the men off their horses one by one. He pulled up higher, not wanting to hear their screams. That was enough for now, he decided. The rest of his fuel had to be used getting back--he already had enough idea of what to tell his superiors. And now, he decided, if nothing else, the Australian man had one universal thing to fight for-restoring his country back to its beauty of old. As he headed off back towards the desert to the north, he wondered if he would ever return here, and see the outback as it once was before. ** Indiana, United States of America Winds howled over the corn-covered prairies as Lieutenant Dwight Eisenhower and the

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 squad of men behind them trudged along a stone-covered dirt path. Two more days of patrol and they could return to Fort Benjamin Harrison, from where the Army and National Guard were co-ordinating here now. After their last harrowing encounter with the blight on this land things had again been quiet. Most households they had found, generally simple farmers, had shut themselves in after hearing the stories, and were understandably nervous about the soldiers crawling over the land. Eisenhower, however, still felt that these damned monsters were just biding their time. Didn't take a genius to see they had intelligence, and a sadistic intelligence, at that... The men behind him were now all armed with simple rifles and shotguns, and a decent amount of Teddy Tonics in their satchels. The flame apparatus, proving cumbersome and low on fuel, had been given in to a National Guard post they had found on the way. Most of the main roads they had found were marked with frequent military checkpoints, lined with barbed wire and sandbags. This militarized, paranoid America barely felt like the one Eisenhower had been living in but a few months before...he imagined that people across the country would barely have the courage to venture outside. And as it turned out, merely having a shotgun and old-fashioned American guts wasn't going to suffice much against the horrors lurking in the shadows. The squad was mostly silent, too tired after hours of walking to make too much conversation. With rows of corn stalks gently swinging in the wing to both sides, Eisenhower had to admit that he did feel a certain degree of nervousness, as if anything could be hiding in those sprawling fields of vegetation. That last incident in that town hadn't helped either... "Up ahead, sir..." He looked up. He could make out a lone farmhouse among the corn, with a waterpumping windmill gently turning beside it. There certainly didn't seem to be much sign of trouble here, but it had to be checked nonetheless. "Alright, boys, remember to give a warm welcome. They might even give us some brew if we're lucky..." Entering the farmyard, Eisenhower strode up to the front door of the farmhouse and knocked. He noted that the mailbox there was still empty--a good sign if nothing else, he reckoned. The door slowly opened, and he stood up straight as he found a middle-aged woman standing there in the doorway. "Oh my..." she said. "Can I help you, sir?" "Lieutenant Eisenhower, US Army." he said. "Don't worry, ma'am. We're just here to check that there's no activity here warranting our attention...you aware of the scope of matters, right?" "Oh, yes." she said. "My husband keeps his eye on the papers regularly, don't you worry. Did you hear about California? Our boys are about to retake San Francisco--it's almost over!" Is it now, Eisenhower thought. He hadn't heard about that--although then he had been spending much of his time lately trudging through the countryside here. He hoped it wasn't just the papers spinning things...

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Yes, well, have you seen any...ah...unusual wildlife?" Eisenhower asked. "Those Roaches I keep hearing about? Nothing yet, thank the lord." His eyes narrowed. He knew the Roaches could body-snatch anyone...but then this woman did seem sincere. That paranoia, getting to him again... "You boys look tired. Come on inside, I'll make you up some lager." "That'd be wonderful, ma'am." Stepping inside, Eisenhower and the squad were directed into the dining room of the simple farmhouse. A single famed photograph of the woman and a smiling man stood on a fireplace there as they sat down at a table. "Where's your husband?" "Went off to Lafayette. Has an idea about joining one of the militias helping boys like you." "Well, any help is great." Eisenhower murmured as the woman brought in some mugs. "Here you go, boys. Drink up, and if you want anything else, just..." A sudden barking startled them, one of the men spilling his drink out onto his lap. Turning around and glancing out the window, Eisenhower could see a chained dog straining out from his kennel, yapping wildly. He instinctively reached for his holster, as a feeling of dread washed right over him. "Oh, that's just Tuppence. Probably smelt a coyote. I'll go hush him up..." "Ma'am, I must request that you remain inside." Eisenhower hissed as he drew closer to the window. The dog was almost frothing at the mouth, it seemed so agitated... "Don't worry, it's no...mhm?" Several shapes were moving into the farmyard with such swiftness that they almost seemed to just materialize there--a number of coyotes, it seemed, moving silently and boldly right up to the dog. He motioned for the woman to remain as he watched, drawing the revolver from his holster. Behind him, the others also began to ready their rifles as one of the coyotes strode up to the dog, and then opened it's mouth to reveal a gaping red maw of multiple rows of teeth and a jagged spiny tongue, glistening with drool. For a long moment Eisenhower could only watch, stomach churning, as the monster casually reached forward and tore the dog's head off, spilling blood out onto the dusty farmyard. "Ma'am," he remained turned away from the paled woman, "please find someplace to hide." Then the horror looked up, straight into his eyes. He could barely draw his revolver as the creature leapt forward shrieking, smashing its head through the window. Multiple quivering tongue-like tendrils extended out from the throat as it swung its gaping maw towards him, while the flesh on the feet peeled away to reveal jagged serrated claws. Frozen momentarily at the sheer horror of it,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Eisenhower raised his revolver and fired straight into the face, sending the bullet straight into it's brain. "At the door!" he said. "That's where'll they--" Another creature suddenly appeared in the doorway to the room just after a sudden crash, two bloody spider-like limbs thrusting out of the flesh above its forelegs. Eisenhower let off another shot from his revolver, striking it in the rear, but the thing didn't even seem to register as it leapt onto the nearest soldier, clawing into his stomach and thrusting into his head with a jagged tongue. Multiple rifle rounds managed to put it down, sending both bloodied bodies collapsing to the floor as Eisenhower registered the smashing of glass from both this floor of the farmhouse and above. "How the devil did those things..." one of the men uttered as a limb of one of the twisted coyotes, barbs and claws sprouting out from it, smashed through the plaster ceiling above, seemingly extending in length to reach towards them. More rifles shot up towards the ceiling as another creature, jaws peeling away to reveal a cluster of writhing tendrils, appeared in the doorway--Eisenhower instinctively aimed his revolver again and fired, successfully striking it in the head again. As soon as it dropped, another appeared in it's place, echidna-like spines sprouting all over the body--he barely had time to aim as it pounced forward. Diving to one side, Eisenhower registered a cut on his body as it slashed at him, before the other men managed to fire again, holing the thing multiple times. In this enclosed space, his ears were ringing from the din of the gunshots, and he barely registered another of the creatures, mouth full of multiple rows of claw-like teeth, appearing in the broken window again. Buckshot flew over his head, striking the thing in the face as the woman appeared in the doorway behind him with a shotgun, her face still locked in an expression of sheer disbelief. The thing was still quivering, leaving Eisenhower to empty the rest of his revolver into it. "What...what..." The woman could only utter hoarsely. "I think it's best you join your husband." Eisenhower said, as the men poked the bulletridden bodies of the creatures with bayonets. "Times like this, being alone isn't the best course..." ** Near Ghent, Flanders, Belgium Surrounded by fortifications and chemical-filled defensive ditches, the town of Ghent was increasingly becoming a stockpile for heavy munitions and ammunition coming in from the coast at Bruges. It was because of this that long rows of artillery batteries were entrenched near the town, providing near-constant bombardment to support infantryfilled trenches only a few miles away. Pounder guns pointed upwards to ward off Locusts, and clouds of poison gas lingered around to prevent the Roaches from assaulting the guns and cutting off the vital protection they were providing. If the artillery went, their gunners soberly felt, so would the front. Near the end of the artillery line, a BL 6-inch Mark VIII gun sat pounding away, manned by a Belgian crew--both the British and the French had been happy to take any volunteers for spare duties. Made faceless by the gas masks they were wearing near permanently, the blue-uniformed men mechanically fed and manned the gun as it fired a combination of explosive and gas shells towards No Man's Land to suppress the Roaches.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Sometimes they slowed down just to use up less shells--warnings of shortages often came in, even if there were likewise reassurances that production of munitions in all the nations was going into overdrive. The sky itself was rendered black by the smoke and the dust blown up from the front, casting what felt like all of this part of Belgium into a perpetual twilight, and the dark clouds themselves were lit orange by conflagrations and flaring explosions on the front-new types of ordnance, desperately rushed out for field testing, were sometimes fired out to see how many Roaches could be killed. Rumors among the artillery crew spread of shells designed to burrow into the ground and detonate there to kill the Roaches in the mud in which they hid, but so far that didn't seem to have come to anything. One of the crewmen turned and gave a simple gesture to another that instructed him to fetch a new box of shells from the dugout behind him--complying, the masked crewman walked over as the flashes and cracks of guns resounded from all around, muttering to himself in Flemish bitterly. As he reached into the dugout for a heavy box of shells, he paused in a combination of wonder and bewilderment as the box suddenly began to lift upwards into the air, surrounded by a faint blue aura. A second later, and something large and indescribably hideous materialized over him. The artilleryman barely had a second to look in horror as something lashed out, spearing his body and then feeding him into a dark maw that consumed him in seconds. The rest of the crew, their hearing dulled by the continuous firing of the artillery and their vision limited by their masks, did not register. Their muscles were by now almost instinctively going about the process of loading and firing the gun. The gun itself suddenly itself was surrounded by a faint aura--the crew stopped, shaken into alertness. A second past before the entire thing dissolved as if it was made of sand, leaving them standing there in sheer shock and and confusion. Moments later, something big and dark materialized among them--though their bodies desperately tried to, they found themselves unable to run as it consumed them one by one, leaving only scraps of clothes and satchels. Fire cracked from ahead. Some more Belgian troops in a nest between that position and the next had spotted the thing, and shot out with their rifles, firing off a flare. Some of the bullets struck the hideous apparition, having no apparent effect, but it seemed to recognize that it had been given away, and faded back into nothingness. Officers behind the lines registered the incident as runners from the line relayed the message, and in turn relayed this news to Bruges. Someone would certainly want to know about this. ** Wales "The papers are talking all about some conference between us and the Germans...can you believe it? A few months ago people would've been rioting on the streets because of that." "Yes...I suppose if there is one good thing the Grex have done, it's knocked some sense into the fools who lead us." Professor Lafeete sat a workbench flicking through some notes as his fellow men of science sat down for dinner at a table behind him. Every day, the Grex brought new

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 items of study to these laboratories, be they new strains of assimilated biological matter, new adaptations to chemical weapons deployed on the front, and now developed versions of their various fighting strains. This sheer amount of knowledge and curiosity for him to delve into and feed his thirst for knowledge into just how they operated was proving very distracting from his official task of finding out ways to destroy them. But, when he thought soberly, that task was becoming seemingly ever more unattainable with each day. "That new assassin creature in Belgium..." one of the men behind him spoke up. "A telegram just came in from Bruges--they mounting an effort to find it and eliminate it. To increase morale, apparently." "It's a predator. A truly apex one." Lafeete spoke up. "What is necessary is to present it with prey it cannot resist...but that is the problem. These things are intelligent, moreso than us all things considered...I hope they can find something it'll fall for." "You're asking for subtlety from the military." someone else scoffed. "No doubt they will simply try and saturate the area with artillery and hope a shell hits the right place!" "Give credit where credit is due." Lafeete retorted. "They've done a better job of adapting than I thought they would, against an enemy that apparently excels at adaptation on all levels. Certainly, the arms they've been producing are getting around quickly..." "And if we defeat our scuttling little friends, will those weapons not eventually be turned on ourselves?" Lafeete shrugged. "Basic Darwinian theory dictates that the creature most adapted to its environment is the one that will prevail. Perhaps, if we do not wish to be discarded by natural selection, we must find some way to discard our nature of waging violence against ourselves." "You can't just say that instincts driven into us will go away!" "Drastic changes in an environment can spur on changes in a species." Lafeete continued. "Perhaps the reason we no longer see the reptiles or mammoths of prehistory is their failure to adapt. And given that we are seeing a rather drastic change in our immediate environment, adaptation will have to be inevitable for us." He sighed, and closed his book. "But perhaps I merely rambling now. Dr. O'Donnel, how were your findings today?" "Ah!" one of the men spoke up. "We received a remarkably intact specimen of one of those worm-like creatures from the front...did you see it?" "I was busy in laboratory B. Continue." "Ah, well...some of the men on the front have nicknamed them 'wirepedes', on account of them both resembling barbed wire and good old myriapoda. A good a name as any, I thought. Anyway, from what we could make of their anatomy, they're remarkably vestigial and rudimentary little things. Not much of a nervous system, something that might be digestive tracts but frankly we're not sure...it's more like a plant than an actual independent creature as we would understand it."

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"A plant?" "Aye. One capable of self-mobility and delivering a...well, it's what you come to expect from Roachy, but the toxins it delivers via the barbs is more potent than anything we've encountered. Truth be told, though, it's not really something we can reliably classify-that's what you get when you're dealing with something not of this Earth, I s'pose." "Very interesting." Lafeete murmured. "I will have to view your notes later. Any indications of relations with other Grex strains?" "Reports from the front indicate Bombardiers can deliver it via shells they secrete. We're not sure if they're spawned from those big things, but it's a theory we're working on." "Anything we can pursue will be worthwhile." Lafeete turned around. He hadn't eaten much all day, and the smell of boiled potatoes was making his stomach rumble. "I trust our friends in Berlin and Vienna have been making progress too--assuming our benevolent leaders don't make a mess of it, perhaps we'll have a new set of data to work from..." ** Near Morges, Switzerland The setting sun cast streaks of orange over the waters of Lake Geneva as convoys of luxury automobiles pulled into an anonymous-looking chateau by the lakefront. Gendarmeries and soldiers had set up checkpoints on roads leading up to it, politely informing anyone who approached them that the area was strictly out of bounds for reasons not to be disclosed to them. Outside the entrance to the chateau, soldiers of differing uniforms stepped out to face each other, and saluted with some sense of reluctance. Years of propaganda and hateful fear had not been washed away entirely. Inside the main hall of the luxurious home, hubbub filled the air as men in suits and uniforms took their places. Prime Minister Asquith, Lord Kitchener, and key members of his cabinet. President Raymond Poincaré, Ferdinand Foch, and other members of the French general staff and political leadership. Across the table, Erich von Falkenhayn, Ludendorff, von Hindenberg, and others, with a curious lack of anyone not in a military uniform among them. Also present was a token presence from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, in the form of minister Burián and some others, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "Gentlemen." President Motta spoke up once all were settled, his voice wavering. Translators conveyed his words as he looked around the table. "We come here because a threat greater than all of us requires mutual co-operation to guarantee the future of European civilization. It is not a question of whether co-operation is necessary, but how we should co-operate. This is a question that will now be left to you, and without further ado, I declare these proceedings begun." "The matters that face us are simple." Falkenhayn spoke up in German, as translators muttered in English and French. "It is strongly felt in the current German leadership that a unification of European military command is necessary. The General Staff of the Entente, as we understand it, is required to combine itself with our own. This may not be a comfortable process, but to quash the horrors plaguing our sacred lands, it is a necessary one."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "While I do not dispute you," Asquith spoke up, "I have an enquiry--why is your chancellor not present here? I understand that you have forcibly eliminated your Kaiser's influence from politics, but..." "This is still a time of war." Falkenhayn snapped. "In such times, it is necessary for the lions to lead and others to follow. Our civilian administration will nevertheless continue to manage matters of our nation beyond our scope." "You propose a unified command." Foch interjected. "Who would be at the head of it?" "Whomever it is decided is best qualified." Falkenhayn snorted. "I hope I am not to expect any, ah, imposition of superior Prussian leadership." Foch looked stern. "Such pettiness is unwarranted." Falkenhayn snapped. "We all know that it is a question of solidarity or perishing at the teeth of the abominations. Please do not delude yourselves to think us so narrow-minded that only political ambitions are driving us." "Do we feel it necessary to share resources?" Poincaré spoke up. "I refer not just to material, but to scientific knowledge and technology." "We understand you already appropriated from us technology for use against these creatures before." Falkenhayn said dryly. "Although we too, I confess, were quick to adapt some of your own designs. But yes, such an act would greatly streamline things. Your so-called 'Land Dreadnoughts', your Landkreuzers...you have made a remarkable amount in very short time of great quality, but if we share our developments here, I think we can have an even greater amount and quality on the front." "The Americans." Kitchener spoke up. "They now have token forces present on the front and have promised more. Where shall they fit in?" "If they wish to contribute a command, let them." Ludendorff said. "But America is very far away, and I understand they have pressing issues of their own to deal with." "What of our focus?" Foch said. "We have an idea of where their nest lies--around the falling star that brought them here. We have made attempts to push at it, but their numbers prove too great to overcome." "For now, we must merely gain what land we can and hold it." Falkenhayn said. "Once we have sufficiently consolidated, perhaps then, the killing blow can be struck..." Men paused to sip from glasses of water. The night was descending, and there was still much to talk about. ** 17th March 1915, near Bruges, Belgium "Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, And smile, smile, smile! While you've a Lucifer to light your fag, Smile, Boys, thats the style. What's the use of worrying? It never was worth while.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 So, pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, And smile, smile, smile! Private Perks went a-marching into Flanders, With a smile, his funny smile. He was lov'd by the privates and commanders For his smile, his sunny smile. When a throng of Roaches came along, With a mighty swing, Perks yell'd out, "This little bunch is mine! Keep your heads down boys and sing", Hi!" Despite the hellishness of the land around him and the near-constant sound of guns ringing in his ears, Montgomery couldn't help but smile as the group of mud-faced Tommies behind him jauntily threw out a music hall number as they crawled through a tight trench behind the de Wiart fellow, who was sporting what appeared to a rather large elephant rifle, muttering under his breath. Belgian and French soldiers slumped in indentations in the trench wall gave them weary nods as they passed, heading towards the big artillery line in front of Bruges. De Wiart had closely studied the available reports of this 'Sneaky Willy', including one from right about this part from the day before. The monster, assuming there really was just one of it, seemed to strike at will, but the eyepatch-wearing gentlemen seemed confident that they would track it. They key was, he had stated, to stake out targets of interest that such a creature would find tantalizing, and then do anything necessary to 'put the fucking overgrown weevil down', as he had put it. Montgomery had to admit that he couldn't think of a better plan, and while his Marauders rested and resupplied in Bruges, de Wiart had insisted he come along for this. "Here we are..." he muttered as they came to an old battered bunker at a trench intersection, which Montgomery presumed was a Belgian fortification from the beginning of the war. He felt verified as they entered and found several grit-covered Belgian troops exchanging cigarettes and cans, as de Wiart murmured greetings in Flemish to them. "Are we sure the creature wouldn't go for us here?" Montgomery uttered as he peered out through the bunker firing slit, at the line of artillery pieces in the distance firing away. "Never more than than four or five people here at a given time." de Wiart uttered. "Not much space to run here. Now, old chap, keep your eyes peeled." "Hoe gaat het met jou?" one of the Belgians then uttered, before chuckling inanely under his breath. Montgomery wasn't sure if he wasn't going to look like after a few days in this thing. "So, sir, how long do we expect to wait for this thing?" one of the soldiers that had accompanied them said. "Until it appears, or until we get a better idea of where it is." de Wiart simply snapped. With that, the rest of the squad sat down, before breaking out into warbling song again. "Oh Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parlez-vous, Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parlez-vous, She got the palm and the croix de guerre, For washin' soldiers underwear,

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Hinky-dinky parlez-vous. From gay Paree we heard guns roar, Parlez-vous, From gay Paree we heard guns roar, Parlez-vous, From gay Paree we heard guns roar, But all we heard was "Je t'adore..." "Shut it!" de Wiart suddenly snapped. "Something's happening!" Shuffling up to the firing slit, Montgomery nervously peered out. One by one, the guns were starting to stop firing as the blasted soil a hundred yards in front of them began to shift--then erupted outwards in a tremendous geyser of burnt earth. He felt his stomach sink as three--no, four--massive Bombardiers crawled out from the earth, chittering Decabites accompanying them, and seemingly going for the guns. "Bloody hell!" one of the soldiers exclaimed. "Them gun-beetles, and Jabberwocks too! I thought we poisoned that soil so they couldn't dig!" "Evidently the poison's worn off." Montgomery said through gritted teeth. These Bombardiers weren't standard ones--even larger than the norm, with thorny, thicker carapaced armor. Two of them sported long, sharp tusks by the side of their heads, while the other two had writhing serrated tendrils extending out from between their giant clicking mandibles. Montgomery could only feel thankful that he was a good distance away, and he hoped that those poor gunners could point their pieces down in time. "Fucking weevils don't play fair." de Wiart muttered, as he placed the gun on the bottom of the slit and took aim. "What? You can't expect to--" "Shut up." For a moment de Wiart paused, before squeezing down on the trigger. The gun let off a loud bang that resounded around in the inside of the bunker as it spat out a heavycaliber explosive bullet that shot over a hundred meters in less than a second, striking one of the Decabites right in the eye and burrowing into its head before detonating, blasting out the creature's skull in a burst of purple fluid. "Fuckin' hell!" one of the men exclaimed. "How'd you manage that, sir?" "It's called 'having balls', boy." Thankfully, the rest of the Roaches didn't seemed too distracted by them as they set on the artillery. Moments later, guns placed on rooftops in Bruges and on casements around the city opened fire as the line gunners desperately tried to re-orientate their weapons. Shells struck against the hardened carapace of the Bull Bombardiers, only slowing them down--defensive machineguns and mortars spat towards the Decabites as they charged forward. Although sheer concentration managed to put down some of the acid-spitting horrors, some nevertheless managed to pounce onto some of the guns and rip them apart in blurred frenzies of claws and teeth, or melt them into sludge through acid spit. Flares detonated above the line as the Bombardiers continued inexorably forward, simply ignoring the shells exploding against them.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Can't you do that trick against one of them big things?" The same soldier asked in desperation. "It'll just blow an eye out. Too big." de Wiart muttered. "For fuck's sake, those boys are gonna get killed!" "Wait for it..." Several tense moments passed as explosions flared from the artillery line, as crews detonated their ammunition to take pouncing Decabites with them. Some guns had been lowered and fired straight into the faces of the Bombardiers--one of them seemed to be put down as luckily-placed shells struck it in the eye, but the rest just seemed to carry on forward. One reached forward with a limb and grabbed one of the guns, pulling it over towards its side as carapace folded away and writhing tendrils of flesh snaked out to absorb the weapon. Then, heavier ordnance screamed in--Montgomery ducked and covered his ears as he felt the reverberations strike against his ear drums. Naval ordnance from off the coast, alerted by the flares. Shells pounded around the giants, some of them going stray and hitting the trenches, but nevertheless it finally seemed enough to drive them back into the ground, combined with the fire coming from the town. "Well...my god." Montgomery found his heart pounding. "T'wasn't meant to be a proper attack." de Wiart uttered. "Just a test of the defences. They're trying to show that they're not afraid to attack here." "Seemed like a bloody proper one to me!" Montgomery spat. "If you want to hunt these things, Monty boy, you've got to stop thinking like a man." de Wiart muttered, before slumping down and lighting a cigarette. Montgomery sighed, and did likewise, as the men began to sing again. ** Near Shenyang, Manchuria Standing by a road checkpoint, Captain Takei surveyed the mountainous, hilly terrain in the distance as locals queued up to be checked. So many places for the damn demons to hide. He had heard reports that the generals were hoping to drown such places in poison gas, but they were concerned about local uprisings in return. To think that these miserable peasants were so ungrateful for Japan's selfless act of assistance. Did they not see the advantages of the civilization she spread? Still, he thought, perhaps it was the demons in human form, fermenting such attitudes. "This will take a while." one of his lieutenants uttered to him, wiping his brow under the sun. "Half of these bastards are dirty enough to look like demons in the first place." "Not a single man, woman, or child can go uninspected." Takei snorted. "They say the British are going to give us a hand up here. In exchange for our commitment to Australia." The lieutenant continued. Takei nodded. It made sense. They had already sent a small detachment of men to the Home Isles a while back.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Wait..." Takei stepped forward. Each citizen was meant to bow to every Japanese they passed, as a mark of respect. One old man, however, did not seem to have got the message. "You man!" Takei snapped, in harshly pronounced Mandarin. "Bow!" "I..." he said hoarsely. "I...cannot..." Takei's brow furrowed in anger. These inferior peasants--who did they think they were? "I said bow!" he snarled as he kicked the man to the floor, with the others around him watching on helplessly. "Ingrate!" "Sir..." his lieutenant suddenly spoke up. "I think..." A bullet shot through the air past Takei, striking the lieutenant in the chest and knocking him down to the ground with a thud. He span around, and ducked for cover as the glints of rifle muzzles shone from the ridge of a nearby hill--more rounds impacted into the sandy ground around him. "Return fire!" he barked, as soldiers standing nearby rushed to take aiming positions. Who were these? Local ingrates? Demons in human form? He wished only that they had some artillery nearby. "Fire!" he shouted again, as he produced his own revolver and fired in time with the soldiers--one of whom fell as a bullet struck him in the head, spilling fluid out onto the ground. Finally, the gunshots went silent as the attackers seemingly pulled out of their position, fleeing into the hills. "Get down to the city." he turned to one of the men behind him. "Inform the superiors of this." He turned back to where the attack had come from. There would certainly be repercussions for this insolence. ** Darwin, Australia Wearing but a ragged shirt and plain black trousers, Andrew Fisher hardly looked like a Prime Minister anymore, but at this point, he reckoned, that hardly counted for shit. Strolling down one of the main streets of Darwin, he looked around at the forest of tents sprawled over the road and sidewalks, as conversations in Japanese, French, Dutch and who knows what else filtered out from them. Men in uniforms and plain outfits stood at corners exchanging cigarettes and stories, together only because they were all carrying guns. At the end of the street, Fisher could spot a motor-truck covered with metal plating roughly bolted on and a machinegun protruding out from the top--any scrap of good steel or iron was being grabbed up these days. The current feeling around the town was no longer one of solemn despair, but now anticipation. Ships continued to come in from the East Indies, Indochina, and India, bringing in soldiers who amounted to coolies in rags made to resemble uniforms and bearing whatever old rifles could be handed out to them--but they were soldiers nonetheless. More people were coming in from the rest of the country--although they

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 were put under heavy surveillance, most just seemed like weary refugees who wanted to make a difference. While the officers of the militaries present here and the ragtag local militias planned and debated, Fisher was more content to mingle with the people out on the street, to see just how well his nation's spirit was doing. And he was pleased to see that people were talking not of how much time they had before the Roaches ate them, but how much longer they had to wait before they headed out to squash them flat. He found himself wandering into a former shop from which barks and brays were coming, finding inside a young grizzled man feeding a kangaroo in a cage. The place felt and smelt like a virtual menagerie--he even spotted a water tank with platypuses swimming around in it. "G'day, Mr. Prime Minister, sir!" The man turned around with a grin. "Almost didn't recognize you, sir!" "That's alright, mate." Fisher smiled. "What's all this you got here?" "See, me and my family lived out in Queensland--then all of a sudden, all the creatures great and small, 'roos, wallabies, kookaburras, they were all headin' north or to the west--they was running away from the Roaches, we realized, and that gave us warning to run away. So, out of gratitude, we took some of 'em in, just in case the rest get eaten. Kinda like old Noah, in a sense." "Trying to preserve the nation. That's a spirit I hope you spread." Fisher gave him a pat on the back. "Much obliged, sir!" Exiting the building, Fisher continued to wander down towards the trainyards, hearing the sound of banging metal and wielding. As he drew closer, he noticed throngs of workers crowding around a train waiting at a siding, fixing metal plating onto it and heaving field guns onto the wagons. "What's happening here?" He entered the yard, approaching one of the workers, who was standing over an Aborigine man flattening a metal plate with a hammer. "We've got ta get to that Roachy nest somehow, mate." The man said. "So, we're building ourselves an armored train--Fisher's Revenge, we're calling it. After you, sir!" "Oh, right--that's pleasing to hear..." Fisher blushed. "No worries, mate." The man chuckled, as he looked towards the train and puffed up with pride. "Me and the lads, we're proper happy to have you as our Prime Minister, sir-all those arses in Parliament and those rich bastards went running away to Java or Indochina or Hong Kong or some other shithole, but you stayed with us to the end. That's somethin' to be proud of, and if we survive this, I'm bettin' that the books will treat you like the greatest leader we ever had." "I hope!" Fisher laughed. He felt, for the first time in a long time, a spark of genuine relief--him staying here really was doing good for morale. After all, if the pessimists were right and the Roaches were unstoppable, better to face 'em head on and go down spitting in their faces. And if they were going to be stopped, he wanted to see it happen. "What's your name, son?" He turned to the nearby Aborigine, who looked up with a

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 nervous smile. "H-Harry, sir." "You don't mind working with his type?" He looked up at the worker. "Ah, once upon a time, I would've. But right now, I just don't find myself givin' a shit, if you'll pardon my tongue. It's us and the Roaches, and as far as I'm concerned, don't matter if you're a Chinaman or a nigger, as long as you can help squash the little blighters." "That's the spirit!" Fisher laughed, as he looked out to the rest of the trainyard--more wagons were being made ready. Given the scope of this push, they'd need a lot of them. "Hey, Mr. Prime Minister!" He turned as a group of militia wielding shotguns and rifles walked up to him, Stetson hats and all--there was even a few women among them, tough-looking wenches chewing on tobacco. Fisher remembered hearing Marxist talk back in his university days--but he didn't imagine that old hairy Bosche would see egalitarianism as this borne out in such circumstances. "We're anxious to know when we're headin' out." The leader said. "Word is their nest is on Ayers Rock itself--don't see why we should be wastin' time." "Just a few more shipments of men and we'll be going." Fisher said. "Shouldn't be much more than a few days. Trust me, I'm anxious to get going too--got my own shotgun ready." "You're going, sir?" "Of course." Fisher said with a smile, pulling up his trousers. "When we show the Roaches how Australia shows unwanted guests out, I'll give all I have to be there..." ** Black Forest, Germany Empty black eyes. So far removed from anything human they seemed almost hypnotic. Standing behind a pane of reinforced glass, Professor Waechter stared right at the creature in the containment within--crouched as if about to pounce, but otherwise motionless. The thing had grown big, growing various spines all over its body--the others were starting to worry if this place was becoming big enough to contain it. Certainly, there were mutterings that under that hideous face of its, the creature was planning something with vicious cunning--but Waechter was just thankful that the thing could be killed with a touch of a button. "Herr Waechter?" He turned as some military officer entered the chamber, stern face and all. Waechter had heard about the military coup in Berlin. He didn't find himself too sorry to see the Kaiser thrown off his throne.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Ja?" "I am to inform you that we're currently in ceasefire talks with the Entente--as a result, you can expect direct communication with whatever science divisions they have operational at this moment." "Finally." Waechter muttered. Finally, some sanity was entering the fine halls of Europe. "Now, I have a few inquiries of my own..." "Go ahead." "Me and my superiors..." He drew closer to the glass. "Want to know more of how these things reproduce." "Well," Waechter adjusted his glasses, "in initial dissections we couldn't find anything that seemed to correspond to sexual organs, but given how otherworldly their biology is we may have simply overlooked them. It may also be a question of maturity--this specimen has grown very quickly in a short amount of time, and it may well have developed such means." "You should kill it." The officer snapped. "I do not imagine it will be long before it will be large enough to break out." "With all due respect, obtaining live specimens is--" "You've had enough time to make all the recordings you want. You should not push your luck." "Thank you, mein herr, I will keep that in mind." Waechter sighed. "Regardless, we have a number of ideas. The first is that these creatures can reproduce rapidly and asexually, requiring only internal insemination. The second is that, like our terrestrial bees and ants, they have a 'Queen' at each of their nests birthing more numbers of them-although given the rates at which they spread and their size, such a monarch would be a nightmarishly gargantuan creature indeed..." "And which theory to you subscribe to, Herr Professor?" "Well, the first would explain how quickly they have infested particular areas, but some of us theorize that they maintain a complex system of tunnels, like termites, spread underneath the areas of infestation, which we have yet to detect. This would explain how quickly they can strike from underground." "Tunnels?" The officer said. "If that is the case, why have they not simply struck right at Paris, or Berlin?" "It is always easier for a predator to allow prey to come to it than to expend energy going after it." Waechter said darkly. "Or, you could ask yourself why a cat does not always instantly kill its quarry--it wishes to toy with it." "You're not implying...?" "All just speculation, I remind you." Waechter said quickly. "Now then, mein herr, about this communication with Entente science divisions..."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 ** Ural Mountains, Imperial Russia Frost covering his balls. Nothing but half-frozen beetroot and stone-hard bread to eat. No arms but a rifle that jammed with every other shot and a rusty bayonet. Nothing to do but hope that the Tsar's bitches here didn't send him off to be fodder for the Zhuki. Yes, for Josef Vissarionovich Stalin, life had never been better. Huddled by himself in a small tent desperately trying to get what heat he could from a contraband cigarette, Stalin felt somewhat amazed that he had lasted this long, when the Tsar--and the Ottoman and Germans he had apparently jumped into bed with-casually threw the lives of young men into the jaws of the monsters lurking in the valleys of these mountains. Perhaps it was because he barely registered to the officers, being in their eyes a barely human piece of scum. Perhaps there was, in fact, something above looking after him. No, he smiled to himself, it couldn't be. He was an atheist, a thief, a Bolshevik. An affront to the Tsar's holy rule. He was simply a lucky asshole. He heard the crunching of snow outside. Tensing momentarily, he looked up as a man in a lieutenant's uniform casually entered the tent, sitting down on his sleeping bags in front of him. Producing his own cigarette, he leant forward and lit it on the end of Stalin's, before leaning back with a chuckle. "Josef Vissarionovich." he grinned. "Fuck your mother, the devil must love you." "Who are you?" Stalin grunted. "A friend. With old associates." Stalin's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?" "I'm here to fill you in on some things. And then give you a proposition." The man continued. "Ever since the army was sent out to these freezing wastes to fight neverending hordes of cockroaches, ever since the fighting men and women of the motherland were asked to betray their principles and fight alongside Turks and Fritz...well, there's been quite a lot more open to outside persuasion, if you follow me. It was an opportunity my associates could not resist. Suffice to say that we now have the affiliation of a number of people in the ranks--not all of them through conviction to ideology, yes, but beggars cannot be choosers in these days." Sitting back, Stalin chuckled, as he doused his cigarette on the snow. "Fuck your mother, that's brilliant." "Yes. We've had to move fast, for the current circumstances do not reward the slow...tell me, how much have they been telling you?" "Me? Nothing." Stalin grunted. "The rest of the men? Predictable bullshit. The Motherland is behind us. God is with us. The people of Russia stand united." "And I thought I'd seen it all." The man said. "Here's the truth. The country is cracking

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 at the seams--moreso than it already was. The people are being overworked to keep the war effort up. They're pissed off that we happily let the Turks into the country after fighting so hard to keep them out. Deserters are coming back from the front and spreading the truth about how fucking incompetent the Tsar's bitches really are. There's been at least one strike in Petrograd put down by the Cossacks. And the Tsar? He just sticks his fingers in his ears and pretends everything's going his way." "And you're taking advantage of this?" Stalin uttered. "Of course. All this is a golden opportunity. But we can't fuck things up, not right now, and we need everyone we can get." He produced a small bottle of vodka and took a sip, as Stalin looked on with some degree of envy. "So, if you want, I can get you out of here. You've no idea how easy it is to get the Tsar's god-blessed soldiers to look the other way. But it's not going to be smooth sailing straight away. We're moving fast, faster than we ever have, and I imagine things are going to be ramped up even more soon. You've experience. You've been a good asset to us in the past. What do you think?" "What do I think?" Stalin laughed. "What the fuck do you think I think? My balls are practically frozen off. Just tell me where I'll be going." "Excellent." The man smiled, and handed him the bottle. "Of course, we have nothing to lose. If we don't act right away, we--everything we know--is fucked. If we fuck things up anyway...eh, at least we'll have tried." "Save me the speeches." Stalin grunted. "Got enough of it from Pravda." "Very well." The man got up. "Meet me in the trees once everyone's asleep. Things are going to change, Josef Vissarionovich. You can bet your mother on that..." ** Near Arras, Northern France To the front, darkness. To the back, stumbling and grunting men covered in sweat and shaking with fear and cold. For Corporal Herbet McNeil of the 1st Canadian Tunnelling Company, this narrow and damp tunnel may as well have been his grave. After the success of tunnelling companies at laying a giant mine up in Belgium, it seemed that the generals wanted to replicate it down in France--but this was easier said than done. On the surface, the Roaches could at least be suppressed with massed artillery and gas. Down here, there was nothing to hinder them. Scarabs could writhe out from the dirt and clamp their jaws into a man's ankle. Larger Roach monsters could collapse tunnels simply by digging near them. Rumors abounded of Roach organisms lying in wait down here, pulling men down into the dark underground with tentacles and claws. Right now, the objective of McNeil and the stifled, dirt-covered engineers around him was not to place bombs. Some of the generals had the idea that the Roaches had their own tunnel network down here, like that of an ant's nest, and had sent poor bastards like him down here to see if this was true. Of course, while they sat in their chateaus and palaces sipping French champagne, McNeil and his comrades were sent down into a

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 place he could imagine being less hellish than anywhere else. Artillery was constantly raining down above, threatening to collapse the whole thing on their heads. Every second brought the fear of them stumbling into Roaches tunnelling underground. They had nothing to defend themselves save with pickaxes and shovels, and the odd pistol. He wouldn't be surprised if it turned out that it was the tunnelling corps who were suffering the largest percentage of casualties. "Keep digging, you bastards!" he shouted as they chipped away at the earth. The only illumination came from bulky electrical flashlights and flickering oil lamps--even that did not prevent disorientation in this claustrophobic space. If the smell of the tainted earth wasn't filling his nose, McNeil would've been choking on the odor of those around him. "How much further do we have to go?" someone groaned. "Only a few meters! Come on!" It was always a few meters. He was amazed they had got this far without bumping into Roaches swarming about under the ground. "Wait..." Scraping away the earth in front of them, an engineer in front of them appeared to have found something--something soft, and glistening. Looking in closer and lifting up a lamp, McNeil could make out a fleshy wall, like the outside of some sort of fresh intestine. What was this? Had they bumped into a Roach nest? Some sort of underground Roach larvae? Either way, he had seen enough. "Alright, boys, we can tell the brass we found something. Pack it up and let's get heading back!" Any excuse to get out of here, he thought. As the others picked up their tools and began to hurry back up the tunnel, he became aware of a soft tearing sound, like someone stripping away skin. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the flesh wall opening up like some sort of eyelid, letting a putrid stench come from within. Seconds later, out came the twitching forearms of a Roach warrior. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!" All of McNeil's thoughts turned to self-preservation as he drew a pistol and rushed forward, pushing aside his fellow engineers. Shouts and yells of panic rang out in the tight tunnel as the others also attempted to scramble away to safety--then came the inhuman screech of the Roach as someone then cried out in pain. Taking one glance over his shoulder, McNeil could make out more scurrying spider-like shapes pouring out from the end of the tunnel on all sides, dragging screaming tunnellers back into the darkness. Adrenaline pumped through him as he scrambled up the earth, trying to get away from the screams and screeches behind him. He fell down onto the earth as he stumbled over something in the dark, turning over to see a Roach come scuttling out of the shadows towards him with horrifying speed. Trying to aim his revolver as his arm shook wildly in panic, he fired, the shots echoing around in the tight space. A bullet struck the Roach by the side of its face, slowing it down for a precious moment. Reaching down for his belt, McNeil grabbed a stick of dynamite for tunnelling and lit it with an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, before placing it down and running. Seconds later, he could still hear the sound of multiple limbs scurrying through the dirt as a screech rang out. He swore for a moment that he could feel the breath of the

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 monster behind him down on his back. Then, the dynamite detonated. Smoke blew down through the tunnel as the delicately-supported ceiling gave away. McNeil didn't stop running as huge lumps of wet earth came crashing down as the shaft gradually caved in. He didn't stop until finally he made out the light of the outside, collapsing onto all fours through sheer exhaustion. Looking over his shoulder, he could make out nothing but smoke and collapsed earth. He pitied the poor bastards who had died down there. But at least now the bloody generals could know that the Roaches did indeed have something down there. **

BlackWave

April 3rd, 2012 02:06 AM

18th March 1915, near Andenne, Belgium Ankle-deep in muddy water, Rommel slowly trudged his way up the trench alongside grime-covered soldiers in German and Austro-Hungarian uniforms, the straps of his gas mask now digging into his skin. Dispatches he had received indicated that talks between the General Staff and Entente leadership were underway and continuing--and they had also given him and his command instructions to push towards the nearest Entente lines, Schaben be damned. Rommel found it strange to think now that merely months ago they had been signing about God cursing the English and French, and now they were to get into bed with them, but he felt no animosity over this. From the murmurings he had heard, though, not all of the men felt the same way. They stopped as a flammenwerferapparaten-mounted armored car clattered over the trench ahead, with a trio of Landkreuzers following--Austria-Hungary was also contributing to the production of such metallic beasts, Rommel had heard, but he didn't imagine that took that much stress off the Rhineland industry constantly churning them out. He wondered how it was to drive one of these sluggish things, stuck inside their cramped bellies, with only enough training to drive them and operate the guns. Still, he thought, they were undeniably inspiring sights. He stopped in surprise as the armored car let off a burst of fire from its flamethrower, and stepped along with other men onto the step in front of the trench revetment to see. In front of the trench were several large artillery craters, partially flooded, positively writhing with those barbed worm things he had heard about--moments later, the flames lashed onto them, setting them alight. As the vehicles rumbled forward, wheels and tracks digging into the wet mud, Rommel hurriedly continued, not wanting to be any closer to those things. As the trench began to thin, he could make out a Luftkreuzer ducking out of the darkened clouds in the distance ahead, disgorging phosphorous bombs onto the No Man's Land below that detonated with bright discharges, while its light guns fired away at something unseen. It was already common knowledge among the men that the pilots and aerial fighters of Die Fliegertruppen had already gladly accepted unofficial cooperation with their counterparts in the Entente before--some angrily muttered about them being traitors, even now. All those posters and pamphlets and books decrying the Tommies and the Frenchies--all backfiring now, Rommel thought grimly. "Mein herr." One lieutenant turned to him as the column paused to rest. The Schaben

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 had been concentrating on other parts of the line as far as Rommel knew--he felt relatively safe. "Ja?" "How can we not be sure that the Tommies or their friends won't shoot us if we meet them?" "I think they've also been given orders not to be arschloche." Rommel grunted, as he checked his Gewehr rifle. "I mean as a trap..." "Why? I think they can work out who the Schaben will turn to if we're out of the picture." Rommel sighed. "I'm still not sure about this..." "You'll have to get used to it." The bellowing roar of a Großschabe echoed from the distance, even over the ambient sounds of pounding artillery, prompting the column to hurriedly get up and continue their slogging up the trench. A squadron of Gotha bombers came buzzing overhead over the clouds--those aircraft were now being seen in increasing numbers over the front, as pilots were rushed through training. Their pilots reportedly would plead for fighter escort if they had none, but often there simply weren't any available aircraft. Rommel didn't envy those magnificent men in their flying machines, but he didn't feel too keen to be in their position either. "Wait--incoming!" The men ducked against the revetments of the trench as something came screaming in overhead--Rommel glimpsed a large, purple, jagged projectile hurtle in and impact into a watery crater in front of the trench, disgorging a writhing mass of more of those worm things. Moments later a detonation threw up water, earth, and twisting parts of those things--he was thankful for the thousands of mines sappers had taken great risk to lay, and motioned for the men to continue. No time could be wasted when they were out in the open like this. As he neared the sight of a small hamlet now in ruins ahead, Rommel began to slow down as he felt weariness and lack of sleep begin to take hold--then, he recognized several figures ahead, in differing uniforms. Belgians, escorted by Frenchmen, trudging cautiously through the trench. Some of the men behind Rommel instinctively raised their rifles, but he motioned for them stand at ease. Hopefully this was what he thought it was--but then, Rommel thought grimly, those Belgians would hardly be appreciative of what the German army wrought upon them the year before. Walking forward, he slung his rifle over his shoulder and approached the group as they turned a corner of the trench to face them, making eye contact through the lenses of their gas masks. Gently, Rommel raised his arms, as some of them men behind him nevertheless remained tense. He could see animosity in the posture of some of the Belgians, but he had been expecting worse. At least they were trying to shoot them. "Guten tag." one of the Frenchmen began, with a noticeable accent. Stepping forward gingerly, he walked up to Rommel and then extended a gloved hand. With equal

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 amounts of caution, Rommel raised his own and shook it firmly. The men of both groups remained silent, as Rommel couldn't help but feel that history was being made here. Imagine this being done a few months ago, he thought. How quickly the feelings of men could change when there was something greater out for all of them. "We have come as an advance group." The Frenchman continued in fairly rusty German. "As a sign of new collaboration between our armies." "That...is much appreciated." Rommel said. "Do you...do you really forgive us for past affairs?" The Frenchman shrugged nonchalantly. "The past is the past. We have other things to dwell on--like keeping ourselves alive..." ** Zurich, Switzerland Vladimir Lenin stood in a meeting room as other like-minded men slowly filed in, flicking through the pages of the morning newspaper--his affiliates had reported that the conference down by Lake Geneva was still underway. Was it through the number of items to be discussed, or were the fools bogged down in argument? It didn't matter. What mattered more was news from the homeland, of which very little the newspapers devoted to. Perhaps what was being officially released by the Tsar's government was realized as being ridiculous to the point of being unprintable. "Comrades." he began as the door closed. "I will be brief. I am informed that matters have reached a tipping point in the homeland. Though the waters of providence flow with alarming speed in recent days, we must nevertheless go with their pace, and I have decided to return to my motherland to oversee things. Appropriate documents are being prepared, and I am assured that we have the right channels for my entry." "Are you certain?" one of the suited men sat up. "I am told that the Okhrana is stepping things up alarmingly to keep the country together." "And I am also told that animosity against the Tsar and his leadership is such that we have a fair number of agents already embedded in the army and police." Lenin snapped. "Well, not all of them ours directly--some affiliated with the likes of the Mensheviks, but thankfully they recognize the need for solidarity with us in these times, despite whatever differences we may have..." "Do we actually have a plan?" Lenin turned as one of the men, a Swiss socialist, lent in. "Or are we just going with the 'tides of providence'?" "I was hoping that fate would grant us more time, but in the time it has given us I and the associates I deem appropriate have made preparations, so you need not worry." Lenin nodded. "I have agents and agitators in Petrograd itself working to bring things into motion. The people are tired of being bullied by the Tsar's cossack thugs--they are easy to manipulate." "I shall hope." The man leant back. "Such an opportunity--the victory of socialism, presented to us before..." "Not socialism--leadership." Lenin said. "This is less a question of economics than the

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 survival of our civilization. I cannot afford any division when we make our move, as we must bring as much of the people and, I am afraid, some of their leadership with us as soon as possible. Once the pestilence in Siberia has been eradicated, then we can talk matters of socialism. I have been over this before..." "You cannot expect everyone to fall in line. What will you do with those who don't?" "Liquidate them." Lenin said starkly. "Quietly, of course. I already have people assigned for that. Hopefully, there will be as little need for that as there can be, but I am not going to take my chances." "You have," one of the older figures began, "considered the possibility that, with the Russian nation in such a delicate state, such bold moves that you are proposing may...not have the effect you desire." "If we do not move, a collapse is certain." Lenin said. "I have thought long and hard over this...and I do not want the guilt of not trying to do something about it on my conscience. We do, or we die, for certain." He turned around to face the window, looking out into the streets of Zurich. Leaving this comfortable existence, and thrusting himself into a turning point of history...his mind found it uncomfortable to comprehend. "But rest assured, I will not be soft. Whatever is necessary to save the country, I will do, even if I must destroy half of it." ** Near Quéant, Northern France Rumbling slowly over a crater-strewn area of No Man's Land, with gas-masked infantry emerging from a trench behind to trudge through the mud and through clouds of lingering smoke and gas, the sight of a unit of seven FT-15 Land Dreadnoughts was nevertheless enough to seed some inspiration in the grit-covered men behind them. Though they were crawling forward at about walking speed, their presence seemed to grant a feeling of extra protection, combined with all the stories spread among the ranks of the incredible feats performed by these vehicles--regardless of whether or not they had any basis in fact. Crammed into the driver's compartment of one of the Land Dreadnoughts, Yves Thomas sat inhaling stale air through a gas mask--even if there was no gas around, he would still be wearing it for the engine fumes infusing the air inside. Behind him, the commander and gunner David Bouise was mumbling something muffled by his mask, as Yves continued to drive the machine forward across this killing field. He had been selected for this job through his background as a locomotive driver, given a rushed training of only a few days, and then sent to the front. So far, he had been here a few days, covering soldiers moving from trench to trench from Roaches bursting out from the ground or protecting vital artillery positions. When the monsters came bursting out the ground, all mandibles and claws, it was only through sheer luck and adrenaline that one could pull through--he had learned to fear those acid-spitting abominations. Nevertheless, even after a short while, 'veteran' FT drivers had emerged to teach newcomers on him the few tricks that could ensure his survival out here, and he felt fucking grateful for them. And now, just this morning, they had received messages indicating that German Land Dreadnoughts--hastily copied versions of what the British used, but imposing machines

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 nonetheless--would be coming out into this area, and they were expected to co-operate with them. He wasn't too happy about this, and he didn't expect Fritz would be either, but at least it meant they didn't have to worry about unwittingly drawing fire from the Kaiser's men. Well, now the 'General Staff's men'. Recent events had finally seemed to betray some sense among Fritz's leadership. "Is that something ahead?" Bouise called. Yves focused through the viewing slit, trying to make out through the lenses of his mask and the hanging vapors ahead. He couldn't see much--but he didn't blame the commander if he was being jittery. "No. Don't worry." he replied, as the FT rumbled through a partially flooded crater. He was only grateful for there seemingly not being many Roaches on this part of the front today. Then again, it had been receiving a heavy bombardment of gas shells lately, to the point were he wouldn't be surprised if it was all sterile now. As he drove on, he briefly wondered if any of the men were jealous of FT drivers as himself, enclosed in this armored vessel with heavy weaponry at command. He had certainly got hints of such whispers. But he knew better--if a big Roach set upon you in this thing, there was little room to escape or run. If their acid burnt through to the fuel or to the ammunition, it was better to put a bullet through one's brain than be burnt alive inside a steel coffin. Of course, he didn't envy the sappers who would have to go out and retrieve Land Dreadnought wrecks, so that their materials could be recycled. It seemed clear from that that the nation's industry was struggling to keep up with the demands for craft such as these. "Hold on..." Out of a bank of hanging fog ahead came more growling objects crawling slowly over the mud--at first glance they looked like Tommy Land Dreadnoughts, but he could soon make out the Iron Crosses on their sides even in this visibility. He began to slow down his vehicle in mild uncertainty, as his commander poked his body up through a topside hatch. Moments later, he could make out shouts being exchanged--he wasn't quite sure what they were about, but he still half-expected the Germans ahead to start firing on them. "They're going to escort us forwards." Boiuse clambered back in. "They don't seem too keen to mingle with us that much--I sympathize." "Well, if there's bugs ahead, at least they'll get them in the face first." Yves muttered as he sped up, resuming the slow crawl. For all the talk he heard from liberals about European solidarity, the reality on the front was going to be pretty damn different from such fantasy, he felt. Ahead, he spotted something among the muddy craters--the skeletal remains of a crashed aeroplane, a French one by his guessing. Crawling over it were dozens of writhing barbed worm things--moments later, a sponson from one of the German machines swivelled and let loose a short jet of flame, engulfing the wreck and scorching the little creatures. For a moment Yves felt a sensation of gratitude--towards Germans. Who've thought it? Not so long ago such thoughts would've lead to execution, or at least accusations of insanity, he considered. The sight of a trench appeared ahead out of the mist--finally, he thought. The German machines came to a halt as the FTs came up. He noticed some of the German tank commanders poke themselves up through their hatches, pointing and peering into the trench. Slowing down, he opened a forward hatch and gingerly looked out, looking down.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Inside the trench, he could make out dozens of picked skeletons wearing the tattered remains of Italian uniforms, some of them burnt away or partially submerged under brown muddy water. He felt the urge to vomit, but with his mask on, he did all he could to suppress it. He wondered about the men who would have to sit in this ditch for days, maybe, and then understood why they would feel envious of FT drivers as him. ** The Pacific Ocean, near San Francisco On the deck of a merchant barge bearing Navy colors, Private Quincy looked out towards the dark line of the Californian coast on the horizon, knowing that shortly he'd be going back there again. Only a few hours ago he had been instructed to pull back, after defending a fortified position near the city borders--at first there was some mixture of confusion and relief, before they were taken down to the coast to board barges, commandeered merchantmen, and naval gunboats. It seemed clear now that soon mass landings in San Francisco would occur, and thus the final fight to take back the city. After what had felt like an eternity fighting through northern California, it seemed fairly daunting. In the distance, fighting ships of the US Navy and other vessels bearing Canadian flags could be seen. Despite reassuring messages in the papers, it had become common knowledge among the troops that the Navy's attempt to shell San Francisco and the Roaches within into oblivion had failed. They were keeping a safer distance now, but Quincy still felt a great deal of nervousness. This was their nest here, the epicenter of their infestation of the American nation. He had managed to write off a letter home before boarding this tub, and a deep part of his mind felt certain it would be his last. As the ship continued to bob on the Pacific waves under a mostly overcast sky, he turned around to look at the other assortments of troop-bearing vessels on the surrounding waters. Some of them were carrying Filipino troops conscripted and ferried across the ocean, he knew, to add to the numbers of the landing force. He wasn't sure how a bunch of dumb gooks were meant to handle the kind of monsters down there, but at least it meant some extra guns to shoot at them. "Just think about it." he heard a nearby man say, looking out in the direction of the coastline. "We'll be putting Old Glory up there in no time." Quincy could only hope that damn well better be true. ** Washington DC, United States of America "Mr. President, may I introduce Mr. Ishii Kikujirō, envoy of the Japanese Empire." President Marshall, his eyes clearly betraying a lack of sleep, stood up to shake hands with the Oriental man stepping into the Oval Office, accompanied by some other officials. Amidst reviewing all the reports from California and Europe, the Japanese had been petitioning the White House to stage a 'special conference'. He had also seen reports on their 'intervention' in China and Australia, and hoped they weren't going to ask him to expand their little pocket empire in East Asia. Shaking his head, he tried to get rid of such thoughts--hardly the temperament needed for a diplomatic discussion. "Welcome, Mr. Kikujirō." he said, as the Oriental bowed. "Please, take a seat. I'm afraid

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 your government has been somewhat vague on what exactly you wish to discuss with me. You're lucky to have been granted a meeting here. I have many issues preoccupying me, as you can guess." "You will have to forgive us." Kikujirō uttered as he sat down in front of Marshall's desk. "Mr. President, we have come to ask your nation for...assistance." "Really?" Marshall bit his lip. First the Europeans, and now the Japanese...but then, he thought, with all the newspapers trumpeting about how the army was poised to 'liberate California', who could blame them? "You must understand," the envoy continued, "that the Japanese nation has made a great deal of sacrifice in removing the infestation within our own borders, and in our holdings in Korea. We know how much pain these abominations can inflict upon a country. That is why we ask for your country's support in our efforts to prevent further infection taking hold in Manchuria, and, should it seem practical, aiding our troops held up in Australia. This can come from the Philippines; we understand you have been initiating a large recruitment and training initiative there." Marshall sat back and rubbed his forehead. Yes, they were raising auxiliary divisions in the Philippines, per an executive order he himself had issued--but most of that was designed to ensure the success of the landings into San Francisco. For a moment, he considered if the world was like that Oliver Twist boy, asking for more. Then, it occurred to him that if the Japanese were not thorough enough in holding down Manchuria, the Roach infestation could spread all across China. Millions of Chinamen, to be infected and transformed into further strength for their swarms...he had a brief vision of an Asia fallen, overrunning the rest of the continents. Perhaps he would be helping Japanese imperialism into lands they had been greedily looking to...but damn it all, it was a sacrifice that had to be made. "I will have to consider it, and confer with my advisors." he spoke up. "But I can assure you, Mr. Kikujirō, that I am not rejecting your proposal." "We would be most grateful." The man smiled. "I have often spoken of the importance of a relationship between our nations. Perhaps now is the place to start..." ** Hayward, California, United States of America The guns at Hayward had finally stopped as boats and trucks gathered by the shoreline of the bay, with intermittent rumblings of field guns still coming from the southern end of the peninsula across the water. For the men stationed in the town, on near-constant watch for any creatures lurking in the shadows, the word had finally come out that they were to immediately prepare for landings across the bay. Some felt jubilant, deciding that it would all finally be over. Some were wary, anxious about jumping into what was surely the most infested city yet. For Theodore Roosevelt, striding confidently down one of the main streets, it meant another chance for him, an old Bull Moose, to relive the glory of San Juan Hill. Looking at some of the weary men in tattered uniforms sitting on the sidewalk, he knew that some of the poor lads would not live to see the day after tomorrow, but for those that made it, they would be immortalized in a battle that would be as well remembered as the Alamo or Gettysburg. "Good evening, Mr. Roosevelt, sir!" A young man with a Brooklyn accent spoke up as he passed.

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"Evening to you too, boy." He raised his hat as he approached the train depot, hearing the sound of an incoming locomotive. Supplies were being desperately rushed here from the rest of the country--he suspected that the generals didn't want to prolong this any more, what with all the word of growing national dissent. He wasn't sure if this was folly or not, but with matters in Europe and Asia not looking good, seeking to end this campaign as soon as could be done was not unreasonable. "Colonel Roosevelt!" He looked up. It felt somewhat strange, to be referred to by his old Rough Riders rank again. Ahead, an officer was calling from the train yard, as the heavy cargo wagons of the new arrival were unloaded. "We have a pleasant surprise..." Stuttering into motion down ramps from the wagons came a row of metal box-like contraptions with tracks, marked with Army insignias. Men began to crowd around the yard as Roosevelt watched in bemusement as the clattering machines began to slowly move upwards towards the street. "I apologize for the lack of forewarning, sir, but to minimize risk of sabotage we kept this as secret as we could." The officer said. "A full squadron of FT Land Dreadnoughts for the Army, courtesy of the French--the least they could do, I think. The crews were rushed through training, but they're sure as hell eager." "I'll wager." Roosevelt chuckled boisterously. "Bring them down to the shore, there should be a barge rugged enough to carry the things." He turned around as the machines began their crawl towards the shoreline, followed by a line of both awed and intrigued soldiers. At least they were keeping the boys together-a new regulation had been passed saying that soldiers had to stick together in groups of at least three, especially in a time of delicate preparation as this. What would he have given to have devices like that back in Cuba...it spoke volumes of the ingenuity of European engineering to have them mass-produced on such short notice. No doubt Henry Ford was red with envy. "Better get some rest, sir." one of his lieutenants to his side spoke up. "No doubt you'll need it all for tomorrow." "Hold on." Roosevelt murmured. "I reckon the boys need some encouragement, before we throw them into the hornet's nest." Entering the staging area by the shore, he looked around at the ragged young men by tents or around fires, some of them exchanging what cigarettes or chocolate bars they had. Some were busy scribbling letters, possibly final ones, while others crowded around phonographs that warbled music out into the evening air. Stepping onto a stack of crates, Roosevelt find that he didn't even have to call for attention--heads already swivelled towards him as young eyes looked up with pride. "Boys," he began, letting his voice echo around the camp. "Tomorrow at the crack of dawn, we dive into the mouth of hell itself. I see that some of you are scared of that prospect, and you can have my word that I am more than acquainted with that very fear. But when we send the last worm-ridden abomination there down to hell itself, when we plant the flag on the Golden Gate itself, let me tell you, our children, our grandchildren, will look on you as some of the finest young lads our nation ever had the pride to give!" Cheers and claps rang out as Roosevelt stepped down, looking out across the waters to

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 the eerily purple-lined coast of San Francisco. He had reviewed some of the photographs delivered by reconnaissance aircraft, and although some were hard to make out others revealed strange...growths, for lack of a better word, in there that defied description. As he headed down to his own tent, he soberly accepted that he had not merely been trying to boost the men's spirits when he said he shared their fear. He had no honest idea of what to expect when they landed in San Francisco--and God willing, they would send it all to hell anyway. ** Near Fromelles, Northern France Hanging over the shattered smoke-shrouded fields of what was once verdant French countryside, Luftkreuzer LK04, accompanied by two other mighty airships, slowly buzzed towards the black lines cutting across the No Man's Land that signified dug-in infantry trenches. On the bridge of the zeppelin, Captain Rothstein felt his head swim with the sheer apocalyptic scale of the wasteland below him. Everything felt like he was in some painfully long twisted nightmare lately--this had not been helped by orders that had just come in this morning stating that not only was he to assist any Entente troops he could find, but actively head towards their lines to do so. He still found some distaste in trying to assist those he and his men had been singing about destroying only months before, but when he weighed the Tommies and Frogs in one hand and the Schabe in the other, there was no contest. His own Luftkreuzer had undergone quite some modification after taking damage in Belgium--she now carried new prototypes of Fokker light monoplanes, compact aircraft that, while not as sturdy as the biplanes he was used to, could be deployed in greater number and were easier to mass-produce. Some of the pilots found them almost terrifying to fly, but he suspected that Fokker was just trying to find some way of keeping up with the increasing demands of the front. A compromise of quantity over quality--well, in these days, necessity was truly the mother of invention. The two airships accompanying him--all Luftkreuzers were meant to come in squadrons now--were optimized for ground attack. Instead of lugging naval guns, they now sported in their gondolas retractable racks of phosphorous rockets for bombarding the ground below. This new system had not been tested much, but it was apparently considerably lighter than the guns that had been hurriedly tacked on when the Schabe first appeared, and sported a greater rate of fire to boot. While some hailed this as innovation, Rothstein saw uncomfortable implications for how much the Fatherland's industry was being taxed. "Bring us down by fifty feet." he ordered as they drew closer to the Entente trenches below. He wondered if the poor men down there would be looking up with anxiety at the imposing airships emblazoned with Iron Crosses coming down from above, still remembering the fear of zeppelin bombings from the war. Nevertheless, no fire came in their direction, granting him slightly more confidence. "Herr Kapitän, up front..." Raising binoculars, Rothstein could make out several waves of fighters buzzing out from the clouds ahead towards them--French Morane Saulniers and British Sopwiths. The sight of so many aircraft on a direct approach unnerved him, but nevertheless he nodded to his lieutenant to begin flashing acknowledgements towards them. "Bring us to a stop." he ordered. Over the hum of the Luftkreuzer's engines, he could

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 make out the thumping of artillery from below start to die down--he knew full well what could happen then... "We're getting a reply." His lieutenant spoke up as the aircraft banked around the airships, flashing in reply. "As far as I can make out, they're not going to shoot us." "Excellent." Rothstein said dryly. "Now then, I want the gunnery crew ready just in..." "Mein Gott!" Running over to the gondola windows, Rothstein could see the ground in front of the trenches shifting, before it burst open to let a carpet of Schaben spill out--machinegun fire spat out towards them, barely slowing the swarm down. Field guns behind the trench opened fire as larger creatures, including a hulking Großschabe. Some of the aircraft immediately banked towards them, firing off rockets, but even over the sound of gunfire and unearthly screeching from below Rothstein could make out a rising buzzing sounds. "Gunnery, fire at will!" he shouted. "Launch all Fokkers!" It was a few moments before the zeppelins unleashed their firepower into the swarm below. Incendiary rockets shot out from their racks, impacting into the midst of the creatures and engulfing them in raging tongues of fire. The naval gun of LK04 shook the airship with its recoil moments later, blasting more Schabe body parts into the air with the impact. More creatures were coming up from behind the trench, but additional machineguns on the hull were spraying towards them, allowing the beleaguered men a few fleeting moments time to ready grenades and explosives. At the same time, Fokker light aircraft hanging from gondolas and the hull started up their engines before detaching, just as flying Schabe began to pour down from the sky seemingly out of nowhere. Watching the creatures come buzzing towards the Luftkreuzers through binoculars, Rothstein could see that some among their number were larger, sporting additional pairs of wings or visibly thicker carapace, or even thorny manes of spines. They dispersed and manoeuvred wildly as defensive machineguns on the airships opened fire, as the launched Fokkers joined the Entente aircraft in moving to engage them. "Gott keep us alive..." Rothstein breathed as he observed the situation below. Some parts of the trench were visibly overrun, flooded with fire from flamethrowers moments later, taking both men and Schaben. Nearby, the other two Luftkreuzers opened their bomb bay doors and began unloading additional munitions--explosive and phosphorous bombs poured onto the swarm below, including onto the huge beetle, which seemed only irritated by the flaming chemicals and explosives dumped onto it. "Mein herr!" one of his personnel nearby exclaimed in horror as he heard a ripping sound from above. "I think one of them's on--" Rothstein managed to glimpse a horrific face of beady eyes and clicking mandibles peer through one of the gondola windows before a barbed proboscis lashed out, piercing the man who had just spoken through the head. His fluids were drained in seconds, his skin rapidly becoming pale and saggy--but seconds enough for the others to grab shotguns from a nearby rack and discharge them right into the monster's face. Experience with boarding Schabe flying beasts had seen to that. Down below, the Schaben seemed to be pulling back into the earth, taking the roasted bodies of their dead with them, but still leaving parts of the trench in tatters. One of the

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Luftkreuzers was sporting visible wounds on the hull, with an engine seemingly alight. As the aircraft peeled away to distract the flying creatures, Rothstein considered how, throughout this engagement, he hadn't even thought of the men below as French or British, but as comrades to be assisted. Perhaps, he thought, this ceasefire had hope after all. ** Near Torhout, Belgium Running under a sky so black it was hard to tell if it was dusk or day, British army runner Percy Keating wished not for the first time that he could punch the superiors who had sent him out here, alone, in an area designated as infested by the Roaches. Sprinting through an abandoned trench strewn with ammunition casings half-buried in mud as artillery thundered in the distance, he did his best to ignore all fatigue and bodily demands for rest, fearing that a Roach could burst from nowhere and tear him to shreds. In his satchel he carried a supposedly vital message coming from someone associated with that Monty fellow, de Wiart--unusually, he had been given the message to read before being dispatched. Something about a vital concentration in a village to the north. All he needed to do was deliver to a fort right outside this area. Why he couldn't take a safer route he didn't know, but orders were orders, and he cursed them for it. He paused, finally needing to catch his breath, before becoming aware of a scuttling sound nearby. Heart pounding, he garnered what strength and adrenaline he could produce and ran on, his uniform already brown with splattered mud. Turning around, he ran on through ankle-deep puddles of filthy water in the trench, still smelling the odor of burnt flesh and cordite--then, he suddenly found himself toppling to the muddy ground, impacting into the mud. Getting up, he tried to run on when he found himself frozen in place. No. No. No. This couldn't be happening. The bastards. They surely knew this would happen, they... All thoughts were replaced by mindless, gibbering fear as three shadowy, vaguely mantis-like creatures materialized out of nowhere around him, studying him with beady red eyes. As he silently prayed to a God he wasn't sure existed to have mercy on his soul, little yellow creatures browned with mud writhed out from the soil around him and scuttled onto his leg, crawling their way up as leg. Feeling dozens of the creatures scurrying on his skin, up past his pelvis and onto his chest, Keating tried to cry out in pain as he felt their mandibles dig into his flesh, but his muscles simply refused. Finally, he fell limp down to the floor as he felt the flesh under his skin move. The horrible black creatures continued to stare at him as he felt his mind slowly dissolve, as if being extracted by something else. All he could feel as he lost consciousness was hate for this war, hate for the Roaches, and hate for the idiots who had sent him out here... Watching his limp body convulse, the creatures turned their eyes to his satchel lying in the mud beside him. ** 19th March 1915, off San Francisco, United States of America The light of the morning sun cast itself over the waters gently bobbing against the fogshrouded shoreline of the San Francisco peninsula. For a few moments, there was calm silence, and then the sound of dozens of high-caliber guns signalled the crack of dawn,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 followed by rows of thunderous explosions across the waterfront. Moving over the water towards the shoreline came dozens of landing barges and small boats laden with troops, while behind them the combined guns of the US Pacific fleet pounded the coast. Huddled inside as shells screamed overhead, American, Canadian and Filipino troops had enough time for sergeants and officers to bark off inspirational words while they loaded their weapons. This was the moment they had all been fighting for. This was the epicenter of the vile infestation that had overtook California. All it took was to eradicate this nest, and finally they could bask in the satisfaction of victory. In the hold of a rusty landing boat, Private Quincy uttered last prayers as the rickety craft pierced through churning surf. He could feel the reverberations in the air from the impacts of the naval guns even from here. Men around him hugged their rifles like they had nothing else in the world, as he looked up towards the grizzled sergeant ahead. "Boys, this is it!" he hollered over the guns, the waves, and the engine. "Anything that looks like it has mandibles, shoot it! We clear this city up by dusk, and we can all go home! We got half the navy behind us! We've come this far, so don't none of you sons of bitches fail me today! Got me?" Enthusiastic shouts rippled through some of the men as the battered San Francisco shoreline emerged from the fog ahead. The men at the front of the boat glimpsed wrecked buildings partially covered in dark, organic growths moments before shells thundered into them, engulfing the sight in smoke and fire. Over their heads, Quincy could make out some sort of faint, high-pitched buzzing sound--he couldn't see anything, but already he was beginning to wish that he was anywhere, anywhere but here. This was the nest itself. And he was part of the first wave. What the hell kind of chance did he have? While other boats bore down towards Ocean Beach, Quincy's lander and a number of others continued on through the Golden Gate, as naval fire continued. Aircraft buzzed overhead, piercing through the fog hanging over the bay. Peering out over the side, Quincy could just about make out Alcatraz Island, shrouded in smoke from a shell impact. Turning around, he held his breath as they headed towards the northern shore of the city, heading for Fort Mason--from what little briefing they had had, it would serve as a secure beachhead from where to advance further into the city. Of course, they had no idea how much of it was actually standing, especially after the navy's last aborted bombardment, but hell, any plan was better than none. "Hold on, boys!" The sarge shouted as the barges bore down towards the Marina area. "Fix bayonets and get ready!" Attaching a rusted blade to his M1903, Quincy closed his eyes as the boat plowed towards the waterfront with no hint of stopping. A crack resounded as it struck the shore, lurching the occupants forward, before ramps were brought down along the side. "Go, go, go! Get your asses moving!" Some of the men crowded together to head down the ramp; others just hurdled over the side and splashed into the water below. Jumping over into the surf, Quincy felt the wretched taste of saltwater in his mouth as he joined the others in scrambling onto the waterfront. Others, including confused-looking Filipinos, were also making their way onto the ground nearby. Getting his bearings, Quincy was taken aback by the rows of ruined buildings in front of him, some of them encrusted in what looked like dark, jagged organic coral, connected by fiber-like stands that seemed almost like arteries. Some of

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 these growths were already ablaze, as soldiers rushed forward to throw Tonics onto them. "Don't stand staring, assholes! Move!" Panting, Quincy readied his rifle as he followed the others in rushing forward towards the nearest street entrance. For a moment he was somewhat relieved and confused at the lack of Roaches in sight, before some sort of barbed tendril lashed out from a nearby ruined structure, skewering a man and pulling him back him. Confused shouts followed as rifle bullets peppered the vague direction in which it had came. Looking around him in sheer bewilderment, Quincy instinctively ducked for cover as spines came raining down seemingly out of nowhere. Men who were struck by them screamed in pain, before tumor-like growths erupted all over their skin in seconds and erupted in gory bursts of bodily fluid. "Come on!" Quincy followed the sergeant into the nearest street, as several Filipinos joined them. The gooks seemed to be taking it all rather well--better than some of the American troops around them. Quincy didn't suppose they could quite comprehend what they were seeing. Perhaps all the better for them. "Hold it..." The street ahead of them, littered with ruined or abandoned vehicles, was covered in various segmented vines and almost ivy-like substances crawling up walls, albeit covered in barbs and intestine-like masses. A foul smell permeated the surroundings-Quincy tried to hold his breath as he followed them down the street. Smoke was coming from further down, as the reports of the navy's guns continued, albeit at a slower rate. Cracks were sprawled all over the sidewalk and road ahead, gently writhing tendrils snaking out from them. The whole place barely even felt like an American city any more. "Mother of--" Blister-like growths swelled up on the purple masses on some of the walls as soldiers passed them, erupting in bursts of searing acid that dissolved flesh instantly to spines that peppered men like porcupines. Ducking and jumping to avoid the traps, Quincy cried out like a woman as snaking tendrils suddenly emerged from the cracks in the road ahead, spearing right into the eyes or mouths of men in front of them. Teddy Tonics were thrown wildly around by panicked infantrymen, setting alight some of the growths and tendrils, but that didn't seem to suppress their panic. Turning quickly from side to side, Quincy tried to cover every direction around him, praying that some whip-like tentacle or acid-filled spore wouldn't get him when he took another step. "Pakshet!" Leaping from nearby rooftops into the midst of the men came several things--obviously once men, but so twisted they were barely recognizable as such. Almost gorilla-like shapes with elongated and swelled forearms sporting exposed hardened muscle under pale torn skin, with mouths filled with multiple rows of jagged teeth between clusters of writhing tentacles on the side of their heads. Secondary limbs ending in long-razor like claws grew out from their chests, with the atrophied remains of organs hanging out among them. Quincy could only try and aim his rifle with trembling arms towards one of the beasts as it swung towards a nearby Filipino, cleaving his body in two and splattering

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 his blood for meters around. Rifles cracked out as other men swung with bayonets towards the creatures, trying to dig the blades into their toughened flesh. "Get back, you goddamned hell-spawned pieces of shit!" Shotgun fire rang out as more men came running from up the street, also letting off buckshot into corners as tendrils came lurking out from windows and cracks. The monsters leapt forward again, landing on some of the newcomers and crushing them under their taloned feet, only to get peppered with shot moments later. Quincy found himself almost too terrified to even feel relieved as they finally began to toppled over, leaking both red and purple fluid. He considered that perhaps they were once the city's inhabitants, and how much they had been twisted in the time since the Roaches had snatched them. "Take cover!" More spines came shooting down from ahead. Spinning around, Quincy leapt for behind the battered wreck of a Model T, as he glimpsed spider-like shapes scuttling across the walls of several building husks ahead. As rifles cracked around him, he tried to control his breathing, and stuck himself up to fire. ** San Francisco Bay, United States of America "We'll be landing in a few minutes! Get your engines ready!" Waves of craft came launching from across the eastern shore of San Francisco Bay, moving through the waters towards the smokestack-peppered north of the peninsula across. Artillery was starting up, lobbing shells across the bay and from the south of San Mateo County to join the naval bombardment. Within one of the heavier barges were several FT Land Dreadnoughts, part of the US Army's 1st Land Armor, already occupied by their crews. Inside one of the dormant machine, LD driver Robert Prescott did a lastminute skim read of the manual as he tried not to get seasick through the undulations of the boat. He had barely completed a few exercises in this thing and already they were thrusting him into the thick of it. Behind him, his gunner, Kowalski, remained silent behind the seat of the vehicle's main gun. With only a little slit to look through, Prescott could only hope that he was going to get past today alive. "Two minutes to landing! Suggest you start the engines!" Pushing a lever, Prescott felt the LD shudder as the 36-horsepower engine growled into gear. Straps holding the thing down were undone as he heard shouts and orders being snapped across the barge. He had already had experience driving locomotives across the Midwest, which he guessed was why he had been chosen for this, but even so he still felt uncertain with these controls and sticks. No doubt these LDs were only being deployed here to try and boost morale. Well, he supposed, best to try and keep it out of the thick of it. "One minute!" The interior of the barge was filled with the fumes and noises of the LD engines as they started up one after the other. Prescott wished he had some sort of gas mask, not because he feared that the enemy would be using gas, but so he didn't have to suffocate inside this damn thing. With that, he took in a deep breath as the barge finally came up

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 towards the shore, just as artillery peppered the embankments ahead. Time to see if all his meagre training had been enough. "Lower the ramp!" The barge shuddered as it thudded into the smoke-covered embankment, with ramps being thrown down moments later. Pushing down on the sticks, Prescott gently guided the LD down one of the groaning metal gangways and onto what, from the looks of it, was a ruined Embarcadero. Infantrymen were already swarming out onto the waterfront from other barges. Cautiously, Prescott moved the vehicle after them, as the other LDs emerged out from the boat behind him. His limited visibility of the outside was almost frustrating, but, he reasoned, perhaps that would allow him not to see the worst of it. "Watch out!" He made out several men fall, huge spines embedded in their chests, just as rifle fire cracked out. "Kowalski! See anything?" "Oh, Jesus--you don't want to know..." Prescott made out swiftly moving insect shapes outside as the LD's machinegun crackled into life, spitting out explosive rounds towards the screaming monsters ahead. He recoiled in shock as a barb suddenly penetrated the forward hull, missing his head by a matter of inches. Nevertheless, he could make at least one of the beasts fall, just as more fire crackled from the LDs behind him. One of their main guns then rang out, throwing up dust as it thudded into a surface ahead. "Advance! Get this thing moving!" Plowing the LD over the sprawled bodies of men on the ground and scattered masonry, Prescott was shaken by the impacts of more artillery as further waves of men poured out onto the Embarcadero, some of them rushing forward to set up mortars. He felt something strike against the surface of the machine, making out some writhing out from a shattered waterfront building nearby, but couldn't make anything distinct out. Although he fancied he was a damn bit safer than the poor bastards around him, the sheer claustrophobia of being crammed into this thing was almost maddening. "What do we do?" he called to Kowalski. "Move forward, and find Roaches to crush!" As good as orders as any. Following the rushing waves of infantrymen, Prescott put all the engine's strength into the tracks as he moved after them. The Battle of San Francisco had begun. ** Ural Mountains, Imperial Russia Emerging from his tattered, faded tent, Georgi Zhukov found himself crawling through wet, cold mud as he staggered up. The spring had begun melting most of the snow in the Ural foothills, creating banks of mud that were hell for men and horses to move

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 through. Combined with dew that settled on ammunition and rusted rifle barrels, the mountain environment seemed to be more oppressive than ever. Getting him, Zhukov inhaled the smell of wet soil and grizzled men who had not washed in weeks, as a bugle sounded for them to assemble. This part of the Urals, at least to him, seemed to have been spared Roach attacks for at least a few days now--although of course, with news from outside being less informative than the mud he was wallowing in, they could be overwhelming other parts for all he knew. His own comrades were little comfort--whispers of so-and-so being a traitor or a defeatist were all too common, with the officers offering rewards for anyone who came forward to snitch. They told of anti-Tsarist agents working within the ranks, attempting to sow defeat by turning loyal men against the motherland. They told of cowardly mutineers who would bring nothing but ruin to their fellow soldiers. Zhukov wasn't quite sure what to think, but he wished more than ever now that he could be somewhere other than this wasteland. "Form a line! Wake up, you lazy bastards!" A coarse voice cut through the air as Zhukov and the others around him groggily stumbled to form a line in the middle of this camp on a grassy ridge in the foothills, not far from an artillery battery. He spotted a young boy trying to cram a loaf of stale bread into his mouth--ration deliveries were so erratic now that men often went out into the woods to find wild animals or berries that they could eat, diseases or infections be damned. Some of them didn't return--nobody was sure whether they had deserted or if the Roaches had got them. Either way, it wasn't worth thinking too hard about. As the men formed their line, Zhukov was now able to make out the burly figures encircling them on horseback or standing around with heavy rifles at the ready. Some even sat in tachankas modified from sleighs, pointing their PM machineguns right towards the men. Zhukov couldn't help but feel an almost pants-shittingly grave degree of unease as he recognized them as cossacks--Tsarist hounds, as hard-assed as you could get. As their lead officer dismounted from his horse, staring right into a young soldier who seemed that he was about to burst into tears, Zhukov crossed his fingers and hoped he wouldn't feel a bullet in his heart when its next beat came. "Men of the Russian army." The man began, walking up and down the line. "I will speak frankly to you--our situation is not improved. The demons throw themselves at our lines in ever greater numbers, and seem none the worse for it. They will spare none and when they cross these mountains in a great number, all will be lost." He paused, to take in the faces in front of him. "And yet, when the logical thing to do in the face of such a threat is to stand in solidarity, I hear of mutiny. I hear of deserters, traitors, defeatists. I hear of agents within our own ranks plotting to divide us against the Tsar and his god-given reign. I hear of worthless little shits who think, that in our nation's darkest our, they can go and sell us out!" Flecks of spit flew from his mouth onto the feet of the men in front of him, as he turned and pointed towards one Ukrainian-looking man. Reinforcements of men like him were coming from all over the empire now, from Belarussians to Poles to Tartars. "Are you Demyan Kedzierski?" The cossack said icily. The man nodded slowly, visibly terrified.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Gesturing with his hand, the officer stood back as two of his men strode forward and grabbed Demyan forcibly by his arms, dragging him out in front of the line. "Do you not admit to selling information to anti-Tsarist agents, for reasons of subversion?" Looking up into the cossack's hardened face, Demyan looked down at the muddy ground, before bursting into tears and mumbling affirmatives. "This man," the officer stepped aside, "is the worst kind of filth there is. He is not even fit to be fed to the Roaches!" So quick that the weapon almost seemed to appear in his hand, the man unholstered a Nagant revolver and fired a single round into Demyan's head, splattering cranial fluid onto the wet grass next to him. The cossacks dropped his limp body onto the ground, letting it sink into the mud. "There will be no more defeatism." The cossack continued, speaking faster and with more venom. "There will be no more mutineering. There will no more talk of retreat, of desertion, or of surrender. There will be no more of your bullshit! The Tsar's generals have nearly exhausted their patience, and have tasked us to make sure that we all stand as one. You are the wall that separates the motherland from ruin, and all that will be done to keep you standing will be undertaken. Am I understood?" Nods and hoarse mutters of 'yes' rippled down the line. Zhukov felt like he was about to empty his bowels. Not only did he have to fear the Roaches now, but these hairy-assed thugs too. "Now then," the man continued, "I understood you are to take position to protect..." There was a sudden, deep rumbling sound, with the ground gently shaking under their feet. Stones gently trickled down the ridge as some of the men stepped back in uncertainty, only to quickly step back into line as cossack guns swivelled towards them. Muttering something to one of his lieutenants, the officer quickly walked off to a nearby tent, as Zhukov looked around in confusion. That didn't feel like an artillery impact, or even like charging cavalry--more like an earthquake. "Get back to your tents." The officer shouted eventually. "Make sure your weapons are ready!" Dispersing, the men nervously headed back to their campfires and pots. Having got barely any sleep, Zhukov's mind struggled to think sharply--he looked around for any cold water to dunk his face in, water that preferably hadn't been used by his comrades to relieve themselves in. He remembered sipping tea--a rare treat--back in his village, and let his mind drift away to when he could eat cakes and sweets he could steal from his neighbors. Even cabbage and boiled potatoes seemed like luxury food compared to stale bread and berries that caused stomach pains. Sitting back in the mud in a circle with several others, Zhukov stared into an empty pot for what seemed like an eternity before another man, a runner by the looks of it, came stumbling up to them, red-faced and panting, while muttering something incoherently. "What's that?" The cossack officer came striding up to him, a hint of fear visible on his chiselled face.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Neroika mountain." The newcomer gasped. "The entire eastern face of Neroika mountain just collapsed." ** Near Morges, Switzerland Within the chateau on the shores of Lake Geneva, politicians and military leaders again took their seats in the main room as morning sunlight beamed in through the windows-after a day and a half of intense and thorough talks, things were looking to be wrapped up. Even though a number of agreements had been made, there was still a slight air of tension and hostility hanging over the table. Years of both sides thinking the other as enemies or untrustworthy had not worn off--but nevertheless, practicality dictated things above all. Sitting down, von Falkenhayn and the other German General Staff representatives gathered their notes as the French and British leaders sat down across the table--so far, agreements had been made to share all intelligence and orders to create a more coordinated front. The idea of a combined pan-European general staff had been a controversial one, even though there seemed to be at least one proponent from each party, but nevertheless it had not been thrown out entirely. "Gentlemen." Prime Minister Asquith spoke up, taking a sip of water. "Let us get straight to business. Mr. Falkenhayn, I recall you enquired yesterday as to the possibility of a formal lifting of all naval blockades to Germany. You will be pleased to hear that I have given an official order to my admiralty to cease any harassment of German shipping, and, in fact, we have been in communication with the American consulate in London over shipments to your nation. I was just informed this morning that they have finally begun their final counter-attack into San Francisco." "The Americans?" Falkenhayn sat up. "Are they still neutral while fighting by your side?" "Not quite." Asquith chuckled nervously. "From what I can make out, the Americans will be happy to commence shipments in exchange for blueprints of advanced weaponry. I understand this will be a great boon for you." "At what cost?" Falkenhayn grunted. "Is this to saddle my country with debt?" "Surely for now all monetary worries are secondary to the matter of our very survival?" Asquith's voice became harsher. "Ja, ja...I suppose." Falkenhayn sighed. "There is one question we have been overlooking." Poincaré cleared his throat. "Our embassy in Russia has...less than hopeful things to say of the situation there. It seems that, despite the efforts of good Tsar Nicholas, their country might be cracking at the seams..." "We have already donated men and material to their front." Falkenhayn snapped. "You can thank our Kaiser for that." "And we have shared our Land Dreadnought designs." Asquith uttered. "We are not certain how much aid we can spare them, when our own supply lines are so overstretched."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "But if the Urals fall, then I cannot imagine the outcome being pleasant." Kitchener added. "Whether we like it or not, a major loss on the Russian front can only lead to catastrophe for the rest of Europe. Unfortunately, despite being in a secured position, the Russians either lack the will or the ability to make any sort of major advance into Siberia, which I can safely presume is where the main Roach nest in Asia is." "I can try and convince the Turks to send more men." Falkenhayn mused. "But they were reluctant to donate troops to the Urals as it was. I understand there was a certain degree of anguish in their leadership and among their people. Besides, the cold hardly seemed conductive for them." "We have forces in the Mediterranean that were meant for a strike at Gallipoli that we have now aborted for obvious reasons." Kitchener nodded. "A good portion of them have been sent to France, but I suppose we could consider sending the rest to the Urals via Odessa." "The Tsar himself seems content to shut himself up in Petrograd and throw himself under the spell of this mad monk." Falkenhayn grunted. "Can you believe, they actually send this hairy madman as an ambassador?" "Rasputin?" Asquith seemed worried. "I admit this is a cause for concern. Now, I must admit this is not something I wish transcribed for the record--my intelligence services say they can get deeper into the Winter Palace. There is grave discontent even in the Tsarist nobility over the way their war against the Roaches has been handled, to say nothing of the working class." "This Rasputin." Ludendorff tapped the table, speaking up. "I believe it is in the best interests of ourselves and our Russian friends if something be done about him." "Come on." Kitchener said. "Surely some vodka-addled monk cannot be--" "You were not there when he visited Berlin." Ludendorff snapped. "You wish to share intelligence? Fine. We have been finding cases of seeming schizophrenics and madmen, who, on closer inspection, seem to have been somehow influenced by this intelligence that drives the Roaches--I can barely understand it myself, but it seems it can stretch out into the minds of men. Some of them even embraced it wholeheartedly, and attempted to commit acts of sabotage. I am certain you have had such cases yourself." Asquith nodded slowly. "You're suggesting...?" "Grigori Rasputin be eliminated, by whatever means. One way or the other, I am sure it will shock the Tsar back into a firm state of mind." ** Near Amsterdam, the Netherlands Marching along a misty canal, some upsurge of morale had infused the Norwegians and Danes--Amsterdam seemed only to be in the distance past the fog ahead, and once there, the word was, they could declare the Netherlands free. Not only that, reinforcements from Denmark and Norway, including additional Dutch refugees turned soldiers from England, were rumored to soon land the city from the Ijsselmeer, allowing an attack from multiple directions. Though they had seen little actual action, it still felt

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 like the climax to a long and arduous journey. For Timmerman, marching near the front, there was also a sense of relief. He was happy that some of his countrymen were not simply going to sit in the refugee camps in Britain or Scandinavia and look at what a bog these monsters had made of their homeland. Of course, he had to face realism--simply hoisting a flag over the ruins of Amsterdam would not mean that all Roaches would be expelled from the rest of the country. But, at least it would mean hope for the rest of Europe. It would show them all that it would only be a matter of time before these monsters would be expelled from the soil they infested. "Come on!" he heard a shout from ahead. "I can see the rooftops of Amsterdam!" A sudden surge of energy seemed to ripple through the column as the men quickened their march, some of them murmuring excitedly towards one another. Timmerman couldn't help but make a satisfied smile as he too trudged faster forwards. He had been there when Amsterdam fell, and he would be there when it was reclaimed. One day, he thought, he would publish an autobiography, and there would be queues in every capital to buy it. "Hold on..." The men came to a sudden stop as some sort of mass appeared in the canal up ahead. For a moment it seemed like a festering carpet of algae and weeds, but Timmerman could soon make out a floor of barbs and twisting, worm-like shapes. A horrifying realization swept over him--it was a mass of those barb-worm creatures, clogging up the canal with their sheer bulk. He couldn't quite tell if they were alive or not, but along with the others, he began to quickly edge away from the canalside. "Stand back!" Grenades were tossed in, impacting among the creatures and blowing clumps of them upwards in geysers of muddy water and fleshy chunks. But there seemed to be no end to them. Some of the men were outright starting to run in fear, even though the creatures didn't seem to be coming after them. Were they in some sort of dormant state? Was this some sort of spawning? Timmerman wasn't sure he wanted to know. "Hold on!" One of the British Royal Marines that had been accompanying them stepped forward, carrying a bulky flame apparatus that he pointed into the canal. Turning something he on, he stepped back as it let loose a searing jet of fire into the mass, setting it alight. Finding his heart pounding, Timmerman watched as it began to burn. But there was only so much fuel in that flamethrower, he thought, and if all the canals of Amsterdam were filled with those wretched things... "Forward march!" A Norwegian officer barked. "Come on, men! See how they burn! Amsterdam is just ahead!" "Hooray for Amsterdam." someone muttered nearby, as the men carried on into the mist ahead. ** Near McLaren Park, San Francisco, United States of America

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Most of the southern San Francisco suburbs had been reduced to charred, crater-dotted fields of rubble by artillery and naval bombardment, and as such thousands of Army and National Guard infantry, supported by Canadian troops, had commenced a vast push into the lower city from the San Bruno Mountain State Park. Fresh artillery batteries that had arrived from the heartland provided a near-constant supporting rain of shells ahead and to the side of the infantry waves, with cavalry serving as the front vanguard. Units of armored cars, armed with a variety of weaponry from machineguns to Gatling weapons to flamethrowers using designs that had just barely came in from Europe, provided further support to the men as they hurriedly rushed along cracked roads and shattered paving. Scout aircraft buzzed in the air to identify any Roach positions, dropping flares onto anything they could spot to the best of their ability. Amidst the advancing force, Theodore Roosevelt kept on horseback alongside a unit of five armored cars, shouting words of encouragement to the dozens of infantrymen around him. Canadians were mixed in there as well, most of them looking terrified and confused out of their minds. He couldn't blame the poor boys. Most of them had probably been scared enough of being sent to Europe to face German guns before the falling stars came, let alone being thrown up against monsters. Regardless, he wasn't going to miss out on being at the forefront of what would be remembered as one of America's greatest battles, and God willing, these men would be immortalized as well. So far, the artillery was keeping them covered, but he didn't expect them to be able to suppress everything. He reminded himself of his objective--to link further north with Marines landing by on the west coast, and then again link with troops at the top of the peninsula to smash the Roaches in a pincer movement. A solid enough plan--but it seemed more like one tailored against a human enemy, and their foe here was anything but. "Incoming!" Something pierced through smoke ahead and thudded into a nearby soldier, overpenetrating his body with such force that most of his internal organs were sucked out through a hole in his back onto the charred road beneath him. Rifle fire crackled back in return towards the vague direction from where the shot had came from, as Roosevelt steeled himself and gripped the butt of his holstered revolver. His horse seemed like it would bolt away in panic at any moment. "Come on!" he shouted over the noise of the stuttering armored car engines and the distant impacts of shells. "Find us some weevils and carve them up!" He then ducked as one of the reconnaissance aircraft came spiralling down several blocks ahead trailing smoke, smashing into the ground in a fiery explosion--in the distance, more men were cut down by unseen snipers. He reckoned he knew what it was--damned Roach rounds, make of some organic material with incredible penetration power. Thankful only that he apparently hadn't been targeted, he kept his horse at pace with the vehicles as they accelerated up the street. "Over there! Over there!" Roosevelt paused as he saw an intact but burnt-out structure rise up through the smoke ahead--several spider-like shapes were crawling across it, bearing gun-like forms fused to their sides. Raising a pair of miniature binoculars to his eyes, Roosevelt could make out the hideous shapes of Roach warriors--these ones were bigger than ones he had seen before, a few of them bearing sharpened tusks or spines across their abdomens. All sported rifles on their sides covered in sacs and fibers to the point that they looked like

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 extensions of their own forms. And then, one of them aimed and with a whiplash-like sound fired towards him. The crystal-like spine round cut through the head of his horse like it wasn't there, sending the steed toppling to the ground as its brains were sucked out and splattered around for several meters. Knocked down to the floor, Roosevelt ignored the bruising and the pain as he got up and took cover near one of the armored vehicles as it opened fire with machinegun fire towards the vile creatures, which leapt into nearby ruins with incredible swiftness for their size. Rifle fire followed them as grenades and Tonics were tossed out. "Look at 'em cower, boys!" Roosevelt shouted. "Come on! Flush them out!" With a sudden screech, one of the abominations leapt out from the smoke onto the armored car next to him, stabbing through the front vision slits. Spinning around, Roosevelt raised his revolver and emptied it into the side of the creature's head. Bleeding purple fluid profusely, the monster span around, somehow still up, and was about to pounce onto him when he drew his cavalry saber and lunged forward, impaling the blade straight into the face. Retracting it from its limp body, he turned as someone else inside the car took over as driver. The men around him had clearly been inspired by what he had just done, advancing forward with greater enthusiasm. The sounds of Roach screeching and men screaming came form several blocks away, but Roosevelt didn't pause as he moved upwards, with the suburban sprawls of Noe Valley visible ahead. Some of the houses and structures were either lying in ruins or covered by glistening purple coral-like growth-although he couldn't quite make it out clearly now, as artillery soon began to saturate that area too. "Sir! Look!" Sprinting out of the smoke ahead came a small swarm of human-like figures--human in the very barest sense, as he could soon make out. Sporting multiple clawed limbs, jaws split open to resemble mandibles, or trembling tendrils writhing out from between exposed muscle fibers, the creatures leapt forward into the forward soldiers, cutting through them in such speed that they just seemed to fall down on the spot. Machinegun rounds began to cut through them, but even those that suffered whole limbs blown off just kept on coming. As the men around him opened fire with rifles, Roosevelt span around as another Roach warrior erupted out from under the road behind one of the armored cars, crawling onto the roof and stabbing down through it with a claw. His revolver reloaded, Roosevelt opened fire, but the rounds simply impacted against the creature's thorny carapace. Nevertheless, it now focused his attention on him, spinning around to pounce forwards. Sidestepping, Roosevelt again drew his sabre as it landed right in front of him, and went for a gap in the carapace between head and body. As his blade plunged in, a claw lashed at him with lightning speed, cutting a diagonal wound across his chest. Feeling blood drawn, he still drew back as it felt limp. He had survived worse than this. He was going to press on, even if he was left with a thousand flesh wounds. Further waves of men were coming up from the back, scooping up any spare ammunition from the bodies of those already on the ground. Looking forward, Roosevelt moved forward to join the men trying to keep back the charging aberrations, some of them cut down as the monsters themselves scooped up guns and opened fire, some of them simply twisting whatever vestiges of fingers they had left to manipulate the

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 triggers. Running forward, Roosevelt approached one of the creatures as it ripped open the chest of a poor Canadian boy. Snarling, the creature stared up at him with multiple, sunken eyes in a face made up of torn skin and twisted musculature. As it leapt forward, Roosevelt, froze, and then with a deft swing of his sword decapitated the thing as it landed in front of him. "Mr. Roosevelt!" As the last of the aberrations dropped, a vanguard cavalrymen came trampling out of the smoke towards him, his horse's eyes swollen with fright. Pausing to take a breath, Roosevelt took in the horrifically mutilated corpses of men around him, thankful only that he could keep his sanity in such a place. "Yes?" "Marines are advancing through the Parkside, but it's absolute hell in the city center. We've already had to wipe out a platoon because a swarm of those damned little yellow things jumped them...the navy's flattened half the place, but that doesn't seem to discourage the bastards!" "Don't pause for anything." Roosevelt panted. "If we must go through hell to reach Elysium, then by all means, show me the route to Cocytus." Reloading his weapon, he turned around and continued as the fresh waves of men charged on by. The Battle of San Francisco continued. ** Near Tielt, Belgium Light shows of artillery impacts and phosphorous detonations lined the horizon under the overcast evening sky. The clouds themselves seemed to be casting an ethereal purple tint onto the ground below, barely making the blackened No Man's Land seem like it was on Earth anymore, especially with the shadows cast over the barren fields and craters. In the distance, a trio of German Luftkreuzers spat tracer fire onto the ground below-many of their type had been coming deeper into Entente-held land without any fear of repercussion, now that orders were coming in to both sides to encourage co-operation. Pinpricks signifying rife discharges flashed in long rows from the direction of trenchlines, and above the constant chatter of guns the occasional piercing shriek or roar became all too audible. A lone figure stumbled towards a collection of smashed walls and flattened building foundations that was once a small village. Private Bertoldo Goretti, of the Italian Royal Army, made no effort to conceal his movement as his legs nearly sank to their ankles in mud while he desperately scrambled for the nearest shelter. His rifle barely had a few rounds in it, and the only weapon in his hand was a rusty bayonet that he was having trouble holding onto for the sweat in his palm. Nothing in any pamphlet or poster had prepared him for this. Only a few hours ago, he and his company had arrived to reinforce the trenches, having spent over a day crammed into a train coming all the way from Turin. Then, a march all the way to Bruges through blasted, near-flooded trenches, after a quick briefing on the various castes of Roaches. He had only joined the army because many he knew were,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 buoyed by talk of crushing overgrown lice underfoot. Through his first hours on this front, he had found himself feeling nearly perpetually confused and dazed, barely able to process all the sounds of shelling, gunfire, and screaming monsters. Then, as he and his comrades, barely able to figure out where they were going, headed down a designated trench, the creatures set upon them. Dozens were cut down in the first few seconds. He remembered some sort of giant beetle emerge from the ground, destroying part of the trench. After that, there were only confused blurs and fleeting memories of sounds mashed together into incomprehensibility. The furthest his memory could coherently reach after the attack was about thirty minutes before, when he had found himself crawling through the mud of this No Man's Land. He had no idea were to go, or if he would survive, so he simply went ahead in a straight line, deciding it was a good a route as any. His feet found purchase on what felt like actual stone as he hugged up to a shattered wall, looking around for any sign of human life. Nothing, except the ubiquitous weapons flashes on the horizon, that seemed to remain an infinite distance away no matter now close he tried to get to him. Slumping down to catch his breath, he found himself hyperventilating sharply, and grabbed a flask of water to gulp down the last remaining drops. He sat up sharply as he felt what seemed like a sharp gust of wind that came out of nowhere. Stumbling upwards, leaving his satchel and backpack on the ground--what good would they be now--he grabbed his rifle from over his shoulder, and, hands shaking, gently stepped around to corner to see what he guessed was the remains of the village's main road. Half buried among loose cobblestones and wet mud were dozens of corpses in uniforms tattered beyond recognition, some of them still clutching weapons or satchels to their chests. The flesh had rotted away from most of them, with not even flies lingering here, but by now Goretti had been desensitized to foul stenches here. Crawling forward, barely concerned by the sight, he rummaged his fingers into the pockets and pouches of the nearest body, finding most of them filled with wet soil or water. Grabbing out any spare ammunition he could find, he looked up as something caused the wood splinters lying on the base of a ruined house nearby to stir. With his rifle ready, he slowly headed forwards down the road, barely registering the stench from the corpses. Another sensation of movement to his left--he span around, almost falling over as he found his legs shaking with damp and fear. Was it some sort of apparition? His imagination? Or perhaps, had his mind finally decided it could not take all of this? Dust and small specks of brick fell from a nearby wall as he felt some sort of slithering from behind him. Turning around, he spat in horror as he saw one of the bodies slowly rise up, surrounded by some sort of ghostly blue glow. It was limp, like a loose puppet held up--but by now Goretti simply did not know what to think. Finding his back against a wall, he looked around as more of the bodies began to rise up, surrounded by similar auras. Pieces of stone and wood also levitated upwards into the air as he finally collapsed dow onto the mud. He found himself chuckling hoarsely. None of this could be real. It seemed clear enough that he really had lost it. More of his surroundings came to life. Writhing barbed tendrils emerged from the mud in a large carpet, with more coming out from holes in the walls or from between the stones. He had no idea if they were real or just his mind falling into deeper insanity. And then, a large, black shape began to materialize right in front of him--some sort of demon

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 like a mantis out of hell, staring down with multiple slit-like red eyes underneath a jagged, spike crest. Looking up, Goretti struggled to even muster a response as it tilted its head, as if in amusement. His next sensation was a cold, wet feeling all over his lower body, as he looked down to see his intestines collapse out from his chest and onto the ground around him. The worms pounced on them, seemingly consuming his spilt organs from the inside out. Some rapidly slithered right into the exposed rupture in his chest, and then he felt the splitting feeling of something writhing around inside his stomach, ripping and shredding his own organs. At this point, as he felt his breath slip away, he realized that what he was seeing was all happening. He tried to scream, but his hoarse throat could not manage a whimper. And all the time, the monstrous black apparition stared down onto him with cruel, bemused eyes. ** Near Torhout, Belgium Lying in a prone position, de Wiart stared calmly down the scope of a massive-bore rifle towards a circle of ruined houses at the foot of a small hill. Under the cover of fog and gas, specially chosen sappers were making all the arrangements he had requested. Already at least one soul had been given away for this. But in every hunt, there would always be bait to be sacrificed. Inside a foxhole covered by mud and camouflage netting, with only a small slit for his rifle to give it away, he had a perfect view of the setting below. Loaded into his rifle was a single massive armor-penetrating round with an explosive core, supposedly enough to pierce through the hull of an Eldie. He only prayed to whatever sick deity was out there that it would suffice. Would these things be able to sniff him out? Could they sense his thoughts, as he sat in this hole, with only a few jars for pissing? There were a lot of questions that could be asked, that he did not have the answers to. But dammit, he had committed himself to this hunt. He was only going to leave this hole with that creature's head, or as a corpse. The wait was on. **

BlackWave

April 3rd, 2012 02:06 AM

20th March 1915, San Francisco, United States of America Midnight had just passed as Quincy found himself crouched in the burnt shell of a building disorientated by the reverberations of impacting naval shells and the constant discharging of rifles all around him. For the last few hours--although it felt more like an eternity--he countless others had pushed forward down the streets towards the city center, trying to overwhelm the creatures through sheer amount of waves. Trying to swarm a swarm--of course, it seemed like foolishness now, but there didn't seem like much other choice. Even with constant naval and artillery bombardment, the amount of blood spilt for every meter seemed too much. But nevertheless, at least progress was

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 being made. He could see men near him shaking as they paused to reload, staring out with glazed eyes. Poor bastards had probably been broken already--with seemingly every square foot of ground out to kill them and hideous monsters bursting out from every crack and hole, he couldn't blame them. Hell, he was surprised that he hadn't already lost his mind as well. Regardless, as a shell screamed overhead, he got up to aim out through the window, trying not to shake. Down below in the street, a Land Dreadnought was advancing, spraying into the smoke ahead as Filipinos and Canadians moved upward to support it. How those boys were coping, without even the benefit of fighting them before, he still could not understand. Looking sharp as ululating screeches pierced out seemingly from all around, he tensed his grip on his rifle, looking from side to side as more gunfire crackled from the distance. The sky above had an apocalyptic orange tint to it from the raging fires in the city, not doing much good to calm his nerves. The stinging odor of smoke and the stench of sweat and open wounds likewise. Something suddenly leapt from a rooftop on the other side of the street in front of the LD, so fast it barely registered as a blur. Quincy brought his rifle to bear as he spotted a Roach--a big one, covered in spines and sporting huge knife-like tusks--pounce onto the LD as the soldiers around it fell back in panic, ripping into the hull with sycthe-like forearms. Rifle rounds slammed against the jagged carapace to little effect, before it descended onto some of the Filipinos. Organs and blood were thrown across the road and sidewalk as it tore through several at a time with quick sweeps of its tusks, ignoring even the gunfire coming from above. Grenades finally began to detonate around it, and spinning around, the creature suddenly leapt upwards, crawling rapidly up the side of the nearest structure right up towards Quincy's positions. In panic, Quincy drew a service pistol and fired wildly downwards out through the window just before the beast suddenly appeared in it. A man next to him was decapitated immediately by a scything tusk, taking most of his spinal cord as well. Frozen through sheer fear, Quincy watched as a sergeant ran right up to the creature and discharged a shotgun right towards its face. Buckshot tore out some of the creature's eyes, but it simply moved inside so fast it seemed to transport itself instantaneously. Moving forward, it skewered the man with a forearm--at the same time, Quincy, possessed more by instinct than any clear state of mind, rushed forward with a Teddy Tonic, sliding himself under the thing and shoving the bottle right among the mandibles seconds before it would explode. Rolling away, his ears rang as the thing detonated, taking most of the creature's head--but still it span around towards him, as the others opened fire. Moving forward as rounds impacted into the wound, it finally collapsed seconds before it would've skewered Quincy. As viscous purple fluid flooded onto the floor, Quincy got up shaking as the creature's body still twitched. "Someone go get reinforcements!" A man shouted as he ran back to the window. An aircraft buzzed overhead, cutting through the smoke hanging over the buildings, as a rear machinegun sprayed into the streets. Just as Quincy got back to his place at the window, spines shot out from ahead--one right into the face of the man next to him. Huge fist-sized blisters swelled across his head and torso before bursting open with gore. Turning around, trying to not process what was seeing, Quincy fired blindly into the smoke as someone threw up nearby. "You up there!" He looked down as someone on horseback called upwards, as fresh squads moved

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 forward. "We're pushing forward--get down here and cover our rear!" "Out in the open?" someone nearby breathed. "But..." "Come on." Quincy finally got up, wiping off what he could of the red and purple liquids soaked onto his uniform. "City ain't gonna liberate itself." Outside, the fires and gunfire continued. ** Off San Francisco, Pacific Ocean On the forward deck of the USS Utah, US Navy seaman Findlay Sterling look out towards the large orange haze hanging over a large part of shoreline on the horizon ahead, casting more light onto the bobbing Pacific waters. The guns of virtually the whole American naval strength of this ocean continued to fire away towards whatever he guessed was left of San Francisco--god help the poor souls fighting there, he thought soberly. Even with all this fire poured onto the place, it seemed like the foul creatures infesting it were still not eradicated. But surely, it had to be only a matter of time. He turned around as the ship's forward guns started up a fresh salvo. He looked down towards his hands, gripping one of the new 'California typewriter' submachineguns. Impossible to aim with any real accuracy, but against what they were facing, that hardly mattered. At the start of the attack, flying aberrations had flocked out from the city towards the ships as they had done last time. This time the navy was more prepared--more pounder guns with explosive shells and crewmen ready with high-powered rifles and, of course, these new arms. With those flying monsters also focused on the troops landing, the damage they dealt was significantly lesser, although several vessels nonetheless suffered visible damage and loss of crew. As the bombardment continued, men like Findlay were kept on deck. Even though he had not really encountered any Roaches or the creatures they somehow corrupted out of the bodies of men, he knew enough from what others said to know that these damned creatures were sneaky. He wasn't sure quite what to expect. "Want some? Just got it down in the mess." He turned as one of his fellow sailors approached, offering him some tobacco. Contraband had certainly soared, what with such things as that becoming ever more luxurious as Congress continued the grip over transport. Still, Findlay thought with some hopefulness, as soon as they finally fumigated this damn city, the nation could finally get back to business... "How much longer is it going to take?" The man continued, turning towards the deckrail. "Just a bunch of goddamn bugs...and they're supposed to be kicking their asses?" "Only takes a mosquito bite to kill some guys." Findlay shrugged. "Why shouldn't they?" "Hmm." came the reply. "Well, I tell you, if I ever meet one of the chiggers--" Findlay stumbled back in surprise as a barbed, glistening tendril lashed out from below,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 skewering the sailor through the head and yanking him over the side in an instant. Looking down over the rail, he could make out something emerging out from the waves and crawling up the side of the ship, sporting clusters of long, writhing tentacles growing out from its back. Moving back in panic, Findlay readied his gun as he reached for a nearby bell and began to desperately ring it, hoping it wouldn't be drowned out by the shelling. "They're coming out of the water! Starboard deck! Come, quick!" he shouted. Moments later, the thing leapt out over the rail and onto the deck, dripping seawater and staring towards him. Not a Roach, but an man aberrated beyond recognition--webbed feet and hands of stretched veiny skin, all protruding muscle fibers twisted into vague fin-like shapes and tentacles reaching out from seemingly all over it. The mouth was twisted into a pit gaping unnaturally deeply, filled with multiple rows of teeth like some sort of angler fish. Findlay found himself frozen to the spot as other seamen finally came rushing out from below decks, and taking aim at the creature, opened fire. Bullets riddled the thing, blowing off tendrils and chunks of flesh, before it shot out jagged spines from crevasses between the muscles. Some of the sailors were hit with such force that they were sent flying overboard--but moments later, after showering the deck with spent shells, the submachineguns went silent as it finally collapsed. "The fuck is that?" someone uttered. "Roac...Roachy must be improvising." Findlay muttered, looking down over the side into the murky waters below. He couldn't see any more--but now he could here further gunfire and shouts coming from other nearby vessels, even other the wind and shells. Nobody had expected that the battle would be won easily. But it seemed like Roachy was going to test them every inch of the way. ** Near Torhout, Belgium As red morning light cast across the sky, de Wiart did all he could to suppress the urge to nod off to sleep. His eye remained staring down the scope of his gun. His muscles remained tense, and his trousers wet from moisture and urine--he did not want to risk missing what he was here for, not even for a moment. This thing thought it could hunt the lives of men on this front--not just British men, but of all nationalities and creeds-and he simply was not going to let it get too big for its boots. Perhaps this was insane. Didn't matter. Someone had to do it. His heartbeat increased as he suddenly saw a faint rippling over a pool of water down in the ruins ahead. Slowly, his hand reached for a nearby plunger, before his mind stopped it. Perhaps it was merely wind? Something else? Doubt was starting to get the better of him. Then, looking down through the scope, he saw a small undulation of mud push downwards slightly. With no more hesitation, he pressed down on the plunger. Repeated discharges rippled across the rubble as smoke bombs detonated, spilling out vapor for dozens of meters around. De Wiart modulated his breathing as he stared down the scope, just as a shape appeared in the smoke--then another, and another. For a second, he was confused, and tried not to think about whether the things had spotted him or not. Then, he noticed among them, something larger and sporting extra wings.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 As some of them began to take off, in a matter of seconds, he aligned the rifle and, just as the monster turned its head towards him, he fired. The bullet soared across the space between him and it, impacting right into the creature's hind. Burrowing into the flesh, the armor-piercing round then detonated, blowing off most of the abomination's wings. At that moment, de Wiart began to scramble out of his foxhole, letting adrenaline wake up his limbs, just as secondary explosions wracked the rubble--explosive charges and phosphorous, setting alight to everything around them. More gunfire rang out as other snipers fired--hard to tell whether they were hitting anything, and in the smoke and confusion, de Wiart could barely tell if there were any other bloody creatures in there. Signalled by the explosion, soldiers, hand-picked by Monty himself, emerged from the mist to the side of the village, sporting flamethrowers--jets of fire were then sprayed forward into the smoke. Crawling through the mud down a ridge, de Wiart paused, seeing and smelling the burning corpse of at least one wretched Roach--but where was the big one? Could he really have survived such an inferno? Seconds later, the men suddenly froze in spot as something materialized among them, eviscerating them all in seconds in a flurry of movement. Several sniper shots cut through the monster in moments--but it was still not the big one. As he waded down into a water-filled crater, he reached down for something bulky in his holster--a modified flare gun, fitted with a heavy phosphorous charge. Enough to blow the head off pretty much anything, he reckoned. Now, where the hell was the target? Out from the ridge from a camouflaged waiting spot came an armored car--what had taken the crew so long to react he didn't know--which opened fire with a top-mounted machinegun into the conflagration ahead. Now almost swimming through the filthy, muddy water, de Wiart paused as he positively saw something move through the smoke. Slowly aiming his gun, he froze in shock as the armored car was suddenly surrounded by an eerie blue glow--then, going layer by layer in quick succession--the entire vehicle dissipated into dust. Throwing himself downward, he submerged himself in the opaque water and swarm forward, feeling movement nearby. As his head hit wet soil moments later, he emerged out of the crater, seeing a huge, black, evil thing walking forward towards where the armored car had been. Purple fluid gushed from a wound, giving it away. As it turned around, he raised his charge launcher, and fired, hitting square in the face. Stumbling back, the creature screeched as its head was engulfed in burning magnesium. Not hesitating, de Wiart stumbled out of the wet pit and tried to get away from it as quickly as he could--he then felt the mud rumble under his feet as a LD began to appear from the distance ahead, bringing its main gun to bear towards the creature. Still burning, it turned around and with incredible speed moved off, towards the abandoned trenches de Wiart knew were near this location. "Sir! Are you alright?" He stopped as the LD came up, coming to a halt as two men poked themselves up through the top hatches above. "Make sure everything that looks dead is." de Wiart uttered. "And get me a gun. I'm going after the big thing." "Sir, you can't--it'll be too dangerous!"

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Aye!" A Scottish-accented voice said. "The beastie's more likely to be going after you instead!" "All the better." de Wiart simply replied. "Saves me the trouble." ** Amsterdam, the Netherlands Finally. It had taken what felt like an eternity of marching through a never-ending expanse of mist-covered marsh. It had taken overcoming the fear of being constantly stalked and watched, never knowing if something wasn't about to emerge from the murk and eviscerate your comrades. But at last, Timmerman could look on his nation's beautiful capital, as the column waded through a street flooded up to ankle level towards the center. Yes, most of the surrounding buildings were in disrepair, some of them still bearing the scars of the first battle here. Yes, the city was shrouded in the same mist that seemed to cover most of the country. But at last, he could feel as if there had been some purpose to this march. "Come on!" A Norwegian voice called from up front. "We reach the center and we can declare ourselves victorious!" A ripple of cheers came down the line, some of them less enthusiastic than others. Looking to his side into shop windows boarded up or looted, Timmerman tried to ignore the cold wetness around his feet, trying not to think too hard about the scum creeping around the edges of the floodwater. So far, little sign of Roaches. But then, that made sense--he didn't reckon insects would put the same value men did on holding land and cities. All the better--especially if that didn't occur to the men around him. "This is Amsterdam?" he heard a Dane mutter nearby. By now he had got used to the languages of the liberators with him. "Fucking hell." "It'll get better after a bit of cleaning up." Timmerman replied in Danish. The man didn't react much. He supposed after this time there wasn't much room for humor. A snorting sound broke the constant squelching of feet through muddy water as Norwegian cavalrymen on horseback emerged from a side street, the horses no less awkward on this ground than the soldiers. He could make out tense and wide-eyed expressions on those dragoons even as they towered over the rest of the column-horses didn't react well to Roaches, most knew that by now. But some were saying that the animals had a sixth sense for sensing the monsters somehow--who knew, thought Timmerman. Took a beast to know one. "The center will be just ahead!" called the officer at the top of the line. "Just a bit more and--" They emerged out into what seemed to be a canal street, the canal itself having apparently overflowed to create this flood. However, bobbing around in the center were dozens of round objects the size of soccer balls, resembling lumps of tumorous flesh. Rising out from the dirty water nearby was a tree, partially burst open to spill out purple-hued cancerous organic mass covered in pulsating blisters like the ones in the water--he could only guess that it was somehow spawning more of these things. Around him, the column had come to a complete stop. A voice barked out in Norwegian, and a man nervously stepped out into the water,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 raising the bayonet on the end of his rifle. Stepping towards one of the things, he leaned forward, when the object lurched forward and burst with a shower of needle-like spines, slicing right through the poor soul. The horses whinnied in panic and backed up as some of the men instinctively ducked. In shock, Timmerman fired off his rifle, sending the bullet hitting another one of the round lumps which burst open with a wave of purple liquid that mixed into the dark water around it. "Shoot these damn things! Don't go near them!" Rifle fire rang out, bursting some of these strange organic landmines in the water and growing on the tree. More ominous purple fluid was spilt out, while others erupted more spines outward. An order to cease fire was given moments later as some of the spines struck into the line, with several soldiers toppling over into the murk as they were skewered right through the heads or chests. "Perhaps someone should get on a building, shoot them from there." The lead officer suggested. "What do we do?" one of the cavalry officers spoke up. "I do not feel comfortable just standing here while you pick these...things off. There could be hundreds of them." "We will have to take an alternate route around them." sighed the lead Norwegian. "Men--forward march, after me!" The column again began it's weary trudge, heading off right down the canal street away from the bobbing flesh-mines. As they moved forward up towards the foreboding mist ahead, Timmerman could see more trees twisted into disgusting forms, such as one connected to some sort of purple cancer-like mass of organic matter crawling up the side of a building by thing glistening tendrils. He wasn't sure what the purpose of it was and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. "Not that far!" The leader called again. After this, Timmerman wasn't sure how much the men were taking to him. "Just a bit and--oh." The column came to a halt upon seeing what was ahead--the entire street was jammed with hundreds of those flesh mines, growing in large clusters on more mutilated trees and giant purple cancers crawling up building facades. For a few moments, they simply stood there in bewilderment, as Timmerman found the dread sinking feeling of defeatism starting to take form inside him. Then again, he thought, it would've been naive to assume that they would just take the city without effort. "Men, garrison the buildings to the side." The Norwegian leader finally said. "Reinforcements will be coming from the Zuiderzee--they will hopefully have mortars with which to clear this. You may as well take this opportunity to rest--you have all earned it!" "Will they be saying that the city is retaken?" someone spoke up. "Of course." The man replied with a smile. "There is no actual resistance, after all. Just mopping up." God willing, Timmerman thought. The Roaches had presented enough surprises already... **

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Near Namur, Belgium Even knowing that he could, Rommel still found it hard to approach Entente lines without fear of being shot at. Nevertheless, he was slowly becoming accustomed to it--and heading down this trench as mortars impacted into poisoned soil nearby, he found himself passing Belgian and French soldiers slumped against muddy planks. He could only wonder what looks they were giving him under those gas masks--he was becoming increasingly grateful for them, as they hid the faces of bodies he found mauled and halfburied in mud every now and again in trenches or in the fields. Just that little bit of anonymity seemed to dull the tragedy of it all, regardless of how right that was. Namur itself was in ruins, as far as he could tell--the towering smokestacks that had been coming from its direction for days seemed to indicate that. However, increasing numbers of French and British aircraft had been seen overhead, and the constant artillery fire suppressing the Roaches seemed to have intensified--he could only imagine that was the result of Entente guns being brought up into German and Austrian-held lands. And yet, the creatures did not seem to have softened the brutality of their strikes any less--when they hit the trenches now, they seemed to do it with greater number and force to make up for the increased resistance. Where they truly toying with them all? It didn't rate thinking about. "Sir!" Rommel stopped as a flare whistled up from the smoke-shrouded No Man's Land ahead-not a German one, it seemed. He could only think of one sort of soldier that would be calling from the middle of fields like that--Landkreuzer crews. "Bring up the first to third squads." he ordered. "The rest are to cover us. I will investigate that flare." "Mein herr," a lieutenant said softly, "it may be a Schabe trap..." "And it may not." Rommel said. "It is nice to think that our ranks and materials are as unlimited as those of the Schaben, but these days, every pair of hands to hold a rifle could make a difference. Now, where the hell are those squads?" It took a few minutes to assemble the squad, while Rommel sent a runner to the nearest field telephone to ask for the mortar fire to shift position. Assuming it was German mortar fire, after all--there seemed to be emerging one disadvantage to the new friendships, and that was not being certain just who was raining shells on the earth in front of you. Nevertheless, the rain of projectiles soon seemed to soften, and with the mud-covered unshaven troops of the selected squads ready, Rommel took in a deep breath and went over the top. Even with the mortars having indeed shifted their fire, making his way across the uneven, shell-blasted mud of the field felt harrowing. Each step he took seemed to come with the reverberations of bombs hitting the mud. In this relatively open space, the gas mask seemed to limit his peripheral vision to a maddening degree--he could barely see the men to his side. Nevertheless, as he neared the source of the flare's trail, he could make out large bulky shapes emerge from the smoke--a trio of French Landkreuzers, light things compared to German and English ones, but easier to manufacture, he supposed. They were surrounded by a small ring of French soldiers, a trio of them manning a machinegun, who turned towards the Germans as they emerged from the fog towards them. Just by their postures Rommel could tell that they were still being wary.

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"I am Captain Rommel of the German army." he called out in French. He knew his accent and pronunciation were terrible, the gas mask not being a help, but hopefully they understood it. "Lieutenant Voclain." one of the Frenchman spoke up. "Our...machines here have broken down. We are soon to fix them, but...the beasts might emerge at any time." Rommel nodded. He had heard from Landkreuzer crews that the machines had a tendency to have mechanical failures rather more than the official messages made out, but given that the things generally spent more time immobile and covering trenches than advancing, it hadn't been an issue too noticeable. With that, he turned to the other men behind him, looking around anxiously. "Mein herr, with all due respect, we cannot stay out here for too long." A man leaned forward, speaking hurriedly under his mask. "If Schaben do not get us, our own guns surely will!" Rommel nodded, before turning around. "We will stay with you for ten minutes. If the machines are not fixed by then, we will have to head back to our trench--and I will suggest you come with us." "Really?" Voclain seemed genuinely surprised. "Yes." "Well...merci." "My pleasure." Giving asylum to Frenchmen in their own lines. Rommel felt the urge to laugh--to think that such a thing would've earned him a bullet through the head but a few months ago. Turning around, he gestured for the men to join the Frenchmen's circle around the bulky armored vehicles, before walking over into the small ditch that had been dug around them to join them. Kneeling down and resting his rifle on a toolbox, he peered into the smoke and fog ahead as the French engineers continued their work, visibly rushing to get it over and done with. Sitting out here in the open, hoping that the Schaben didn't burst out and eat you...Rommel couldn't deny that he had half an urge to relieve himself on the spot. Several minutes passed. The Frenchmen seemed to be finishing up their work. Rommel's own men seemed to getting restless. He himself was feeling the urge to simply get up and go when one of men on the Landkreuzers spoke up. "Okay, I think it's done--we can move!" "Come on to our trench." Rommel turned around. "We are fortified enough to--" "Mein gott!" Adrenaline surged through Rommel as he span around to find the very soil around them writhing as if with maggots. Crawling out from the dirt were hundreds--maybe even thousands--of little yellow Schaben, twitching their mandibles and vicious limbs. In panic, Rommel turned around and clambered onto one of the Landkreuzers as its engine

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 started, just as others produced grenades and threw them out into the swarm emerging from the ground. "Casse-tol!" The turret of the machine gradually swivelled around as the grenades detonated, before spitting out bursts of explosive rounds. That and rifle fire tore into the little monsters, but even as the men backed right up against the tanks they pounced onto two of the Frenchmen and one of Rommel's men in their hundreds--seconds later, both were blown apart by bursts of explosive rounds. "Merde!" Rommel felt a burst of heat as flame erupted out from the front of the Landkreuzer by him, scorching the creatures directly before it as the ground was lit orange. Finally, the French machine began to move forward as some of the little beetles leapt onto it's forward hull--detaching his bayonet from his rifle, Rommel lunged forward to stab them out before they could crawl in through the hull. Nearby, he could hear more screams as another man was pounced upon. Another burst of fire from the second Landkreuzer burnt his body and the Schaben on it to a cinder. "Watch out!" The scream of mortar shells was coming in--Rommel instinctively braced himself as one impacted what felt like just a few feet in front of him, causing a geyser of soil and mauled Schaben to erupt upwards before phosphorous ignited right there, burning scores of the little bastards. More came raining down around them--another Frenchman ran into the open screaming as some of the phosphorus fell onto him too, setting his chest alight. The tanks were showered with sparks and soil, as Rommel found himself disorientated and half-deaf for several long moments. As he focused, he found the ground around them choked with smoke and fires, and the ground littered with dead Schaben--some of them still twitching worringly--and mortar fragments. He could only presume they had came from his own lines--they must've heard the gunfire and the glows of the flamethrowers. Had the angles just been slightly off, they would've struck him too. He wasn't sure whether to congratulate or berate the operators when he came back. "Come on." he finally said. "We will be more hospitable than the Schaben, I can guarantee that." ** Near Torhout, Belgium The trail was getting colder. Every step de Wiart took through the muddy, puddle-dotted trench, the trail of purple fluid seemed to be getting smaller and thinner. He wasn't sure if this creature was healing at some unearthly rate. Probably was. He intended to tear off it's filthy head regardless. Other than the rumbling of distant artillery, he felt very much like a lone wolf. Only the odd smashed ammunition box along the trench indicated that it had been recently used. If this thing did managed to catch him by surprise, he didn't think he'd have any saviours to come charging out from the mist like St. George on his horse. He didn't find himself particularly caring much. This would end with one or the other dead.

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He paused as he came among what looked like the torn remains of an officer's uniform and satchel, stopping to catch his breath and rummage through. Digging into the mud, he retrieved a cavalry sabre, which he hung by his belt alongside the blade already there. Looking around, he spotted a steel dart also lying in the dirt--the type dropped from reconnaissance aircraft. Scooping it up, he produced a grenade and with some string in his satchel tied it and the dart together. He already had a plan. Now, enough time had been wasted by his stalling. Gathering himself, he continued to move down the trench, doing his best to ignore the weight of his gear. He finally dropped his ration satchel--he didn't intend to stop for a spot of brunch any time soon. With that load off, he quickened his pace, as the trail of purple blood continued to whittle down. The trench also began to thin out, into open No Man's Land--featureless brown dirt with only a wrecked truck for cover. He began to slow down, peering into the mist ahead for any sign of movement. Perhaps this thing had already escaped him. He considered for a moment giving up, heading away to regather his strength. No. He couldn't let it lick its wounds. It had to be somewhere nearby. He moved out into the open. A risk, but one he had to take. His eyes flicked around, again for any footprint, any drop of blood, anything. Then, he noted by the wrecked truck, something briefly flicker. He turned around, readying his modified flare gun, before a familiar black shape burst out from behind the wreck--the wound on the back had almost healed completely, and the face was heavily scarred--yes, that was Willy alright. The creature roared, a echoing, eerie noise, before it sent the truck wreck flying towards him with a kick powered by muscles more powerful than he could've imagined. He rolled for cover as the mass of metal impacted into the mud nearby--why hadn't it dissolved him like it had other things? In the split-second he had, he decided that it's wounds must've hindered it's mental abilities, before again he took aim, steadying his shaking hands. Was it going to charge him? That would at least make shooting it in the face easier. As if sensing this, the creature stood back, before around it several Roach warriors burst out of the ground. Gathering themselves, they leapt towards him--just enough time for him to holster his gun and draw both swords. Rushing forwards, as Willy span around to move away, he found himself entering an almost trance-like state as the spider-like monsters set on him--spinning and whirling like a dervish, he felt their purple fluids splatter onto him as he ripped forward with both blades. Fuelled by sheer adrenaline, he skewered the next creature right through the face, plunging each sword into a different eye, before racing forward towards Willy. The creature's wings hadn't healed yet--though it seemed they were in the process of doing so--but it could still run fast. Stopping, de Wiart got down on the ground and drew his rifle--just a normal round this time, but he reckoned another shot in that wound would finish that bastard for good. Again, Willy seemed to sense this--spinning around, the creature began to go straight for him, zig-zagging from side to side so fast it was almost a blur. Focusing, de Wiart tried not to let instinct take hold of him, before firing off a shot with recoil that jerked his torso back. Hurtling forward, the round seemed to graze the creature by the head, not even slowing it down. Tossing aside the rifle, de Wiart stepped back and drew his grenade gun--then, the monster leapt forward, impacting into the earth in front of him. Rolling over, de Wiart barely missed a stabbing set of claws, before pointing the gun upwards and firing, sending the magnesium round straight into the creature's chest. Another blinding conflagration erupted on its body--roaring, Willy, barely deterred by the white fire burning on its stomach, rapidly set upon him as, in desperation, he produced

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 the grenade tied to the dart. One of the beast's clawed feet struck down, ripping out a chunk of flesh on his side. Ignoring the blood and the searing pain, de Wiart picked himself up, himself moving inhumanly fast, and as the creature slashed again he unpinned the grenade with a thumb and plunged the dart forward. Just as the creature's blow sent him flying back, ripping skin off his chest and cracking what felt like multiple ribs, the dart embedded itself in its skin, seconds before the grenade detonated. A small cloud of dust was blown up by the grenade--bleeding and badly wounded, de Wiart nevertheless still summoned the strength to get back up. The creature had its chest burnt by magnesium and several chunks of its body blown away, but still it moved, roaring and moving towards him. Reaching for his revolver, he opened fire straight into its face, slamming bullets straight into the wounds. Other than eliciting a roar, no effect. Finally, he drew one of his swords, hoping to at least end this by gouging out an eye. There was an echoing boom, and suddenly the creature's head was ripped away, splattering the ground around it with purple fluid. Turning his head, de Wiart could see an Eldie approaching--shaped like a British one, but grey, and sporting an Iron Cross...as he felt consciousness slip away, with German shouts coming from the distance, he could only feel annoyance toward the bastards for not allowing him to claim his kill. ** New York City, United States of America Once again, Secretary of State William Jennings Bryan found himself passing through the guarded entrance of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, which felt more like a military checkpoint than what was a luxury accommodation in the heart of this city. Nevertheless, this time he felt a great degree of anticipation racing through him--after so many weeks of nonstop development, after so many dollars poured in by the government and by Mr. Edison, the impromptu research institute set up here had finally sent the White House a message informing them that they finally were in the stages of finalizing something that, if handled properly, would ease the fight against the Roaches here and in Europe. There was much secrecy over all this, of course, which was why he had been summoned here to review this mysterious contraption himself--and he couldn't feel more excited. "Mr. Bryan!" Tesla himself was waiting in the lobby with a wide grin on his face, with Edison and that German Jewish man standing behind him. As Bryan stepped forward, he was greeted with a vigorous shake of the hand. "Follow me, sir. I am sure you will find what we have labored on most exciting. With my combined research--" "And my money." Edison coughed. "Yes, well--you must understand, this is but the first of our major projects here. We have made outstanding progress in such short time. I suppose realizing what stakes present themselves in these days was motivation enough..." "Ja." nodded the German man with the unkempt hair. Bryan tried not to chuckle at his high-pitched accent. "I can only pray that it will be used only in the preservation of man..."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 With that, Bryan was lead up a flight of stairs, noting the various boxes of components strewn across the carpeted floors. He swore that even some of the chandeliers had been taken down--had they taken this place apart in the process of their experiments? There were all the stories circulating of all manner of strange noises coming from the building... "In here..." Tesla swung open a pair of doors to lead him into a room filled with strange generators and coils of various conductive metals--even the air seemed to make Bryan's hair stand on end. His eyes turned to the centerpiece of the chamber--a thick metallic column containing several buzzing spirals of wire. Was this meant to be the weapon they had promised? It looked less like any sort of instrument of war than some sort of novelty at a Rhode Island attraction. Nevertheless, he stepped forward, intrigued. "My colleagues have already given it a name." Tesla smiled. "The 'Tesla Hammer'. I'm charmed. The process is quite simple, you see--through an advanced battery, a current is focused through the column and channeled downwards into the ground, charging a large section of earth with electrical energy--enough to be most...discomforting to anything within it. This will be most effective in France, where I understand the soil is fairly moist--we've already sent blueprints of prototypes to fellow institutions in Western Europe." "It sounds...potent." Bryan breathed. "It is not without flaw." Tesla murmured. "The battery might prove prohibitively expensive--" "Money is no object." Bryan quickly snapped. "The President wishes to make transparent that if bankrupting the nation saves our civilization, then so be it." "Very well." Tesla nodded. "I have drawn up material quotas that will enable this to go into production soon, once you grant Federal approval." "I have...agreed to use my production assets in this endeavour." Edison added, a touch begrudgingly. "Federal approval you shall have." Bryan uttered. "Although I must enquire, you mentioned other projects..." "Yes, well..." Tesla scratched his head. "I am currently developing my theory of accelerating atomic clusters of tungsten via transformer-generatated voltage, creating a beam of intense charge--" "I'm afraid, Mr. Tesla," Bryan chuckled awkwardly, "that you've lost me." "Well, Mr. Secretary," Telsa smiled, "I must express intense gratitude for the donations from your government. I have made more progress here with them than I might have done so in a decade!" "I hope so, Mr. Tesla, for all our sakes." Bryan nodded. "This nightmare we're in doesn't seem to be getting any less horrific. I will see that the President signs authorization to bring your Hammer into production. Do not hesitate to enquire for further funding-anything that your men of science can produce that will hasten the end of this crisis will leave us most grateful..."

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**

BlackWave

April 3rd, 2012 02:07 AM

21st March 1915, San Francisco, United States of America "Hold this position! Hold it, you goddamn sons of bitches!" Madness reigned around him as US Marine Lieutenant Elliot Mason ducked to avoid a screeching, jagged round that pierced through a wall in front of him and impacted against a door frame behind, gouging out a hail of splinters and brick. He cocked the pump-action Remington Model 10 shotgun in his hand, a bayonet tied around the end of the weapon, and blindly fired out through the nearest window, as mortars rained down overhead, shaking dust from the wooden ceiling above. Other Marines also desperately returned fire towards the unseen enemy with their own shotguns, or in the case of some of them, with the new 'California Typewriters' being distributed. Crouching down to insert a fresh magazine, Elliot prayed that he would see this nightmare to the end. The Marines had been meant to serve as the vanguard, rapidly clearing the way for the Army to land...right now, they had got as far as the end of the Golden Gate Park, these damned monsters bleeding them for every street they took. Elliot reckoned that were it not for the covering fire from the Navy, they would've been mauled long ago, but even that was no longer a sure thing--word had it that some battleships had already been forced to pull back as the Roaches somehow moved to sabotage them. Even the artillery firing from behind the southern boundary of the city had been struck. Though progress was being made, this would be no easily won victory. He stood up with the shotgun ready, as he glimpsed movement through the smoke and dust ahead on an rooftop on the opposite street. Most of the monsters they had encountered so far were horrible aberrations of men, twisted and mutilated until they were barely recognizable, or Roaches themselves, most of them sporting massive armor or tusks. Shotguns to their faces barely fazed those spider-like abominations--only concentrated fire would do it. This was no straightforward war like the Philippines, or Cuba. Here, anything could kill you, coming from anywhere. Even the man standing next to you could suddenly erupt claws and jagged teeth, as he had already learned the hard way. "Street looks clear, sir!" one of the Marines looked towards him, as smoke from incendiary mortars wafted inside. Elliot checked his watch--they had to move. Damn nearby suicide, but if they sat in here much longer, either this damn building would collapse from all the bombardment or they'd be swarmed by dozens of monstrosities spawned from hell itself. "We're moving, Marines. Take the point across. Taggert and Marcus, go up front. Come on, you little bastards! Move like you got a purpose!" Moving rapidly in double file, the Marines headed out of the room and down a flight of battered stairs to the ground floor--their loads were light, mostly spare shotgun ammunition. The idea was to allow them to rapidly move forwards, but instead, they had to try and ignore the dry throats and aching stomachs. Elliot sometimes wondered if he'd ever have the opportunity to find some of the planners of this nightmare and punch them--but then, who could've expected that these fucking creatures would put up such a

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 fight? "Come on!" He raced out into the street, dotted with craters and burning fires from mortar impacts. Mauled bodies were sprawled against a nearby wall, the product of these damned vinethings that had sprouted from a crack in the road. It felt like the whole damned city was trying to kill them. "Building at twelve o'clock! Come on!" The Marines moved forward, trying to avoid the heat from the fires and the cracked sidewalk--they froze seconds later as an ear-pierching screech came from above. "Shit!" A huge spider-like shape impacted among them from a rooftop to the side, sending several of the Marines scattering. Scything forearms and long sharpened tusks swung and cut, throwing entrails and organs across the tarmac. Spinning around, Elliot desperately pumped buckshot right into the horror's face as he shouted in terror, as did several others around him. The creature backed away, covering its face with forearms, when another shape burst from the ground behind him. Spinning around, Elliot barely managed to plunge the bayonet on the end of his Remington into the face of the horror emerging from the ground, but still it swung at him, knocking him back and cutting a deep gash across his chest. Behind him, the other Roach burst forward as the others were distracted, cutting down three of his boys in a blur. Bullets then impacted right among its eyes as another one of his leathernecks poured his typerwriter right into it, screaming wildly. After he had exhausted his magazine, the creature, still bleeding purple profusely from its face, managed to crawl forward before falling limp. "Report!" Elliot shouted, as the remaining Marines, some of them wounded or bruised, gathered. No time to check bodies, unless it was to retrieve ammunition the dead would not need. Doing a quick headcount, he gestured from them to move. "One street at a time, Marines! Let's do this for all the leathernecks who've gone down properly!" The battle for San Francisco continued. ** Versailles, France "Marshal French? We've confirmed that the Grex assassin creature 'Sneaky Willy' has been eliminated in Belgium." "Finally, some good bloody news." Looking up from his desk, Marshal French tried to shrug off the effects of sleep deprivation as he flicked through reports in front of him. So, that lunatic de Wiart had bloody done it. Hard to believe... "What...were the exact circumstances?" "I'm not sure, sir, but the individual who set out is currently in German custody,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 wounded. They promise to have him sent over to our lines as soon as he's recovered..." "Good..." He still wasn't sure he could get used to the idea of actively co-operating with the Germans and their Austrian friends. The message had come in clearly from Switzerland, and although he had been assured that their new allies in the Reichstag had the same attitude, only a trickle of token information and intelligence from across the lines had come in. Probably because it was damned hard in the first place. Regardless, he was due to meet with the French and Italian commands later in the afternoon to discuss an official first meeting with German leaders on the front. Some simply didn't like the idea of fraternizing with Huns. Others just thought more practically and considered it putting too many eggs in one basket. Regardless, it was something that had to be discussed. "Cables just came in from Spain, sir." The officer in front of him continued. "The Spanish have four divisions mobilized and waiting on the Pyrenees border. They want permission to send them up to Paris and be allowed onto the Entente General Staff." "Another item for the meeting." Of course, there was hardly going to be any protest over more reinforcements, even if it was just a bunch of confused dagos with poorlymaintained rifles. But, with the way the Italians were acting, it was all better to make sure it was properly cleared. "I've also heard it's going well for the Americans in San Francisco, sir." The officer continued. "They should have it all sorted in a day or two. Then, hopefully, we can expect fresh guns from there too." "Really?" French grunted. "Where'd you get that idea from?" "Cable from London, sir. That's what the Times is saying." "Well, let's hope they're right." he looked up. "Dismissed." What a bloody time to live in. ** Forsayth, Queensland, Australia Wisps of dust were blown down the tiny mining town of Forsayth, past the barricades of wood and scrap metal dividing up the main road and covering up the various buildings along it. Wallabies and kookaburras had taken up to raiding scraps in some of the abandoned houses, leaving their excrement smeared across floors and walls. Newspapers from months before still lay rotting in gutters and inside bushes, a few of them still proclaiming articles on a strange falling star descending near the town of Stuart in the heart of the country. Suitcases full of clothes and possessions were scattered across the ground near some doorways, their contents spilt out onto the ground. At the largest barricade spanning the entrance to the town at the top of the main road, a single figure wielding a rifle and wearing a slouch hat stood still, gazing out into the parched sands of the Outback. Raymond Weir, once just another mine worker in this town before business began to dry up, and now one of the tiny handful of people still remaining, alongside some elderly persons too fragile or mad to go. He, on the other hand, simply had nowhere else to go. The cities on the eastern coast? All gone, from

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 what he had heard. Where were others going? To the East Indies? To China? Was he expected to throw in his lot with some babbling coolies? No. He was going to stay put here and hold his own for what he held dear. He wasn't quite sure just what was going on out there. Only a couple of months ago telegrams and newspapers came in of horrendous disasters and Melbourne destroyed by some mysterious foe that had emerged from the Outback. Some took it as an awful hoax perpetuated by newspaper editors with no sense of taste. Then, when caravans of refugees came through, babbling about hordes of monsters, most of the town hurriedly packed up to join them. Raymond tried to assemble a militia from the men who hadn't yet run, but when more news came of Brisbane falling and the collapse of the government, they had gone to. Now, the outside world had gone quiet. News hadn't come in for weeks. Well, a few days ago a crazed old Aborigine had passed through, urging him to head to Darwin. Across a thousand miles of Outback? He didn't think so. This was where he would stay. "Raymond, darling..." He turned to see Old Lisa, a wizened crone who had been left behind her by the rest of her family, who had gone off up to Townsville with the intention of taking a boat to New Zealand. The hag barely seemed to have any mind left after that, and she kept constantly muttering to herself incoherently whenever someone was in earshot. Raymond had considered putting a rifle round through her head, but couldn't find it within himself to expend a round not on something trying to kill him. "What is it?" he said, in a hoarse, parched voice. "I think the fairies are talking to me again, dear." "Really. Why not tell them to stop?" "It's serious, you know. That chap who wrote those Sherlock Holmes books believed in them too--why can't you?" "I have bigger things to worry about." said Raymond. "Well, they seem to be saying the most curious things. They asked me what I would be willing to do to live, you know. They even suggested I kill you." Raymond turned around slowly. "What?" "Oh, don't worry, a mad old cow like myself surely can't do that. But it said some interesting things, you know. Like survival of the fittest. I'm not quite sure what that means. Something to do with that devil-worshipper Darwin? Not quite sure..." "I think you should go off to your cellar." Raymond said. "Right, so I shall..." He turned around, staring off down the road that stretched off into the expanse of sand and dried bush. On the horizon to the south ahead, you could sometimes catch glimpses of purple-lined clouds--he wasn't sure if it was some strange mirage, or him finally losing

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 it. As he lifted up the rifle in his hands, he could now make out what appeared to be a thick rainstorm in the far distance ahead, coming this way. At least, he thought it was a rainstorm. It seemed to be moving remarkably fast. Perhaps it was also a mirage? Pebbles on the sand nearby then began to vibrate. He slowly turned around, feeling some sort of tremor shaking the whole town. Was the rain really falling that hard? He turned around again. The giant raincloud on the horizon appeared to be somehow dispersing. It seemed less like a cloud now and more like some sort of nightmarishly titanic horde of locusts...it then struck him like a ton of bricks. "No." he breathed. As the rumbling around him increased, he could also make out some sort of thick black line moving along the horizon under that huge mass of black pinpricks. He recalled the stories of monsters. He remembered hearing about some sort of swarm devouring Melbourne and Sydney. And now, as he looked towards this gigantic mass of nightmarishness on the horizon, he could feel something crack deep inside his skull. All semblance of coherent thought vanished from his head as he simply stood there and watched, as the cloud changed course for the north-west--heading towards Northern Territory. Darwin. Some of the pinpricks had detached from the whole and were heading his way. He couldn't find the will to run, or do anything but stand there rooted to the ground. It was just like the end days. Revelation, and all that. What was he thinking? That was all a load of shit. There wasn't going to be anything after this. Just oblivion. The pinpricks were drawing closer, and now he could make out a buzzing noise of increasing pitch. With a drooping smile on his face, he found the will to slowly raise his rifle to his head. ** Dikson, Imperial Russia Polar twilight hung over the dark blue waters of the Kara Sea, casting onto a solitary freighter slowly approaching the isolated lights of Dikson, set on the snow-covered rock of Krasnoyarsk Krai. This deep within the Arctic Circle, frost and thin layers of ice were covering the hull and deck of the ship, leaving the figures aboard huddling in their fur coats. At the front of the ship, a lone Cossack captain observed the shanty buildings ahead as they moved to dock. There appeared to be little sign of danger. But as the last few months had taught everyone, appearances were deceptive like a Murmansk whore. His mission was simple. Investigate Dikson, and see if it was still in loyal hands. With Siberia cut off, there was little other route. But, he could see something important here. If they could set up a staging point here, then the Army could finally strike down into Siberia, hitting the menace there in the flank. So far, it did not seem that the Tsar's generals were thinking much of this option. Perhaps this results of this excursion would change their minds. "Flash them." he finally snapped over his shoulder. "Let them know servants of the Tsar are here." A light blinked in quick succession from the railing nearby. A few moments passed, before a faint reply came from the settlement, acknowledging them. Smiling in satisfaction, the Cossack leader gestured to the bridge to bring them in. It was a few minutes before the ship was coming to dock among rickety wooden fishing

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 boats at the main dock. Bearded men of the settlement, with frightened-looking babushkas in thick fur coats, were waiting on the icy wood as the gangway was put into place. Striding confidently downwards, the Cossack approached the man he judged was in charge. "The Tsar extends to you his salutations." he grunted. "Let no Russian think himself abandoned in this time." "I thank you." The town leader nodded. "But I am curious as to the purpose of this visit. I see little in this place to warrant the attention of his Imperial highness, and other than our postage being later than usual I am not sure what the occasion is..." The Cossack raised an eyebrow. But in a settlement this isolated, it was no wonder. "Fear not." he said. "But suffice it to say that this may prove useful in our military efforts." "Oh." blinked the man. "So, how is the war going? Have we crushed the Turks? Are the Austrians fleeing?" The Cossack pondered briefly whether or not to tell him. He decided not to. The man would take him for a lunatic. "Tell your people they should prepare to take up arms in the Tsar's service." he laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "Troubled times are ahead for us all." "I don't understand." "You don't have to." He turned around and called up to the ship. "Send out on the wireless. We've got something." ** Near Lichtervelde, Belgium Vision gradually returned. First a blurred face. Then, a muffled, distorted voice, mumbling in a language not English. German. Yes, that was it. A female face. Speaking German. "Hallo? Hallo? Kannst du mich hören? Hallo?" De Wiart sat up sharply, finding himself in a mangy bunk in a dark underground triage of some kind, inhaling the less than pleasant smell of wet soil and dried blood. Standing next to him was a dirty-aproned nurse stuttering in German--he couldn't understand just what she mumbling about. Looking around to the sides for his gun and saber, ignoring the sharp pain on his chest, he cursed upon seeing only surgery tools. Far too blunt, and small. Now, where the hell was the exit? And why did he feel so hungry? "Bitte! Setz Dich hin! Du ist--" "Be quiet!" he snapped. "Woman, where the bloody hell is my sword?"

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Was? Was? Ich spreche kein Englisch! Bitte, setz..." "Mein herr!" He turned as what he presumed to be an officer, uniform dirty with mud and tattered like a beggar's coat, stumbled towards him. The man's hair was almost pitch black with dirt and his face brought to mind some sort of coal miner--for a moment de Wiart had half a mind not to take him seriously at all. As the German extended a hand, his mind turned to where the hell his gun was. Where had these bastards put it? "Please, you are badly wounded and need rest. It will take at least a few..." "Nonsense!" de Wiart snapped. The man certainly spoke English better than he could speak German, as it happened. "Just give me my sword and gun and I'll be off, thank you very much!" "Please, sir, you are clearly delirious. You are most fortunate our Landkreuzer crews found you when..." It was all coming back to him now. Sneaky Willy right there, that bang, the monster's head disappearing...yes, it really happened. The bastards had done it. "You stole my prize, you Hun bastards!" "Excuse me?" "I had him right there! That fucker's head was meant to go on my wall! And you...you blew it off clean! Don't you have any decency, Fritz?" "Mein herr, you clearly need rest. Listen, we are all in this together. That much I have realized, and that is why we are helping you. Please, just lie a few more hours...I do not wish to let a soul die on my watch when I could prevent." "Nonsense! Rest over what, this scratch? It's just a flesh wound!" "Mein herr, it could be infected." "Bah! I've stuck my saber up the arses of mad mullahs, infection or no infection, so spare me this nonsense and hand over my weapons!" He paused for a moment, looking around the candlelit chamber. "Where are we?" "Underneath our fortifications around Lichtervelde. We are moving to link up with your trenchworks." "Lich--how'd you Hun bastards get so far?" "When the Schaben arrived here in Belgium, a lot of things were mixed around." The man shrugged. "Besides, now that there is an actual official ceasefire, we have a lot more confidence in advancing." "Really." de Wiart sighed. "Very well, my man, I shall be a gentlemen and rest. Say, would you have some tobacco?"

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"We barely have enough bandages for our wounds." The officer sighed. "Listen...I will be back soon. Frau Schrader here will keep you company." De Wiart faint a faint reverberation shake the rough metal frame of the bed, as small flakes of soil were sprinkled from the ceiling. There didn't seem to be anywhere the Roaches weren't these days--just the way he wanted it. "So then..." he looked over to the confused-looking nurse. "What sort of company's your ideal, eh?" ** San Francisco, United States of America "Keep them away! Keep them Roachy bastards away!" Robert Prescott gritted his teeth as he discharged a shotgun blindly through the LD vision slit before him--above him, the machine's heavy machine gun clattered as gunner Kowalski shouted obscenities. Around them, Marines, infantrymen, and Filipino gooks crowded around the cover of loose bits of masonry and the LD itself, filling the air with the cracking of rifle discharges and the smell of fresh cordite. After just a few days of fighting, they had made it this far, even if the monsters bled them for seemingly every step they took. And now, not only had the LD's engine broken down, it had run out of fuel--turning it into an armored pillbox sitting there by the side of a building. It hardly mounted--the thing had moved through the streets so slowly it may as well have been immobile. Now, with ammunition dwindling, Prescott prayed that his lucky streak would continue as spines impacted into some poor soul just by the side of the vision slit, causing his body to swell gruesomely in a eruption of bodily tumors before exploding, showering the front armor of the LD with gore. He turned his shotgun in the direction from where that abominable round had come from, letting off another shot. Barely able to see anything, barely able to move in this claustrophobic little space...but at least he had some comfort to take from the layers of armor plating surrounding him. "We stand! We fight!" he heard one of the Filipinos shout. The gooks had been almost insanely brave throughout the whole thing--he was feeling a strong sense of sincere respect towards them, to his own surprise. The Buffalos he had also seen on the way had also been bold as bulls...at this point, it seemed everyone was going color-blind in the face of these things. "Oh, you like this? Fucking like this? Well, fuck you! Fuck you, Roachy! Fuck you like this!" he heard Kowalski shout from behind him, as spent shells clattered down to the bottom of the cabin. More spines came raining down on the position--some missed, others struck other poor infantrymen, swelling them up and dousing their comrades with their fluids. Still the men held their position, as mortars and artillery began to rain down into the streets around them, shaking loose masonry from the building husks nearby. "Ah, hell!" A huge, screeching spider-like shape came leaping down from the smoke around them, right in the midst of the gook squad. Several were eviscerated so quickly it barely registered to the eye, but the remainder immediately leapt onto the creature's spiny carapace shouting, trying to dig their bayonets right into the gaps between the chitin. It

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 took a few moments for the horror to shake them off, but they had still brought enough time for the others to get out their Tonics, raining a dozen of the bottles onto the monstrosity. Engulfed in fire, it lurched forward screeching, before a barrage of rifle, shotgun, and machinegun rounds to the face brought it down. "Almost out! Fuck! Fucking hell!" he heard Kowalski shout. "We ain't giving up!" Prescott snapped, even as he found his shotgun cartridges barely reduced to a handful. He could hear more screeching coming from ahead, and he didn't imagine the poor guys around him had the ammo to continue. Well, to hell with it. He still had a bayonet, and he would use it... "Come on, ya sons of bitches, ya wanna live forever?!" A figure on horseback came charging over the barricades, firing away with a revolver, followed by several waves of charging infantrymen, American and Canadian. Their morale revitalised, the others there also rushed forward, pouring over the rubble as a massed volley of rifle fire swept the street ahead. "Hold on!" Prescott caught a glimpse of combat engineers with tools appear by the side of the LD, before he heard a banging outside. Alright! They could make this. They were going to take this city out from Roachy's cold, dead jaws--everyone, be they white, negro, or Filipino. The Battle of San Francisco continued. ** Black Forest, Germany Professor Waechter stood silently in the middle of the camp as a truck drove in, the clattering of the engine breaking the eerie silence. A man from Berlin, come to review their progress. Things had been going somewhat faster now, with correspondence with institutes in Paris and London finally permitted. Thank Gott for the ceasefire. Nevertheless, some of the more nationalist types hadn't been very happy, but even they had to grudgingly admit that survival was a more pressing issue than the nation's honor. Something the Kaiser had failed to recognize, it seemed. "Guten tag, mein herr." he walked up to the uniformed figure stepping out from the truck. "I am Professor Waechter...to whom do we owe the pleasure?" "That's classified." The man snapped. Still, Waechter could tell by the uniform that he was a colonel of some kind. Berlin tended to very tight-arsed about this sort of thing. "Report. How is the specimen?" "It's...gotten big." Waechter uttered, showing the man the way to the holding pen. "We're not sure if the pen will hold it anymore. It's been developing and mutating rapidly...almost too fast for us to record. Some us feel we should terminate it and study it post mortem." "Berlin wishes the same." The colonel continued. "We were nervous enough holding this thing in here alive in the first place...now that it's grown this large, well, if it goes any

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 bigger, we'll be fucked, won't be?" "Quite, mein herr." Waechter nodded. "Now, if we are to kill it, we must first..." "Nein! Nein! Nein!" The first thing Waechter registered was someone's panicked screaming. The next was a huge, roaring shape erupting out from the holding pens, all hairy and spiny like a monstrous tarantula, showering the surroundings with splinters of wood, metal, and glass. Rifle and machinegun fire from the camp's towers immediately opened up, as Waechter ducked for cover, but even the special armor-piercing rounds they had assigned here didn't seem to be having an effect. Roaring, the creature shot off several spines from it's back that struck several guards rushing forward with flamethrowers, downing them instantly. "Kill it! Kill that bastard!" The camp's armored car was moving up, spraying the creature with high-caliber machinegun fire. Mortars, placed from an outpost just outside, were also coming down, throwing up geysers of loose concrete and soil. Snarling, the thing turned around and made a beeline for the fence, ripping through an observation shack like it wasn't there. Shredding the wire fence with several deft slashes of its claws, it quickly disappeared into the forest as machinegun fire followed. "Do it!" Waechter shouted. "Push the button!" A few moments passed. Then, several blinding flares erupted from the trees, forcing the professor to shield his eyes. Then more, then yet more. When he lowered his eyes, Waechter found the trees around the camp being rapidly engulfed in a spreading inferno. The smell of smoke and burning wood permeated the war along with the shouts of the panicked and wounded. "We took precautions." he murmured to the colonel. "Hundreds of incendiary bombs in the forest around us. Poison chemicals pumped into the soil. Gas shells--those'll go off just soon, so please get inside." "It surely can't survive all that." the colonel gasped, looking into the raging flames. "I hope not. But given these things? Nothing is certain." Waechter murmured. "We'll scour the forest once the flames are out. I only hope we find a body..." ** 22nd March 1915, near Saint-Jans-Cappel, Northern France Dawn sunlight crept through gaps in the hovering black clouds as a Luftkreuzer moved over a seemingly infinite expanse of blasted No Man's Land lit up erratically by the impacts of shells and the flashes of weapon muzzles. Spotlights from nests in some of the gondolas shone down towards empty trenches it hummed over, as the faint buzzing of reconnoissance aircraft came from the distance over the rumbling of artillery. From above, the true extent of the devastation wrought on the land was easily apparent--the muddy fields below had hardly a flat surface in them for all the flooded craters, some of them still sporting semi-submerged wrecked trucks or carts. Inside the central gondola of the airship, Lieutenant Walther Martz fondled the gas mask

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 in his hands, trying his best to relish this rare moment where he didn't have to wear the damn thing like a second face. Other weary, grizzled men performed final ammunition and weapon checks as they stood crammed into this specially modified gondola. Martz knew what they had been tasked with, something potentially suicidal. Insane, even. But at this point, what did he have left to lose? He recounted the prelude to this mad venture. For several weeks, it seemed, some generals on this front had been discussing a new mode of tactics they felt would enable ground to be regained at a quicker rate. All they needed to wait for were troop selections, construction of a specialized airship, and weapons--the first two were not hard to deal with, but the last was more problematic. But now that Germany and her allies had gotten into bed with the Entente, supplies were now coming in from the Fatherland's once-starved ports--these included batches of American-made shotguns. Not all of the men that Martz had been picked alongside were too comfortable with handling what they saw as barbaric tools--foreigns at that. But decisions were being made. Now, they were all part of this experimental platoon, the first to be deployed onto the battlefield via airship. Martz could feel the Luftkreuzer coming to a halt, and peered out through a nearby porthole down onto the hellish landscape below. He could make out a trench, with Turkish soldiers hurrying into it from the fields behind. The poor brown bastards wore uniforms not right for this climate, and with communications never optimal these days, their commanders had largely been superseded by Germans and Austro-Hungarians-they didn't even have the dignity of being thrown away by their own nation, he thought grimly. But, at least, he knew that Turks would fight valiantly even under pressure. They would at least serve the purpose given to them today well. The airship had came to a halt, and the screech of a whistle came from forward decks, alerting the platoon to hook themselves up to the ends of cables snaking around on the floor at their feet. As Martz did up his, he continued to observe the scene below through the window. The Turks were setting up in the trench, positioning MG08s and lining up riflemen. Moments later, a small squad went over the top of the trench, marching forward out into the No Man's Land. For a moment, Martz stared in mild confusion, wondering just what they hoped to accomplish by that. So little men, just walking out into the mud fields by themselves? Seconds later, spider-like shapes erupted from the dirt around them, rending the bodies of those Turks to pieces in seconds. "Scheisse!" Another whistle went off as Luftkreuzer crewmen in the gondola got to work opening up doors in the side, as all hell seemed to break loose below. The Ottoman soldiers below opened fire as more hellish shapes began to writhe out from the soil, some right in front of the trench. Machineguns mounted on the airship also started up as the light naval gun swivelled into position. Tracer rounds fell like glowing rain, just as some of the Turks quickly fixed bayonets to fend off the screaming monsters leaping into the trench. Against such odds, it seemed that they would be overwhelmed in moments. "Okay, you bastards, let's go!" Martz took a deep breath. They had barely practiced, save for a few quick exercise at a training camp behind the lines. Letting the wind rush against his face, he and several others stood on the edge of the gondola in the open doorway as crewmen secured their cables, before turning around and leaping down.

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He felt a quick lurch as the cable tensed, almost throwing up what little food there was in his stomach. As he and the first wave rappelled downwards, grenades were thrown down from the gondola down onto the swarming Schaben below, detonating among them and throwing up small geysers of dust and dirt. The gun of the Luftkreuzer opened fire, causing Martz's ears to ring and swinging him on the cable slightly. He felt the heat of the explosion from below as the shell impacted, showering the trench with wet soil and Schabe parts. More sturm und blitz to shock the monsters before they landed. He could hear the panicked shouts of Turkish troops as they descended, over the clattering gunfire and screaming of Schaben. "Gott!" As the ground came up, a roaring, massive abomination burst out from the soil amidst the other creatures writhing out, a beetle-like giant covered in thorny, jagged chitinous armor. A gun was there mounted by the side, covered in arteries and organic filaments. Pointing the weapon upward, the monster roared as the gun discharged, making a screaming sound as opposed to the boom of a conventional artillery gun--Martz felt his cable jerk wildly as he glimpsed something tear into the forward part of the airship. "Okay, go, go, go!" The ground came up rapidly, as he found himself descending into the ground in front of the trench amidst dust and screaming horrors--he unhooked himself from the cable moments before he would've landed, letting him fall a couple of feet onto the mud. Unslinging his shotgun, he immediately opened up into a mandible-filled face in front of him, feeling the power of the American Remington. Purple fluid was splashed onto him as he heard the big monster roar again, followed by another scream--a whipping sound like raining arrows followed, before dozens of flechette-like spines rained down on the trench behind him. A similar number of Turks were impaled by the raining blades, screaming in pain as their bodies then swelled up before exploding in showers of gore-and they held their ground. Brave, crazy bastards. His ears rang with pain again as the Luftkreuzer's gun fired another round, blowing the monster's weapon off. More of the platoon were landing, their cables thrown around as the airship shook with recoil--they fell onto the ground rather than hitting it on their feet, allowing more Schabe to pounce onto them and rip their bodies apart in seconds. However, the banging of shotguns was joining the rattling of the Turk's machineguns as the Schabe were forced to either rush for the trench or towards the shotgun-wielding defenders now coming in from the air. Martz felt like wetting himself as another monster leapt towards him--he barely avoided a swinging limb, that cut a gouge in his shoulder, before firing another round of buckshot straight into the mouth. He glimpsed another one of the platoon ripped apart as a creature casually stuck a limb through his heart-spinning around, Martz fired off another shotgun round in that direction, not sure if he was going to hit anything or not. Another roar, and he felt the ground shake violently as the big beetle monster began to lurch forward with horrifying swiftness, seemingly charging towards the trench. The remainder of the Ottoman troops were throwing out grenades to ward off the Schabe that got by the shotguns, some of them lying screaming as their guts fell out from their chests into the mud. There was one final card to play. "Magnesiumgranate!" Lowering his shotgun, and hoping one of the horrors wouldn't take the opportunity to

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 pounce him, Martz produced a grenade from his belt--one loaded with burning magnesium. The latest innovation to come from the Fatherland's pressured and flurrying weapons manufacturers. Unpinning it, he swung his arm and tossed it towards the head of the huge beetle as it came roaring towards the trench. More grenades came, impacting among it's eyes with glaring magnesium flares--with that, he quickly brought his shotgun up again as another creature moved out of the dust towards him. A burst of shot tore up it's face, just as he glimpsed another one of his comrades ripped apart in a flurry of limbs and biting mandibles. The big creature, disorientated and angered by the incendiary grenades, had paused in it's charge, allowing the gun on the overhead damaged airship a critical moment in which to aim. Another booming reverberation shook the ground as it fired, striking the huge monstrosity against the head. Roaring in pain, the behemoth began to throw up a shower of soil as it burrowed back into the dirt, shifting the walls and floor of the trench with the earth it displaced. Turning around, Martz moved for the cover of the trench, jumping in and finding himself almost landing on a Turk slumped against a wall, sobbing and gripping a Luger in his hands. For a moment, he had the urge to use the shotgun's last round on the poor bastard's head. He waited for a few moments, before he was confident enough to look over the side of the trench. He could see little other than smoke and piles of dirt, signifying the Schabe attack was over. Most of the Turks were dead. A number of his comrades had been killed horrifically. He didn't imagine the crew of the Luftkreuzer had gone without loss. But knowing their leaders, they probably saw all this as cost-effective enough. A successful experiment, perhaps. "Here." he tossed a flask towards some of his comrades getting into the trench. "Try not to get used to it." ** Excerpt from the Evening Standard:

AMSTERDAM RETAKEN It was confirmed this morning that a combined force of Norwegians and Danes have retaken Amsterdam with minimal casualties, supported by a token unit of Royal Marines. This was hailed in the halls of Oslo and Copenhagen as a turning point in the fight to reclaim the Netherlands, with both nations already pouring in further force and supplies to the city via the Zuiderzee. The Dutch government-in-exile in London was also jubilant, and proclaimed this as proof that hope still exists for their nation. King Haakon VII of Norway declared his support and adoration of his soldiers, applauding them for 'ridding this stricken city of monstrosities with such great skill and so little loss', in an official speech made yesterday evening upon his receiving of the news. It has been suggested in announcements made by the combined Norwegian-Danish leadership that further landings will be made at the Hague and Middelburg, allowing forces to sweep across and eradicate any meagre traces of Grex infestation still present within the country. Prime Minister Asquith also expressed his congratulations for the liberating troops, but did not make any promise of a further British commitment, alluding to the continuing struggle in Belgium and France. It has been suggested that the Royal Marines present in Amsterdam will continue with the soldiers they have fought alongside, to show the Dutch that the Great Powers of Europe have not forgotten their plight. Germany and Austria-Hungary have released no comment.

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** San Francisco, United States of America Private Rafael Paragili, of the Philippines Expeditionary Force, wondered if all this smoke, noise and blood around him was simply some twisted dream, as he ducked by a pile of bricks to avoid the hissing spines shooting over his head. He had not slept for over a day, but still his body pumped adrenaline through his veins to keep him alert, even as he actively had to keep his eyebrows from drooping. A man next to him was struck in the face by a sharp piece of debris as something exploded amidst the rubble in front of him-as he toppled over, Rafael instinctively went for his ammunition pouches, to salvage whatever rounds he had. After all, it seemed that it had been decided that mere gooks as himself didn't warrant much in the way of bullets. Only months ago, the first stories of these creatures, these nightmarish abominations they were throwing him against, had circulated in his village back home on Mindanao, dismissed at first as some laughable rumors dreamt up by some fool who was reading too many pulp magazines. Then, ships from Japan stopped coming, and vessels packed with refugees from the Australian continent started arriving. Newspapers speaking of an attack on San Francisco by 'demons' began to swap from hand to hand. More refugees, rich and poor all crammed together, came, to be immediately ordered into tightly guarded camps. Rafael and everyone he knew understood little of what was going on. Clarification came as the order arrived to start drafting fit young males as himself into the new Philippines Expeditionary Force. America had been invaded after all, it seemed. Some celebrated quietly, but others considered what sort of a force could attack the strongest continent in the world, and if it would soon target them next. As he and many others underwent a rushed training programme, news seeped in of war in California, towns burnt down, thousands dead. Though duty called, most were reluctant to board the ships that would ferry them across the Pacific to join the carnage only their imaginations had thus been able to visualize. And now here he was, in the cover of a ruined shell of a building, gripping his Springfield rifle like it was the only love he had left in the world, while other men, mostly fellow Filipinos but also American and Canadian infantrymen, struggled to hold off the screeching abominations lashing and spitting at them through the smoke obscuring their sight ahead. He had only caught glimpses of the horrors so far, and his mind only substituted crazed insanity for the rest of them. He had seen the mauled bodies of soldiers as he and the rest of his regiment had pushed through the streets, while all the time mortars and artillery fell around them. He had seen the effects of the strange organic rounds these monsters fired at them, some seemingly going fast enough to such a man's internal organs out from his body, others laced with poison that swelled their flesh to the point it burst. Already, several of his comrades had become silent and glasseyed, quietly gibbering to themselves. Taken from their home and thrown into this--who could blame them? "H-help me!" He turned his head as a man came staggering out from a side-street--an American soldier, his leg apparently wounded. Difficult to make him out through the smoke, but Rafael didn't reckon he'd last much more than a few moments out in the open like that. "You, gook--go get him!" A Yankee sergeant pointed at one of his comrades, who dutifully emerged from cover to briskly head over to the wounded man. As he moved

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 swiftly over the rubble, the limping soldier suddenly tensed, before his chest erupted to reveal a writhing cluster of barbed tendrils that lashed towards his poor comrade, piercing into his eyes and every orifice. "God, no--shoot it!" Dozens of bullets cut apart both the aberration and the agonized Filipino, letting both fall to the ground. Rafael ducked back down, hyperventilating. These monsters...somehow they could take on human form, or steal the bodies of men, he didn't know which, and twist them into shapes beyond the worst even the most insane madman could imagine. His mind struggled to grasp whether or not any one of the men nearby was in fact possessed by these demons, before it concluded that it was not worth dwelling on. "Duck!" Mortars came raining down onto the streets ahead of them, detonating with both explosive and incendiary flashes. As noxious black smoke spilled out, a whistle was blown, and Rafael grimly scooped up his rifle and vaulted over the rubble, following the others as they charged on down the street to the next position to be taken. "Wait, wait--stop, stop, stop!" He could hear a scuttling noise--a thousand scuttling noises. Freezing in horror, Rafael almost felt his mind beak as he saw a living carpet of glistening little yellow beetles swarming through the street ahead towards them. Rifle fire crackled towards them, but each round was like trying to bring down a cliff by breaking off individual chips. He could hear the vicious snapping of their mandibles even over the noise of battle around them. "Tonics out!" He reached inside his satchel for the cheap paraffin bombs they had all been given--no proper grenades for gooks, it seemed--before tossing them into the swarm. Fire billowed, engulfing many of the swarming beetles, but some scurried forward regardless, even aflame. One American soldier at the front screamed like a woman as a beetle leapt onto his arm, digging mandibles right into it. Acting almost automatically, the man behind him produced his bayonet and hurriedly and crudely hacked the poor bastard's arm off, letting it fall to the floor where a boot crushed the beetle into a purple smear. "Ahead!" The smoke cleared for a brief moment, letting them see further up this avenue--up a hill, there seemed to be friendly troops, dug in and firing at nearby buildings. "We've nearly made contact, boys, just a bit further! San Francisco will be ours by sundown!" As far as Rafael was concerned, only his survival and sanity would be true victory. ** "Boys, I smell victory! Come on, shake a leg!" Corporal Harry Carlson, Buffalo soldier, crouched in this upper floor of a burnt-out building as Marines rushed through the street below, covered by a machinegun in a window. In his hand he gripped a Remington shotgun--not his, but he had taken it off a

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 dead leatherneck. He reckoned even a mere negro as himself needed it more than a corpse. "Where are these fucking Roaches, sir?" one of his fellow buffaloes, Jackson, growled behind him. "Gotta stick my knife into them quick." "Soon enough, boys." Carlson had been there from the start of all this. From the first assault the army had undertaken into California, he had been there at Sacramento, and now here he was, praying to God he'd see San Francisco past as well. Being only a nigger, only a promotion had been his reward for seeing all that horror through, but all things considered, it was better than what he had been expecting. The boys behind him were also veterans, eager to rip these damned Roaches that had inflicted so much suffering on this nation into shreds like the overgrown filthy weevils they were. "Whoah!" Two Roaches erupted from windows overlooking the street onto the Marines below--big things, incredibly swift for their size, sporting huge tusks and spines like porcupines along their backs. Several leathernecks were torn to pieces, but Carlson and his boys were already laying down fire from below, with rifles and shotguns. Tonics and grenades also went flying as the Marines below desperately sought cover. "Holy--it's coming right for us!" Moving with terrifying swiftness, one of the creatures leapt onto the wall of the building they were in, climbing up it in seconds. Carlson crawled back as a tusk pierced through the wall he had been covering behind like a knife through paper, before the creature's hideous face appeared in the window. Shotgun rounds opened up into it, forcing it off the wall, but the beast was still alive. Below, he heard the clatter of the machinegun followed by more rifle fire, and then the monster's high-pitched roaring. "I think they got it, sir!" "Damn well hope so." Carlson muttered, before suddenly he felt dust falling from the ceiling above. The floor appeared to be shifting, the walls shaking...the whole building appeared to be coming down! "Ah, shit..." Too pumped with adrenaline to think straight, Carlson launched himself for the window, thrusting himself out through the frame and tumbling down the wall, desperately grabbing onto loose brinks or sills to halt his fall. He hit the rubble-strewn ground below, feeling immense pain in his ankles, but his rush kept him going as he ran for cover, more of his Buffaloes following. Moments later, the structure collapsed into the ground, choking the street with dust. Coughing, Carlson found himself blind for a few moments, though over the grinding of collapsing rubble, he could hear the screeching of one of the creatures. "Aw, bitch--" Grabbing his shotgun, he fired wildly into the dust, grinning with satisfaction as he heard a screech. Finding himself out of cartridges, he produced a Tonic and braced himself, before finding an immense spider-like tusked shape lurching out of the dust towards

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 him. Throwing himself forward, Carlson jammed the Tonic right towards the beast's mouth as he slid under it, even as a slashing limb cut a deep wound in his arm. Still ignoring the pain, he span around as it ignited in the beast's maw, causing it to shrink with pain. Shotguns, rifles, and the machineguns opened into it as the dust cleared, and within a few moments it finally fell limp, still twitching. "Is it dead?" "Sure is." Carlson called, before wincing as his body's pain finally hit him. "What made that building collapse?" he heard someone say. "Search me. Maybe our own shells weakened the foundations. Or maybe the damn bugs burrowed underneath it. Let's get moving." Marines emerged from cover, heading towards him. "Good work, soldier." Soldier. Not buffalo, negro, or nigger. He smiled, before reaching for a dead man's ammunition as the others headed up to join the next fight. The Battle for San Francisco continued. ** San Francisco, United States of America Mortars were screaming down ahead, muffling all the screams and panicked shouts of nearby men, along with the high-pitched chattering of machineguns and Typewriters. Bursts of dirt and dust billowed around, briefly obscuring sight for moments that could make the difference between life and painful death. Hot spent casings bounced off limbs and backs, like momentary spikes of pain. And yet for Theodore Roosevelt, this all made him feel alive. It was just like being at San Juan. But this made his blood feel hotter than it had ever had before. Briefly sliding out from the cover of a pockmarked wall, Roosevelt aimed outwards with a shotgun, his eyes flicking in search of targets. The last few weeks had shrunk his girth considerably, and though he still felt the specter of weariness creep over at him, he felt so much younger than he was. Something moved in the dust ahead--he discharged the shotgun, and then ducked back into cover to insert shells from the bandolier hung over his shoulder. Nearby, Rough Riders also armed with Remingtons and the new, chattering sub-machineguns laid down suppressing fire as infantrymen, American, Canadian, and Filipino, crept forward with bayonets fixed onto their rifles. Roosevelt couldn't help but admire those lads, all of them--marching straight into a pit as close to hell on earth that there could be, but seemingly not flinching in the slightest. The scars and wounds across his body he had incurred over the past day or two showed that no man could be exempt from death's scythe here, but off they went, to face abominations that could come from any direction conceivable. He took another look around, at this madness, this devil-concieved carnage...and god help him, he loved it. "Push on!" Roosevelt shouted over the noise, vaulting over the broken wall and rushing over the rubble and broken masonry covering the street. It seemed that the other men quickened their pace at his sight--although by now he was not certain if he was inspiring

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 them with his presence as he had before or if they merely saw him as another dirtcovered soldier crawling through this shattered city. He saw a figure suddenly emerge from behind a large lump of brick ahead--a man, his jaws splitting to reveal multiple rows of teeth. One of the many souls he had encountered whose bodies had been taken by these goddamned Roaches. Not hesitating, Roosevelt aimed his shotgun from his hip and fired, tearing the aberration's face off with a concentrated burst of shot. He finally quickened his pace into a sprint and leapt into the next source of cover, a rubble-lined room of a blackened building husk. The thing did not look particularly stable to him, but it was not an undesirable choice next to standing out in the open streets. Other men ran to join him as an ear-piercing shriek cut through the air--multiple spiderlike shapes were appearing in the dust around them. Rifle fire and shotgun discharges sounded as jagged limbs reached out to snatch any unfortunates who had not yet made it into cover, rending their bodies instantly--Roosevelt found himself unperturbed, having already seen so much grisly death in this campaign already. Aiming down the shotgun sights, he fired as vile biological rounds came in, slicing through walls like they were air and impaling nearby men right through, sucking out their organs through tiny exit wounds. A man nearby suddenly threw up as the one next to him suffered such a fate--Roosevelt immediately leaned over to pull him down as more such spines came his way, barely missing his face by a few inches. A Rough Rider cried out as a spine cut through his next, ripping off his head and most of his spine--Roosevelt span around and scooped up the man's California Typewriter, just as the screeching, carapaced shapes came scurrying forward at frightening speed. Turning around, Roosevelt braced for the recoil as he fired--the gun was almost impossible to aim properly, but that hardly mattered. Inhuman screams came as he finally emptied the gun's magazine, but the nearest horror still lurched forward, bleeding purple fluids from wounds across it's hideous face. Unsheathing a nice, Roosevelt threw it forward right into the creature's clicking mandible-filled maw, before again scooping up his shotgun and firing right into it at near point-blank range. As it feel limp, he yanked out the knife and threw it at another monster as it came leaping over a barricade--only for it to hit on the handle-end, bouncing off harmlessly. Driven less by thinking and more by adrenaline, Roosevelt reacted quickly as it ripped apart three men covering there, grabbing a grenade from a nearby body and throwing himself forward at the thing. Spinning around, the creature hissed as Roosevelt tossed the grenade right under it, before pulling himself back. His ears rang again as it detonated, throwing the creature upward a foot--still moving, Roosevelt grabbed a pistol from a holster and emptied it straight into an eye, turning away as soon as it fell limp. The men around him looked on with a sense of awe, as he checked to make sure there were no more of these monsters in sight. "No pause, lads!" he shouted, shoving a fresh magazine into his pistol. "Come on! Liberation is in sight!" Shouting affirmations, the men gathered themselves and moved out into the street, as the clatter of gunfire came from a block down. Roosevelt himself quickened his pace-that could mean only friendly forces. Finally, the desired link-up was imminent. "Let's get them!" A sergeant at the front shouted. "Stomp any damn cockroach you find! Burn every last damn nes--" A writhing, barbed vine suddenly burst out from a nearby mound of rubble, spearing the man right through the chest--two dozen rifle rounds cut it to pieces moments later, but

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 it still took Roosevelt's breath away for a moment. Not only had many men been killed by their own body-snatched comrades, but seemingly also by the whole city, corrupted by these monsters in the same way they had done to many a poor soul. Another man screamed as the ground beneath his feet crumbled away to reveal a lamprey-like maw that shredded his body in seconds--several Tonics down there quickly set that vile thing alight. Barely slowed, the group carried on as a Canadian squad leader raised a hand, looking into a nearby window. "Mother of--over here!" Rushing over rubble and loose bricks, Roosevelt took a look inside the partially demolished structure--he was immediately hit by a disgusting smellt that churned his stomach, seeing some sort of cellar lined with pulsating, purple organic fiber like the inside of a bodily organ. Men were fused to this growth, their stomachs hideously ballooned as monstrous shapes grew within the overstretched skin--he had heard of such sights found in Californian towns already liberated, but if he had seen one himself, he had surely already blocked it out. There was already one option. "Tonics out! Burn it all!" Bottles were produced from satchels with total economy of motion, and it was a few moments before the interior of that hellhouse was consumed by licking flames. Roosevelt and the others casually moved on as that building gave way moments later, collapsing into rubble in a cloud of dust. Sights like that never failed to take away the strange thrill he was getting--he was only thankful he had little inside him to hurl up. "Up there! Watch out!" Roosevelt again ducked for cover as rounds began to churn up the ground ahead-certainly not the horrific organic ones he had been used to. Through the dust, he could see a machinegun-crew in a nearby window throwing down fire. For a moment, he thought them chaps simply mistaken, but then he saw a limb sporting sickle-like claws, and knew what he had to do. "Hold on, boys!" He ducked deeper as bullets blew splinters of brick from the pile of rubble he was hiding behind, as he produced a flare gun from the back of his belt, and carefully fired it off to be positioned over the chattering position. A few moments passed, his mind racing so fast that it was impossible to tell just how much time was really going by. Then, friendly mortars came down, punching through the roof of the target building and spewing dust out through the windows. The ground reverberated strongly as it also gave way, the upper stories collapsing downwards as more dust flooded down the street. "Let's go!" Without waiting for the cloud to settle, Roosevelt scrambled out from cover and carried on, shielding his eyes as others coughed and spluttered. Any pause like that in the open only made them vulnerable--dust and smoke did not seem to impede the creatures. He tripped and stumbled over various indentations in the ground, then stopped as he saw a couple dozen human shapes appear through the cloud ahead. He steeled himself--there was no telling if they were to start shooting them or sprouting additional limbs. "Sound off! Who are you?" No use for passwords--the Roaches merely seemed to take them from the minds of those they body-snatched.

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"Sergeant-Major Daniel Daly, Marine Corps!" A man whose face was blackened like something out of a minstrel show came into view ahead, sporting a wide grin. "Why, if it isn't the Teddy himself!" "How many with you?" "Several squads of my leathernecks, some army lads, and a couple of gooks...we've been to hell and back and with souvenirs, sir, so don't you worry." "Yes, well...do you hear that?" Roosevelt turned around, suddenly realizing something--the constant chatter of machineguns from blocks away, the incessant screaming of mortars...it all seemed to have died down. "Wait..." He turned, as more figures came down from the street to the side--Canadians, with several American troops in the front. "Sir, we haven't found many Roaches in the parts behind us--we've met other units coming this way..." "Do you think..." Roosevelt turned to Daly with a smile on his face. Leaning in, Daly looked more grave. "Sir, if there's one thing I've learned here, it's that these beasts are nothing if not cunning..." "Well, the nation is long overdue it's victory..." Stepping onto a mound of bricks, Roosevelt coughed for attention as eyes flicked towards him. "Men, you can hear that the machineguns are going silent and the mortars are cooling. You know what this means--after all the blood we have spilt, after all the brothers and friends we have lost, all our sacrifice has proved not to be in vain--San Francisco is ours! California is liberated! We've done it! We've damn well done it!" A second of silence, followed by cheers of genuine jubilance. Roosevelt smiled as he saw several men give each other tight hugs, wondering soberly for a moment if greater challenges did not await them in the future. "Send a runner." Roosevelt looked down to Daly. "Have it relayed to Washington that we've taken the city." "Sir, I'm not sure if..." "As I said, we need the victory." Roosevelt finally exhaled as he felt the fatigue of the battle finally start to get to him. But to feel like a young bull moose once more...it had been worth it. "Never thought I'd see this won." The Marine murmured.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "The campaign is won." Roosevelt nodded. "But there's still the bigger war. The way these game boys have handled themselves? I think we can win that too." **

BlackWave

April 3rd, 2012 02:08 AM

23rd March 1915, Washington DC, United States of America Hubbub buzzed inside the halls of the Capitol, as Congressmen assembled at their seats with anticipation. The drowsiness of the early morning, and the initial surprise at the abruptness of the session the President had called, had been shaken off when word finally spread about what exactly this meeting was about. With all the news from Europe, the debates and discussions over the measures imposed on the nation in light of the crisis that had nearly led to fistfights, and looming specter of anarchist movements taking advantage of the tense public atmosphere, there had been little cause for jubilation in Congress and the Senate. Among the seats, Ohio Senator Warren G. Harding quietly checked his pocket-watch as the last people filed in. These last few months had been...uncomfortable experiences from men as himself. He remembered the first reports of the 'giant insects on the fields of France' back in January, which felt like a decade ago already. He remembered how he had laughed and treated them as hoaxes or exaggeration. Then San Francisco happened, and suddenly all talk of keeping out of the madness in Europe vanished. Though he had spoken out against the insistence from the likes of Roosevelt to intervene wherever these creatures had sprouted up, the newspaper images of hideous monsters out of some insane nightmare laying waste to once proud nations had shook his convictions to the core. Many other Congressmen felt the same. The entire balance of things had been changed. The measures taken by Wilson and then Marshall had also not sat well with him. Freezing the entire country...the effects on Wall Street and elsewhere were already being felt, and he could not imagine they could keep it up for long. With the great railroads of America now almost solely the province of the military, the nation simply did not feel the same. Naturally, desperate times required desperate measures. But surely there would soon come the time when none of this was necessary any more--but would it all come down to the whims of the White House? Trust a Democrat like Marshall to bring this all on them. Hushes soon put down the hubbub as Marshall finally appeared, taking his place at the podium ahead. Harding was surprised at the absence of Mr. Roosevelt, who appeared to had been badgering the President into implementing his own suicidal interventionist agenda, but considered that the man was still in California playing soldiers. "Gentlemen. Congressmen. My fellow Americans." Marshall cleared his throat. "I call this extraordinary session to bring you the news that late yesterday, the guns in San Francisco ran silent. The flag of the nation now rises over the Bay. We have made incalculable sacrifice in the process of this merciless campaign, and the nation has seen casualties unheard of since the Civil War. Many American families have lost a loved one, or a friend. But ultimately, we stand over what may be remembered as our greatest triumph. California has been liberated. The menace of the Grex there has been expunged.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Let there be no mistake, this is cause for celebration. But, we cannot help but look at the greater scheme of things, and it is the sobering fact that we have but won a campaign in a larger war. Our allies in Europe struggle against a swarm far larger than the one that afflicted us. Though we have already donated to their cause with men and material, it is not yet enough to properly alter the balance. Should Europe fall, it will mean the end of civilization. I do not mince words. We will ultimately face a swarm larger beyond the comprehension of any sane man. Our nation will stand alone as the world is consumed by darkness that hears no plea, no begging, no cajoling. This is no enemy we can simply declare our neutrality against, no more than we can declare ourselves neutral against a mighty storm that would batter our shores. We cannot ignore the rest of the globe already struggling against this scurrying menace. The Russias already suffer a war against a swarm that is destroying their heartlands. Australia teeters on oblivion. The lands of the Manchus are tearing themselves apart in fear of an infection. Our nation has already felt the blight of this pestilence, and has overcome it. But if we simply sit idle in the face of this wretched plague elsewhere, we toss away the sacrifices that our soldiers have made in preserving the liberty and safety we enjoy in these as yet untouched areas of the nation. I know that there are some right here in this chamber who feel that we have done enough. That we have already bled our families and industries dry. But we already have many thousands of professional soldiers who are nonetheless taking up arms. Our factories are beginning to produce material and revolutionary new weapons without the pressure European industries suffer. I am told that we can raise three hundred thousand extra soldiers to dispatch to Europe, and with enough pressure, we shall burn the Grex menace there in its nest. While we do these things, these deeply momentous things, let us be very clear, and make very clear to all the world what our motives and our objectives are. My own thought has not been driven from its habitual and normal course by the unhappy events of the last two months, and I do not believe that the thought of the nation has been altered or clouded by them. We are also raising soldiers from the Philippines and Hawaii, which can be instrumental in addressing the situation in Asia. We have already been reinforced by the Canadian Dominion, that has graciously allowed itself to alleviate us in California. We have the power to alter the course of the plague that grips this world. To simply do nothing, I say, is condemning us all to the pit. There are those in both our great Parties that concur with me, and I beseech those that do not to reconsider. It is a distressing and oppressive duty, gentlemen of the Congress, which I have performed in thus addressing you. There are, it may be, many months of fiery trial and sacrifice ahead of us. It is a fearful thing to lead this great peaceful people into war across the world, into the most terrible and disastrous of all wars, civilization itself seeming to be in the balance. I leave the final decision to you, good sirs, to show my critics that I am not the growing dictator that I am made out to be. Let us make this decision one made by the American people. We have fought this menace and won, and we shall fight it wherever it is, and win again. I advise--beg, in fact--that Congress announce our declaration of total war against the Grex. No, our intention to totally exterminate these disgusting beasts in every hole they cower in. To such a task we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes, everything that we are and everything that we have, with the pride of those who know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness and the peace which she has treasured. God helping us, we can do no other." There was a moment of stunned silence, as the Congressmen digested the President's speech. Harding sat back, and stroke his chin.

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These were to be interesting times. ** Excerpt from the Evening Standard, 23rd March 1915: SAN FRANCISCO LIBERATED Dispatches from the American shores yesterday evening declared that the last Roach in the city of San Francisco has faced extermination, leaving the state of California to enjoy relief from the plague that has been afflicting it for over two months. It has become apparent that today President Marshall will call an immediate meeting of Congress to discuss whether the United States will now commit all the force at its disposal to support the struggle against the Grex pestilence in Europe and Asia. There exist strong parties for isolationism and interventionism in the houses of the Capitol. Theodore Roosevelt, prominent figure of the Californian campaign and vocal supporter of a full American commitment worldwide, was not able to be present, but was reportedly present in San Francisco when the last shot was fired. Currently, token American forces remain embroiled in the fields of France, and shipments arrive in ports on the coasts of this nation and those of the French and Germans. In particular, there has been a call for American manufacturers to begin shipments of the new 'Thompson Gun', a portable sub-machinegun that has seen limited usage in the Californian front. Lord Churchill of the admiralty has been quoted as supporting a greater American intervention, using language overly enthusiastic for print. ** The Bipeds make a greater issue over their new occupation of the region 'San Francisco' than would be logically anticipated. Their next sensible call would be to redeploy their assets to where is greater needed by the hives. Further deployment to 'France' would make situation there considerably more interesting. Greater sustenance guaranteed. Gratification also. Further encouragement may be needed to spur on their movements, to save energy for the swarms. Something noticeable. Something fun. ** Petrograd, Imperial Russia Seated within the back of a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, Frederick Mycroft, agent for the British Crown, cast a glimpse to the man next to him--Sir George Buchanan, ambassador to the Tsar. Due to meet Nicholas himself in the Winter Palace today to discuss urgent matters regarding support of the fight in Siberia, logistical aid, and other such business-Mycroft himself had a rather less savory task ahead of him.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 The individual known as Grigori Rasputin. Being stationed here in Petrograd for a while now at the British Embassy, Mycroft had already heard of the 'mad monk' in the Tsar's court for a while now. It was the Tsar's decision if he wished such a type so close to him, of course, but since this whole damn lunacy with the Roaches had begun, things had clearly changed in the Winter Palace. The bizarre decision of sending that monk to Berlin as part of peace talks had been the first thing to disturb him. Now, all the stories on the streets of this city about the Tsar being under the thrall of this hairy priest were did seem so outlandish as they once did. His superiors in the command circles of the Entente seemed to share his concern. Accompanying Ambassador Buchanan under the pretence of being an anonymous aide, Mycroft was to observe Rasputin if the opportunity presented itself, and report every note he could make. Another meeting with the Tsar was scheduled in a few days time. If his superiors made the decision, he would terminate the monk, for the good of the Tsar, and by extension western civilization itself. Russia could not be allowed to fall, from within or otherwise. "Look at that." Buchanan finally spoke, gesturing to a group of burly Cossacks on a street corner as the car passed by. "More of more of those types out every day, it seems. Doesn't bode well, does it?" "The Tsar's getting paranoid. With good reason." Mycroft uttered. "Remember, the Roaches snatched someone a while back, got him into the Palace and damn well nearly shot him. Now we have the likes of communists and anarchists taking advantage of all the trouble here...and if the Urals fall, well, I think we can kiss goodbye to our cosy little existence here." "You don't have to remind me of that, sir, your intelligencer friends in London have been most keen to do so already." Buchanan sighed. "We're raising new divisions from India...looks like half of Parliament wants them sent to France, the other half up to Siberia. One way or the other, we'd be putting the poor darkies into places they'd hardly find comfortable." "Yes. Heartbreaking, isn't it." Mycroft turned to look out over the Neva River as the car turned out onto an embankment. Ahead, he could see the spire of the Peter and Paul Fortress, rising up against an overcast grey sky. The atmosphere in the city did feel a little low-colored itself. Reportedly, there were some army units being recalled to help 'keep security' here...though some reports suggested that entire divisions on the front were already subverted by anti-Tsarist groups. How much of this was being spurred on by the Roaches, he didn't know. But as events prior to the arrival of the falling-stars had reminded him, man often proved his own worst enemy. "Here we are..." The car began to slow down as it came up to the edifice of the Palace by the embankment, with fur-clad figures patrolling up and the down the grimy paving. Turning around, the car drove up through opened gates into the courtyard, with palace aides already there to greet them. "Try not to be suspicious." Buchanan hissed as the driver got out to open the doors for them. "Muck this up, and I don't know what will happen." "Trust me, sir, I know what I'm bloody well doing..."

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** Nothern Territory, Australia The red dust of the Outback never seemed to end. At the front of this rusted, clattering truck, Wun Cho-Yen, once a coolie worker on the railroads here, kept his eyes out to try and pierce the low-hanging clouds of dust being blown along the winds. Behind him, a couple of other fellow Chinamen and some Outback militia who had came along with them, surprisingly untroubled by being with the likes of his type. But then, Wun thought with some relief, in these days with the nation seemingly collapsed, not everyone judged by color any more. Of course, there were others who took advantage. He remembered the stories of whole towns that got rid of coolies like him as word came of these monsters plaguing the lands. Yes, the Roaches...he had yet to see one, but by now it seemed fairly apparent that they were there. With nothing but a handful of pennies and a pickaxe, he had joined the columns of people heading northwards from the small town in New South Wales where he had lived, but eventually it dispersed, with someone trying to get to the nearest place of leaving the country, others trying to get to Brisbane or Fraser Island or whatever the latest safe haven was. Eventually, he had been lucky enough to come on this abandoned truck, and took it off in whatever direction he found. On the way, he would bolt on any loose scrap he could find just as some extra protection, getting more from the passengers he would pick up. "Wait..." One of the men behind him leaned forward. Wun nodded. Though he spoke relatively good English, his throat was dry enough that he simply didn't feel like it. Up ahead, through the dust, he could make out a rough dirt road, heading northwards. Along it was a column of horsedrawn carts, loaded with people and crates. Driving the battered truck forwards, Wun leaned out to see the faces of the people there, black and red from all the dust blown at them. "Well, fancy bloody that! A Chinaman driving a motor!" he heard someone say. He braced himself. If they were to try and shoot him and take the truck, he wouldn't be so quick to oblige them. "You just keep your hands to yerself, mate." one of the others in the back shouted in return, seemingly thinking the same thing. "No worries...just a bit wonderous, that's all. Where you folks headed?" "Don't know where." Wun shouted back. "Wherever's safe!" "We're headin' up to Darwin. Didn't you see the flying machines, droppin' the leaflets?" "What leaflets?" A battered piece of paper came flying across from a nearby cart onto Wun's lap--a faded picture of a soldier with an outstretched arm on the front. Wun smiled. So, was this were they were going to make the last stand, now?

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "How do you know it's not already gone?" he shouted back. "Well, if the monsters had come this far, we'd likely have noticed. You comin' or not? Don't reckon that rattling pile of bolts is going to go on forever by the sound of it. We could use the spare bits and pieces." Wun considered for a moment. The possibility of actual food, shelter...well, why not? "Very well, my friend. To Darwin we go..." ** Petrograd, Imperial Russia Worlds out beyond the stars in the night sky. Extinguished, one by one. Inhabited by men, albeit men of forms bizarre and wondrous, who could only flee or perish. A blight on all of God's universe that consumed whatever came in it's way. Within his private chambers, Grigori Rasputin, gaunt, pale, and sickly, gazed longingly into a mirror on the wall before him. He barely ate or drank these days, trying to keep his mind on suppressing this damned...demon from worming it's way into the crevasses of his soul, denying him all but his most basic will. And yet, he did not feel it was even trying all that hard, as if to taunt him. What a damn fool he had been, to sell his being to this monster for the promise of false power. It tormented him with visions that seemed almost real, glimpses into a universe far beyond that of squabbling men and their petty affairs on this insignificant island in space. He had been given more perspective than any soul on this Earth--and what a curse that was. He could see now, that these monsters had overcome powers in the stars beyond men as men were beyond chattering apes in the trees. Their swarms that now laid waste to nations and continents were but the tiniest fraction of their true whole. And the worst was, they weren't even trying. This was just a game to them. The futility, the totality all shook him down to the deepest recesses of his mind. If this damnable intelligence sought to break him with such visions, it was not far from success. He had tried to tell someone. Give them all that he knew from his contact with this abomination. But it cost him enough willpower just to sit and refuse to succumb to the puppetry of this devilish spirit. It was costing him, in body and soul. Would it be so that he could slit his own throat and end it all. A sensation came from within his mind, a feeling of something within there mocking him. Getting up, Rasputin found a sudden surge of willpower as he picked up a nearby bottle and threw it against the wall, sending shards flying all over the carpeted floor. "Enough! God almighty, enough! Leave me in peace, I beg you!" He collapsed back onto the bed, on the verge of weeping. A moment later, he turned his head as a palace servant opened the door, looking worried. "Father, I heard shouting and breaking..." "It's alright! Leave me!" Rasputin barked, not even sure if the words were of his own voice. Sighing, he wondered if anyone else but him deserved to understand the full magnitude of what he had grasped. Many men still deluded themselves into feeling victory possible. Was it his right to deny them the very basic essence of hope in these

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 final, dark days? He sat up, sensing something new in the palace. He could 'hear' thoughts, muffled and vague like eavesdropping on a conversation across a loud room--this was nothing new to him. Even as a peasant child in Pokrovskoye, he had often found himself gleaning sensations and emotions from those around him, sometimes finding out how corrupt and foul people could truly be. And though he had never found himself particularly conscious of this gift, he had used it to glean favor with the Tsar, to elevate him beyond his previous meagre existence as a serf wallowing in squalor...then this spirit had come along and amplified his ability. Like the victim of a corrupt barman, he had initially drunk himself on this new power, but then he realized the cost of the initial high. Not for the first or the last time, he cursed himself for being such a fool. But then, would he really have had a choice in the first place? The new thoughts grew stronger. They were in English, a language he was only just lately picking up on. The British ambassador, it seemed. Coming for an audience with the Tsar and his corrupt, decadent leaders...and oh. A spy. Come to observe him, in fact. And...ah. So, that was how they saw it. This was it. The ultimate cost of his error. That's what you get, Grigori. That wretched spirit. Ever-mocking. Ever-haughty. "Shut up!" he hissed again, getting up and kicking over a chair. He looked up to the ceiling, and sought for a moment a God that seemed evermore absent from the world. For a moment, he felt reflective. So, they wanted to kill him. Perhaps it would be a welcoming respite. Or even, an opportunity. Maybe they would think twice were he to reveal what only he, in all of the world, knew. ** Hulluch, France Flakes of soil and stone pattered down on Colonel Lejeune's helmet as he stroked his filth-caked, unshaven chin. Almost a week now of scurrying around in the flattened rubble of this little village, digging and fortifying, keeping eyes out for Scarabs in the shadows, ducking as artillery and bombs came in, almost worrying if the Roaches weren't just going to come digging in from below. Chemical poison had supposedly been pumped into the soil beneath this place via the waterworks, but knowing that in time these monsters could adapt to the sort of thing, he wasn't sure if the effect would still hold now. Beside him, a squad of his Marines--proper veterans now, ones who had survived all the way with him, at the cost of every ounce of human feeling. And with them, crammed into this fortified cellar further supported with boxes of volatile ammunition, some British Tommies, a couple of Italians, and some Belgians still wearing gas masks even here. He could see the imprints of straps of those pressed right into the flesh of some of the poor boys here. Any opportunity to take the damnable things off was a godsend. "So, boys," he spoke up, his voice hoarse. "Who here's been to Rhode Island?" No reply but weary looks. He couldn't blame him. Every day here was like a test of one's resolve. Would it ever end? Was putting these Roaches down like trying to swat away an oncoming cloud of locusts? Well, that certainly wasn't worth dwelling on, he quickly decided...

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 They jerked upright as shouts came from upstairs. Grabbing his Remington shotgun and pushing in some fresh shells, Lejeune was the first up the ladder as he strapped on his mask. Bursting out into the open, onto a rubble-strewn surface that was once the floor of a now levelled house, he quickly made for the nearby trench dug out among the dust and scattered stones that made up what was left of the town. Machinegun nests among the husks of structures were chattering away as men already in the trench fired into shapes coming out from the fog and smoke of No Man's Land ahead. "Keep it up!" Lejeune barked, hearing shouts in French and Italian. So many soldiers mixed up wherever you went, sometimes it was trouble enough sorting out who was in charge. "Vaffanculo!" A screeching horror swooped out from the smoke ahead, plunging into one of the machinegun nests and sending bloodied pieces of flesh and metal flying out all around, into the trench. Heavy machineguns clattered in the direction of the thing as it took of again, before spines came thudding out of the sky in and around the trench. From the other side of the town, Lejeune could hear a low roar, and felt the muddy ground shift with the reverberations of something big. God help me, Lejeune thought. He felt almost at home. "Lads! Lads!" Muffled grunting came from nearby as a Tommy runner came hurrying down the trench, carrying a satchel. "What's going on?" Lejeune grunted. "This'll concern you, Yankee." The runner grunted as he produced a tattered sheet of paper. Grabbing it, Lejeune immediately cast his eyes to the top: SAN FRANCISCO TAKEN! CALIFORNIA FREE! Well, praise be, he thought with a grin under his mask. Perhaps things were going to get different here after all. ** Near Rouen, France As the sun set over the horizon, with ominous clouds hanging over that region in the far distance being torn apart, a passenger train hurried through the countryside towards the lights of Rouen ahead. Railroads were tightly monitored now, after the initial rush of people trying to get as far away from the front as possible. Often there were at least two soldiers or policemen stationed in every locomotive. Now, many people were simply choosing to secure their homes as much as possible. In the forward part of the first class carriage, Georges Clemenceau, statesman and writer, cast his eyes over today's edition of Le Figaro. He had finally made the decision to move from Paris to Cherbourg, from where he could move over to England if matters here were to get...drastic. Rumors abounded in the capital, especially about those invisible assassin beasts wielded by the monsters, supposedly lurking in every alleyway and shadow. Of course, he considered himself above such fearmongering, but

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 nevertheless, better safe than sorry. Today's newspaper contained yet another editorial with the ceasefire--well, it was more obviously an alliance--with Germany and the Central Powers. This writer condemned the government as treasonous, selling out France's soul when she was in her worse hour. Clemenceau himself felt conflicted, like many others of his type. There was something in him that despised these men for throwing themselves into bed with those who had inflicted death on the men and people of the nation already...but then he knew well enough of the tragedy the Roaches had wrought, the death they brought wherever they cast themselves. For now, he thought, better the devil he knew. But as soon as the Roach threat was over, he had decided, there would be petitioning not to let the Germans off so easily. They had brought themselves onto French soil with ill intent, and their actions in 1914 could not be forgotten or forgiven. If they were to be in the weaker position at the end of it all, then so much the better for France to take her opportunity. "Wine, monsieur?" He looked up as a waiter passed by, pushing a trolley of bottles. "Oh, no, merci. I still have a journey ahead of me, and..." Clemenceau was thrown off his chair as a screeching came from the front of the train. The lights flickered, before suddenly the carriage came tearing off the tracks, plowing into a field beside the line and ripping through soil and bushes. Tables and passengers were sent flying out through shattered windows, Clemenceau among them, as the entire train derailed, sending debris flying left and right. Agony rippled through every muscle in his body as he found himself bleeding, lying here in this wet, muddy grass, bewildered and confused. What had happened? There seemed no reason for this at all...he struggled to get up, but pain got the better of him, leaving him to take in the agonized groans of the passengers lying nearby. He managed to turn his head, towards the derailed locomotive lying on its side in the field ahead, and glimpsed a horrific, dark shape like some sort of demonic mantis with a jagged ahead materialize atop it. The apparition let off a blood-curdling shriek, before taking off on buzzing wings. Clemenceau in horror remembered all those stories of the assassin monsters in the dark, right before he passed out. ** 24th March 1915, near Oedelem, Flanders, Belgium The fields surrounding the flattened town of Oedelem sat covered in fog and smoke. Marshy expanses of muddy ground covered in pools made from shell craters, dotted with blackened, naked trees. The tattered remnants of horsedrawn carts, trucks, or even the odd field guns remained rotting and partially submerged in wet soil or filthy brown pools of water. Masked figures--BEF soldiers, Belgians, and Frenchmen--swarmed hurriedly through the landscape, trying not to let themselves sink to their ankles in the ground. Mortars were screaming to their front and sides, causing brief bursts of magnesium flares that lit up the fog ahead of them or explosions that rained down lumps of wet earth around them.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Some of the men seemed barely conscious as they scrambled forward, deprived of sleep and rest. The drive that propelled them was the constant fear that Roaches would erupt out of nowhere, to tear them to pieces. Almost shattered and covered in soil, they barely seemed alive. Near the head of the group, Bernard Montgomery paused only to wipe mud from the lenses of his mask as he hurried forward, cradling a Remington shotgun--American weapons seemed to be flooding this part of the front now. Once he would've found carrying around Yankee guns unpatriotic and distasteful, but those thoughts were long banished now. It certainly was going to take pressure off the manufacturers back home, that was for damn sure. After spending nearly a week wallowing in the trenches near Bruges, Montgomery's only respite was the news that that crazy lunatic de Wiart had succeeded in slaying Sneaky Willy. Though information on the man's circumstances was unclear, the morale of the troops had been lifted. And now, the euphoria from that seemed to have been washed away in this mud and filth as he had been tasked with leading this combined detachment to secure the lines at Oedelem. Some of these boys were his own Marauders, but he had a feeling that command was trying to separate him from the lads he had commanded for what felt like an eternity now. Perhaps it was only mere paranoia. In these days, what else could men at the front be seen as but statistics and lists? A mortar hit terrifyingly close, making his ears ring painfully and causing him to stumble. His knees almost sank into the ground, moisture soaking through his trousers and biting at his skin. Getting back up, Montgomery kept on moving, beckoning to the men behind him. He was hungry. His eyes yearned him to sleep. But after so long like this, it felt like the norm. Seeing him go on even like this...perhaps the men would take it to heart. Up ahead, he could see a flooded ditch through the fog--he froze upon seeing what was it in. Lots of those wireworm creatures, joined and entwined together into some sort of root-like thing...though they seemed burnt, and were not moving, he nevertheless crept forward cautiously. His brain knocked the drowsiness out of him as he aimed down the shotgun, letting one of the Belgians with him hurry forward to prod it with the bayonet of his rifle--no response. Sighing in relief, Montgomery tried to give himself a burst of speed--they had to keep in synch with the mortar fire, or all that ammunition was going to be truly wasted. The sight still unnerved him...every week he spent here, Belgium seemed less like Belgium and more like another planet altogether. Finally, the sight of barricades rising out from the mudfield came into view ahead. Quickening his pace, Montgomery grabbed a flaregun from his belt and fired it off, signifying to the mortar crews their safe transit. Behind the barricades, he could see the barrels of Vickers machineguns sticking out from between sheets of scrap and wood, and beyond those burnt out husks standing atop surfaces of rubble ground and sunken into muddy ground. Slowing down and waving, Montgomery waved as the head of a Belgian soldier, wearing a hankerchief for a mask, peeked out from over the walls and waved back. "How do we know they've not been snatched by Roachy, sir?" One of the Tommies behind him caught up, mumbling through the gas mask. "We have to take our chances all the time now, boy. If they do turn, you know what to do--just stick a bayonet right up there." Montgomery stumbled past the barricade onto the broken surface of a mud road that he guessed was once a village thoroughfare, finding a narrow trench that seemed to

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 encircle the whole place behind the makeshift ramparts. It seemed worryingly undermanned, with only a single dozing Belgian soldier every few meters. Then again, he wondered, he had now idea how many casualties they had been taking while holding this patch of nothing. "You--give supplies." he snapped to three French soldiers carrying boxes of machinegun ammo on their backs as they came up to him, gesturing towards the trench. With Entente soldiers so mixed up by the constantly shifting lines and movements these days, hitting the language barrier often seemed maddening--Montgomery had found that speaking loudly and making wide gestures seemed to do the trick, at least to him. One of the Belgian soldiers was gesturing back to him, walking over to a patch of ground he guessed was once the floor of a house. Opening up a trapdoor partially hidden by dust and grit, he pointed down--nodding, Montgomery squeezed through and clambered down a rotting ladder, finding himself in a dark cellar lit by a handful of candles. One of the walls had been knocked out and the earth behind it dug away to turn the place into a veritable bunker. Right now, it seemed to be sheltering a handful of Tommies and some Italians--sitting around the inert corpse of a Roach warrior. The stench would've overpowered Montgomery, had he not been already accustomed to constantly inhaling foul odors since he had begun fighting. "Good morning, boys." he said as he took off his mask. "Mind if I join you?" An opportunity for a decent nap--his body was practically shouting at him to take it. "Go ahead, sir." one of the Britons smiled, his face blackened with dirt. "We got us our very own mascot, right here. Boris the Roach!" "Really?" Montgomery chuckled as he sat down among some ammunition boxes. "How did you end up with him then?" "Roachy hit us a few days ago. Just a few little ones, none of the big Jabberwocks or anything. Killed a lot of us in the outer trenches--they aren't nothing but mud now last time I looked. Took incendiary mortars to 'em...found this fella after that, wounded, and finished him off with a bayonet. Reckon it'll scare off any more Roaches that come!" "I bet." Montgomery grinned. "Got anything to eat?" "Just some mouldy old bread, sir." "Might as well be fucking gourmet. Let's have some of it." "So then, sir," another man spoke up as Montgomery was handed something resembling a lump of coal, "we heard from a runner earlier that the Yanks finally got rid of the Roaches on their own land. Now they'll finally get their arses over here properly." "Really?" Montgomery sat up. This was new. Then again, all sorts of mad stories tended to circulate on the front these days. One time he had heard from a bloke who insisted that the Roaches were cutting up London, or hanging politicians from the Eiffel Tower. He certainly wouldn't have been displeased by the latter. "Yeah. But then, the Roaches they had there aren't as nasty as the ones we've got, so I hear. Got bloody lucky, them yanks did." "I have cousin in America. New York." one of the Italians finally spoke up. "Maybe I see

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 him again!" "You just pray that he's staying where he is, son." Montgomery sighed. "You just pray..." ** New York City, United States of America Up until now, the streets of Broadway had largely been grey and relatively silent, marked by police or National Guard patrols. Threat of opportunist anarchism and, of course, the Roaches had been kept the city's inhabitants wary and cautious. But now, as far as Howard Philips Lovecraft could see, the news of the final victory of California was changing all that--street parties had broke out across Manhattan once the papers had broke it. People were hanging flags from windows, flooding stores for their own private celebrations--any excuse these days. The mayor had suggested an upcoming parade, particularly for any soldiers returning-but Lovecraft had noted that the army now seemed to be using the euphoria from this victory to call for even more men, for Europe now. Roosevelt and now the President himself had been insisting to Congress to approve all this, and it seemed they would get their way--Lovecraft remained ambivalent. Somehow, he felt doubtful over all this supposed victory. These creatures seemed nothing if not wily. The other topic around the city was, of course, Dr. Tesla and his 'castle' further up Manhattan. Supposedly they had hit something big now, but the federal government had mandated top secrecy over this. Rumors ran rampant as a result, with talk of poison gas that dissolved bodies, electrical guns that could destroy whole fields of Roaches, and bombs made of special metal that could annihilate whole cities. The last struck Lovecraft as especially absurd--surely if something so radical was possible, it would've been already attempted? Evidently, some people kept their noses too deep in fantastical periodicals. "Keep our boys here! Say no to Marshall! Say no to Teddy!" Up ahead, groups of various gentlemen baring signs less than warm towards the current motion going around Congress were doing their almost daily march down Broadway, calling for isolationism and seclusion from the carnage in Europe. Lovecraft had entertained the notion of going along with them, if only to see opinions not peddled from the government that were being fed to him increasingly more from the papers, but had decided he had better things to do. The market for optimistic fiction was especially high in these days--he was already working on a story for a magazine about men triumphing over horrific monsters. 'Hope fiction', he was starting to think of it as. "We've won in California! Now keep our borders secure!" A man among the group was shouting nearby. "Has anyone seen a giant Roach here lately? I think not!" "How do you know they're not already here?" Lovecraft called back at him, laughing. Deep within him, he did seriously entertain that--just as New York had let itself be swamped by filth from around the Earth, now it could host men snatched by the Roaches, as the dispatches from the front said. Of course, arrivals to Manhattan were restricted and closely monitored these days, but one never knew. Sighing, Lovecraft looked around for the nearest convenience store. His landlady was hosting a 'California Party' for the tenants; best to stock up.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 ** Charleroi, Belgium Thick black clouds hung over the ruins of Charleroi, casting black shadows over the husks of annihilated buildings and spires. The faint glows of tracer rounds shooting upwards into the overcast sky lit up orange over the rubble-strewn landscape as the sounds of machinegun clatter and screaming mortars shook rats and vermin feasting on the corpses hidden throughout the rubble into hiding. Barbed wire and sandbags were strewn nearly at random throughout streets blocked up with charred masonry and black, splintered wood. Henri Giraud, officer of the French Army, cursed not for the last time as he and a column of Zouave light infantrymen crept through a maze of battered walls connected by crumbling building supports or held up by heaps of sooted bricks. The men and himself blended in perfectly with their surroundings, thanks to the dirt and grime they had collected over their bodies on the way here. Breathing heavily, Giraud kept the grip on his revolver tight, knowing that in all likelihood there could be any sort of shrieking monstrosity around the next corner. Here the forces of his country and the Germans had clashed last year, when this was still a war of men, and this place had been ravaged by the monsters not long after they entered Belgium. Now, the Kaiser's--well, the General Staff's now--armies had moved to retake this expanse of rubble, with nothing but the shadow of death to mark it out, to fortify and hold it, and the Entente, with their new deal, was moving to support them. With this new alliance, Giruad, having been captured at Guise the previous year, had been released and assigned a new position in the French Army. He had been sent into the front almost straightaway, with only quick briefing on these Roaches, these monsters causing so much calamity. All of it so bizarre...these giant insects, peacemaking with Germans...he could barely believe this was not some twisted dream he was having in a Boche prison. "Wait..." Creeping around a wall, he exhaled in relief as he found a sandbag-lined position built onto the rubble between two battered houses--machinegun nests and troop dugins in whatever cover was available, centered around a single howitzer. British and Belgian troops appeared to be manning, all wearing masks of some kind, be they proper apparatus or simply hankerchiefs. Giruad felt almost naked without such a thing--he had heard enough to know that nobody was shy about throwing gas all over the front any more. Without any further ado, he got up and waved towards them as he approached, slightly disconcerted by the rifles now swivelling in his direction. "Halt! Who goes there?" A voice in English shouted out. "Qui va là?" A Brussels-accented voice followed. "It's alright! Friends!" Giruad snapped back in English as he gingerly made his way over the rubble and over the barricades. The position had a fine view of a slope leading all the way down to the town boundaries--ahead were the black fields of No Man's Land, marked by the occasional yellow flare on the horizon that lit up the onyx clouds above. Could this even be called Belgium any more? Or even Earth? "Lieutenant Heisler, BEF." One of the Britons stepped forward--a Jewish-looking lad, pulling down his mask to reveal a face as dirtied as the surroundings. He was young,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 barely in his twenties at most, Giraud reckoned. "With all due respect, sir...you may be, ah, infected. We have to check you..." "Infected?" Giraud grunted. "Whatever do you mean?" "Have you not heard of the Scarabs, sir?" Ah, yes...scarabée. The pamphlets had not been ambiguous about them...he could only applaud these men for not going mad with fear over the thought of such things constantly lurking in whatever nook and cranny there was around them, pouncing when their backs were turned. He had to be careful he himself didn't dwell so much on that. "Oui, oui...well, go ahead. I can assure you we are fine." The lieutenant gestured and several of the Tommies stepped forward to check over Giruad's men as they stepped over the ramparts and into this fortification, muttering darkly as they went. Reaching for his satchel, Giraud paused to drink down from a water flask, savoring every drop of the rust-flavored liquid. "The Boche..." he finally uttered. "Where are they?" "Other side of the town, sir. We exchange intelligence through runners. Sometimes they get through, sometimes they don't." "Really? How do you feel with having to work with them?" "All the same to me, sir." Heisler shrugged. "Better to kill bugs, than other men. Can't say I can complain." "Of course..." Giraud nodded. All this madness seemed to have shocked the fiery nationalism out of the youth these days, in all nations. He wasn't sure to be appalled or not. "Now then," The Tommy finally said, "your lads seem to be alri..." There was a soft, strange sound like a sudden gust of wind, and one of the Tommies barely had time to scream as his upper torso was suddenly transformed into liquified flesh and shards of bone, soaking the nearby sandbags and those behind them as a jagged spine impacted into the rubble in front of him. Adrenaline poured through Giraud as all complex thought left him--he leapt for the cover of a pile of masonry, as his men also ducked down nearby. Lee-Enfields cracked wildly as eyes flickered from behind dirty gas mask lenses into the windows and exposed interiors of structures nearby. Breathing heavily, Giraud unslung the Lebel from over his shoulder, keep his eye firmly behind the grimy sights. He had no idea what exactly had just happened, and he knew not what to expect either. "Stay down, you bastards, stay down!" The lieutenant hissed, his words distorted by the mask. "Wait for a target, and--" One of the Belgians screamed as another spine suddenly appeared embedded in his shoulder--his grit-encrusted uniform swelled and ripped as his body seemed to burst outward from within, before his fluids soaked those nearby as he exploded like a fruit. Giraud felt the overwhelming urge to vomit swell up within him, not helped as one of his own men retched violently--poor man probably didn't have anything in his stomach to throw up.

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"Where are they? Where are they?" one of the Tommies began to shout, his voice hysterical. "I swear, I'll go out there, kill every last one of the bastards myself--" "You'll do no such thing, or you'll be shot!" The lieutenant shouted. Giraud ignored them, scanning the dark ruins nearby for any movement, anything that would reveal whatever monstrosity was firing this abominable ammunition at them. The stench of blood and of exposed organs nearby was almost overpowering. Was this their intention? To demoralize and terrify them? Seemed to be working. "I'll go out there!" The Tommy continued to shout, seemingly having lost all reason. "I'll...I'll...I'll go out and..." Something caught Giraud's ear over the Briton's blubbering. He span around, looking up to the top of the crumbling house behind them. Was that-"Merde!" He discharged his rifle through sheer shock as something leapt down from the roof there onto the stuttering Briton, sending his limbs and organs flying around for meters instantly. Chaos seemed to reign in a microcosm almost immediately as the men around him struggled to bring their weapons to bear behind them, as Giraud caught a glimpse of a spider-like monster moving so fast to be just a flurry of motion, consuming the poor bastard's body in a matter of moments. A Belgian leapt towards it with his bayonet forward, shouting--a jagged sycthe-like limb skewered him right through the chest a second later. Gunfire began to open up into the creature a moment later, but more were coming out from the ruins nearby like disturbed ants emerging from their tunnels. Giraud's heart pounded as he gave out orders to his men, finding mere coherent thought a struggle. The orders were simple--fire at whatever targets presented themselves. As his Zouaves got into position, Giraud turned around as Belgians threw off grenades into the ruins nearby--dust billowed outward from windows and punctures in walls as the sounds of collapsing bricks and beams followed. The creature that had landed in their midst seemed to be put down, if still twitching--his first proper look at a Roach. Body camouflaged with a brown hue, dark to be almost black...a nightmarish face of jagged mandibles and eyes, all looking like something designed by the worst sort of impressionist lunatic. Trying to shake off the sight, he span around as more of this things came scurrying over the rubble, or leapt forward from nearby rooftops or ruins. Two more landed near the Belgians, who opened fire at point-blank range or lunged forward with bayonets--brave fools, almost to the point of foolishness. He had no time to see the outcome here as the nearby Vickers gun opened up, as did the Lebels of his men. The gunners of the Vickers were taken out mere seconds later as spines cut through their skulls, with such force to rip them off along with most of their upper spinal cords. With a hand signal, Giraud directed two of his men onto the gun as the creatures began to tear through the ramparts, shredding sandbags and barbed wire with their claws. His ears rang from an explosion nearby, as a someone dropped a grenade right in the midst of a position. "We can't hold this!" The British lieutenant cried. "We must fall back! To the Germans!" Fall back? Going to the Germans? The mere thought of either, after all his prior army

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 indoctrination, seemed almost alien to Giraud. Nevertheless, after a few moments of processing it, he shouted to his men to fall back, following the British lieutenant as he and his men began to retreat. The Belgians lay down covering fire, even as spines began to cut them down one-by-one. Clambering over rubble and bricks, Giraud cast a look back at the position as it was overrun, following the rest into a ruin and through what was once a row of houses, now bombed out by artillery and explosives. He now found himself only thankful that they had the Germans to turn to. All they had done paled next to those things. ** Near Lille, Northern France Grunting and wheezing as he tried to stop sinking to his ankles in mud, artilleryman Corporal Dietrich Messman, 9th Field Artillery Regiment, I Bavarian Reserve Corps, tried not to gag on the stinking cloth he wore that passed for a gas mask. The sky above him was black like night, even though his pocket watch told him it was the late morning-though with the world having descended into insanity, he wasn't sure if that meant anything any more. On the horizon was an orange glow that signified the fires blazing in Lille--a city that had already suffered back when this was the Great War, and now units of Germans and Austro-Hungarians desperately fought against the Schaben to hang onto it. Next to him, the rest of his crew heaved a battered 7.7cm Feldkanone 96 through the thick mud trail, with a famished-looking, sweaty horse pulling it forward on the front. Infantrymen nervously escorted them to the sides, some of them sporting the new shotguns that were appearing all over the front. American ones, apparently--no doubt the Yankee manufacturers were gleeful over the profits they were making from supplying all the nations struggling here now. The ground shook unnervingly--Messman cursed those who had ordered him and his comrades out here, not for the first or last time. For the past several days, he had been part of a far larger battery consisting of most of the guns of the Reserve Corps, pounding swathes of No Man's Land to suppress the Schaben. Earlier in the war with these monsters it had been routine to reposition after volleys to prevent burrowing creatures from intercepting and destroying the guns, but their sheer numbers and the effort and time it took to reposition guns soon had that give way to heavily defended positions firing almost around the clock. But now, there was a request from Lille for field gun support, and with his Feldkanone being relatively light, his crew had been among those ordered to reposition themselves closer to the town. The FK 96 had been disadvantaged in the Great War by its relatively short range, although as that hardly mattered when Schaben burst in his face, his one had been part of the defence perimeter of the larger battery--but now he cursed that as he strained his muscles pushing it along this wet, muddy 'track' snaking through blasted, cratered fields. He found his eyes stinging--there was gas lingering around here. Some of the other artillerymen also began to cough and splutter. He didn't know how much protection his mask was offering, but he could only hope that whatever gas was hanging around was what was keeping the Schabe away. Of course, given how the monsters seemed to immunize themselves to increasing amounts of formulas, they could just as easily be hunting him right now. No--he could think about that. "How much further?" one of the other gunners groaned, as the horse spluttered in exhaustion. Messman was thankful for the creature in more ways than one--the animals

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 seemed to sense the monsters coming moments before they pounced, giving men precious time to prepare. It made putting them down when they collapsed from weariness, or suffered the bite of Skarabäen. "There should be a battery beyond that ridge we are to join..." Messman groggily replied as he hurriedly checked a crude map given to him in the dispatch. Communications were only getting more difficult with every day--there were rumors, even, that sometimes false messages would be spread by runners possessed by the Schabe. He tried not to pay attention to word like that--it only made matters even more stressful than they were. "Wait..." One of the escorting soldiers paused. The horse was swaying it's head around, whinnying softly and grunting. One of the men tried to push it along, but the animal refused, becoming more and more agitated. "Nein, nein, nein!" Messman broke out a Mauser pistol from a holster on his bed as his comrades likewise readied rifles and revolvers. His eyes flicked over their surroundings, trying to spot anything in the shadows or in the muddy pools of water dotted around, some of them reflecting the orange flashes from the horizon. The horse continued to buck and huff-the wheels of the gun were now starting to sink into the mud, but that was now the last concern on Messman's mind. He span around as something squelched from behind him--his eyes widened as he saw a hand emerge from the mud off the track. The smell of fresh, wet dirt hit him as a figure suddenly tore itself out of the ground--it looked like a rotting, twisted corpse, in the faded, tattered overalls of a German artilleryman's uniform. Behind it, more such ghouls were also bursting from the mud like daisies, some of them wearing British or French overalls. For a moment, Messman and the others could only be frozen in horror and surprise--then, one of the monsters recoiled back as the skin on its face tore aside to release a cluster of writhing tendrils. Then they opened fire. Shells spat from the side of his Mauser as Messman opened it up into the face of the nearest creature--he ducked aside as the one behind it pounced for him, almost falling over into the mud. He wondered briefly how long these ghouls had been waiting here, before letting adrenaline take hold as additional jagged limbs began to sprout violently from the monster's back, drenched with blood and pus-like sheen. More were coming from all sides as rifle fire and shotgun bursts cracked out--he glimpsed one of the escort infantrymen cry out as a nearby ghoul lashed out with an unnaturally long arm, gouging out his face. Another grunt with a shotgun blew a limb off another horror, only for the thing to lunge forward undeterred and rip into his chest with jagged teeth crammed into a multi-jawed mouth. The horse suddenly reared up, whinnying, before lunging forward with such force that the harness linking it to the gun was snapped--spinning around, it dealt a kick from its rear legs to one of the ghouls. Such was the force of the connection that the monster's head was taken clean off along with a section of spine. Snorting, the horse lunged forward onto the next one, trampling it down into the mud and crushing its face in with a stomping hoof. For a moment, the ghouls had their attention turned towards the animal--this was moment enough for Messman, the artillerymen, and the remaining soldiers to open up, dealing shot and shells right into the midst of them. Messman swore he could see passion in the horse's face, before suddenly the exhaustion it had been suffering before

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 seemed to take hold of it. Three ghouls pounced onto it, gouging into its flesh with claws at teeth. As it whinnied in pain, Messman felt a tear whell in his eye as he aimed for its head with the Mauser, and fired. A few moments later, the last of the creatures dropped, riddled with bullets and shot. Messman found himself breathing heavily, almost swallowing his mask. The others also took moments to gather themselves, watching as the remains of the creatures and the bodies of their comrades slowly sank into the wet mud. "Now how are we going to pull this?" one of them kicked the gun, now half-submerged. "We move on. Guns are replaceable. We are not." Messman said. "Too many have been sacrificed for us to live. Let's not make all that in vain." ** Near Oigon Lake, Outer Mongolia Clear skies allowed the sun to beat down on the sands and barren plains of Zavkhan province, in the remote north-western steppes of Outer Mongolia. Riding on horseback through the hot yellowed sands, Batkhuyag Sukh, hunter and falconer, kept his eye out for the eagle he had recently dispatched to find rabbits--much-needed food for his tribal village. Meat seemed to be getting scarcer in these days, and for that the travellers passing through this area appeared to be getting more common. He had approached some of them on occasion, finding paled, starved foreigners from the Russian expanses. Often they jabbered wildly to him, and though he could not understand a word they were saying, it was clear that something had terrified them out of their mind. Some of the other tribes in the area had even been inspired to uproot and move deeper into the country by all this. They too did not understand what was the cause of these refugees, but wished not to find out. Sukh himself was considering proposing that his family too move out, but his wife was sick and becoming frail, and he wondered, with there being so little to hunt, if they would not starve on the way. It was not a decision he could make lightly. He looked up as he heard the squawk of his eagle--it was coming back, swooping out from behind the sun. It carried nothing, as predicted. Extending the leather band on his wrist for it to perch on, Sukh was surprised as the bird flew on, seemingly panicked. Now what? Even the animals seemed terrified by...by...he could even guess, and suddenly, he felt very terrified indeed. Turning the horse around, he gave it a kick in the flank and began a gallop back to the village. He would advise everyone to leave, forcefully if he had to. Something was not right, and they could not afford to linger when that was so. They would head to the capital of this province, or even make a trek to Ulaanbataar. Yes, they would surely be safe in such a place, even if he had never seen anything of them besides postcards from travellers. He rode the horse to the top of a sandy ridge ahead, which gave a fine view of the plains leading up to the great lake nearby. Riding up to the crest, he looked down to where his village was, and froze. Smoke was billowing from a scattered fire. The tents were torn open and their material bloodied. In the center of it all, a...a...a demon was feasting on their yaks, a giant insect of some kind, looking like some sort of monstrous, giant midge. He stared frozen as it

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 devoured his beloved animals with blood-covered mandibles and jaws, with not the slightest apparent care for what it had done. He took a moment to try and compose himself, and still his beating heart. His horse was bucking and whinnying, panicked and startled. Turning the beast around, Sukh broke out into a gallop, intending first to get as far away from the monster as he could, and then to the provincial capital, to spread warning. Now he understood what all those people had been running from. He could only hope he would be in time. ** Petrograd, Imperial Russia Sipping from a fine porcelain cup, Agent Mycroft kept flicking his eyes from side to side as the ambassador and one Sergei Sazonov, the Russian Foreign Minister, continued to smalltalk and blab inanely. Typical of politicians. But that was not what was holding his interests--he had been waiting for an opportunity to search for this Rasputin fellow, but that had not yet presented itself. The palace security was heavier than he expected-with the tense atmosphere here in St. Petersburg, or Petrograd, or whatever the bloody hell they were calling it now, that was understandable. "I'm afraid we must go to business, old chap." Ambassador Buchanan suddenly breezed. "We understand that matters in the Urals are...on a knife's edge, so to speak." "Oh, yes." Sazonov sighed. "And not just there. We've had to recall two army regiments from the front just to keep security in this city...I'm told we could have riots at any moment." "Oh, I don't doubt it." The ambassador nodded. "I trust you're aware of the proposals for our nation to send our own contributions to the Urals from India." "Indeed. His Highness would very much appreciate that." Ah, yes. The Tsar himself was apparently unavailable, and while Mycroft knew there were all sorts of reasons, there was something there that made his sense of suspicion creep up. "But," The Russian Minister continued, "our new Turkish...allies have been complaining that it is most difficult for their troops to adjust to the climate there. Would not Indian fellows face the same problem?" "Oh, pish, I'm sure it wouldn't take long for them to get used to it." The ambassador said dismissively. "Besides, what's a few frozen darkies in the grand scheme of things? The more rifles we have up there to stick in Roachy's face, the better, don't you think?" The ambassador gave a jovial chuckle, and Mycroft found a sudden urge to punch him in the face. Exhaling softly, he took a sip of tea, as the two continued talking. "We are also suffering from...problems with poison gas." The minister continued. "It takes time to prepare new batches and transport them to the front, and these monsters are immunizing themselves to what we already have at a frightening rate. We don't know how they do it, but they're doing it. If we could receive an appropriate donation from your country..." "I'll bring it up to Downing Street, Old Boy, but I fear that if we do send poison gas

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 samples to your front, it may be likely that the Roaches will immunize themselves to those too by the time they arrive." He sighed. "Sometimes it feels that we're straining ourselves to the brink trying to keep up with them. Do you know how many regulations we had to abandon just to keep up an appreciable output of Land Dreadnoughts?" "Believe me, I understand." The minister nodded. He turned as an aide entered the room, walking briskly to his side and whispering into his ear. Mycroft couldn't catch all of it, but there was something about an urgent matter in there. "Excuse me, I have something that requires my attention." The minister got up. "I think it is a given that the Tsar will approve of any reinforcements your Empire can provide. We will continue talks tomorrow--in the meantime, you will be escorted to the guest's quarters." Good, Mycroft thought. More time to plan. ** 25th March 1915, Lille, Northern France The shattered ruins and rubble-filled craters of Lille were lit up by the orange and white fires of incendiary and magnesium munitions. Any sunlight was blocked out by the jetblack clouds covering the sky above, which were occasionally themselves lit up by the flashes of artillery or flares. Every inch of the town smelt of burnt flesh and ash, and for every burst of rifle or machinegun fire that echoed around the shattered husks of homes there was a chilling unearthly scream. Captain Arthur Schmidt of the German army, desperately shoving a fresh magazine into his Mauser, was one of a dozen men cowering in the shelter of a burnt-out home--it was telling that this structure, supported by smouldered beams leaning against piles of broken masonry, felt safer than going out into the open streets. For weeks, the Schaben had been sieging this place, striking seemingly as and when they pleased--Schmidt swore that these damned insects seemed more interested in toying with the defenders here than seriously trying to take this place. What remained of the local civilians, who had suffered much of their city levelled by the German Empire the previous year, had been forcibly conscripted into the defence--thankfully most of them saw the Schaben as a greater evil than the Fatherland. Most of them were now dead or deserted, the remainder assimilated into the Imperial German Army, and indistinguishable from the grizzled, grime-covered soldiers desperately trying to hold this burnt pile of rubble. What few dispatches had come in told him that peace was now officially made with the Entente in the name of crushing the Schaben, and that the troops here could expect relief from the French and British, or even Italians and Americans. For Schmidt, it made no difference at this point. He dared not try and get out from the city, and risk being swallowed by a monster bursting from the ground. Artillery pounded the streets here day and night, and that was about the only sign he saw that there was still a world out there. "Und vergib uns unsere Schuld, wie auch wir vergeben unsern Schuldigern..." one man was stammering behind him, his shaking hands making their way through a rosary. Schmidt gave him a look telling him to shut up. Schaben crawled through these ruins seemingly as they chose, and he couldn't risk being revealed. Well, perhaps they could smell him out, but he wasn't taking that chance.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "We must put our faith in God." The man simply replied hoarsely. "Look around you. Where is God?" Schmidt simply snapped, his own voice gravelly for want of water. At that moment, there was a deep rumbling noise from above, like a ship's engine. "I think he might be up there indeed..." Cautiously, Schmidt crept up a slope of burnt bricks, poking his head out through an opening that was once a cellar window. Glancing into the sky above, he could make out the cigar-like shapes of airships moving into position overhead, occasionally spitting the orange bolts of tracer fire into places unseen. Was that relief? Could the fool's praying really have worked? Then, their bomb bays opened. "Scheisse!" Schmidt quickly tore himself back inside as the screaming of falling explosives came in. Dust and stones showered the men as the explosions echoed through the town--had their command really have ordered the place simply levelled? "We can't stay here!" Another soldier exclaimed, as a worrying crashing noise came from above. "You know what--to hell with this!" The man began to scramble out for the exit, with the others following one by one. Schmidt quickly calculated matters in his head, and went after them. Better to die out there in the open in battle against a Schabe, than be trapped under rubble with not even a body left to retrieve. The men emerged into the shadow-covered space of the street outside, covered in rubble and water-filled artillery craters. Schmidt could see the orange flares of the detonating bombs that the zeppelins were dropping beyond the building husks still standing around them--dust and loose masonry were falling down walls like waterfalls. Gesturing for them to follow, he began to head northwards, towards the center, where he could only hope the other defenders were. He could hear no gunfire--where they merely hiding from the airship bombs, or not there at all? "Come on!" he breathed to the others, as he gingerly stepped over rubble and stone. Even a sprained ankle or an aching knee could prove fatal in the end her. Up ahead, he could make out a larger, more open space, centered around the blackened ruins of the city's once ornate medieval belfry, now just another shell. Perhaps it would be easier for the Schabe to ambush them there, but he didn't care--any place would feel safer than where he was. "Wait..." As they neared the end of the street, a larger shadow cast itself from above as one of the airships suddenly loomed overhead. Schmidt froze, wondering if it was also going to begin bombing. He saw doors in the gondolas above open, and closed his eyes... There was a noise, like a cross between a scream and a crack, and the airship was suddenly splitting in half, showering debris and shredded canvas down below. Moments later, the gasbags caught fire, turning the falling zeppelin into a flaming torch as it slowly descended. Running for cover, Schmidt looked in horror as the colossal, beetle-

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 like shape of a Großschabe emerged from the ground near the belfry ruins, sporting a smoking weapon of some kind on it's side. Explosive rounds from the other airships were already starting to fall onto it, as Schmidt continued to stand immobilised with fear and uncertainty. The others were also starting to panic and scatter, and though he felt like shooting one of them to discourage such cowardice, he could barely raise his arm. The clattering of machinegun and rifle fire suddenly started up, as muzzle flashes suddenly flared up in the windows of the buildings around the giant monster. Roaring, it span around, demolishing the remainder of the belfry with it's sheer size, as mortars and grenades also began to impact against its stone-like hide. Schmidt felt some courage return to him as he began to scramble into a nearby ruin, looking for a place from where to also fire on the beast. At least they could distract it. "Private!" he pointed to one of the men, joining him as he rushed inside. "Go ahead--find a sniping point! Preferably with a view of that beast's head!" "Jawohl, mein--" A jagged limb suddenly stabbed down from above, impaling the man through the skull and splitting his skull open like a fruit. Immediately, Schmidt fired upwards through the boards above him as he raced up a flight of battered stairs, hearing resounding screeching echo through the ruins. He drew a knife from a sheath by his belt--something lunged at him from the shadows ahead, and he emptied the rest of his Mauser and stabbed forward. Rifle fire cracked from behind him as another one of his men came up from behind, spitting curses. Stumbling forward, he found the limp body of one of the creatures in front of him, bleeding purple blood from its hideous face. Even dead, the Schabe were ugly enough to chill his blood. The screaming of mortars was joined by the impacts of howitzers from outside, shaking the broken structure around him alarmingly. Moving through a corridor, catching glimpses of burnt rooms containing blackened skeletons, Schmidt reloaded his Mauser, breathing heavily as his men caught up with him. Go forward, he thought, and he'd get his position. A roar, and suddenly a hideous head filled with teeth and eyes smashed through the wall behind him, grabbing one of the men near the back and swallowing him hole. His blood and several organs were splattered against the wall behind as the others span around and fired--the rounds seemed to have no effect on the creature as it retracted back. Another roar, and the building suddenly seemed to sway alarmingly. "It's trying to bring the place down!" Schmidt shouted, running forward. That was obvious to any fool, but his mind felt less than focused now. He sprinted as the floorboards and walls gave way, before running across several beams into a new room-behind him, the house he had just been in collapsed into rubble, and he could see the creature, one of the acid beasts, pushing it down with seemingly little effort. Dust shrouded the rest--as the others joined him, he could see that not all of them had made it. "Move!" he snapped, as they paused to catch their breath. Hoping the creature wasn't still after them, he smashed down a loose door ahead before emerging into some sort of attic--the roof of this building was broken open, giving them a view of the giant artillery beetle as it fired the weapon on its side, what looked like a howitzer covered in pulsating veins and cancerous organic growth. The shell slammed against one of the nearby buildings, smashing it into dust with little effort. Schmidt wasn't sure what he was hoping to accomplish against such a creature, but nevertheless, he loaded a hastily

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 modified grenade into the flare gun by his side, aimed at the head, and fired. Spitting out the spinning projectile, the gun sent the round successfully impacting against the beast's head--it didn't even seem to scratch the chitin, but nevertheless, it began to turn around in his direction. Machinegun rounds began to pepper it, seemingly focused on the gun--he could vaguely making out holes appear in the arteries wrapped around it. Roaring, the creature suddenly reared up, before slamming back down--the force of the impact shook the buildings around, knocking Schmidt back and sending dust and wood splinters onto his head. The walls swayed alarmingly, with bricks and stone cascading down into the street. "Above!" Another airship was descending out from the clouds above, with the men keeping the giant beetle distracted--the bomb doors were opening again, although this time Schmidt felt relief, and then satisfaction, as the payload began to rain down onto the creature. Bellowing as it was engulfed in explosive fire and searing incendiaries, the giant beetle began to crawl back down into the burrow it had made behind it in the middle of the square. For a moment Schmidt was grinning with satisfaction, before suddenly the floor beneath him gave way--the structure simply couldn't take the vibrations from the bomb impacts. He landed against a hard, jagged surface, and felt agony course through him as the others came down, followed by wood and wall fragments. Coughing as dust engulfed the interior, he felt unable to move as a large chunk of wood suddenly fell against him, almost burying him. There was nothing but dust in his vision for a few moments, before he caught a glimpse of the acid monster from before creeping inside, growling and drooling. One of the men was sprawled on the floor in front of it, his bones shattered as he breathed heavily. Reaching forward, the beast skewered him with a limb and swallowed him instantly, before moving away back into the dust and shadows. Schmidt was uncertain whether to feel horrified or relieved, but all that became moot as the pain reached his head-relieving unconsciousness followed. ** London, Great Britain The latest buildup of military fortification in Parliament Square seemed only disturbing to Prime Minister Asquith as he stepped into his office within Downing Street. Barbed wire, bunkers, machineguns, pounder guns...though the public was not told, bombs had been secretly installed under the grounds there. Of course, in times like this, there was no such thing as too much preparation, but it nevertheless felt only too much of a reminder that only a small body of water cut England off from the horrors ravaging her neighbors. Settling at his desk, he grabbed a cup of coffee as he flicked through the reports sitting in front of him. The French had quietly disclosed to the government that a Grex assassin creature was responsible for a supposedly accidental derailment of a passenger train, with a number of statesmen aboard. Asquith could only wonder if they were to send these wraiths over the channel, to wreck havoc in London. No--that sort of thinking was only inviting trouble. With that, he moved onto the next the dispatch. Talks in Russia were going well, though the Tsar's representatives were proving abortive. They had accepted offers of Indian reinforcement in the Urals, although Asquith had

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 already anticipated this, having sent instructions to Lord Hardinge to ready full mobilization there. Not all of the darkies would like it, but such was life. It was vitally important to hold all fronts--if one fell, then all other efforts would be for none. The next report was unusual. This was from the Americans--it seemed their Tesla had finally readied a new anti-Grex weapon, with blueprints already being sent to engineering institutes and manufacturers in this nation. A 'Tesla Hammer', it was being called--a strange contraption that would supposedly help turn the tide here in Europe. He looked through lists of cost figures and material requirements--they were quite daunting. Nevertheless, though the Treasury would not like it, any chance of finally exterminating the damn Roaches had to be taken. They'd worry about figures when it was all over. With that, he sighed, leaned back, and took another sip of coffee. Soon, protestors, still angry at the ceasefire at Germany, would appear in Whitehall for their daily bouts of impotent shouting. It was unfortunate that some deluded fools were condemning him-and the other Entente leaders--for daring to make a pact with Berlin. Now, he cursed the jingoists and fools who had pumped heads with empty patriotism and mindless nationalism. Oh, it was true nobody could've known at the time, but this whole crisis was proving a harsh lesson in this regard. Regardless of how this was going to end, all men were going to have to stand together sooner or later, that was for sure. That in mind, he continued to look through the reports, preparing himself for the upcoming day in Parliament. ** New York City, United States of America Apparatus whirred and clicked around him as Nikola Tesla absorbed himself in the day's edition of the New York Times, simultaneously digesting the printed words in front of him, while calculations and projections buzzed in the corners of his head. The first Wonder to be produced within these walls was soon to enter production, if the telegrams he had been receiving from Washington and Europe were any indication. Of course, compared to what he had really set as his ambition, the 'Tesla Hammer' was a mere toy to be displayed in the windows of Broadway. He, and all the other minds in here, had already compressed years of research into weeks. All that was required now was for him to make sure the federal grants he had been promised would be used in the best possible manner in conjunction with the miracle working taking place here. Since the victory in California, the tone in the paper had suddenly jumped to optimism, focusing on the liberations in the Netherlands and elsewhere while grim disasters and gruelling fronts were shunted aside. He remembered the sudden halt in work here while parties burst out in the Manhattan streets and apartments. Of course, for him, his mind was so set in the constant mode of calculating and planning that he was concerned about burning it out, so to speak--but with all that was happening, who wouldn't be excited? "Dr. Tesla?" A voice called from the doorway--American, one of the men from Columbia he had recruited. Nodding, Tesla put aside the newspaper and followed him into the next room, containing the largest bulk of the various electrical paraphernalia assembled here to aid the experimentation and testing here. While this place made him miss his old laboratory in Colorado from a decade before, with all the fellow minds and funding brought to bear

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 here, the rate of development he had made back then seemed paltry. To think, that no so long ago, the war in Europe had almost reduced him to destitution--now his name was once again being splayed in newspapers and magazines! He snapped out of his thoughts as he found Edison and that funny German Jew Einstein standing with the others around several odd-looking...things...placed on a table. Tesla didn't make eye contact with Edison--though the man had the foresight to realize the importance of the work here, and his financial contribution had been immensely beneficial, there was no denying that old grudges died hard. "What is this?" "The Army made it a priority to collect samples from dead Grex in the wake of the liberations in San Francisco and California." The American scientist who had just spoken to him announced. "Apparently, these samples were sent by express straight to us by federal order." "How charming." Edison grunted. "I wonder what exactly made them take us so seriously." Raising a hand, Tesla turned to the speaker. "And what exactly are these samples?" "Well...we've been corresponding with a European laboratory sponsored by the Entente governments, who themselves are conducting intensive research into the biology and makeup of the Grex. This ties in with these--weapons being used by the creatures. They started off as just simple rifles, as far as we can tell, but gradual organic buildup conducted following their fusion with individual Grex has completely altered their structure and purpose. Some of the principles behind it are very interesting, disturbing even--I must note that these were sent here on the proviso that some way be found to apply said principles to our own engineering." "Load of codswollop if you ask me." Edison murmured. "We're making the greatest advances of the century in here, and they want to delay us by sending us Roach excrement to poke?" "I agree." Another one of the men spoke up. "We're meant to be working out how to beat the things, not how their guns work." "It is probably more efficient to understand the principles of something, if you wish to destroy it." Einstein uttered, slightly wistfully. "Levelling a house is simple when you know what the foundation is." "Enough." Tesla rapped on the table. "Have you found anything?" "Well, I've made preliminary notes on each sample..." The speaker coughed, before pointing to one of the items. A rifle, as he had said, but covered in thin purple fibers and artery-like growths to the point that it looked more like some sort of organ in the shape of a gun. Hardly any wood or metal was visible. "Uh...this is a Springfield rifle with largely external growth, still utilizing a metal chamber and barrel. Near as I can tell, rounds are actually grown inside the chamber itself, using an organic crystalline substance, and chemical reactions we understand in firearms are replicated by use of particular secretions left over from the production of the round. All

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 this is apparently controlled by specific electrical neural signals--that is my own hypothesis, incidentally, and one I thought Doctor Tesla would be interested in." "Fascinating." Tesla said. "You say they actually make the rounds from their own...flesh?" "To put it in simple terms, yes. I'm not sure if all of you have seen the papers that were cabled from Europe, but their solid hypothesis is that the Grex habitually replenish their ammunition, so to speak, with the organic mass of what they consume--generally speaking, this would be, ah, people." "Yes, man, we are sleeping rough as it is." Edison sighed in exasperation. "The second sample," The man gestured over to a similar grisly lump, sporting more in the way of liquid-filled vacuoles along the surface. "Here it gets more interesting--from what I have analyzed via microscope, the metal within the gun is broken down and incorporated into a chitinous substance that effectively substitutes it. The wood is gradually likewise incorporated into the creature's bodily matter, though as nourishment. Now, here we see more relevancy with our research here--this particular weapons have been noted, as far as I can tell, to fire rounds with such velocity that men's organs have been sucked out through the exit wounds." He took a moment to pause, almost relishing the expressions of disgust spreading through the room. "Well, there is also the possibility of insanely sharp rounds, but I am keeping to one hypothesis at a time. With this one, I see little evidence of any chemical reaction, but in the papers sent from Europe, it was noted that the organic fibers now in the gun's interior are somehow generating properties conductive to electrical charge." "Of course...like an organic motor." Tesla scratched his chin, his mind racing. Yes, he had seen rumors and stories of such things from Europe, but never had he had the chance to see something up close... "So...you're telling us that these creatures somehow regrow guns, to make them electrically powered to fire bullets very fast?" Edison spoke up, his brow furrowed and his voice incredulous. "The hypothesis fits the facts." The man shrugged. "It speaks volumes that the internal makeup of these creatures can outclass even our modern technology. Now, currently I'm at a loss to think how we can apply this on any base we can comprehend, but reading the European papers made me wonder just these things can co-ordinate themselves with such efficiency even at a cellular level." "I have read..." Einstein coughed. "...that ants, they can communicate via pheromones, ja?" "We've seen no evidence that the Grex use that to any great degree like terrestrial insects." The man said dismissively. "It would certainly not explain how they can coordinate even at an intercontinental level. No, I'm more inclined to accept the hypothesis our European friends have settled on--that these creatures are linked by a gestalt intelligence based on mental connection." "That sounds like something out of a cheap periodical." Edison snorted.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Look around you." Tesla laughed. "What else does the world look like?" "What can we do...with this information?" Einstein looked over to the man. "I'm not sure. I felt that a greater insight in their biology would permit greater focus in the research here..." "You did well, young man." Tesla laughed. "I think we can make something of this, indeed. But please, next time we receive something from Europe, see to it that I am among the first to know..." ** Near Leiden, the Netherlands The fields south of Amsterdam did not seem as marshy as the ones from further north, although to Timmerman, it was possible he was simply getting used to the quagmire his nation had been reduced to. Trudging through mud paths and water-filled ditches, alongside grumbling Norwegians and Danes, the villages he had spotted through the fog seemed as abandoned and ruined as anything else he had seen so far. Spirits were still riding high in Amsterdam, although one of the first priorities had been to turn several streets and canals into bonfires to clear out the masses of 'wireworm' clogging them up. The opportunity had been taken for the forces to launch fireworks and break out the sausages--some officers hadn't taken well to this, panicking about marauding Roaches spotting and consuming them all, although so far nothing had appeared. Now, companies of sappers were working to find some impossible way of draining the city and restoring the docks, so that supply vessels could properly come in with further men and material. Timmerman didn't envy them. He certainly wouldn't envy whoever was tasked with restoring the whole country once--if--this was all over. But now, reconnoissance was a priority. He had been chosen among the troops supporting the Norwegian cavalry units advancing to scout the land the recuperating forces were due to march across, to move onto the Hague and elsewhere. Nearby, weary Norwegians atop grunting black mares were shifting awkwardly as their horses splattered and sloshed through the quagmire, not taking it any better than the men were. In some ways, however, the men had plenty to be grateful to the animals for-they negotiated the mud far better than the few trucks accompanying the infantry, and had been key to getting in the few artillery pieces available to safety. On the other hand, the smell, was, well, rank, and the mud didn't help. "No damn point to this." he overheard one of the nearby Norwegian soldiers mutter--the man's uniform was caked in wet earth, as he struggled through the bog. "No damn monsters in sight, no Roaches, not even any fucking mosquitoes--" "Careful." Timmerman breathed, in Norwegian. "You'll jinx it." "Kiss my ass." Charming. With that exchange, Timmerman looked up as the fog began to thin out ahead--he could make out the outskirts of the city of Leiden in the distance. Once it was confirmed that no Roaches infested the place, troops could now land on the coastline, and the proper liberation of the nation could begin. Perhaps the man was right--there had been little sign of any proper Roaches, and many were reckoning they had all headed off to where the real fighting was, down in Belgium. They had already destroyed

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 this place, what more was there to do? "Wait..." Some of the horses were starting to tense up, snorting and grunting anxiously. Up ahead, among old, moulding carts and other loose items submerged in the muddy fields, was some sort of hump-like shape immersed in the dirt. Getting down, Timmerman readied the rifle from over his shoulder, and glanced down at the German-made grenades at his belt. Some of the Norwegian cavalrymen leant forward to try and calm their beasts, but they only seemed to be getting more anxious. His heart suddenly leapt in shock as the hump began to shift, like something awakening from a sleep. Legs began to fold outwards, a head became visible--a Roach, a Roach alright. That damn fool had jinxed it just as he had feared. Creeping back, Timmerman quickly took it in--it was one of the acid-spitting beasts, but sporting rudimentary tusks of some kind now from the jaw. Giving a low snarl, the creature still seemed to be lethargic--had it really been sleeping here for who knows how long in this mud? And were there many more like it throughout the country lying dormant, just waiting for someone to stumble onto them? "Kill that beast!" A gunshot rang out as one of the cavalrymen discharged a revolver towards the creature, with no apparent effect. Holstering the gun, the Norwegian drew a saber, and hollered, prompting the other riders to bear their horses towards the mud-covered beast. To Timmerman's own surprise, the cavalrymen dug their heels in and began to charge. "They're mad!" The man behind him took his thoughts into words as the cavalrymen charged across the mud, sending huge clumps of wet dirt flying as the horses reluctantly came rushing towards the rising monster. With surprising swiftness, it lurched forward at one of the incoming cavalrymen, rending the man's body in half with a swipe of a limb before it caught the horse in it's toothy mouth. As the creature began to devour the steed, the others struck against it, striking with sabers and revolvers at point blank range. The sight was surreal, as Timmerman found himself just watching these gloriously insane men strike from panicking and rearing steeds at the creature, which seemed just as confused. The light above them was suddenly illuminated by flare--one of the support riflemen from the other side of the field had lit it, and was now desperately stumbling through the bog to get as far away as possible. Timmerman followed, keeping a head over his shoulder as he watched the creature devour another steed, horseman and all, even as the others continued to strike desperately against it. Impossible to tell if they had even cast blood, but maybe, just maybe... The screams of artillery came in, and Timmerman threw himself down into the soil, covering his ears. He felt the wet earth shake as he kept his head down, pressing his face into the vile-smelling mud. All he could think about was how certain victory could be, if all the other men possessed the same mad courage as those riders. ** Danzig, Imperial Germany

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Grey skies hung over the port of Danzig, making the dark blue waters of the Baltic lapping against the shoreline seem even blacker than they were. Merchant ships and freighters were moored at the docks in quantities far greater than those of a few months ago--many now coming in from America, courtesy of private manufacturers keen to exploit the end of official hostilities in Europe. Weapons, material, food...all were pouring in onto the embankment to give more fuel to the German Empire's war machine. Not only that, ships were departing too--heading further into the Baltic to the shores of the Russian Empire. Though angry mutters still rippled through the population at the sudden co-operation with the Tsar, Germany's own industries were quick to see extra opportunity for profit on the margins to send off surplus to the burgeoning Russian Empire. Berlin was ever pressuring to the industrialists to focus everything on the Western Front, but necessity rarely stood in the way of profit. That much was simple--such thoughts were seething in Vladimir Lenin's head as he slowly walked past one of the docks, his mustache shaved and a wig on his head. Oh, he could see that there was plenty of room for revolution here in Germany too. The oppressed local Poles here, the short-sighted industrialists who, instead of seeing these days as man's greatest plight, simply saw more ways to keep their stock afloat...one day, the bourgeois here would get their just desserts. But for now, he had to keep focus. Everything was going to change sometime in the next few days. The journey from Zurich had been frantic and rushed. Passports were falsified, disguises and identities were arranged, and all the time care had to be taken not to tip off authorities. Oh, Germany was no longer at war with her neighbors, but didn't mean that she was any less paranoid--perhaps moreso now, given the literal monsters now assailing her. Fortunately, whether through sheer luck or not, the train journey from Switzerland to here had been uneventful, and his rushed disguise appeared to have worked. Soon, he would board a freighter heading up to Petrograd--everything had been arranged by allies back home. If everything went as to schedule, he would arrive in a country ready to be turned around. If not, perhaps he would once again be at the Tsar's mercy. Of course, with everything going so quickly these days, there was plenty of room for error--but chances had to be taken. He had as such ignored his compatriots who insisted he stayed in Switzerland. No, as the saying went--'if you want a job done properly, do it yourself'. With such delicate times coming, his personal supervision would be essential. Naturally, the only reason this was possible was because of the compromises and promises he had made to other like-minded parties in the motherland, who, if they were keeping to their own side of the contract, would all be doing their part to bring Russia on track. He expected squabbling. He expected sudden demands. Either that would be resolved by giving them an illusion or power, or simple brute force. This revolution would have to be quick, and merciless. Success or disaster--there would be no middle. "Come, Vladimir." he turned as one of his Swiss compatriots, also in a rushed proletarian disguise, joined him there. He could hear chattering in German and Polish from nearby self-segregated dock workers--he wasn't sure how much the locals were allowed to speak in their local tongue, but with Germany stretching herself in the face of this crisis, he wondered just how far her subject peoples were going to go along with her. Would revolution also be needed here, to preserve Europe as well? "A few more minutes." Lenin murmured to the other man.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "We still have plenty of time before the courier comes." "You sure he's not going to rat us out to the Okhrana?" "He'd be dead if he tried." "I hope so." Reaching into a pocket, Lenin produced a cigarette and lit it. "So far, so good. Luck has been with us." "I'd imagine the pigs in Berlin are more concerned with the Roaches than revolutionaries at this point." "True, true..." He turned as a ship's horn sounded from further up the port. "Not long now, my comrade. These times are changing, and they are changing fast..." ** Near Shenyang, Manchuria Creeping through the dried bushes on the crest of a hill, Shi Du, patriot and fighter, gripped the Hanyang 88 rifle in his hands as he cast his eyes out for Japanese soldiers. Other like-minded men--mere farmers, peasants, low-class city folk--crawled through the dirt next to him, careful not even to breathe too loud. Some of them bore the scars of Nipponese bullying and cruelty. Others bore scars one could not see on the skin. Hatred of the island dwarves was the one constant among the group. What further fuelled their outrage was the outright treason of those they once considered compatriots. Even some figures of the Kuomintang had expressed their support for the Japanese activities--even though, by all rights, they should've been the first taking up arms against them! Oh, they spoke of these shadowy monsters, that were ravaging Europe and now threatening China, that the only way to fight them was to ally with the lesser devil. Shi Du snorted at the thought that anyone would entertain such rubbish that wouldn't fool children. He had seen no monsters, and though he had heard stories of shape-shifting horrors in Korea and Japan itself, he took it as mere fantasy from superstitious fools with overactive imaginations. "I see nothing..." one of the others said as he peered at a road ahead. The Japanese had been clamping down on travel, keeping people inside the cities, and had made even going from town to town a challenge. As such, the main users of the roads now were Japanese soldiers or supply trains, bringing ammunition, food, and artillery. Shi Du's group had already conducted raids against such convoys, with limited success. He longed to obtain a field gun or two, to complement the simple rifles they owned. "Wait..." He dug further into the dirt as he saw someone appear in the distance on the path. Peasants? No, they walked far too proudly for that. Yes--yes, they were Japanese alright. Giving an enthusiastic hand signal, he readied his rifle. He couldn't fire too close, or too far.

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"Steady..." They were walking rather fast. Perhaps they intended to deliver a telegram? All the better to hit them now. "Steady..." Arrogant Nipponese, striding like they owned these lands-"Fire!" Rifles cracked, sending bullets flying through the air towards the Japanese troops. Some of them staggered back, toppling over into the dirt. Shi Du grinned in satisfaction as he saw blood spurt even at this distance. This was his group's most successful raid yet. Now maybe the island dwarves would reconsider using this path after all... "Wait..." He lowered the rifle, and looked up in confusion. Some of the Japanese were getting back up, even as they bled profusely. This wasn't possible. No men could simply take such lethal hits. He continued to stare in bewilderment and confusion as they looked towards them, and suddenly broke out into runs, sprinting far faster than he had considered was humanly possible. At the same time, their limbs seemed to be stretching, deforming, bursting with liquid as flesh rearranged itself... "No..." It hit him. The stories. The damned stories were true after all. There really were monsters. "Run!" Some of the others were already sprinting as the horrors continued to deform and change, getting closer and closer. More rifle fire rang out--the bullets seemed to hit, but their only apparent effect was to momentarily slow them down. "Shi Du! Help us!" "To hell with you." he muttered, dropping his rifle and sprinting after the others. He still kept a revolver--perhaps that would be enough against them. The only course of action now was to spread the word that the Japanese were right after all. Perhaps even now he understood why some chose to ally with him. Behind him, he heard screams and inhuman shrieks as he ran for the forests, sprinting as fast as he could.

BlackWave

April 3rd, 2012 02:10 AM

26th March 1915, New York City, United States of America Crowds were gathered near Battery Park as early morning sunrise cast orange streaks over Manhattan Bay--the first soldiers from New York sent to California

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 were arriving home, to be greeted by a parade that would march up Broadway. Mayor Mitchell himself was supposedly to greet them with a grand speech, and festivities even greater than the ones that had broke out when the news of the San Francisco victory had broken were expected. Flag banners were draped all over the city, as were recruitment posters displaying inspiring images of Uncle Sam or clean-cut soldiers stomping or spearing curling, frail-looking insects. The patriotic mood was running high, higher than it had been for months. Among stalls flogging candy or small plastic flags that had sprung up across Manhattan's open spaces, recruitment tents stood prominently near the parade route and where the giant posters had been put up, calling for 'any males of eligible age and condition'. While such things had already been put up since the initial incursion into California, the number of volunteers had been erratic. Stories of horrifying, invincible creatures from Europe that consumed all in their path had not helped. But almost overnight, queues of enthusiastic young men had formed at their entrances, some of them sporting volunteers fairly obviously not of 'eligible age'. After all, San Francisco showed that the Roaches could be defeated. If America could get rid of her infestation, than surely, with a bit of pressure, so could Europe. Around Battery, crowds were milling around with candyfloss and packets of liquorice, arriving early to catch the best view of the parade. A recruitment tent stood prominently at the entrance to the park there--posters hoisted on the side showed various caricature giant insects being bayoneted, gunned down by square-jawed machineguns, or being hacked to pieces by stalwart cavalrymen. As elsewhere, a queue had also formed--some of the men there noticeably clean-shaven, others grizzled and worn-looking. Signs indicated where separate tents for 'negroes and other coloreds' could be found. At the tent, a major watched the gradually growing procession snaking it's way inside. The recruits would almost immediately be sent off to local camps within the state, and as soon as they completed an intense training course they'd be shipped off to Europe or who knows where. Though he kept on a smiling and enthusiastic face, he had heard news from the troops in the token forces already in France and Belgium. He could only hope that something would be done to these poor souls to prepare them for what they were going to face. But, then again, how could you prepare a man to go through nothing less than hell itself? "Sir...?" He turned to see a young man, about sixteen or seventeen, standing there in front of him. "Ah...I take it you're of legal age, son?" "My name is Quentin Roosevelt, sir." The young man spoke up. "I just left an officer's training course in Plattsburg so I could join as soon as possible, sir. I want to honor my family name by not delaying in national service, sir." "Quen--son of Theodore?" The recruiter looked in. "Yes, sir." "Does he know?"

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "He will soon if he doesn't already, sir." "Son," he smiled, "perhaps you may want to consider completing that course after all." "Sir, I find it almost cowardly to be sitting at a desk while others fight against whatever nightmares are threatening our nation." Sighing in resignation, the major turned. Of course, legally he should've checked for the boy's age, but there had been whispers in his ear encouraging a bit of leniency--the more guns on the front, the better, more than ever now. "Go on in, boy. Do the country proud!" He turned around as the sounds of trumpets came from up near Broadway, feeling slightly sick. ** Hulluch, France Smoke and fog choked the land, reducing visibility almost to nothing. Scrambling among sodden, crude trenches and ditches cut into rubble and grit, gas-masked Entente soldiers held their positions even as obscene ordnance of myriad description rained upon them. The shattered husks of buildings in what was once a proud French town toppled on an almost regular basis as slashing, snarling abominations erupted out from the broken cobblestone roads to face desperately fired shotguns and rusting bayonets. Incendiary mortars came down with almost mechanical precision to cover tactical retreats as the outer defence lines were almost inexorably pushed back--troops caught in magnesium or paraffin flares were considered the lucky ones. Colonel Lejeune, almost unrecognizable for his scars, stubble, and grit on his face, was keeping inside a bunker sitting atop a pile of earth and rubble pumped with acidic chemicals, so there wouldn't be any Roaches bursting out under his ass. A French machinegun crew at a Hotchkiss machinegun sat next to him, spitting out specialized explosive rounds into whatever moved in the choking mist ahead--the floor was littered with smoking spent casings, sitting atop dark red bloodstains long dried. Some of the fortifications here, Lejeune knew, had already seen action at the onset of the Great War, against the Germans. Reportedly, assistance from the Boche was to be expected at any moment, but it hadn't materialized. And the euphoria from the news back home had quickly worn off as he and the dwindling numbers of men here were dragged back into the constant grind of watching for attacks and responding to them. He could swear that with most of his comrades exhausted, the Roaches could crush this place easily--the bastards were playing with them, he somehow knew it. They fucking wanted to watch them break. He wasn't going to give them the pleasure. "Avez-vous la possibilité de..." One of the Frenchmen suddenly spoke up to him, before spinning around to peer out of the bunker slit. "What? Qui?" Lejeune grunted under his mask. He was embarrassed to admit that even after what felt like an eternity in this land, he hadn't really picked up much of the local tongue.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Parlez-vous français?" The man snapped, sounding annoyed. "Huh? Uh, non, non!" "Tu me fais chier." He sighed. "Yeah...merci." Reclining for a moment, Lejeune turned as muffled, panicked shouts came from outside. He peered out, only to see some sort of object spinning towards the bunker. Instinctively ducking, he caught a glimpse of a decapitated head bouncing off the front of the fortification, splattering inside blood and bone fragments. "Huh--" The machinegun burst into action as something lurched out of the fog ahead-Lejeune caught a glimpse of bursts of purple, but nevertheless discharged his shotgun out through the slit. A jagged speared inside, barely missing one of the gunners, before shot and warm bullets tore into the shape outside. "They're coming! They're coming!" Lejeune scrambled outside as the Hotchkiss continued firing, slamming more cartridges into his shotgun. Stumbling out into rubble and cold soil covered in crude barricades of corrugated metal, he saw Entente soldiers pouring back over the rubble, some of them desperately firing behind them as they went. The screaming sound of an incoming projectile sounded, and something landed among their rear--something that scattered dozens of those damned Scarab things, which immediately leapt for whatever poor bastard was closer. Drawing his pistol, he aimed down the sight for those caught by the little horrors, and squeezed the trigger repeatedly. No remorse. It was mercy for all. Crouching behind the nearest cover, Lejeune watched as scuttling spider-like shapes began to emerge from the fog coming after the retreating men--more began to writhe out from the ground, immediately lashing out for whoever was closest. A flare shimmered overhead, casting their vile features in greater detail-mortars came screaming in moments later. Ducking, Lejeune covered his ears as his position was showered with hot soil and shards of metal. Looking back up, he fired off his shotgun into the billowing smoke almost immediately, as the creatures continued their advance undeterred. One came leaping like a grasshopper out of the haze towards him--rolling out of the way, he squeezed the trigger at near point-blank range as it landed nearby, pumping shot right into a mouth fulling of twitching mandibles. Drawing a knife from his belt, he lunged forward and stabbed into the head repeatedly as the body still twitched, letting bursts of purple land onto his already dirt-black trousers. "Fall back! Fall back!" A roar echoed from nearby--the roar of a Jabberwock, one of the acid beasts. Before, there had been incendiary grenades and field guns squirrelled away in the ruins to ward off such things. Now, he doubted anyone had any decent explosives left, and the guns had been exhausted after days of constant defence. He glimpsed a foul black projectile spit out from the fog, striking against a barricade and dissolving it into bubbling liquid immediately--there was no sense

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 in holding back here. As more mortars came in, in increasingly lesser saturation, he followed the others in scrambling over the ruins to their innermost lines. "Colonel!" He ran up to a British officer, pausing in the husk of a house as he hurriedly conferred with a lieutenant. "Damn telephone's working again--we should have a unit of Frenchie Eldees arriving shortly..." "To relieve us?" "To cover our retreat." Lejeune paused to digest it. "Well, let's give Roachy a proper goodbye, shall we?” ** Near Oedelem, Flanders, Belgium The glows of tracer rounds and magnesium flares lit up the mist and the myriads of water-filled craters scattered around the muddy No Man's Lands, spluttering out from the jagged lines of trenches between Oedelem and the town of Beernem. A killing ground had been attempted between the various lines of trenches, with chemicals pumped into the land immediately around them, but nevertheless, despite the constant rains of shells and mortars, the Roaches seemed to be striking as and when they pleased. Occasionally, the buzzing of aircraft would become audible in the black clouds above, often followed by the low droning of Locusts. Shotgun in hand, Bernard Montgomery gingerly stepped his way through wooden planks half submerged in mud and soldiers slumped against the trench walls through sheer exhaustion, followed by a small column of men from Oedelem itself. The Roaches were intensifying their attacks on the trenches here, and he had resolved to reposition--with messages so erratic, taking the initiative was becoming something encouraged more and more across the front. He had sent off a request for reinforcements from his Marauders, but whether it had got through or not, or whether it would even be answered, he had no idea. "You--boy." he breathed to a young British lieutenant sitting atop a wooden box-the lad couldn't have been more than eighteen--slowly sucking away on a cigarette. Back during the Great War, he would've been reprimanded for potentially betraying their position to snipers--but that hardly mattered any more. "What's our state?" "Permission to speak bluntly?" The man said hoarsely. "That should be a given, lieutenant." "I think we're almost buggered." he said, sighing. "We have a field gun bunkered further up, but it's got as many shells as you have fingers, and I'm not sure what the hell our mortar support is doing. One determined attack from Roachy..."

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"You've not been resupplied?" "Nah, I reckon the generals think we're gone. Before, they had those big new aero-planes drop in boxes of supplies, on parachute--sometimes they'd just fall and break, and we'd have nothing but loose metal. Now it's not even that..." Nodding, Montgomery stood up onto the step at the bottom of the trench parapet, peering over the wire-lined side into No Man's Land. To his surprise, this section was covered in rows of jagged spines, sticking out of the ground like the back of some sort of porcupine. "Bombardiers. Kept us in the dugouts for days." The lieutenant breathed. "Sometimes they dropped those little Scarab buggers onto us. Made us burn out our own lads..." "Yeah...I can imagine it's been shit luck for lots of us." Montgomery stepped back down. "Well, it ain't all that bad." The lieutenant produced what looked like some sort of flare gun. "Saved me this. They're spreading across the front--some bright spark had the idea of modifying a flare gun to fire a magnesium charge. They're callin' 'em Jabber-wackers, 'cause if you've got a Jabberwocky in your face, it can buy ya a bit of extra time." "Bloody ingenious." Montgomery smiled, having a sudden feeling of familiarity. "Think I might know who came up with it." "Really? Oh...you're Monty, aren't ya? Of the Marauders." "In the flesh." "Heh. Perhaps now..." "Merde!" A Belgian-accented voice echoed up the trench as something impacted into the earth about fifty meters further on, sending wet, poisoned earth and shards of spines raining around for just as far around. Slumbering men jerked into action groggily, bringing up their rifles and fixing bayonets. Moving up onto the trench step, Montgomery readied his shotgun, letting adrenaline wash away his dreariness. "Bloody Bombardiers...has to be..." Just as the man finished speaking, Roach warriors began to burst out of the pools ahead, their abominable forms barely visible through the mist. Keeping himself down as the others fired off with their Lee Enfields, Montgomery waited for them to get closer, tightening his grip on the shotgun. A Vickers nearby clattered into action, spitting out glowing tracer rounds, before crackling Roach weapons responded in turn--he barely had time to duck as something purple and acidic struck the top of the trench nearby. "Holy--"

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 A shrieking Roach came leaping out of the mist ahead towards them-discharging the shotgun, Montgomery scored a hit on the underside, before seamlessly drawing a knife from his waist and bringing it down into the creature's head as it landed into the trench. Bayonets were plunged into its quivering body from all around as he span around, quickly producing a grenade and tossing it out as more horrors came scurrying with incredible speed towards the trench. Shrieks followed as the explosive detonated, sending flecks of dirt raining onto helmets and hats. "You're just like the buggers said..." The lieutenant uttered breathlessly. "Roach-killing is just something you have to master." Montgomery shrugged, before the low rumbling of an engine echoed from up ahead. It sounded like an Eldee--but were there supposed to be any in this area? "Looks like an FT..." someone Irish called from further up. "Wait..." The report of a gun sounded out from the No Mans' Land, before a shell detonated in front of the trench further down. A group of men were blown back, their bodies riddled with shrapnel and blood pouring from their ears for burst eardrums. He could see it now--a growling French Eldee, moving towards the trench as the machinegun began to get into action. "It's...it's one of our own." "Blasted Scarabs. Has to be." Montgomery spat, keeping himself down as another shell was fired off. Water in the trench rippled as it impacted somewhere unseen, sending the odd rat scurrying out from the shadows. "You--" he turned around, pointing to the men behind him. "With me." "You're not taking on that thing, are you?" "Lieutenant, if you've still got that field gun, put it up. Now, give me that Jabberwacker." "Sir?" "Just do it!" Montgomery took the modified flare gun as the Eldee continued to spit machinegun rounds, churning up the mud in front of him. Stepping up, he quickly aimed down the bulky weapon in his hand and fired--the recoil sent him dropping it, as the projectile was sent spiralling through the air before impacting into the front of the vehicle. A magnesium blaze spread across the forward hull, not penetrating it, but it would still be enough to keep the occupants blind. If they were human, it would've likely roasted them alive too, but Montgomery wasn't counting on that. "Go!" Scrambling over the top, Montgomery splashed and stumbled through the mud as he and the men behind him made a beeline for the burning Eldee. A shrieking

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Roach suddenly burst out from a nearby pool--reacting flawlessly, he discharged the shotgun into it's face, while a bayonet from one of the lads behind him finished it off. As the magnesium blaze began to die out, he reached the Eldee, going for the engine compartment at the back. Producing a grenade, he placed it on the cover, before turning around and sprinting for the cover of a flooded crater. He threw himself in just as the grenade exploded, blowing open the engine cover and detonating the machinery within. Stumbling up sodden, Montgomery grinned with satisfaction at the burning wreck--well, perhaps the French would be upset, but that was one less thing shooting at them. "Sir..." "Hold on..." It was starting to drizzle again, conveniently dousing the fire on the wreck and cooling the heated metal--walking towards it, Montgomery could make out the mangled remains of driver and gunner inside, making out jagged mandibles and claws among the red, burnt bodies. Among some of the bits of machinery spat out from the wreck, he could make out one of those motor-saws he knew the French mounted on their Eldees, to cut up any Roaches that got too close. Scooping up the bulky tool, he weighed it in his hand, feeling what he guessed was the activation tool. "Sir," one of his accompanying men spoke up, "we should get back to the--" The man was cut off by a sudden claw stabbing right through his chest--around him, Montgomery found sudden shapes of teeth and scythe-like arms writhing out from the dirt. As the other men got their bayonets up, he manipulated the activation controls for the motor-saw, letting it rev up with a burst of smoke and a smell of oil. Finding himself with a sudden burst of bravado, he lunged for one of the creatures as it burst towards him. "Eat shit and die, you piece of afterbirth filth!" He plunged the growling blade right into the face of the Roach, ripping its head apart in a shower of purple fluids. The creature fell limp as the mauled head fell open, spilling out whatever apparently passed for a Roach's brain. Spinning around, Montgomery ducked to avoid another swinging arm, before bringing down the motor-saw into another one of the beasts. Entrails, organs, and more purple ichor spilt out onto the ground as it did its job--nearby, his men, hardened like any under his command, worked with pistols and bayonets. Finally, the saw fell silent--he guessed either the machinery was clogged up, or it was out of fuel. Tossing it aside, he began to made briskly for the trench. "Pretty nasty piece of work, eh?" One of the men spoke up. "You referring to me, or that saw?" Montgomery replied with a grin, as the burning Eldee faded away to a glow in the mist. ** Versailles, France Pouring through reports and papers with the help of a rather large amount of

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 cognac, General Ferdinand Foch grimly digested the latest erratic information from the front. It seemed word of further American intervention was at least doing something to boost morale, as was news of the death of this 'Sneaky Willy' thing. The Italians had promised further divisions imminently, and their leaders here at least were finally shutting up over not being granted command over the front. Likewise, the English were promising fanciful new weapons developed in various places--they hadn't been specific, but he was hearing things about 'lightning machines' and the like. "General, sir?" He looked up as one of his aides entered the room, clean-uniformed as anyone within the halls of the palace. He expected that the colors of German attire would soon be imposed against the gold and ivory here. To his own surprise, Foch was feeling fairly ambivalent about officially siding up with the Boche. It was necessary, he supposed. The Roaches had long since knocked any sense of patriotic bravado out of him. "Yes?" "Cable from Madrid. The Spanish have their divisions ready to be transported to the front. They ask for arrangements for a conference with their military leadership in their capital." "Tell them to come here." Foch snapped. The greater the distance from the front, the more time it would take for information to reach him. Of course, given the threat of Stingwraiths, one couldn't be too close either. "Oui, my general." "But be sure to thank their king for his support." Foch continued. "We will meet with their generals whenever they are ready, here, with the English and Italians. I pray only that their men are fit enough to face our realities here..." ** 27th March 1915, northern Yeniseyek Governorate, Imperial Russia Dulled streaks of sunlight shone down from an overcast sky that straddled the border between the Arctic circle and the subarctic climate belt, onto snowcovered tundra in the process of spring thaw. To any man standing in the middle of the frosty landscape, with not a single sign of human civilization in sight as far as the eye could see, it was almost frighteningly quiet--nothing except the occasional dripping of slowly liquifying ice. Even the sound of wind was eerily absent. The silence was broken as a small group of men in thick fur coats emerged from a frosted circle of tents out in the open tundra, some of them carrying rifles with bearskin gloves. At the front of them, Lieutenant Nikita Kaminski, Russian Army scout, surveyed the landscape ahead through battered snow goggles, directing his men with gestures and grunts. The city of Norilsk, the closest bastion of the Russian nation, had already been evacuated, her citizens largely conscripted into the Tsar's army to fight in the Urals; but from there, Kaminski and his men had been ordered to scout along these northern Siberian tundras, to confirm whether the monsters were heading in any way into the Arctic. Personally, he considered

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 it a fool's errand. No sane creature would want to head into this freezing hell, and even if they did, sheer distance made it unlikely they would see them; but orders were orders. "Fuck your mother." one man behind him grunted. In this cold, even talking felt like unnecessary expenditure of energy, and hence the men generally reserved it for cursing or praying. Gesturing at the scout to be quiet, Kaminski proceeded to head upwards as the tents were packed up with the various pots and stoves they had brought along. Though their orders demanded speed, they also forced them to carry around enough gear that Kaminski sometimes feared his men would sink right into the snow. The trudge began. Kaminski's feet found purchase on more solid ground as they began to move up onto a rock ridge, peppered with patches of dissipating snow. After this, he thought, they could consider heading back to Norilsk. He was beginning to doubt there was anything worthwhile in these parts. What was there for the Zhuki here anyway? Did they secretly feed on icy grass? A stumbling noise behind him. Kaminski turned around to see one of the men at the back suddenly fall over onto the icy rock, his body limp. Confusion paralyzed him on the stop as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. Perhaps it was the cold, but none of his men had been exhibiting signs of frostbite or pneumonia... "Check him." he snapped quickly. As two more of the scouts crouched down by the body, he headed up to the top of the ridge, putting more effort into his muscles as he scaled upwards with the heavy equipment on his back. Finally reaching the crest, he stared out at a view of more sprawling tundra, an infinite expanse of green streaked over by white. They did seem to be alone here. But then what had... "Sir!" He turned around, to find one of the men retrieving some sort of dart out from the back of their fallen comrade. Stumbling back to join them, he could see that it was more like some sort of spine, bony and organic. Fear began to wash over him. He had read the reports on the capabilities of the monsters down in the Urals. But surely... "Where did it come from?" Heads turned back where they had come from. All Kaminski could see were the snowy fields of grass and rock they had just left behind. Breathing heavily, he tried to control the fear and anxiety now sweeping him. Fear meant a faster heartbeat, more consumption of energy, less resilience to this cold...his hand edged down towards his belt, towards the revolver holstered there. "Keep alert." Kaminski breathed, as some of the others fed cartridges into his rifle. Finally drawing his revolver, Kaminski lifted his snow goggles as the others exhaled condensed breath into the air. Movement, to his side. Slowly turning around, he focused himself to keep his hands from shaking. He tried to think it was only the cold. All he could see off to the side was more snow, more ice. Rubbing his bleary eyes, he took a step closer. One of his men walked up, muttering something

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 indistinct, as he brought up his rifle to bear. A few moments of silence. Perhaps this was all some hallucination brought on by the isolation. Perhaps... Something lashed out from the snow ahead--some sort of barbed tendril, that impaled the man next to Kaminski and pulled him forward in a second. Rifle fire rang out seconds later, echoing around the empty landscape for miles. Turning around, Kaminski shedded the load on his back and tried to run, not knowing just what was happening as self-preservation took over completely. As shouts and screams echoed behind him, he thought for a second he could get away, before he found himself slipping on a patch of thin ice, falling over onto the cold rock as something unholy shrieked from nearby. ** Near Moscow, Imperial Russia "Gentlemen, I present Russia's latest achievement in engineering. I think we can safely say that our matters on the front might see improvement..." Lighting up a cigarette, engineer Nikolai Lebedenko turned away from the group of uniformed officers and Tsarist officials to look onto the muddy testing field out near the workshops and laboratories that had been afforded to him and his team. The weather was cold, the field was wet, but he had tired of the constant letters from Petrograd demanding updates and faster progress. The team had decided to disregard any gimmicks and went straight for the pragmatic route, and even despite that, Lebedenko doubted that what they had produced here could be manufactured in time to make a noticeable difference on the vast Ural front. The European industries had made incredible headway, but Russia, despite her size, was considerably poorer, and with the factory difficulties he was hearing about? Matters weren't looking up. Nevertheless, that was not what the men behind him wanted to hear. With the blow of a whistle, Lebedenko stood back as a clanking, puffing object began to move onto the field from inside a shed--an angular, grey-colored metal box on treads adapted for snow, with a set of large stabiliziation wheels at the back. The barrels of a machinegun and a light field gun protruded out from the front as the contraption came growling forward at a pace almost laughably slow, but where it was headed, he didn't expect it to prove much of an issue. "Russia's first Land Dreadnought." he smiled, injecting as much patriotic pride into his voice as he could summon. "We call it the Vezdekhod Mark 1. We have taken the European designs and adapted them for use in the Ural front, providing firepower to support our men in an armored shell that should offer adequate resistance to what the Roaches may respond to it with." "Interesting toy." one uniformed figure pointed at it with an expression of bemusement. "I take it that it is reliable?" "Mechanical issues are to be expected, but our team felt that where it is meant to fight, mobility is not a great issue." "All the rubles you were given, and you tell us you cannot even guarantee it will run?" Another haughty voice spoke up. "With the limited time we had, it is the best we could do." Lebedenko retorted,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 somewhat aggravated. "You cannot expect us to match the quality of Britain or France." "I suppose realism is something we can afford in these times, Mr. Lebedenko." the uniformed man spoke up again. "Tell me, how many can we expect ready for deployment?" "Assuming we begin production immediately? Perhaps a dozen, by early next month?" "A dozen? At least a hundred have been made in Europe." "Then that is a testimony to the wonders of their industry, and this is a testament to the limitations of our own. There we have the simple facts, gentlemen." "Such unpatriotism." The man in the uniform murmured. "I know of engineers who would swear three dozen of these things within a week." "With all due respect, we must not dig our heads in the shit to avoid the fresh air in these times." Lubedenko found himself speaking frankly, as his patience was snapped away. "I must ask if there is an approval to begin full production." "If this is the best you can come up with. Your team will continue work to make improved models. But don't fool yourself, Lubedenko. Defeatists and traitors are using our motherland's affliction to come out from the woodwork, and the wrong word in the wrong place...well, you must take care." ** Washington DC, United States of America "And so, gentlemen, we move onto the elephant in the room we've been neglecting for a considerable while--the matter of the current infestations in East Asia and the Australian continent. I'm told the President's office is already gearing for talks with the Japanese regarding intervention in Manchuria with Filipino auxiliaries, but now that California has been liberated, we are left with readied naval assets that can either be directed to Europe, or across the Pacific..." Seated alongside Naval Secretary Josephus Daniels, Assistant Secretary of the Navy Franklin Delano Roosevelt adjusted his glasses as he sat alongside a row of other suited Department of War officials and administrators. While the army had been scrambling to fumigate California, the Pacific fleet had been rushed into a desperate push to get it mobilized, while eventually the Naval Department brought its Atlantic counterpart into readiness as forces were sent over to Europe. Weeks and weeks of supply reports, managing crew and pay, coal, oil, shells...and all the time, there was the stress that came with the United States suffering her worst land war in generations. Even as celebrations continued in the Mall, people like Roosevelt, who digested statistics and documents day after day, could see the true cost of that campaign. The worst thing was, as far as he could tell, that there still seemed to be some Roach leftovers on American soil... "I'm not sending anything to Australia." Daniels leant over to him and breathed. "It's gone. It's just gone. That's the simple matter of it all."

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"The Japanese have already been partaking in naval cordon operations." Roosevelt whispered back. "If we are to help them in China, we may as well help them there too." "We don't even know if we're helping them in China." Daniels snapped back. "President seems to want everything focused on Europe, so we may end up telling them to eat raw fish and leave us alone." Roosevelt nodded. Daniels had been especially irritable and stressed in the last few weeks, despite their close working relationship. Well, that applied to virtually anyone in any federal department connected to the war effort. At least if they were fighting a human enemy, one predictable and reasonable, there was the chance that peace would eventually come about with pens and negotiating tables. But this? He didn't envy those in Congress and the White House, faced with an enemy not human in the slightest. How were they meant to fight ants with intelligence? Though he wouldn't dare say it, he feared for the Europeans, and the Russians as well. "Have we considered supply deals with the Tsar?" he leaned back over to Daniels as the speaker continued to drone about the state of sea routes to Asia. "Don't ask me. I imagine that's also Marshall's call." Daniels murmured. "We've enough trouble trying to appease the Europeans and keeping ourselves afloat. We can just hope that the Russians are getting enough from the Brits and the Frenchies..." "You know," Roosevelt also added, "I reckon we start talking with the Royal Navy about moving the Atlantic Fleet down to England. That's if..." "That's if what...?" "Well, should the worst-case scenarios that we've been forecasting...were to occur." "Franklin, you worry far too much." Daniels snapped. "Look, for all we know, we'll be sending the fleet to Indochina. Now, just relax, and we'll cross these bridges when we get there..." Relaxation, these days, Roosevelt thought as he sat back. What a joke. ** Near Hulluch, France "Boys...when you go to visit Saint Peter, tell him there ain't no use sendin' you down to hell--you've already been there." Wet coldness bit at Colonel Lejeune's ankles as he stumbled through a waterfilled muddy ditch that was all that remained of a bombed-out trench, snaking between tattered clusters of barbed wire and smouldering craters from mortars and howitzers. Among him, the equally battered and muddied remnants of the Frenchmen and Tommies he had managed to get with him from Hulluch, which was now just a flattened patch of dirt and ground brick the last time he had seen it. A squadron of LDs had managed to divert the Roaches ravaging the place

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 there enough for the infantry to split up and escape...but Lejeune wasn't sure if that had improved their survivability any better. "Please!" one of the Tommies suddenly blurted out, as he stumbled and collapsed onto his knees into the muddy water. "I...I need a fucking rest!" "Make it quick." Lejeune snapped, as the others also stopped to catch their breath and check their weapons. He took a look around the No Man's Land around them, covered in craters and mud, shrouded as the whole damn country seemed to be with fog and smoke. The screaming and pounding of mortars was distinctly audible nearby--he could even feel the earth gently shake under his feet from their impacts. The stuttering of machineguns, the crackling of incendiaries...it all felt like perfect ambience to him now. "What's your regiment, son?" He knelt down beside the exhausted Tommy. "Lancashire Fusiliers, sir...first battalion. Don't see how this makes a difference now...we're all bloody mixed up." "Only matters that we're all in this together." Lejeune said, trying to make something inspiring-sounding out of his dry and hoarse voice. Stumbling to one side, he found what looked like the remains of a telephone set, smashed and partially buried in the mud--he chuckled. Those things were barely reliable, with the Roaches smart enough to cut wires where they found them...and when they didn't, it always seemed that it was because they wanted men herded to where they wanted...not for the first time, he wondered just how they were meant to defeat creatures like this. No--he shrugged off those thoughts. Defeatism couldn't take him when he was trying to get it out from everyone else. "Attente..." one of the Frenchmen suddenly cocked his head. Lejeune glanced upward. He could make out some sort of screaming, increasing in-"Oh, god--get down!" Throwing himself down into the muddy water of the ditch, Lejeune felt his ears ring and his back peppered with smouldering chunks of soil as a mortar impacted what felt like a matter of yards away. Trying to get up as aching pain wracked his muscles, he tried to work out what was happening. Had a mortar team been snatched by the Roaches? Had they somehow figured him and the men for being snatched themselves? He gave up trying to make sense of it all seconds later. "C--come on!" Confused and shaken, the men stumbled through the broken trench after him as he ignored the water seeping through his socks or the barbed wire brushing against his ankle. He reached for a flare gun by his waist--it was there, but no projectile. He'd spent it all in Hulluch. He tried to curse, but his throat was too dry to respond. Another mortar came screaming in--this one landed a distance behind them, showering specks of mud all around and sloshing the brown water lapping at their feet. Lejeune could only hope that he could meet whoever was bombarding them and strangle them with his own fists. Or, if they were Roaches, gut them with his bayonet. Either would be satisfying enough.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "No..." Through the cloudy fog and smoke ahead, he could make out an immense shape rise up from the ground about a hundred meters ahead--a Bombardier, a fucking Bombardier, but even at this distance and with this visibility he could make out something distinctive about it, at least compared to the ones he had seen. A jagged, thorny carapace...some sort of crest on its abominable head...and the fucker seemed even bigger than normal. "Get down! Get down! Hope it hasn't fuckin' seen us!" Throwing himself down onto the ground, Lejeune felt the moisture of the mud below soak through the cloth of his vest, chilling the skin of his very chest. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see that the others had also gone prone-except for that damn Tommy from before, standing on the spot and quivering like a fucking lunatic. "You! Get down! Now!" The man didn't respond, just shaking even more. Another screaming noise hit Lejeune's ear, and he braced himself for another mortar impact--instead, some sort of glistening projectile struck the stricken Tommy right in the chest, burrowing right into it and sending blood dripping down into the brown water below. Jerking and spasming on the spot like a crazed marionette as the thing disappeared into his chest, gargling noises came from the poor man's throat as barbed, worm-like strands suddenly began to writhe out from his every orifice. Turning onto his back, Lejeune discharged his rifle, as did the others--though the man's body, riddled with bleeding bullet wounds, toppled over onto the mud, the damned wireworms continued to squirm out from his body. "Nique ta mere!" Reaching inside his satchel, one of the Frenchmen produced what looked like a bottle of paraffin with a cloth stuck in the top. Manipulating something with it, he set the bottle alight, tossing it onto the man's jerking corpse as more of the worm creatures began to burst out all over his skin. Fire roasted both them and the corpse as the paraffin did its work--the water and moisture would douse it, but it had worked. "What's that?" Lejeune breathed. Then he remembered. Teddy Tonics. Seemed the Europeans had really taken to importing American ware after all. "From you Yankees." one of the other Tommys breathed, before looking forwards suddenly. "Ah, shit--I think that big bugger has seen us..." A roar echoed from ahead as if in reply--screaming signified another incoming mortar, but this time it appeared to impact against the creature's back in a puff of flame and smoke. Though it remained silhouetted in the fog ahead, Lejeune could see it turning towards them. Those damned red eyes glowed through the mist, as if staring right into them. Another screeching sound--Lejeune ducked, just in time to see a trio of glistening, egg-like sacs impact into the mud in front of them. Their wet, mucus-covered surfaces broke open to let quivering wireworms inside burst out--more Tonics were produced, as Lejeune scrambled backward in the mud away from the vile barbed creatures.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 As paraffin flame burst out in front of him from the shattering Tonic bottles, engulfing the slithering worms, more projectiles came screaming in--the ground around them shook as an artillery shell detonated in front of the Bombardier ahead, turning its attention. Getting up, Lejeune hurriedly rushed out from the ruined trench, letting wire on the ground tear at his trousers as he headed out for the openness of No Man's Land. "Where the bloody hell are you going?" one of the Tommies behind him cried in exasperation, following him anyway. "It's this way or through that thing." Lejeune snapped. Perhaps today would be the day he bought it. A good enough one. "Come on, boys. Let's put some chips down..." ** Washington DC, United States of America More reports from Europe. Last stands. Slaughters. Tenuous holds on survival. Letters and requests from Congressmen and Senators, congratulations, threats, and pleas. In his chair, President Marshall considered what men other than him would've done. Wilson, at least, had the will to cut through the hesitation he had found hindering him. Teddy, on his way to Congress the last he had heard, certainly had the energy. Though he still retained rivals in the halls of the Capitol, Marshall already knew that he was a good enough figure to place on the posters and pamphlets. Recruitment after San Francisco had surged considerably--but he had been forced to make sure that Federal services kept a close eye on the European dispatches that reached the offices of newspapers and magazines. An aide entered, signifying that his appointment for the afternoon had begun. Sitting up, Marshall rubbed his eyes as Samuel Rea, president of the Pennsylvania Railroad, entered the office to sit before him. The man, being in charge of the largest rail system in the country, had supposedly petitioned for a visit to the White House on behalf of all the prominent rail executives in the country. Marshall had decided to oblige. Half his cabinet had been constantly badgering him about the unanswered questions of the nation's economy--the elephants in the room as far as Congress was concerned. "Good day, Mr. Rea." Marshall grunted. "And to you too, Mr. President." Rea nodded as he took his seat. "I've heard that there have been quite a few responses to your call for escalation in Europe." "It isn't a crisis we can ignore." Marshall murmured. "Now then, my time is brief. If you could be succinct..." "Certainly, Mr. President." Rea sat back. "On behalf of the railroads of the nation, we'd like to request the end of the restriction and nationalization the federal government imposed with so little notice. The nest in San Francisco has been destroyed, and hence, we see little purpose in further strangling our economy when the threat has been eradicated. I've tried petitioning congressmen over this, but with their attention seemingly so focused on the damn war, I resolved to go straight to your office to make my pleas, Mr. President."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Sighing, Marshall rubbed his forehead as he took it in. More pressure on him now. Half the businessmen in the country seemed angry. Arms manufacturers, for all the pressure imposed on them. Steelworks industrialists, for similar reasons. And now the damned railroads...well, it wasn't as it he hadn't seen this coming. "Mr. Rea," he grunted, "I understand your pleas, but what the newspapers have generally neglected to mention is that we still have a Roach problem, particularly in the midwest. Their infestation can be most virulent, and until I can be certain it is purged, I'm afraid we cannot permit them unregulated transport to spread their infection." "You mean to suggest that they somehow understand our concept of rail?" "And so much more." Marshall nodded. Rea chuckled. "With all due respect, Mr. President...I've heard plenty of insane stories coming from Europe and California, but I wasn't expecting the presidential office to peddle the too. These...Roaches not only understand our railroad system, but they can exploit it too? I'm finding that somewhat hard to believe." Marshall paused as he tried to come up with a response. Such was the sideeffect of all the information regulation. People left in ignorance of the true magnitude of the threat against them. "They are very much intelligent little creatures." he finally said. "And as such, I must decline your request, Mr. Rea. The Federal government stated in no opaque terms that it will retain control over our railroads until this crisis is concluded and my office will not undo this pledge. As I have said, you and your compatriots will be duly compensated in the face of this." He glanced at his pocket-watch. "And I believe that concludes our meeting. Good day, sir." As Rea got up, Marshall turned back to his documents. The stress of these recent days...every minute seemed to bring an additional ounce of pressure on him. Certainly, the liquor cabinets seemed ever more tantalizing. ** 28th March 1915, near Poperinge, Belgium Searchlights pierced through the morning fog hanging over the trenchworks and charred No Man's Land that seemed to now cover all of Flanders, emanating from the giant cigar shape of Luftkreuzer LK021 humming overhead. The occasional muzzle flash or burst of tracer rounds could be visible through the mist from above, from trenches lined with thick layers of barbed wire or flooded artillery craters. More gunfire was visible from the ruined town of Poperinge up ahead--it was erratic and scattered enough to grant the impression that the landscape below was truly no longer man's domain. Sipping what drops he could find from a flask of whisky, Lieutenant Walther

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Martz kept himself behind a mounted MG08, fitted with specialized explosive rounds, within one of the airship's modified gondolas. Only a few days ago he had been jumping straight from this zeppelin into the mouths of abominations below. Now, he was to man one of the many light weapons mounted on this Luftkreuzer, specially purposed for providing intensive support from low altitude. Dozens of machinegun barrels jutted out from the sides of the gondolas, in exchange for the light guns that typified airships of this type. Boxes of grenades and flares were positioned behind him, to be tossed out of one of the openings if need be. Resisting the urge to fall asleep, Maltz peered out through the gun opening ahead, glimpsing the outlines of worn-down trenchlines below. He surmised that the poor bastards below would still see those stationed on mighty Luftkreuzers such as himself as lucky bastards, and found that an understandable thought. Of course, they'd likely reconsider if ever faced with the threat of screaming flying Schaben that could rip through the exteriors of such airships with ease, or fire from those massive beetle monsters from below. It was hard to tell if it was luck or the devil that had kept him alive this far. "Achtung!" Whistles blew through the interior of the airship, jerking him into alertness. Gripping the handles of the gun, he let the Luftkreuzer crewman next to him ready the ammunition feed. He did not look forward to the sound of so many machineguns clattering in a confined space, but by now most men carried around improvized earmuffs of cloth. Some coming with residing lice, but those seemed a comfort next to the insects they had to handle now. "Wait...Schaben, schaben! All sides! Fire at will!" The shouting voice of their commanding officer echoed metallically through communications tubes, as the dreaded buzzing and screeching of carapaced abominations of nature resounded from outside. Gritting his teeth, Martz peered down the sights of the machinegun and readied himself. The first Schaben he saw were airborne ones, weaving and swooping out of the clouds towards the airship. Even from here, with his bleary eyes, he could see some of them sporting additional sets of wings or writhing tendrils hanging from their mouths--it was something nobody wished to talk about, but the damn Schaben were evolving, with deadlier individuals appearing in greater number every other week. Regardless, letting all such thought drop from his mind, he aimed and fired. Orange tracer fire crackled in all directions from the Luftkreuzer--guns from the bottom of the gondolas opened up towards creatures appearing in the trenches below, firing upward with obscene munitions of some kind. A few odd screams echoed from inside as spines or crystalline organic rounds pierced through the metal hull and impaled unfortunate crewmen who were standing in the wrong place. Bursting explosive rounds and the white flares of phosphorous some came in reply. Remembering his briefings, Martz worked to concentrated his fire with other gunners--a dozen machineguns focused on one flying Roach as it came with incredible speed towards the airship, blowing through its head just before it could latch onto the exterior. A screeching, and he suddenly saw several gunners

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 to his left scream as barbed tendrils suddenly lashed inside, impaling them by their skulls and forcefully pulling them out their openings. Relentless gunfire followed, and he caught a glimpse of something falling off the side of the airship, smouldering with the detonations of the explosive bullets. More flying creatures were descending--nests on the top of the airship furiously blazed away as they came in from above too. Some of them bore their own machineguns wielded to their bodies by organic fiber, cutting through gunners and piercing through canvas and metal. Maltz again could only offer thanks to whatever force was keeping him alive, as he fired away. Increasingly louder screeches and unearthly cries from the ground suggested they were only drawing more attention. "Do not relent!" Their officer's voice shouted again, barely discernible over all the gunfire. "We shall pull through! For Germany, and the Fatherland!" Ignoring that, Maltz spat as his gun jammed, and quickly nodded to his cogunner to fix it. As the man quickly got to work, a limb suddenly speared through the ceiling above, bursting the head of another nearby airship soldier like a fruit. Stepping forward with rifles, nearby crewmen fired upwards, cautiously moving constantly in fear. All he heard was a disturbing buzzing coming from somewhere nearby he couldn't quite pinpoint. "Down below!" The ruins of Poperinge were finally drawing up ahead, illuminated by the airship's searchlights--the bursts of hidden pounder guns joined the glowing tracer rounds in driving the flying horrors away from the ship. Martz could swear that the creatures were only toying with them, not making any serious attack. No--that couldn't be so. With the gun finally unjammed, he resumed firing, aiming below into the vague shapes of moving chitin on the ground. Among the shadowy ruins of the town below, among fortified structures covered in wire and sandbags, terrible shapes moving among the ruins and through craters formed by mortars and howitzers dug in as fire from the looming airship ahead peppered downwards. The defenders would have some respite, if only for a moment. Perhaps it would be a good enough to answer to their prayers. ** Near Namur, Belgium Rommel wished for many things. A good bed. Decent food. A chance to shave his increasingly unkempt beard. But as he cowered under the barrages of incendiary mortars and artillery, he could only hope that perhaps he would see home again. It felt now that these blasted landscapes were all he had ever known. Would that these goddamn Schaben would all just fucking drop dead. He and his men had shifted up closer to the city of Namur, a shattered place like any other in Belgium. Heavy fire gushed out from the place like a fountain--the Schaben appeared to be intensifying their attacks, but still apparently relishing this all as if it was some sort of game to them. Though field telephones were still unreliable and runners not much better, Rommel had gathered just how hard a fight it was there--the Schaben attacked from all dimensions, while pounding the place with their own vile artillery. He had heard stories of shells that deposited

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 swarms of their little beetles--most were familiar with that already--and now writhing clusters of their living wire. Even as he sat in this filthy reeking trench, alongside men who had not washed for weeks, he did not envy the city defenders. "We have a big one!" Up ahead, he could see an Austrian soldier manning one of the heavy 13mm Gewehrs in the battered remains of a machinegun nest, sounding panicked. Moving up onto the trench step, Rommel winced as some sort of spine shot by his head by barely a centimeter, and looked out. Fire was bursting from the flame apparatus of an armored car apparently immobilized in the mud, as Schaben came up from the mud like worms--hulking out from the shadows was one of their acid monsters, a bull one, judging by it nearly being the size of a house and the impossibly-thick looking jagged armor. What seemed most unusual about it was the strange bony protrusion on its head--bringing to mind the head of a hammerhead shark. Even through the dirtied lenses of his mask, he managed to make out sparks dancing along the edge of this thing, and wondered, if for a moment, just how far could these vile creatures adapt. Roaring, the beast struck against the armored car as a 13mm round struck against the dirtied orange carapace--little effect. With a spit of acid, it burnt open the vehicle, and thrust its head inside--an unnerving crackling sound followed, then screams, and then it thrust back out devouring something rapidly. For a moment, he simply found himself frozen, terrified. "Come on!" Fire came from behind, as Schaben were now apparently descending on the trench from both sides. Clumps of soil came down on the trench as grenades, explosive and phosphorous, were thrown out--Rommel span around as he suddenly saw a man shout in panic from further down. Little skittering shapes, covered in mud but still recognizable, were writhing out from the boards on the floor of the trench. Either someone had forgot to poison the soil beneath it as was customary, or the chemicals no longer affected them. Either way, they could not say here. "Everyone! Up! Move! Move to the next segment! Come on!" As the men hurriedly complied, a man screamed from down below as the little Schaben leapt onto him, crawling up his trousers and sleeves. Quickly producing a Luger, Rommel dealt a round to the poor bastard's head, before readying a phosphorous grenade and throwing it down onto the floor to cover their fallback. He could feel the heat of the flaring white burst as he turned away and hurriedly moved upwards, trying not to let his foot get caught in thick wet mud. "Gott!" Taking the lead of the column, Rommel froze as he saw the beast suddenly appear on the rim of the trench ahead, and plunged in--anyone near the head screamed in agony as sparks flew, and with horrifying speed it consumed their spasming bodies one by one. Without a word, Rommel turned down through a communications trench--narrow, but there was no other choice. Nearly

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 overwhelmed by the claustrophobia of the space around him and the panic surging through his body, he tried to keep his focus as they burst out into the support trench. All ducked as mortars came in, showering more dirt onto their heads--even as his ears rang in pain, Rommel kept moving forward. "In here! In here!" He paused as he found a dugout entrance with a number of Austrians beckoning for them to come inside. Rommel quickly thought. Dereliction of duty, technically. Possibility of momentary safety. With much further deliberation, he continued moving forward, conserving every breath he took in. Bullets of all types were flying in every direction over his head, as the roar of overhead aircraft joined the myriad other insane sounds of battle around him. "No!" Not slowing down, he looked over his shoulder to see the creature lurch forward over the trench behind him, tearing open the dugout entrance. The head plunged in, and screams followed. "Come on! Come on!" he shouted to his men, more out of desperation than inspiration. Overhead, he could see blue flares burst in the sky overlooking the trench. He knew what that meant. "Come on!" A bellowing roar from behind, and he tried to quicken his pace. He tried not to think about that monster catching them. The fate didn't bear dwelling on. He could surely make it. He could-Shells began to plunge into the trench behind. Rommel was thrown down onto his chest as the beasts roars were drowned out by the falling shower of explosives, chemicals, and incendiary. Choking gas flooded through the trenches as the walls began to collapse in chunks of sodden mud. Covering his head and letting fate take over, Rommel was only too eager to embrace the fold of unconsciousness that followed. ** Near Paris, France "Gentlemen, esteemed leaders of all the great powers of Europe, Remington Arms would like to present the revolutionary and innovative weapon that has already proved itself in the battlegrounds of California and San Francisco!" Alongside other uniformed or coat-clad men from the general staff of the Entente, including Lord Kitchener and General Foch, Winston Churchill found himself somewhat impatient with the ostentatious presentation he had come to expect from American men of business. Standing in this large testing field, he watched as the Remington Arms representative directed a pair of engineers into readying these 'sub-machineguns' into position atop aiming blocks, pointed towards the mangled forms of Roach bodies retrieved from the battlefield. Impaled on poles thirty feet away, the corpses looked even more repellent than the live.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Effective up to one hundred feet, the 'California Typewriter' can provide the rate of fire of a Vickers or MG08 in the hands of any infantrymen! Show 'em, boys!" Churchill covered his ears as the guns clattered into life, spraying bullets all over the target bodies ahead. It was very readily apparent that some of them didn't even get close to their targets. "Art from adversity, my esteemed gentlemen! I can assure you that the crisis in Europe has been quite a motivator for our designers, but I guarantee no compromise in quality!" "Look at that." Churchill pointed upward with a cane. "It looks about as accurate as spit!" "My good sir," the representative smiled, "from what I have heard of these creatures, accuracy is hardly a great necessity." "These weapons seem useful." General Foch finally spoke up. "I can speak for my subordinates when I ask for any available shipment for the French Army as soon as possible. We will be sure to train selected men in their use." "Very well, sir. We'll be sure to negotiate prices soon!" "Prices?" Churchill raised an eyebrow. "This is a fight for survival, sir, and I'm not mincing words. Give us any shipments you can provide, and once the Roach nests are eradicated, we'll discuss transactions." "Sir, I'm sure any amount of capital can be spared in the name of survival." The arms representative continued, with a leery smile. Churchill sighed, rubbing his brow. Let these Yankees have any deal they wanted, then. God willing, if this was ever over, they'd have as much debt to owe as anyone. "Whatever you wish. Just provide the bloody guns." "You won't regret doing business with Remington Arms, sir!" ** Lens, France The coal city of Lens, seized the year before by the Germans, seemed not much different from the other shattered, hastily fortified French towns that Lejeune had fought in before. Sitting within a darkened cellar, converted into a makeshift triage that reeked of corpses, he found it almost amusing to have a German fellow slumped next to him, his face so blackened by dirt and grime he looked like something out of a goddamn minstrel show. Among the fortified ruins and sandbag-laden streets partially swamped in rubble and rainwater, he had seen all sorts of uniforms mingling together, all united by the idea of survival. In these days, when not a moment's fuckin' rest seemed to present itself, the thought was almost...inspiring. "You comfortable?"

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 A Teutonic-accented voice spoke up as a figure gingerly made his way down the battered stone staircase leading into the cellar. Lejeune rubbed his ears; spending so much time out there in the trenches, with artillery and rifles always discharging next to him...he was amazed he could still hear himself breathe. "Yeah, thanks." he muttered. He looked up as a German officer, remarkably clean shaven, moved forward to offer him a cigarette. His eyes widening, Lejeune quickly grabbed it. "Have you met the other Americans here?" The officer continued, leaning against a large supply crate. "Yeah." Lejeune recalled the sorry boys up there in the ditches dug out from the rubble, obviously shell-shocked beyond belief...from some of them, he had weaned a few tidbits of information of how things were back home. People euphoric from the victory in California, lining up to fight in Europe...he didn't know whether to cry or to be thankful. "Almost got eaten by one of 'em big Bombardiers on the way here." he chuckled. "You ever crawled across a field, getting yourself torn on wire, wondering if there's not some big ugly Roach about to burst from the ground and chew your ass off?" "I know only too well, mein herr." The officer sighed. "You know where you are meant to be?" "Shit. I've been waitin' for dispatches for weeks. Either they can't get to me, or they don't even know I'm there. I guess...I just go with the flow. There's Roaches everywhere, and they all need to die..." "No disagreement there." The German began to sit down. "This damned city...I feel like I have been here so long, fighting off these creatures without rest...almost seems like my home now." "Yeah." Lejeune sighed. "Got any word from home?" "The Schaben cut our telephone lines long ago...but I think the odd dispatch gets through when they drop it from aircraft. I hear the Spanish will soon be moving in here in good time..." "They'll be prepared?" "How am I meant to know?" The German laughed. "I know they'd damn well better be..." "Mein herr!" A panicked shout from above--Lejeune instinctively reached for the shotgun slung over his back as the officer span around, barking off a reply in German. Once again, adrenaline began to rush through him, shaking off the feelings of fatigue and hunger that he had been trying to shake off. His senses heightened-now, he could feel the faint discharges of machineguns, the landing impacts of howitzer shells...the thrill of fighting, barely avoiding death, it was all coming back...

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "I think there is a fresh attack coming." The officer produced a Luger, checking the clip inside. "If you are well enough, I suggest you join the defences." Nodding, Lejeune followed him up the stairs, emerging out into a street engulfed in an almost overpowering smell of ash and cordite. Part of it was blocked off by the rubble of a collapsed house, now converted into a makeshift barricade with rows of wire, corrugated metal, and boxes of ammunition. The screaming of distant mortars, faint ambience when he had been in the cellar, now almost seemed ear-piercing. Clambering to the top of the barricade, alongside gasmasked German soldiers waiting nervously by battered and dirtied MG08s, he could see the ruined outskirts spread out ahead, merging with the charred and blackened expanse of No Man's Land almost seamlessly. Among the water-filled craters dotting the ruins and building husks, he caught glimpses of scuttling, horrifyingly swift arachnid shapes--slowly, he brought the Remington to bear. "Gott!" Something arced over from No Man's Land--Lejeune felt the impact come from somewhere alarmingly close, shaking loose masonry from buildings and swaying nearby building husks to the point that they almost seemed to topple over. Shotgun in hand, he moved over the rubble into a nearby blackened house, passing through into another nearby street--he glimpsed men shouting in distress as dozens of glistening wireworms snaked out from some jagged crystalline shell that had landed in the middle of the cracked cobblestones of the street. No grenades, or tonics. He instead ran up to the nearest window and aimed out through it, discharging his shotgun right into the middle of the disgusting mass. There was little time to evaluate what damaged he had caused--a tremor suddenly surged through the ground, shaking dust from the ceiling and walls. Looking outside, he caught a glimpse of an immense, black, crested shape emerged from the rubble-strewn outskirts of the town--long abandoned to be killing fields for artillery and mortars. That...that was the beast he had seen the day before. Was...was the bastard following him? The men in the street were running--Lejeune followed them, through a smashed hole in the wall into the adjacent building. Another scream--he glimpsed a building struck by another dark purple shape, hissing and collapsing as viscous liquid burnt and dissolved the bricks and supports. To survive so much, and only to die in a fallen town...no, that wasn't worth thinking about. Distant screeches and roars--he burst out into the open street, dust billowing around his legs from the collapsing building. He could make out giant carapaced shapes emerging in the space around the town--Jabberwocks, warriors, all around. Artillery came down, but it barely seemed to discourage them. Buzzing sounds from above, followed by the rapid spits of pounder guns. Taking a breath, he told himself that he'd survived worse, and kept running. He glimpsed a square up ahead, with a ruined church--a field gun position somewhere in there, he swore. His feet suddenly came to a halt as that giant Bombardier came into view--the beast's footsteps had only mixed in with the constant vibrations from impacting shells. It effortlessly plowed into the church, crushing the whole structure into rubble--he glimpsed howitzer shells strike against it, to no discernible effect. What the hell was meant to stop that beast?

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Sir! In here!" He turned to see an American soldier inside the doorway of a bombed-out house--with nowhere else to go, Lejeune snuck inside. He found the poor boy leading him down into another cellar--this one with the smell of raw, fresh soil. He could see evidence of excavation tools, electronic torches, oil lamps... "There was a dispatch earlier." one of the Americans breathed. "Telling us that if we see you or find you alive, to send you down to Calais." "And how am I meant to get there?" "British dug tunnels, sir. That's how we got in here." "And the Roaches haven't found them?" "Praise God, no, sir." Not much God left in this world, Lejeune thought bitterly. With no further thought, he followed the man into the almost welcoming blackness of the tunnel. ** London, Great Britain Prime Minister Asquith felt as if nothing could disturb him now. The reports of terrible creatures from the front, now evolving into newer forms, the death tolls, the ruined towns and villages...it all seemed to blend together like notifications from Parliament and his cabinet. At least recently there had been some news to look up for. Reportedly, the Norwegians and Danes were making good progress in the Netherlands--or rather the godforsaken morass that the damned Roaches had reduced that nation to. At least the countless throngs of refugees that had come to Britain for shelter were eager to volunteer for the war effort, he had heard...all the more to get their back on those abominable things. He could understand. He looked up as Kitchener and some ministers entered the room--an urgent meeting had been scheduled. If they were to ask him for more money for Land Dreadnoughts or warships, he'd have no hesitation. He had no idea how the economy would look if this was ever over, but it would surely be worth it no matter how disastrous. "Straight to matters, gentlemen." he looked up as they took their seats. "We've got telegrams from Petrograd." One of the ministers said. "It seems the Russians are only happy to take regiments from India. The Viceroy is ensuring that what we need is raised in due course." "The problem," Kitchener said, "is that I'm told that the Japanese embassy has been asking for talks regarding a similar deal in Manchuria. Have you heard of this, Mr. Prime Minister?" "Vaguely, yes. As you can understand, many things require my attention nowadays."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "They want reinforcements helping them in China, preferably from India too. We've sent a token force from Hong Kong to their mainland..." "That was only to placate the yellow bastards." Asquith sighed. "Tell them we're somewhat overstretched. Surely they've been in talks with the Americans over support from the Philippines?" "That's what our contacts in Washington say." "For now, just tell them we'll consider it." Asquith said quickly. "Feels like the whole bloody world is asking something from someone now." "China could prove a whole breeding ground for the creatures should they get a foothold." Kitchener mused. "I hope our slit-eyed fellows are competent enough to hold for now." "Thank you, sir, I do not, in fact, require any more material to stress myself over." "My apologies, Prime Minister..." ** 29th March 1915, Namur, Belgium For the first time in what felt like eternity, Erwin Rommel felt alive. Weak, aching, to be sure, but the embrace of an actual bed, as worn and tattered as it was, and the fresh feeling of a jaw well shaved, was enough for him to feel almost euphoric. He could feel the springs of this mattress and splinters of rotting wood in his back, but next to slumping in reeking, cramped dugouts, or lying barely half-awake in trenches with the pounding of guns chipping away at his sanity, this was practically heavenly. He could still feel the effects of the morphine--for a few fleeting moments, he wanted more, to give himself a high that would wash away the memory of all these months in trenches, fighting wretched abominations without respite. He sat up in the bed, looking around the triage set up in what, judging by looks and smells, was once an old wine cellar--someone had mumbled something in his ear about his command recuperating and resupplying deeper within the city, but that barely seemed to concern him now. The same ambient beat of artillery and guns was there, but at least now he could make out the soothing tunes from a gramophone, sounding out throughout this makeshift ward of snoring, shattered officers in various states of injury. "Mein herr." A doctor, his face weary and gaunt as any man on the front, walked up to him. "You must rest." "Wait..." A thought occurred to Rommel. "How did I get here?" "Some Austro-Hungarians retrieved you, in the hopes of a promotion." "Did they get it?" "How should I know? I'm just a doctor."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "If you can, deliver a recommendation straight from me." Rommel chuckled, reclining back into bed. "Please, mein herr." The doctor said sharply. "We have been sieged for some while by those...things--I am not even sure if we are fighting to defend this city or to take it back. Many men have died, some right here, in front of my eyes, and some are saying that those horrors out there are merely playing with us. You must understand, if not all of us are in the mood for humor." "Yes..." Rommel sighed. Even his own compatriots seemed want to quash any opportunity for relaxation. This world, this whole damn world...for a moment, he regretted even joining. If the Schaben had not descended...would fighting other men, dying and killing for inches of mud, would that have been any better? "Is...is there any room for leave?" Rommel finally asked. "The General Staff need every active man fighting the Schaben." The doctor snapped. "Those abominations do not allow for 'leave'. Besides, as it is, we cannot move you beyond this city without high risk. Even getting the appropriate dispatches through is...difficult." "I understand..." Rommel sighed as the doctor finally turned away, striding over to a staircase as two Austro-Hungarians brought in a figure on a stretcher. Indistinct mutterings followed as he was quickly taken behind what Rommel guessed was some sort of operating table, hidden behind a tattered curtain covered in various dry smears. He could still vaguely make out the outlines of the men behind it, the doctor hurriedly grabbing for tools. There was the sound of tearing flesh, and horrified shouts--he caught a glimpse of some sort of tendril lashing out from the table, before the cracking of Luger shots echoed around the chamber. Men sleeping were shaken awake, eyes bulging and hands shaking--Rommel could only stare blankly, processing what he had seen. "Doctor? Is...everything alright?" "What the hell do you think?" The doctor, his hand shaking, emerged with a smoking pistol in hand, his coat splattered with fresh red fluid. "That...that isn't the first time that's happened..." "Hm?" "You think you can save them, and then, before your eyes, their bodies change, into things unnatural..." The doctor reached down into his coat, for a rusted metal flask. Rommel leaned back into the bed, resolving to catch whatever decent sleep he could. Above, he could still hear the faint clattering of machineguns and mortars. This was no longer simply a war, he thought bitterly. This was goddamn survival. ** Off the coast of Cairns, Australia Naval Major Isoroku Yamamoto stood silently on the deck of the cruiser Nishin,

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 staring solemnly at the wretched town on the shoreline stretching in the distance. He still recalled the ferocious battle for Brisbane, and it pained him to think it may have been all for naught. Swathes of the country he was looking at had been overrun, the government virtually dissolved. Cables came in that their town of Darwin, their latest capital, was the focal point and staging ground for a planned counteroffensive. He heard that despite it all, their Prime Minister remained, marshalling the last resistance around him. A man of true honor, if those stories were factual. His own task was considerably more morbid. Though large scale evacuations had taken place across this coast while the abominations still ravaged Sydney and New South Wales, he understood that pockets still remained. Orders had came in, stating clearly that if anyone was now to leave this continent from areas deemed lost to the swarms, they carried the risk of spreading the pestilence. Anyone attempting to flee by the sea was to be challenged by Japanese naval patrols and forced back. If they refused, they would be destroyed. Japan was not the only nation trying to keep some semblance of control here. The French and the Dutch also had ships going up and down the coasts from their colonies, trying to provide aid when they could. Yamamoto was struck by how brave and persevering men, even foreign occidentals, could be. This continent, clearly lost, and yet they still clung to some hope, some idea that they could beat back the tide of horrors and wretched creatures that swamped everything in their path. He looked down at the deck beneath him. And here he was, with the task of denying people such hope. Still, necessities were necessities. He had seen firsthand what these creatures could do. Steal the bodies of men. Twist them into forms beyond description. He had barely survived his combats with them. Many crewmen bore medals or promotions just for surviving. "Boat! To starboard!" Yamamoto looked up, walking over to the railings as he glimpsed a small fishing boat moving out into the waters, from the dilapidated town behind it. "Australian vessel!" A voice in heavily accented English shouted out by megaphone from the bridge of the cruiser. "You are not to leave these waters! You will not proceed further! Should you do, we may fire on you!" There was a pause. Yamamoto looked down. If the guns were to be turned, he didn't want to watch. "Oi! Mate!" A reply came, shouted over the wind. "What's wrong with you? Just grabbin's some fish!" He looked back up. A smile emerged on his face, the first for a long while. He almost wanted to go as far as to laugh. In the face of all this, this man, this Australian gaijin...just wanted to fish. "Good luck to you!" Yamamoto replied over the railing in English, which he was sure he had mispronounced beyond all understanding. Nevertheless, he could genuinely feel, looking out at this one boat on the waters, that out there, some chance, even if it just existed as the resolve of men, existed.

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BlackWave

October 4th, 2012 02:21 PM

8th April 1915, the Somme, northern France Dawn was marked by the flashes of the latest round of incendiary bombardments racking the lifeless, ashen expanses of No Man's Land surrounding the sunrise-like purple light on the horizon; by now, it had multiple names attached to it. The Devil's Nest. The Roach-Hive. Le diable de montagne. Mort lumière. It hardly seemed to really matter. All they knew was that it was the hub of the Roach infestation. Beneath that light, which so far no living soul had managed to get near since the first falling-star that brought the pestilence landed, was the key to victory. Artillery could not destroy it, so naturally that had to come down to the men, slogging through wasteland destroyed and razed time and time again. The Roaches gave no quarter in return. The joining of new nations to the conflict just seemed to amplify the constant carnage. Emerging from the warrens of dugouts and bunkers along one trench, behind the main lines lit up by the constant flares of mortar strikes and field gun reports, dozens of men staggered out into air no better than the stale atmosphere they had just been breathing down--the amounts of poison gas poured onto these lands were such that their gas masks now practically became natural parts of their bodies. A mixture of uniforms stood out among the ranks slowly filling into the trench, but the grime and dirt subduing their colors made them hardly stand out. Sergeant-Major Thomas Reader, of the King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, stood up onto the trench step to peer out to the field ahead--one peppered with craters, jagged spines rising out from the poisoned soil, and organic fragments he couldn't identify. His company had been buried in their dugouts for weeks--it had become hard to estimate the time--while constant shells hurtled down onto the fields around them to try and cover the rear of the lines ahead from Roach attacks from below. Not much to do but play games, sleep, sing, and try not to lose your sanity. Some French soldiers had come down, joining them--none of them could speak a word of English, but at this point, any extra hands to hold rifles were fine. He wouldn't even have objected to Germans. Better Hun than Roachy, as they said. "What do we do, sir?" A young private nearby spoke up, his voice dry like sandpaper, and muffled through his mask. He looked like he had lied to join up. Reader wasn't going to put that against him. He hadn't been entirely honest at the recruiting officer either. "Wait." he replied simply. The tattered orders that had come in weeks ago simply instructed them to come out at this time. At least, he hoped it was the right time. He prayed that his particular bunch of KOYLIs hadn't been written off and now an artillery barrage was due on them.

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"Il est très gentil, non?" Another voice chuckled nearby. It was one of the Frenchmen. Recognizable only via his helmet. His coat was the same dirt-covered rag just like the rest of them wore. "Yes, indeed." Reader simply murmured to him, continuing to look out beyond the trench rim. In some ways, the dugouts felt cosier. It was just like being at home in the mines. At least there you didn't have to worry about oversized woodlice trying to make dinner of you. Overhead, a gust of wind blew, carrying with it specks of ash and burnt wood. As the men nearby silently checked rifles and blades, Reader didn't feel much like breaking the silence. He was young for his rank; working-class like most of the poor bastards here. It was for that reason that he knew that fancy speeches or anthem recitals wouldn't perk their spirits here. What they wanted instead was an NCO who knew what he was doing. "Maybe the lads ahead of us got Roachy's attention instead." The boy from before spoke up. "Maybe we'll be safe." "And maybe one of those invisible mantis buggers will come and bite your arse off as soon as you say that." Reader snapped. "Keep your focus. I know it's hard, but better safe than sorry." "Est le beau temps?" The Frenchman spoke. "Of course." Reader sighed. He continued to stare out beyond the ragged lines of barbed wire, almost transfixed by the lights ahead. More men coming from America, Spain, Italy, they said. More Turks and Austrians on the Hun side. As soon as there was enough, they could finally push right into Roachy's nest and burn him out once and for all. That was the official promise. Bullshit, Reader thought. You couldn't try to beat these things by trying to out-swarm them. Like trying to stop a locust swarm by raising a sufficiently big mob. What other means were there? He didn't know. Maybe the scientists would come up with something. Maybe this was all futile. But regardless...he fancied getting himself at least one Roach fang to take back home. Just to impress the girls, at least. The wind and the ambience of distant guns was broken by a sudden screaming. "Oh, shit! Incoming!" Something detonated down the trench--Reader was immediately hit by the sound of burning, seeing faintly several men stumbling down the trench further down, screaming as their flesh dissolved from their bones layer by layer. Behind them, a stream of boiling liquid flowed out from a shattered, crystal-like shell, reminding Reader of some giant kidney stone. Any other thoughts were suppressed as he began to forcefully usher the men down the trench, away from the acid now burning its way along. More bombardment came as they stumbled down the trench, tripping over loose wood boards or discarded ammunition boxes. Spines showered around the trench on both sides--Reader glimpsed one man fall as a jagged round struck him in the back of the neck. He managed to see the flesh around it swell to bursting, before looking away quickly. He had lost track of time by the point they stopped running, reaching the blasted-out

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 remains of a field gun position nestled into the trench. Nothing but deformed metal and possible bones sunken into the earth remained. That bombardment...nothing had terrified him more. But damned if he was going to show it. These men had nobody else to lead them. And stuck here...they couldn't be left with a wreck. "I want a Vickers out there." he pointed downward. "Find us a route to the rear trench. If anyone wants to volunteer to be a runner..." No show of hands. "...I don't blame any of you. Right now, we need..." Another screaming sound cut him off--this one being something far closer and bestial. He managed to see a huge, spider-like form leaping in from the earth behind the trench, carapace all thorny and thickened--three men went down as it landed among them, ripping and rending like a goddamn tornado. One of those 'Bull' Roaches--ones you weren't guaranteed to kill. As men struggled to fix bayonets or draw knives, Reader stumbled back as he drew a service pistol, discharging as many rounds as he could before the creature leapt out of the trench and out of sight. "They...it got Hills, sir, most of his group!" "Shit." Reader spat, reloading his gun. Heart was pounding. Where the hell were the other platoons meant to be around here? Of course, as he had just seen, you had to keep moving to just survive, when out in the open. Whole damned front...it had been madness before the Roaches arrived. Now it was beyond even that. "Qui va là?" He turned around, as a group of figures slightly less bedraggled than his own came out from one of the communication trenches behind them--more French soldiers, still having blue visible through the dirt caking their uniforms. Their rifles seemed fresh. He wondered just how new they were here, if they still had minds to keep. Though he felt more than thankful, all he showed was a handshake to their group leader as he came forward. "Roach." he spoke. "Big one." "Oui." He felt like running. If one Roach knew you were here, more would come. Everyone knew that rule. But there wasn't exactly anywhere to go to. And he still wanted that fang. "Everyone, on the step. Firing positions." "Sir?" "You heard me." The French newcomers seemed to be doing the same. Some of them fitting grenades onto the ends of their rifles. Magnesiums? Looked like it. They certainly were bringing in new gear seemingly every week on this front. American shotguns. German 13mms. Some bloke probably getting rich off it too.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Sarge, I think..." Spines, smaller than the ones launched overhead, spread out from No Man's Land--a man nearby seemingly had the contents of his head sucked out through the back of his skull as one projectile cut right through. Jumping onto the trench step, Reader caught that Roach again, flaring up porcupine-like quills along the back of its carapace, before leaping forward--rifle rounds cut into the front, but hardly seemed to slow it. Behind it, more such creatures writhed out of the dirt, at painfully close range--Reader's hand went down for his knife, as he tried to aim for the mass of legs and claws going straight for the line. "Bastard!" Multiple bayonets went for the creature as it leapt right into their midst--at least two heads went flying. Screams and blood as it stabbed and span. The abomination seemed to go quiet as multiple blades at the end of rifles finally gouged out its eyes, pouring purple blood from its head. Turning around, Reader fired straight for another, smaller Roach scuttling right for them--he got an eye out, before a fusillade of rifle fire put it down. More of the bastards were coming--a clattering sound cut through the air. The Frenchmen had set up a machinegun, firing away with tracer rounds that lit up the twilight-like atmosphere. One creature exploded in a burst of limbs and unnatural fluid as a rifle grenade struck it head on. Reader simply kept shooting at what was available. The grisly deaths he had seen, the monstrous creatures going right for him...all of it seemed to be numbed by just how unreal it all felt. Like some lunatic nightmare. The guns finally went silent. He could see the flashes from further ahead still ringing out. What he had seen here was nothing compared to what the poor bastards up front were going through.They deserved some bloody respect. "Count the bodies." he finally turned to the others. "I want to say...good job, all of you." "You think more will come, sarge?" someone uttered. "They will." Reader nonchalantly grunted. "Just be ready to say hello." ** Perth, Australia A wall of corrugated metal, mounds of brick, and jagged wood encircled the town of Perth almost entirely--the city itself wholly fortified. The harbor was empty, save for a few loose fishing scows--those who could or wanted to had fled to India, Africa, or the East Indies as soon as the word of the pestilence on the other side of the continent came in. The rest chose to take up arms, standing by as more information came in. The rate of the telegrams had gradually slowed, before they eventually ceased coming altogether. The Parliament of Western Australia had fled, as had the governor--the city mayor instead choosing to take up authority. So far, nobody had challenged him. A single chink in the city wall was one of the outlying rail stations, where the continental railroad came into. So far, nobody had chosen to venture into the Outback, to see if the rest of the nation had fallen. Some refugees from out far had come in--anyone was welcome. Farmers, the wealthy, even Aborigines and Chinamen...more guns to put against the barricades. Though so far nobody had even seen one of the demons that had

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 reportedly destroyed the East Coast, a grim sense of inevitably hung over the town. As far as they were concerned, Perth remained Australia's last safe haven. The group of ragged militia at the rail station, armed with a combination of antiquated rifles and pickaxes, looked up as a shape finally appeared on the rails in the distance. Getting up, they felt ready to welcome in another group of folk fleeing from the east--the first in days, now. Some said that the devils could somehow steal the bodies of men, but separating truth from wild stories seemed impossible these days. The residents had decided to believe it when they saw it. A single, rusted locomotive finally came in, dragging along a coal car and one wagon-metal plating had been fixed up onto all the segments of the train, giving it an unfamiliar haphazard look. Stepping out of the front cabin was a single military officer, unshaven, weary-looking--not unlike the simple militia standing in front of him. "Who're you?" one of the locals finally spoke. "I'm from Darwin." The man said. "Our capital now. For what it's worth." "Shit." The militiaman laughed. "Do we still have a Parliament now?" "Parliament went." The officer sighed. "Prime Minister stayed, though. We're massing at Darwin. One last attempt to knock the little demons out of the continent." "You're shitting me." "I ain't." he shrugged. "Any of you who would prefer to sit here, wait until they come for you...you can stay just fine. The rest...well, I can show you there's something to fight for." The militia stared back in disbelief, some forming wide smiles. "Let's take you to see the mayor, eh?" one of them finally said.

BlackWave

November 2nd, 2012 12:20 AM

April 9th 1915, Indiana, United States of America Traces of orange morning sunlight were rising over the cornfields of Indiana, near the borders of Illinois, which sat in silence broken by the occasional cold gust of wind. Farms and the occasional small town sat lifeless, evacuated to the larger cities or simply abandoned, sometimes next to fields burnt down to ash. Some had been destroyed once word came in of vegetation being deformed into things monstrous, or because that had already happened to them. With others, it was less clear, evidenced by the occasional trail of rushed exoduses or panics. A group of about a dozen men, brandishing shotguns and rifles, were making their way up a dirt path towards an isolated farmyard nestled among several fields of soybeans and cabbage. The road remained devoid of movement ahead of them, save for the occasional bird perching down on the wooden fences lining it. At the front of the group, one man, a grizzled middle-aged person in a tight jacket, checked the polished shotgun in his hand as he lead them on in silence. His name was

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Reed Gilmore. Behind him was the militia group he had raised from his hometown and the surrounding farms, driven together by the stories and news filtering in from the rest of the state. Some people had taken to complacency once the news from San Francisco had came in. But he knew better. He had a cousin who was stationed in California. Even there, monsters still supposedly lurked in forests, farms, and in deserted towns. And while the army and National Guard in Indiana still tried to put down whatever horror sprung up, Gilmore and his kin had decided that it was also their duty to do likewise. In this case, no news or word had come out of this area for weeks. No people either. Requests for help had been sent down to the National Guard camps up near Indianapolis, but no reply had come yet. Hence, with a grim sense of purposefulness, Gilmore and the group were approaching the heart of the area. He intended to find any damn Roaches, demons, whatever the hell they were, and make sure they were expunged from this land. "You think they may have got the plants?" one of the group murmured, breaking the silence they had shared since nearly the moment they had set off. Nervous glances were cast to the groups lining the road to their sides, seeming less like natural elements of their surroundings than eerie sentinels watching them pass. Gilmore had heard the stories. Stalks sprouting poisonous tendrils and barbs. Melon patches turning into nests of burning acidic spores. These monsters weren't just killing Americans. They were defiling the land of the nation itself. "If that was so, we'd know by now." Gilmore simply muttered, nevertheless casting frequent glances to his side. Some said that you couldn't tell which ones were infected or not. Sometimes, they also said, they'd wait until the right moment to strike, so a man could walk by one every day before it reached for him... He tried to shrug those thoughts off. Most likely just fearmongering talk. They did say that entire nations had been destroyed in Europe, after all. Even the most ferocious of demons couldn't do that, he reckoned. But then, it was hard to tell. Even with San Francisco taken, the government was still restricting travel across the country, including in many cases information. Some people were getting mighty fed up with it. It did disturb him slightly. Did they just want to be careful, or did they not want folk to know how things really were? More glances to the plants looming to their sides. Dammit, he thought. He couldn't keep thinking like this. He'd go mad soon enough. Just regular old soybeans and corn. Nothing demonic about them. Nothing at all. They finally reached the entrance to the farmyard. An abandoned cart lying in the grit ahead of them gently swayed in the wind, with the low-pitched creaking of wood. Some birds cawed in the distance, though he couldn't quite pinpoint them with his eyes. Some of the windows of the farmhouse were open, but no sign of movement came within. Dust had mounted on the porch, he could immediately see. Yet, there was so sign that the owners had ran. He lifted his shotgun, and nodded to the posse behind him. There wasn't no chances to be taken here. "I reckon we oughta just burn this place." The militiaman from before uttered. "No sense taking a risk."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "What if there's folk just hiding here?" Another said. "We at least should have a look." Gilmore nodded. "If there ain't nobody here...we burn it." Taking a step forward, he began to walk briskly towards the farmhouse. The rest followed him, stepping across the still, weed-dotted yard. A windvane on the roof ahead span with a slight creak as another cold morning gust blew through the farm. "Let's see what we got..." Another man from the posse uttered as he walked forward, swinging the rest of the door open. Gilmore was immediately struck by an unholy stench reeking out from the interior within, almost triggering him to vomit. It reeked of rotting flesh and other things he couldn't identify. Nevertheless, with a deep breath, he stepped in, entering a dark hallway strewn with leaves and dust blown in from the outside. "Hello?" he spoke up. "Anyone here?" Moving cautiously, he swung open the door into the kitchen, and almost gagged at the sight. An entire wall was caked in a fleshy, twisted organic growth, dark red in color. Twisted and intertwined with this by stretched filaments of muscle and torn skin were...the remains of people, their very flesh fused together, bones, organs and all. Long, thin red tendrils ran from the floor and into the spaces between the boards-looking closely, he could see that some of this nightmarish mass was still pulsating, like a beating heart. "Good god." he breathed. "I'll take care of this..." The man next to him uttered, lifting his shotgun. Gilmore still stood frozen in shock as the man fired. Even the ringing sound of the discharge was unable to snap him out of it. Even the worst stories hadn't matched this. The shot impacted into the center of the mass, causing an eruption of viscous purple liquid. Moments later, accompanied by a sound like ripping meat, the twisted remains of one body tore itself from the wall, supported by a thick cluster of thin tendrils. Gilmore managed to make out the remains of a face, twisted and rearranged as if by some lunatic artist, before fleshy barbs erupted from the stretched chest of whatever poor fool this once was, impacting straight into the militiaman with a burst of fluid. "Shit!" Gilmore span away as the man was reeled in towards the mass. Was he going to become another part of that nightmare? He...he just didn't want to think about it. At this point, he was just letting adrenaline take over. Shouts came from around the house--he took a glimpse downward, seeing dozens of thin tendrils starting to rise and writhe out from the floorboards. As if the whole damn building itself was coming to life. With a cry of panic, he discharged the shotgun towards the floor, before running back outside, into the yard, were most of the rest of the group stood in silent shock. "Burn it!" he shouted. "Burn the whole fucking thing!" The men raised makeshift paraffin bombs from bags and satchels, as more barbed tendrils began to snake out from windows, gaps between wood, and from the chimney itself. Word of how to make the things had spread quickly. Now, as Gilmore watched the house suddenly shift, as if it really was coming to life, he thanked whatever powers that be that they knew how to make these 'Teddy Tonics'.

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Near a dozen burning paraffin bottles were thrown onto the house, igniting across walls and into windows--he stood in silence as the inferno rapidly spread, consuming most of the building's sides. Whatever damned aberration in there seemed to subside as the fire spread to the tendrils, finally forcing them to go limp. His eyes remained wide, and his soul...he wasn't sure if he even still had one, after seeing that. Finally, his urges took hold of him, and he threw up into the ground in front of him, as smoke from the burning house began to drift across the yard and into the nearby fields. The men behind him didn't seem to begrudge him. "We burn the rest." He breathed. "We burn this whole goddamn place." The men nodded, stepping out towards the nearby grain silo and the barn across the yard. His increasingly clammy hands remained tightly grasped on the shotgun as he watched them ready their second set of Tonics. Perhaps this whole damn state was like this, he thought, as fear began to take hold. Maybe it was best just to burn it all. Burn it all and hope to god that these monsters died. The crackling flames of the burning house were drowned out by a sudden screeching sound that caused Gilmore to spin around--from the crop field across the yard, several figures were bursting out from among the stalks, sprinting towards them. He saw deformed, skinny bodies, limbs that ended with bony, glistening talons tearing out from fingers and arms, and screeching mouths filled with multiple rows of jagged teeth and extra sets of eyes forcing themselves out from their skulls. These were perhaps the folk who once lived here. Not any more, he thought, paling. The devil could take these abominations back now. Shotguns and rifles discharged--limbs, chunks of flesh, even good parts of their heads were blown off, but most of them kept running, crawling across the ground even. One man nearby shouted in horror as one of the walking cadavers leapt onto him, immediately tearing his chest open with a slash of a sharpened bone ripping its way out from his arm, before half a dozen shotgun blasts finally put the creature down. Gilmore fired again--his blast blew the head off one of the creatures, putting it down, right as another one leapt at least twenty feet forward, knocking down another man and cracking his skull open with a strike from deformed clawed feet. More were coming from the fields. It was just like fucking judgement day. More of these things, these poor goddamn people these Roaches had turned into...into these things. "Burn it!" he shouted. "Just burn it all!" Some of the men had time to throw their paraffins as the next wave of creatures came in. A patch of flame leapt up the side of the silo, and several more burst across the yard. Some of these screaming horrors ran right through the fire, leaping onto their targets on fire, even as their bodies were perforated with shot. Some fell, their heads blown clean off--but yet more were bursting out from the crops across. "The barn!" Gilmore shouted, sprinting across the yard as he reloaded his gun. They could get in there, they had least had something to defend. Behind him, the silo toppled over as its wooden foundations gave way to the grain. His men, what remained of them, followed as they desperately tossed their remaining tonics towards the monsters running at inhuman speeds right towards them.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Coming up to the barn doors, Gilmore found it padlocked--a discharge from his shotgun blew it open. Kicking them open, he stepped in, only to be met with something even more terrible than what he had seen in the house. Stacked in the middle of the barn was a vast, pulsating mass of flesh, all organs, sinews, and filaments twisted and fused together. People, animals, everything--all of them brought together to form this abomination against nature itself, this thing...and in the middle, Gilmore could see that all this had been brought together to form some sort of damn chrysalis. Some damn womb, created by all this flesh fused together, in which something black and vast was spawning in dark liquid. He couldn't even be brought to throw up. His mind was still struggling to just comprehend what he was looking at it. It just didn't seem real. Not real at all. The men behind him shouted obscenities and curses at the wave of flaming cadavers coming at them, as Gilmore took another step towards whatever monster was growing in there. These fucking Roaches had taken these people, these animals, brought them together, mixed them into some sort of embryo, to birth...to birth what now seemed to be staring right at him. The gunfire and shouting seemed muffled now, distant even. Through the fiber and stretched surface of this ungodly womb, Gilmore could see several eyes at least staring right at him. Whatever was in there seemed grown. He could feel it. Something was in there, reaching out to him, not with words...he didn't know what. Everything just seemed not to matter now. He found himself grinning. Grinning like a fool even as men behind him began to fall screaming. A jagged, clawed arm burst out from the massive pupa in front of him, covered in glistening fluid. As purple liquid flooded out onto the floor of the barn, Gilmore remained frozen, smiling, as something immense, black, and jagged began to emerge, hissing silently. It was like some sort of mantis...some twisted combination of a mantis and something else, one that had come from the pits of hell. There was still that urge to run...but nothing in his body responded. He just couldn't bring himself to, as if some madness was suppressing it. And still he stood there smiling as the creature moved over to him with a gait like no animal he had seen, stretching glossy wings, like those of some monstrous dragonfly. He still stared forward as several red eyes, burning with intelligence and cunning he couldn't comprehend, yet lacking any sympathy whatsoever, peered right down at him. The men behind him remained frozen, just as the black horror picked Gilmore up from the ground in a motion so fast it was barely discernible, consuming his body with twitching, jagged mandibles in an instant. Behind him, the rest of the men, who had likewise been frozen in place, had fallen, torn to pieces by the twisted mockeries of those who had once lived here, that now stood still and upright. Stepping out, the creature, the wraith, that had just spawned from the chrysalis in the barn scooped up the bodies and consumed them, one by one, then with the other creatures in the yard, who neither ran nor resisted as it did so. Moments later, its hunger from birth was sated. Wings twitched, buzzed, then went into motion as it took off, lifting into the column of smoke now rising over the farm. The creature faded out of visibility moments later, as it disappeared into the morning

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 sky. Like a ghost. Nothing remained on the farm below but burning wood and ashen bodies.

BlackWave

December 1st, 2012 12:37 AM

April 10th 1915, Amiens, France They said that sandbags and barbed wire had replaced cobblestones and dirt in the streets of Amiens; that not a single standing structure wasn't fortified, supported by corrugated metal or wooden beams, or that machinegun nests and pounder guns weren't placed to cover every conceivable angle. Supply trucks had to go through vigorous check points placed at almost every junction, while sappers had to ensure that chemical poison was regularly pumped into the soil below to make sure that Roachy couldn't launch any surprise burrowing attacks into what was unofficially known as one of the key lynchpins of the Entente war effort in the region. If only because so much had already been invested here, and if Amiens fell, then it was generally accepted that the consequences were not worth thinking of. Below the city, a concrete-lined bunker made out from an old cellar lay with its walls covered in maps and diagrams, containing tables littered with sheets of calculations and sketches. Standing over these, Sir John Nortons-Griffiths of the Royal Engineer tunnelling companies, wondered if he had already lost his sanity, spending so much time beneath the war-torn streets above, or if he was the only person here still lucid. Either way, if he truly remained a sane man, he thought, than it was a miracle that he had stayed this way for so long. He looked up, as murmuring voices came from the stairwell leading into the bunker. BEF sappers. French tunnel engineers. Belgians, of the same profession. A Canadian or two. These were the men he had requisitioned. What he was about to propose to them, well, he supposed that maybe they'd instead prefer to fight the Roaches in the trenches, all things considered. "Gentlemen." he cleared his throat. "I think it's best I be blunt here...what you are about to hear has been deemed classified. Sharing this information with the common ranks will, I'm afraid, lead to immediate executions." He scanned the expressions of the various sappers lined up. The Britishers looked mildly worried, the Frenchmen and their ilk impassive, but he wondered if they were really understanding him. Either way, by their whispers, some of them were translating for the benefit of their comrades. Maybe they had already faced enough firing squad threats, to motivate them, or to discourage retreats. Or maybe after facing all the lunacy going on above, it was simply difficult to truly shock them. "I've estimated that by now, the Roaches have established a tunnel system, like an ant warren, appropriately enough, stretching at least underneath the Somme up until Belgium. No doubt to save them the trouble of burrowing through so much soil, to hit us from beneath. I'm not sure of the total scale...but to consider the full implications, I think, is beyond our scope here." "I have heard of our tunnelling companies discovering such burrows." one of the Belgians spoke up. "They compare them to plant tendrils, through which their vile swarms can move. I was not there, but...oui, I can imagine it..."

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"That sounds right." Nortons-Griffiths sighed. "These tunnels, from the few survivors to have penetrated them, sound like they are lined with their ichor-based secretion, for some devilish reason...for support, I suppose, or as some sort of nourishment for their creatures that might be passing through them..." "So what are we meant to do about them?" A Frenchman uttered. "A while ago," Griffiths sorted through the papers on the table in front of him, "our tunnelling corps managed to plant a...rather intricate explosive beneath the lines at Flanders, in Belgium. We successfully detonated it in the midst of a Roach push, and at the very least, he granted our forces there some breathing room. I trust you will remember that occasion. It was felt as far as London and Paris, or so I'm told..." "What?" one of the British sappers stepped forward, to inspect the diagrams on the table Griffiths was pointing to. "The explosive itself is complex and will be difficult in setting up." He continued, scratching his chin. "Nevertheless, positioned at the right position, detonated at the right time...it could cause some rather cataclysmic events down below. Now, if we could somehow repeat this, across at certain points...I'm sure we could certainly cause some disruption." "To fight down below in the tunnels is hell." The Frenchman form before raised his voice. "There is nowhere to run from the blasted insects. There is no choice but to face their claws and teeth. But...I have already lost a brother to them. To kill as many of these vile cockroaches as possible...I will do whatever it takes." Nods and murmurings came down the line. Griffiths found himself genuinely surprised. He was expecting protests, and in turn threats of the firing squad. But these men seemed more than willing to organize some of the most dangerous fighting there was to be had on the front. The men in the trenches, he supposed, as torturous as their fight was, had the benefit of support from Land Dreadnoughts, field guns, aircraft...in the tunnels, there was nothing. Only your revolvers, shovels, and torches. And facing Roaches with these, and somehow surviving...he couldn't think of anything less that deserved the highest level of medal. "I need your best teams sorted out." he spoke up. "I need them to understand that this could be vital, and the secrecy of this. The Entente Combined Staff must understand how important this could be, and we must illustrate this very clearly to them. I know this is going to be vile work...but it's work that must be done, chaps." "Absolument." The Frenchman nodded. "What is it you want us to do?" "In the end?" Griffiths looked up with a wide grin. "We're going to shove some bloody big bombs down Roachy's throat."

BlackWave

December 3rd, 2012 12:14 AM

April 11th 1915, Ural Mountains, Russia From the top of a slope pockmarked with artillery crates and frosted grassy undulations, a concentrated trench fortification marked with machinegun nests dug deep into the hard

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 mountain soil sat in silence, overlooking the forested valleys below. Shell fragments already lay scattered over the battered trench, with field gun craters nearby still smouldering, carrying with them a scent of chemical poison. To the back of the trench sat boxes and crates of ammunition, food supplies, and various containers of oils and solvents, for cleaning and maintaing weapons. The apparent reason for the abortive nature of the bombardments that had thus come down. Valuable supplies were better left captured than destroyed. In the midst of the trench, clad in the furs and trappings of a Siberian cossack, Marat Sergun sat in weary anticipation of the next bombardment, the next half-hearted attack conducted at range. To his sides, fellow Cossacks and other soldiers still loyal to the Tsar, the legitimate ruler of all the Russias, men who still refused to trade their loyalty to those traitors who had taken advantage of the empire's adversity to gain power for themselves. When others came to inform of them of who their new leadership supposedly was, Sergun had had those traitors shot. He and his men had taken refuge here, digging in despite the occasional mortars or shells coming their way to force them out. The traitors seemed anxious about conserving ammunition, but likewise they would probably need the supplies stockpiled here. At least, they would show that not all would so willingly bow to their illegitimate rule. With disgust, he recalled the reactions that had gone through some of the ranks of the others who had once fought alongside him. Morale had already been low. Their ammunition and supplies lacking, they put up little resistance when traitor officers came to let them know of the revolution that had swept Petrograd and the west of the country. Sergun, of course, would have none of that. He had bled enough fighting in the Caucasus, and even when the Tsar signed a treaty with the Turks when the demons began their infestation, he willingly accepted his task to fight in the Urals. He had already grown up in the Transbaikal, as evidenced by his darker skin. This frost and cold only felt too familiar to him. Less so were the demonic parasites sweeping across the taigas beyond. Another reason why so many supposedly loyal soldiers of the Tsar had refused to challenge this revolution. They feared that if they fought, these Roaches would step in and slaughter them all. Sergun saw little sense in this. They had all taken their oaths of loyalty, God watching over them all. This lack of discipline would be the end of this land, not these wretched demons crawling through the snow and tundra. He almost shamed to count his number in the Russian army, which in the face of its greatest adversity, seemed to prove so fickle. But perhaps, he thought grimly, some of these young conscripts, mere boys too young to understand the concepts of honor, could not be begrudged too badly for this. Morale had already been nearing a tipping point. That they had fought at all for this long here was commendable in of itself. "Bliad!" He jerked upright as the crack of a field gun echoed across the mountain slopes a distance away. Crouching into a nearby dugout in the midst of the trench, he braced himself as a shell impacted nearby, blasting up frosted earth and hardened soil. Immediately, he saw a burst of poison gas billow outwards, like a vile chemical fog. The Germans, when they brought along their token squads here in some gesture of sudden friendship, had also taken with them disgusting poisons with which to supply the Tsar's army. Now, the traitors seemed bent on using this to clear Sergun's position out. He grabbed a sodden hankerchief from his pocket, dripping with vodka, and held it to his

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 mouth as he scrambled down the trench away from the billowing gas. Some of the other soldiers, half-asleep, shouted in panic and confusion as they too tried to take cover. Another detonation rang out up ahead. They seemed serious this time. Honorless bastards, he thought, finally crouching himself into cover beneath some icy wooden boards. The cloth was becoming gagging, but as the gas rolled overhead, he could only hold it in tighter, closing his eyes and hoping they didn't burn. They had not the decency to fight like men. Feeling the chemical fog roll overhead, he could only wonder what would become of others still loyal to the true regime, as himself. Exiled? Executed? Perhaps, though they would have some disgust at this 'revolution', they would continue to fight, if only because the demons presented a common enemy. Sergun still felt his duty compel him to make a stand. If only as an example. Even as this gas fell down on him. He saw one of his nearby men finally fall to the muddy trench floor gagging as the gas took him. Not enough time to hide or grab a cloth. At least he had sacrificed himself in the name of Russia's true authority, in God's name, Sergun thought. It would not be in vain. The gas above seemed to blow along, dispersed by the cool mountain breezes running through these slopes. Staggering up, Sergun awaited any further bombardment, before glancing down the trench. Some of his comrades lay slumped by the trench wall, mouths covered, though it was hard to tell at an immediate glance if they were dead or still trying not to let the poison take them. No more shells seemed to come. Getting up, he looked to the forested slopes where they had come from with some sense of triumph. Even as they threw such weapons as these at him, he still stood defiant. Perhaps they would notice, and even if for a moment, reconsider their treachery. Smoke could now definitely be seen coming from those hills, signifying the discharges of guns. Sergun was certain that there were mortars in some of those containers. Perhaps those traitors were due some response. Turning around, he could see some of his men staggering back up. Perhaps they would be suffering from 'mere' minor inhalation of the gas. Burnt throats. Blinded eyes. He had seen enough of this poison thrown at them by the damned Turks. Let alone by his own countrymen. There was the report of another gun. Crouching down, he braced himself for the inevitable impact, standing up in surprise when the explosion came as distant. Perhaps his own ears had been destroyed by his madness now. Looking over the trench, he blinked as he saw the smoking crater coming a fair distance down the slope. Unless they were truly forgoing any sense of aim... He staggered back again as the ground immediately in front of the trench shifted. Chunks of earth and rock fell down a back of hardened carapace and paled armor as something rose up from the soil itself, hissing as if anticipation. Drawing his revolver, Sergun filed a single ineffective shot, as other such demons began to rise from the nearby earth as if they were the vengeful dead themselves. He began to wonder why those artillery shots seemed so abortive. Perhaps it hadn't been him they were firing at. Drawing his saber, he stood still as creatures, all claws and slashing sycthe-like legs, began to swarm into the trench, clicking and shrieking. One he impaled right in the face

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 as it came towards him, running its foul purple fluids along his blade, though the force of it caused him to fall back. The largest of the creatures, drooling acidic spittle from a toothy maw, leisurely clawed over the trench to begin uncovering the dugouts, and the men still lying within. He could hear their screams echoing now. As more of the wretched little creatures came at him, Sergun gripped his saber and stood his ground. Long live the Tsar.

BlackWave

December 16th, 2012 11:52 PM

April 12th 1915, Ypres, Belgium For most men and women of the Entente serving in and around Ypres, there seemed to be little disagreement that they had arrived at the absolute hell on Earth. The town's Cloth Hall lay as a burnt-out shell, standing over an area shrouded in seemingly perpetual poison fog and smoke; craters and patches of empty ruins marked killzones for fortifications piled up over the remains of buildings. Bunkers and casements created out of old structures seemed to have replaced homes and shopfronts; with the ground beneath the area pumped with various corrosive chemicals, the outskirts and borders of the town were an almost solid line of trenches, defensive nests, field gun batteries, ammunition dumps, and bunkers. All had been placed with maximum redundancy and to ensure every segment of the line could fully cover the other. The shapes of aircraft and even German airships could often be made out in the overcast skies above the town; and almost constantly, the sounds of weapon fire and gun retorts could be heard from somewhere. With the level of investment in fortification and supply put into it, Ypres had been deemed an important 'pressure point' in the Entente defence line. As such, almost under constant Roach attack, from every conceivable angle. And even then, to those who could observe it all on the strategic scale, it continued to appear that the swarms were still merely toying with the defenders. Across the fields ahead of the defences, near barren expanses dotted with burnt skeletons of trees and craters flooded with poisoned water, the glows of tracer rounds would occasionally light up the fog and smoke, responding to the near constant light Roach raids. The larger swarms often came later. Without mercy or relent, it seemed. Not that it was possible for those manning the trenches or barricades to run or retreat anywhere. Ahead of one fortified trenchline, the figures of mounted horses could be seen moving out into the devastated No Man's Land--behind them the rattling, clanking forms of French Land Dreadnoughts. Beneath their ornate silvery helmets, the French cavalrymen wore dirtied gas masks--as did their scarred, visibly stressed mounts. Cavalry sabers, pistols, and polished spears hung from the bodies of the riders as they turned to escort the inbound vehicles. The machineguns and field batteries on the lines behind them already prepared to cover them. Breathing heavily through his mask, Félix Leandres, 7th Cavalry Division, cursed the limited visibility afforded to him by this thing. Nevertheless, with the air around Ypres

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 having become virtually unbreathable, through the regular dumps of chemicals and gas, there was little choice. Behind him, a unit of Land Dreadnoughts was venturing out to cut a trail to Entente lines beyond the town, to finally let supplies and reinforcement come in. The mission seemed almost suicidal; but many within seemed to be on the verge of insanity without relief. Clinking his saber, Leandres had already resolved to give himself for the Republic if he had to. A good a time as any. Below him, his horse, Toujours, snorted through his mask, seeming just as grimly determined as his rider. Many horses, though trained in preparation for the beats of artillery and guns, seemed to instantly panic and scarper when Roaches struck; this one, however, either had no such fear, or was used to them by now. Leandres had the upmost pride in the steed; and faith in his reliable ability to seemingly sense the vile insects just before they struck. Like mice and earthquakes; these horses could sense beyond what their riders could. To the distance, the constant sounds of artillery discharges rose up again; Leandres could only hope that the Roaches would have their attention elsewhere this morning. For now, his horse maintained a steady position alongside the column of rumbling Land Dreadnoughts moving up through these desolate fields, at a pace not as slothful as their British equivalents, but still far less hasty than Leandres would've desired. Every minute they spent in this godforsaken field meant an opportunity for the filthy insects to strike them. At least, he thought with some consideration, it would be difficult for the cafards to strike from below. Enough chemical ordnance had been dumped into the soil beneath the Toujoun's hooves that it would surely corrode any filthy insect trying to dig its way through. Therefore, their only way was from ahead. Or from the sides. Well, he thought, the steel boxes clattering next to him would at least be a worthy distraction. Minutes passed, as they continued their passage across the No Man's Land, away from the rows of defences behind them, now disappearing behind fog and poison mist. The occasional wrecked truck or field gun could be spotted across the wasteland around them; along with the sometimes emptied carapace of a larger Roach beast. They said that the Roaches would devour the bodies of theirs that fell; meaning that even a raid where few men were slain could not necessarily be that much of a loss to them. Such thoughts were usually dismissed, if only because their implications were not worthy dwelling on. He suddenly felt Toujoun's muscles tense. The horse swung his head from side to side, snorting. His pace becoming more impatient and rough. The beast was sensing something. Leandres could feel that much. He raised his hand, signifying possible danger to the other cavalrymen nearby. The column would carry on--there could not be delay. But they had to be prepared. From the fog-shrouded wastes ahead, piercing, unholy screams were starting to echo. The horses becoming increasingly more agitated in turn. Taking a deep breath, Leandres drew his saber. From the nearby Land Dreadnoughts, he could hear the operators loading their guns and releasing the safeties on their machineguns. He could see the ports from where they extended their motorsaws, to eviscerate Roaches that would attempt to latch on. He had a rather strange lust to see one of those tools in action. "Steady, my boy." he breathed to Toujoun. "I know they're coming too." The horse snorted, as if in reply. Leandres smiled. You knew when a beast had loyalty to

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 you. All the more better for what was coming. The unearthly shrieks from ahead began to segue into deeper roarings. That dreaded sound of scuttling, tapping limbs moving over the earth began to draw closer. Through the haze ahead, he could see their shapes starting to come in the distance. Vile little spiders, flooding over the poison soil like a plague. And behind them...larger creatures. Growling and breathing like tigers. He had expected them to come. And, as one of his lieutenants fired off a flare to signal the defenders, he found himself ready. "Come, pestilence!" he shouted through his mask. "We've been waiting!" His horse reared for a moment as the lead Land Dreadnoughts opened fire--explosive and phosphorous shells detonated into the wave of Roaches scurrying out from the fog ahead, though it barely seemed to deter them. Coaxial machineguns chattered into life, spitting tracer rounds over the soil--and from behind them, supportive field guns cast their shells forward. Preliminary impacts fell around them, throwing up burnt and corrosive soil. Screaming, the incoming Roaches leapt forward like demonic fleas, landing terrifyingly close ahead. Shouting, Leandres willed Toujoun forward as one of the creatures sailed down towards him--just before it landed, he swung his saber right along the bottom of its vile body, sending the creature landing in a pile of its own purple fluids as it impacted into the dirt. One of his fellow riders was lucky--one of the creatures, colored dark to match the burnt soil around it, thudded into the earth next to him, immediately leaping up and cleaving his torso in half with a scything limb. His horse fell screaming as more of the creatures fell onto it, tearing it up with claws and chittering teeth. A phosphorous shell consumed that body and the pestilence around it as the Land Dreadnoughts moved up--bellowing and charging, the orange, crustacean-like form of one of their acid-spitting abominations was bearing down straight for them. As Leandres drew his revolver, delivering shots right into the monsters coming right for them--little need to aim--more of them threw themselves onto the vehicle, immediately digging into armor plates and treads. Roaring into motion, defensive motorsaws stuck out from within the tank--the vile creatures spasmed and screamed as churning blades cut right through their chitin, showering chunks of purple flesh around the vehicle. "Abominations!" Leandres yelled through his mask as another Roach thrust itself towards him--his saber blade met it in the face, though the momentum of the thing was almost enough to knock him off the saddle. Toujoun side-stepped and whinnied as more of the things began to bear towards him--the horse was anxious, though it stayed its ground. Machinegun fire from the rear vehicles began to cut through those beasts, giving Leandres a few more moments of breathing room. Nearby, the charging acid monster was not deterred by the explosive rounds striking against its carapace, nor the shells of phosphorous--with a deep, bass roar, it thrust itself onto the first Dreadnought, dribbling burning acid that melted through the steel in what seemed to be an instant. Claws and teeth felt their way inside, as a viscous mouth of teeth and multiple tongues apparently awaited what was inside. Leandres found his ears ringing moments later as the vehicle suddenly detonated in an eruption of burning, blinding phosphorous flame; white-hot shards of metal rained down around like rain, scattering some of the creatures. Bellowing in pain, the larger monster threw itself back--white fire covered most of its carapace, as it staggered and thrust about on the spot. Nearby, the rest of the cavalrymen were barely able to keep their horses from panicking as they desperately tried to hold off the scurrying little horrors

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 with revolvers and spears. Gritting his teeth, Leandres willed Toujoun forward; from his satchel, he produced a single high-explosive rifle grenade, approaching the enraged, burning monster. Even as the horrors nearby threw themselves at him, lunging and screeching, he carried on until he could feel the heat from the phosphorous, and the breath from the creature's mouth. And as it opened up to roar again, he primed the grenade, and threw it right in. Toujoun broke out into a gallop, leaping over a flooded artillery crater--just as the beast's head behind them exploded in a shower of broken shell and abominable flesh. Coming to a stop, Leandres found his breathing heavy as mortars began to rain down around the column--their larger brethren defeated, the rest of the things seemed to be pulling back. Machinegun tracers and resounding guns from the Land Dreadnoughts were also helping, enabling the other cavalrymen to finally begin to push forward. "Come on!" Leandres held his sword aloft as he came galloping towards them. "Forward!" Letting the rest of them gather behind him, Leandres pointed his blade down as they began their charge forward. They would go right to the lines they were aiming for, he thought, and would stop for nothing--running these vile little roaches down if they had to. If nothing else, the sight of this cavalry emerging from the mist...it would be the most inspiring thing anyone in this slice of hell had seen for weeks. With bellowing war cries, the French cavalrymen darted forward over the desolate plain-their hooves and shouts echoing, momentarily, over the distant guns and screeching monsters.

BlackWave

December 18th, 2012 10:55 PM

April 13th 1915, Indianapolis, United States of America The early morning sun rose slowly over the city of Indianapolis--shining against familiar landmarks from the Soldiers' and Sailors' Monument, the White River, and Lockerbie Square. Interspersed among the streets and buildings were checkpoints, glinting lines of serrated barbed wire, the occasional machinegun nest, and ammunition dumps. Recruitment posters for the Army and National Guard seemed to have replaced ones for food and commercial products. The reason for all this was simple. While the rest of the nation had celebrated the victory at San Francisco, the inhabitants of Indiana were still aware that in their fields, in their remote countryside and isolated communities, still lurked horrors without humanity or remorse. A lone motorcar was rattling its way down towards the city Statehouse--seated within was the state governor, Samuel M. Ralston. The stress of recent months had worn heavily on his body and spirit, as evidence by the lines across his face. Fellow state officials looked down at their feet across in the car's cabin--they too, were too weary to make conversation. The crisis facing the state, Ralston felt, was even worse than the riots that had hit Indianapolis two years before. National Guard and Army units had done their best to sweep the countryside, burning out and eradicating entire strips of farmland to destroy the unearthly pestilence plaguing them--yet, it always felt like whenever an infestation was eradicated, another sprung up in its place. The military had forwarded various

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 proposals to him, some most extreme. Destroying the state's entire infrastructure. Funnelling as much of the population as feasible into the big cities and burning the rest to the ground. Few of them seemed to consider the future economic impact to the state, or even to the whole nation. Despite this, Ralston had not been un-coperative with the generals and leaders. He had done his best to ensure that as many men were raised to bolster both the National Guard and Army units--the ones clearing out the state, the ones fighting in California, and more recently, the ones being sent to fight abroad. Over ten thousand men had been mustered in very short time; of course, the nation had just gone through the worst military conflict and mustering since the Civil War, so Indiana was hardly exempt from such levies. Every ounce of industry had gone towards guns, ammunition, and uniforms-though there had been reports of isolated factories suffering mysterious and devastating sabotage. The railroads, as in the rest of the country, were now entirely devoted to military and industrial logistics--even now, protests continued for people who felt their right to travel was long overdue to be returned. Oh yes, he thought soberly. He fully sympathized with the plight of the people here. Despite his best efforts, the country--well, at least as far as he could see--now felt like some military dictatorship. Paranoia had sprung up at its highest after that assassination attempt on Wilson, in the capital itself no less--President Marshall had done all he could to dissuade fear, but many were paralyzed by fear. If the President was not safe, than who was? Some governors, including himself, had done all they could, in the name of the greater good, to keep the spirit of the people floating--altering incoming news by federal order, to make it more alluring, organizing fairs to raise military bonds, opening new cinemas with staff fleeing from California, and celebrating every advance and victory. The push in San Francisco had succeeded in pushing up hopes--well, in most of the country. Though thankful, the people of Indiana knew that for them at least, the fight was still continuing. And what a fight. Their enemy was not men, nor monsters that made themselves overt like they did to the west. This infestation could steal bodies, mimic the behaviour and appearance of loyal citizens, all the better to infiltrate and subvert American society. Even plants, crops, animals, were not exempt. It was enough to crack a man's sanity. And while the official reports had done their best to downplay this, dismissing such things as wild rumors, hushed whispers spread nevertheless. The fact that National Guardsmen still patrolled the streets, and that deliveries of incendiaries and 'Teddy Tonics' still came in via trains instead of coal and corn, hardly improved things. Even for the poor men who had gone through hell and back in California, he knew, it was not yet over. Talk was spreading of aiding the Japanese, Chinese, or even Australians. More men were being mustered for Europe. They said it was a trade for the Europeans supplying arms designs and tactical advice, but many still felt that America was better off clearing her own gardens first. Still, he thought with a degree of odd bemusement, firms like Remington had made record profits from supplying the military and the Europeans. Perhaps aiding their cousins across the ocean would not be so detrimental to the United States after all. American shotguns had already spread like wildfire across the trenches of France, and now the latest innovation to be cranked out, these 'California Typewriters', were soon to make their advent on that front... He looked up as his car came to a stop in front of the Statehouse. Soldiers stood at attention at the entrance, and the roof and grounds had been lined with sandbags and wire. It felt less like a place for the state's government than it did a fortress. But, he felt, as he stepped out, such things were unfortunately necessary. Everyone had heard about the devastation inflicted on Sacramento. That state's capitol reduced to ruin. It was only

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 best they could fortify this state capital, until at least things could return to a semblance of normality... "Governor?" He turned his head as a colonel approached him, just as he made his way for the building's steps. "Yes?" "Just so you know. We've had some...disturbing reports from the nearby counties..." Ralston blinked. How more disturbing, than the state's own crops being malformed into abominations from a lunatic's imagination? "Such as?" "A few...civilian militia patrols vanished without trace...people reporting strange cases of paralysis, paranoia, panic..." Ah, yes. The citizen's militia and posses...many had taken up their arms to fight the good fight alongside the military...but without the intelligence and equipment the Army had access to, many all too often fell victim to the pestilence, becoming less saviours than threats themselves. Now, the military encouraged all to take up uniform stead, and people were finding little reason to refuse... "I'll make sure this isn't in the papers." Ralston nodded. "As you wish, governor..." With a sigh, Ralston turned away and strode up the steps of the ornate State Capitol, nodding to the soldiers standing guard. Pushing his way into the doors and into the lobby, he suddenly found himself experiencing a strange chill that ran down his back. Something...something certainly not natural. The colonel's words, about strange experiences...all too suddenly, it seemed to resonate with disturbing alacrity. Regardless, shaking it off, he made his way towards his office. Not many other people were present, within the halls of the building...some politicians, still too paranoid to tend their posts after what happened to Wilson, remained locked in homes or offices... Reaching his office doors, he took a deep breath as he inserted a key and swung them open. With a blink, he noticed immediately that the windows were wide open. How odd. He then noticed that his muscles were suddenly paralyzed. Sheer, mind-numbing terror swept over his every fibre as something materialized, squatting on his desk in a predatory stance. Something black, jagged, monstrous, like a preying mantis dug up from the darkest pit of hell itself. Staring at him with multiple, beady red eyes resonating with an intelligence both sadistic and ruthless. In his head, Ralston murmured final prayers. All he wanted was for this thing to be hunted and killed as soon as possible. Before the terror it intended could spread beyond this state. His eyes closed as it lunged.

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BlackWave

December 24th, 2012 05:45 PM

April 14th 1915, Copenhagen, Denmark The waterfronts and dockyards of Copenhagen, tucked together in the shadow of Amalienborg, were at a point of activity never seen before in years; military barges, ferrying supplies down to the military forces sent to liberate the Netherlands; ships bearing Russian flags, come in from the Baltic; and other private watercraft, a lot of which belonged to refugees coming up from Belgium or Holland. The streets of the Danish capital, though still feeling distant from the ravaged lands and nations further to the south, had found a strange feeling of tension descend unto them as soldiers began to appear on the cobbled streets, men in foreign uniforms began to sit by their restaurants and coffeehouses, and newspapers with increasingly sombre headlines flicked from hand to hand. Walking calmly towards the packed docks at the waterfront, French military intelligence agent Romain Bisset cast no eyes to the other well-dressed men filtering through the locals going about their business over the pavement. Mostly men from his own service and its British equivalent. Present to ostensibly represent Entente co-operation, although he rather surmised it was so that both nations could keep an eye on each other. What required their presence here was apparently something very...perturbing. "I see the locals will have the good luck to grace new guests." one of the other men with him murmured, gesturing toward a well-dressed couple shuffling their way along the road. Russian dress, by the looks of it. "Came in from Kovno, I heard." Bisset nodded. This man talking to him was apparently called 'Reno', though he doubted that was genuine. "A lot of them coming in from the Balts." Bisset uttered. "That little thing in Petrograd upset them, it seems." "Merde." His partner replied, with a smile. "Nobody tried to stop them?" "Apparently not. The men now in the Winter Palace apparently organized this thing...on a bit of a rush. They're a bit stretched to prevent upset nobility from running away to Sweden or here." "To think things went to hell in there so quickly..." "The ceasefire with the Turks and Fritz wasn't popular. The state of things in Siberia didn't help either. People like Vladimir Lenin would've been stupid not to take advantage of things developing as they were." "And the Tsarists haven't tried to counter-attack yet?" "That's the genius of it. With the Roaches in Siberia, they can only play along, or get struck from behind by those creatures. That's how they've apparently got the Tsar's general staff under their thumb. If the Cossacks try to fall back in the Urals, well, that just makes them good Roach fodder..." "And I presume this is all connected to what we've got here?" "We apparently have a rather important person from the Tsar's regime seeking asylum. He came in via the British embassy, although apparently the Anglais have decided that

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 we may as well be in on this too..." Moored up ahead was what appeared to be a rather unremarkable passenger ship, swaying leisurely in the tide as gulls cawed up above--though the suited men on the deck looking down at the approaching group of intelligence agents seemed to belie that it wasn't just some pleasure yacht. "Has Paris said anything about dealing with the new Russian government?" Bisset said again to his partner. With security concerns these days, dealings in the Palais Bourbon were murky--the reports concerning the assassin creatures bred by the Roaches, as well as speculation on the foul abominations stripping the knowledge of men whose bodies they violated, had been read rather thoroughly in intelligence halls. "We're keeping them at arm's length for now, but apparently similar dealings are to be conducted as with the Tsar. We still have no choice but to help them quash the Siberian infestation. Once that is out of the way, we can discuss the niceties." "The Siberian infestation..." Bisset murmured. From where the creatures had spread to Japan, Manchuria, possibly Mongolia...the Brits had been interested in sending up troops from their Indian dominion, but he wasn't sure if that deal still went for the new revolutionary leadership. They finally came up to the gangway leading up into the boat--flashing some papers to the men standing guard there, they walked cautiously up to meet the suited figures waiting on the deck. "Bonjour." Bisset spoke, before moving into well-spoken English. "Are we privy to an explanation matters now?" "We are." replied the Englishman, beckoning them into the ship interior. "We have a rather...remarkable guest with us." Following him below decks, Bisset found the corridors rather dimly lit, with a strange electrical atmosphere to them. Rather uncomfortable. Nevertheless, he kept behind the Anglais as he was taken to a locked door. Several keys were inserted and twisted, before it fell open. Seated within was a scrawny, bearded little man, fondling a small orthodox cross hanging around his neck. Not looking up, he simply mumbled something in Russian. Bisset froze for a second, swearing for a second that he heard his name in the man's utterings. "This is Grigori Rasputin." The Britisher next to him spoke. "He wants asylum. And apparently, he knows more on the workings of the Roaches than anyone else alive."

BlackWave

December 31st, 2012 03:43 PM

April 15th 1915, New York City, United States of America Looking along the rows of figures seated down around the fine ebony table in what was once a dining hall within the Waldorf-Austria Hotel--the finely wallpapered surfaces now covered in notices, diagrams, and announcements--Nikola Tesla was hardly bothering to cover up his excitement. For the last twelve hours, he had been pouring over a

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 potentially revolutionary report and compilation of discovery sent over from Europe. One that could possibly solve the main scientific impediments to the projects and ambitions all the minds congregated in this building had set on. One that could even turn the tide of this dark hour. Edison's face remained dour as usual; the German fellow Einstein likewise impenetrable, as he focused on one of the glasses placed in front of him. The other men of science, drawn from all over the United States and the rest of the civilized world, seemed as curious and bemused as any normal person would be. Tesla wasn't sure if even these men would be able to fully understand what he was about to say, but he hoped they would at least appreciate it. And of course, standing beside him, was the Secretary of State himself, William Bryan, cradling a folder of some sort. The men here were used to visits from government officials and businessmen; his presence did not feel anomalous. Of course, there was the wad of paper placed in front of Tesla. Delivered across the Atlantic, from the primary European biological laboratory dedicated to researching the Grex, in Wales. Sent over from its head, one Professor Lafeete. Compiling all their research into 'individuals of unusual sensory perception', who, in the wake of the Roach invasion, had been appearing across a number of nations. People suspected of being lunatics, madmen, or psychotic, it had turned out, seemed to genuinely possess some latent ability. Said individuals and abilities had undergone intensive study, in some effort to find from where they drew their power, and what had activated them. The answers, though disturbing in many ways, had given Tesla enough inspiration that he had called this conference. "Gentlemen." he finally spoke. "I think it is fair to say that we have arrived at a turning point. We are aware of many of the impediments that have presented themselves in our pursuits of the projects and ideas we have been formulating here, most of them related to simple matters such as generation of power, or its simple appliance. After studying the research delivered here from our friends in Europe...I believe I have an answer. I believe we may have discovered a weapon far more capable than any simple rifle or field gun, one whose power harnessed may yield us new hope in fighting the pestilence currently afflicting most of the world. This weapon is one we are all familiar with: the human mind." He paused, to digest their reactions. Einstein had sat up in sudden curiosity, while Edison was giving him an expression of utter incredulity. The rest seemed to vary between the two; this didn't surprise Tesla. Well, he had hoped that those incredulous would be more open; after the world had been invaded by monstrous insects with biology exceeding anything known, surely those aspects of science considered beyond the norm would suddenly seem so much more relevant? "Let me explain." Tesla continued. "As our Secretary of State here has informed me, there have been rising incidents both here in the United States and in Europe of individuals exhibiting what would appear to be schizophrenia, sudden insanity, or being the focal point for incidents of...abnormal nature. From the report I have read from our European friends...it would appear that these are natural abilities latent to these particular individuals. Locked away deep within our cortexes, then touched into activity by...the driving force behind the Roaches. We have seeming cases of such individuals been driven to commit crimes of sabotage or murder; or otherwise toyed with by 'voices'." He paused for breath. The expressions remained the same.

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"But I believe, that in unlocking these latent talents...this mind, this force, whatever you may call it, that manifests as the collective hive will of these creatures, may have inadvertently granted us a gift. It seems that these individuals have some form of control--uncontrolled as it currently may be--of energies perhaps not natural to the universe as we perceive it, but nevertheless may be harnessed. If my feelings are correct, and we may be dealing with sources of energy beyond simple electromagnetic generation...most of our impediments may not be so grave after all." "What do you mean, when you refer to these energies?" Einstein murmured. "I am reminded of the works of Planck and Poincaré." Tesla murmured. "Their musings on 'energy quanta'--'quantum mechanics', even. What we have here, gentlemen, is, largely thanks to the workings of these beings, a whole new field of science unlocked years, if not decades, prematurely. One far beyond what is taught in our halls and universities. And one, I think, that could save us all." He took in a deep breath. "This report notes some of the strange abilities these latent extrasensory individuals have exhibited. Mind-reading. Tele-kinesis. Influencing objects and bodies around them. These energies are obviously focused by their minds, but I would not think they can be generated by them--drawing instead, from those aspects of the universe we do not yet fully understand. Matter that may not be perceivable to us, energy that is parallel instead of present. If they can harness this for the feats they perform...surely such power can be brought to our mechanical creations, thus enabling advancements exceeding even the leaps and bounds brought about in the last few months alone?" "Am I the only one completely lost here?" Edison stood up violently. "Dr. Tesla, do you truly understand what you are saying? Are you suggesting we are now meant to work with a model of physics that doesn't even exist yet? That we're meant to work with energies nobody knows anything about? Or perhaps the simpler answer is that you are full of..." "Herr Edison." Einstein cut in. "While I am uncertain regarding Herr Tesla's musings on 'energy quanta', these 'quantum mechanics'...we have all seen the reports from Europe. These creatures harnessing energies and abilities beyond biology and physics as we understand. If they can do so...why shouldn't we?" There was a moment of silence that hung in the air. "We already have a subject to work with. Provided by Mr. Secretary here." Tesla said, gesturing at Bryan. "One Victor Camporini, a man from Brooklyn, impounded at an asylum in Utica until he was recovered by government officials once his exhibited abilities came to light. He complains of voices, of objects in his vicinity moving involuntarily, and of moments of heightened emotion. We will study him, and learn how we can harness his uncovered mental energies to our science. More such individuals are promised, and my latest cable to the Welsh laboratory suggests they likewise commence such research, or otherwise accelerate it should they have already begun." He paused again. "Think about it. We have had reports of specialized Roaches deconstructing matter itself, freezing synapses, even producing intense charge from within themselves. Imagine if we can hone such ability to such individuals as Mr. Camporini..."

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"Wait." one of the scientists seated spoke up. "Do we know of any individuals who already exhibited such 'abilities' before these Roaches showed up?" "At least one." The Secretary spoke up. "He's Russian...but apparently the rest is classified..." "We must begin immediately." Tesla continued. "If we can control this power...we have opened up a whole new area of science that would have remained otherwise dormant forever, or at least unknown for decades, centuries. We must do so quickly, so rest must be minimum, moreso than it has been. Our every conscious waking moments must be devoted to this study for now, and the toll it may take on our bodies is something we must endure for all men." "Inspiring words, Mr. Tesla." The secretary grunted. "I must also interject with some announcements from the Federal Government...I'm afraid, as the result of a recent incident in Indiana, we must heighten security at this place. Some of us feel that this operation would be better relocated to someplace more...obscure." "Why?" said Tesla. "We are all comfortable here. Such a thing would disrupt our research unacceptably." "I'll keep that in mind when I report to President Marshall." Bryan nodded, with uncertainty. "Show me this man, then." Edison finally stood up. "I want to see these 'energies' for myself." "With pleasure, Mr. Edison." Tesla smiled. "With pleasure. Gentlemen, let's begin..."

BlackWave

January 18th, 2013 10:41 PM

April 16th 1915, near Dunkerque, northern France Though the Entente lines near the coastal city of Dunkerque were mostly tucked away from the worst fighting raging across this region of France and Belgium, the freshly placed lines of barbed wire stretched across fortified trenches dug into the countryside were more than enough to signify that even here, the threat was existent. Fields still remained green and woods generally kept standing, in contrast to the desolate No Man's Land of the Somme further to the south, though the craters dotted over this rural landscape nevertheless kept it from being unspoiled. The defences here, however, remained in reach of the guns of the Entente navies grouping around the French coast-thus making up for the thinner concentration of artillery batteries and field guns. Not that it made the men manning these fortifications any less nervous. Towards the rear of the Dunkerque defence lines, a small convoy of trucks was pulling in from the fortified boundaries of the town itself--marked with United States Army emblems. A ragged group of Entente officers--Britishers, French, Belgian, Italian--had already gathered, with less than enthusiastic demeanours. They watched silently as American troops dismounted from the trucks, unloading various crates, as a man in a brigadier general's uniform stepped out to greet them. "Gentlemen." he reached out his hand to the nearest man with a smile, who returned

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 considerably less warmth. "I am Brigadier-General John T. Thompson, representing the United States military and the Remington Arms Company--the latter of which has already been providing your men with our latest models of shotguns, which, I understand, have proven damn effective against Roachy, haven't they?" "Quite so." The man in front of him--an unshaven Tommy--nodded dourly. "I've been assigned to present the latest product from our borders." Thompson continued, not perturbed by the sudden resounding of guns from the far distance. "You may have already heard of it--its effectiveness in combat has already been tested in California, and while it does have some issues we could resolve given more time, I'm very impressed with the final result considering our development time!" He pointed towards the crates unloaded from the trucks--now opened to reveal gleaming rows of sub-machineguns, looking as good as they were straight off the production line. "I present the Remington-Thompson sub-machinegun." he smiled. "Has a fire rate of over six hundred rounds a minute, reloads with ease, and is fully portable by a single man. I will not deny the issues with accuracy it suffers from, but considering the nature of our enemy, I think those can be overlooked in this case, eh?" "We have heard of this." One of the French officers spoke up. "I was expecting that these are to be assigned to our more effective marksmen, but this was belayed. Why?" "Well," Thompson let some embarrassment creep into his voice, "as I said, aiming's not really something you should try with these arms. But their use is simplicity itself--point in the direction of an incoming Roach horde, hold the trigger, and everything else just follows!" "With these initial shipments your nation has provided," The Frenchman continued, "I am told that only one or two such weapons can be provided to a platoon." "Complementing any heavy weapons they may possess nicely." Thompson breezed. He was aware he was likely getting on the wrong foot with these people. They were obviously tired. Their minds on a constant brink. He had supported the American intervention since the moment any such proposal was suggested. Of course, orders were orders. The Army had arranged for the distribution of his new sub-machinegun, as small as these initial shipments were--the production lines had barely kept up with the need in California--and the Europeans needed to be convinced of their worth as soon as possible. Naturally, he was only too eager to see how they fared in combat against the worst of the Roach infestation--and, guiltily, he did very much appreciate the rise in Remington's stock that had come about from the sudden onset of demand poured onto the company. "Let me see." The Britisher from earlier picked up one of the weapons from its crate, brushing away the straw. Weighing it in his hand, he went through the motions of aiming. He faltered slightly--Thompson wasn't sure if he was fatigued or used to the bolt-action rifles that he was doubtlessly used to. And knowing the British, it would likely be too rude to ask. "I must confess," the man said. "I never thought much of the American style of shooting. Pour enough bullets towards a target and hope something gets through. But it this case...I think we may have some dept of gratitude to you, Brigadier-General." "Thank my partners in Remington too." He smiled. "I can also inform you that we have

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 fresh shipments of shotguns coming in within the next week. There's word of experimentation with incendiary rounds for them!" "Delightful." The British officer murmured. Thompson nodded. European sourness never seemed to fail sometimes. "If you gentlemen would permit," he continued, "I'd be interested in observing the first combat tests once this shipment is distributed to your men. My superiors and partners would very much appreciate the notes..." "You're saying you want us to get attacked here?" The British man span around. "You want these hell-spawned creatures to resume their attacks here? Do you have any idea of how difficult it is to maintain our sanity just waiting for them?" "No, but..." Thompson's smile vanished completely. "And with all due respect, Brigadier-General, your presence here would be...conspicuous. These wretched creatures have intelligence. Have you heard of their little beetles, these vile little beasts that have spread sickness among us to put the damned cholera to shame?" "Yes. I have." "I fear you would be too tantalizing an appetizer, sir. With all due respect." Thompson nodded. He'd have to rely on what Entente reports he could gain, to cable back home. At least, once his weapons could be put into use, the local reaction would be warmer to him. As it was...well, considering everything, he wasn't unsympathetic to the man's outburst. "I understand, sir." he said. "I...I suppose I'll have my men here begin distribution." "That will be appreciated, monsieur." The Frenchman uttered, without a smile. Thompson looked back to the crates as the men with him began to work on transferring them down into the trenches. He wasn't naive to think that his new gun would be sufficient to turn the tide here. But, like with every straw to break a camel's back, it would surely bring matters here that one step closer. If his company, and the others back home, kept their rate of development and production up...who knew what in a few months the men here could possess to fight these creatures. He heard they were most adaptable. It was not as if men could not be likewise in turn, as things had transpired. With every nation working to overcome this...in time, he thought, in time, surely their technology would perish even sheer number. "My apologies for my...utterance earlier." The British officer turned around. "I will say one thing: as foreign as the American infatuation with guns can seem to us...I would say it has shown its use."

BlackWave

February 9th, 2013 11:18 PM

April 17th 1915, near Bergues, northern France Compared to the ash-colored clouds hanging over Belgium, the border of which was a

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 matter of miles away, the area around Bergues, being in the vicinity of vital Calais and Dunkerque, would seem relatively pristine. Relatively--as with the defence lines near the major Entente ports, the fields overlooked by the trenches and fortifications still bore the scars of craters and barren gouges created by chemical and gas bombardment. The foul enemy had been somewhat more subtle in its efforts here; stealing the bodies of soldiers to try and sabotage the vital train lines that ran through the area, detonate munition dumps, and attempt officer assassinations. Though a heavy level of countermeasures had been put into place, this still put into effect a feeling of paranoia that would've otherwise been dulled by the relentless fighting raging further to the north-west. With Roach attacks here more infrequent, what they entailed was left to the imaginations of the men there. In some cases, making the posting even worse. Leaning against the wood-lined wall of one of the forward trenches, Belgian corporal Antoine Vermeulen kept a quiet watch at his nearby comrades, savoring all the lull they could. Though they wore gas masks that had effectively become their second faces, he could still distinguish them through the scars on their uniforms or the bandages on their wounds. And though the masks muffled speech, they also muffled the constant reports of artillery to the north. Listening to that made you wonder just what the poor bastards up there were faring. Not something you really wanted. There was a French officer in charge of Vermeulen's platoon. Not that anyone complained; so many Belgian COs had been counted as 'missing in action' once Flanders and Brussels were turned into desolate fields of pestilence, that there was little choice. Vermeulen wasn't even sure if his land really existed any more. First the Germans had come...now these damned Roaches. Almost made him want to laugh. And though they were allies with the Prussians too...not that he would take the Roaches over them, but it hardly made him feel comfortable. His eyes turned to the man in front of him, a marksman by the name of Aerts. Brandishing a fresh new weapon, unsullied by the layers of grime and dirt encrusting the other rifles through the platoon--one of the American 'California Typerwriters' that had just arrived from over the Atlantic the day before. Spread out to whatever men could handle them and learn their mechanisms in the shortest time possible. The rumors claimed that they were essentially a machinegun that could be held in two hands. Though more level-headed types made comment about the near-uncontrollable recoil and non-existent accuracy. Well, Vermeulen thought, even if that was true, he wasn't surprised the Americans had started distributing these. They were good businessmen if nothing else. And other weapons of their make had already spread throughout the front, particularly their combat shotguns, some of which hung alongside backpacks even in the platoon. Now, with this 'sub-machinegun', Aerts was the one who pulled the trigger, and Vermeulen had been instructed to carry his ammunition--a collection of drum magazines hanging from his back. Command had apparently decided that if the gunner was taken down, as it seemed grimly likely, then at least whoever picked up the weapon could be easily afforded the ammunition... "So." he found himself finally speaking up towards Aerts, trying to break the silence that hung over the trench like a knife's edge. "How's that thing handling?" "I test-fired it this morning." Aerts grunted. "You might have heard it. Sprayed a lot of bullets at the target and hit more of the grass next to it. Very American weapon, I suppose." "So it handles like a whore in Bruges, then?" Vermeulen chuckled. "Like the guys said?"

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"Probably worse." Aerts said. "Still...if anything will help kill the Roaches...it's more bullets. Lots and lots of bullets." "You think the Americans really care?" One of the other soldiers nearby spoke up. "They sold us these shotguns...and now these new things. I think maybe they figure that these goddamned bugs will just die off in time...and until then, they can just keep selling us this crap. You ever thought that if this is ever won, how much debt we might all end up in?" "Debt?" Vermeulen laughed. "In our case, we barely have a nation any more. Nobody wants to put interest on a place that has nothing to pay but dirt and rock." "We'll drive out the Roaches." Aerts said, seemingly as an assurance to himself. "Every last one of the filthy creatures. The Germans have one side, we have the other. Once the land is clean, we can rebuild, make it more beautiful than before." "You really thinks so?" Vermeulen said with genuine interest, looking up. "What else is there to think?" Aerts murmured. "The Dutch got it worse." The other soldier said. "Their cities flooded, everything else a marsh. Most of their people live as refugees with the Danish and English now..." "No, no, we got it worse." Vermeulen sighed. "Godverdomme...some places, I heard, I'm sure if anything will even grow for a hundred years..." "We can always go to Denmark." Aerts murmured. "Denmark? They got enough of the Dutch already..." Their voices were broken by the crackling burst of one of the incendiary mines buried under the soil in front of the trench going off. What effectively passed as an earlywarning system for Roach attacks. Enough to incite enough adrenaline through the platoon that the men were clambering onto the trench steps in an instant. Vermeulen found himself driven entirely by instinct, keeping himself behind Aerts, who was placing his American weapon on the rim in an effort to stabilize it. "Let's see how this thing does..." he uttered. Vermeulen drew his own revolver, catching a glimpse of phosphorous flash from in front of the trench. The flare, barely shielded by his mask eyepieces, seemed hot enough that even from there he could feel an unnerving sense of burning creep over some of his skin. "Cafards immondes!" he heard the French officer bark, as another mine detonated. The glint of an unsheathed cavalry sabre came from his direction. Crazy damned French, Vermeulen mentally chuckled to himself. They had every right to be as insane as Belgians. That inhuman shriek, that torturous sound that the men had prayed never to hear again, sounded off from in front of the trench. Through the barbed wire and the flickering conflagrations of detonated incendiaries, he could see arachnid-like shapes of chitin and claws leaping and scurrying right towards them. Rifles went off. Shotguns discharged. Barely comprehensible directions shouted off down the platoon. There didn't seem to be that many Roaches attacking. A tiny raid by the standards of the

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 battles raging up north. But to the men here, it still felt like the end of the world. "Yaaarrggh!" Aerts screamed off a surprisingly heated try as his weapon clattered in action-Vermeulen ducked to avoid the spent shells launched from the side of it, each one landing with a hiss into the went earth. The weapon spasmed and jerked in the gunner's hands like it was trying to be released, spraying a burst of rounds forward. Vermeulen, through all the noise and flashing discharges, glimpsed bursts of purple erupt through the haze in front of them--from this gun or from the other men, he wasn't sure. Though he could see the hatred Aerts felt for these creatures, the pent-up need for vengeance from what they had inflicted on the homeland, all coming up as a stream of rounds pounded out through the barrel. He could see why Aerts almost seemed to be enjoying himself. The gun finally clicked empty--both ducked down, as Aerts pulled away the emptied magazine while Vermeulen grabbed over a fresh one to attach. With all the economy of motion they had practiced earlier, in the short space of time they had been afforded. Vermeulen glimpsed the soldier that had spoken to them nearby suddenly impaled against the back of the trench by a jagged spine--glistening streams of fluids ran down from both exit and entry wounds, down into the water gathered between the trench boards. He was surprised by his own lack of responsiveness. Almost as if this madness had already desensitized his reactions to such horror. The weapon was reloaded. Rising back up, Aerts lifted up the gun again, to suddenly find one of the creatures crawling over the wire towards them--the closest they had ever been to one of the creatures. A scarred, thorny beast of dulled red and brown complexion, from all the ravaged earth it had been bred to fight in. As Vermeulen stared, trying to bring up his revolver, Aerts again pulled down on the trigger--bullets impacted all over the abomination's forward body, punching wounds into the face and legs with visceral bursts of dark-colored liquid. The thing spasmed and went slowly limp as he tried to bring the weapon to the next target--only to find a click as he pulled back on the trigger again. "Oh, shit. Jam! Jam! I need--" Vermeulen again found himself staring blankly as a spine pierced right through Aerts' skull, pulling out all that was inside as a spraying plume of liquified flesh--he managed to catch the weapon as the body of its gunner was thrown back to the trench floor. Pulling back on the release mechanism, he recalled all he could from the brief instruction of this thing, all the warnings of inevitable jams--supposedly just 'chinks in the early design'. Damned Americans. Business had been all their interests. Damn them to hell...now, trying to look away from Aerts lifeless body slumped unnaturally nearby, he looked up over the trench again. Roaches were scurrying in, through the dying flames of the incendiaries--some of them, he swore, had thrown themselves onto the conflagrations to kill them. Their crisped bodies then torn apart and devoured by other monsters coming in. As grenades detonated among the rest of the creatures coming in, he braced himself for the uncontrollable recoil and began to pull the trigger. He had to find that shooting it off was as oddly pleasing as he had thought. He too found himself screaming like a madman as Aerts had done. The gun arced wildly, impacting rounds into the faces of the creatures coming in his direction, sending some limbs flying

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 off. Not necessarily putting some of them down, but delivering enough wounds that they could be finished off by rifle shots. Ducking back into cover to relieve himself for a moment, he had found himself forgetting all about Aerts in that moment, about Belgium, almost about his own survival. It had just become about killing as many of these goddamned wretched beasts as he could. "Drive them back! Drive them back!" Taking in a deep breath, he brought himself back into firing position again, trying to make out any more of the creatures to shoot. But with the grenades coming in, now mortars from the rear trenches were falling down, blasting the ground in front of him with detonations that gouged up soil and chunks of Roaches. Through the smoke and skull-rattling noise, he couldn't make out any more of them coming. The trench had been held. The creatures had been driven back underground. Just a small raid, of course. They probably wanted to test them. He wondered if they had passed. "Excellente! Enfoncer une excellente!" He heard the Frenchman shout, before calling over to him. "The American gun! How did it do!" "Fine." Vermeulen grunted. He supposed he was now the official gunner for it. Some other sap needed to be found to carry the ammo drums. He put it aside for a moment to let the barrel cool. If this was to change the course of this war, every man on the front needed to be afforded it. He wondered for a moment if weapons like these, if they could drive a man mad with the way they fired. But then, he wondered, if that would make a difference in his case. In any case, there were likely more such weapons on the way. New technologies, spurred on as never before. And in this space of time...well, maybe he'd see Belgium again one day, free of pestilence. As Aerts had said...what else was there to think of?

BlackWave

February 9th, 2013 11:19 PM

April 18th 1915, Petrograd, Russia Observing silently through his characteristic reading glasses, Leon Trotsky watched the assorted members of the Revolutionary Coalition Committee take their seats around a finely carved table that once would've served the dining habits of the Tsar and his assorted aristocracy. Kerensky. Lenin. Chkheidz, Guchkov, Milyukov. It was only too fortunate that there was a common threat that had banded them all together, and would soon band the rest of the nation together. Otherwise, Trotsky knew, there were too many agendas, too many ambitions, that would prevent total harmony. He could only wonder what things would look like if triumph was ever attained, once the nation, having gone through so much in such a short space of time, could finally pick herself up. He glanced at a figure supervizing the guards ushering in the committee's guests. Some Georgian bastard, Joseph Vissarionovich. Pulled from the front in the nick of time by Bolshevik agents in the army's ranks, before he could be expended like so many prisoners of the Tsar's regime, and put in a high position supervizing security for proceedings here. A wise appointment. Enough power to satisfy him, but high enough also that there was little else to go without him resorting to...distasteful subterfuge. Hounds like him needed to be kept in check. And god willing, he would be kept well away from the seats of this committee. Trotsky had read well on his dossier--the man was a

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 thug, a bank robber, a wolf. The Urals may have been the best place for him; there, he could even scare off the goddamn Zhuki. Now to the guests. Representatives, ambassadors, from the powers of Europe and beyond--Great Britain, France, Italy, Germany, and the United States. He hadn't memorized all their names. It was hard enough sorting out their envoys and aides. In any case, it had taken them until now to finally recognize Russia's new leadership in some way. Not that they had a choice. Though scattered pockets of loyalists to the Tsar continued to plague the land, resentment to him and fear of the lurking demons over the Urals had ensured that things were going smoother than Trotsky had hoped. Not to say that it was entirely easy, of course. The decision to open this talk hadn't been unanimous among the committee either. Not all of them were trustful of these nations that saw them likely as usurpers and traitors. But for them too, there was little choice by now. Russia needed supplies. She needed aid. She needed help. Truths they had no choice but to admit to by now. After all, it had been the sin of the regime before to blind itself with pride. Who were they, who had seized power to undo these sins, to follow the same path? "The committee would like to welcome the esteemed representatives of those nations we hope to establish as our allies and brothers." Lenin spoke up, speaking in English-translators still needed to mutter into their superior's ear, but he was probably doing it to impress them. "It is imperative that we can establish understanding and co-operation in the face of the common threat that besieges us all." "We are willing to share with you our plans, strategies, and intelligence." Kerensky spoke up, in Russian that was quickly processed through interpreters. "In exchange, we ask for your assistance, in our nation's time of great need and humility. We will not repeat the mistakes of the regime before us. Likewise, we intend to remain transparent in our objectives." "We cannot help but see your actions as opportunistic." The French envoy spoke up, his translator relaying his words into Russian, though Trotsky understood him anyway. "Nevertheless, we are well aware of the consequences should the Urals be breached. We are willing to listen." "In the past few weeks, we have been formulating a strategy we hope will take the fight to the pestilence swarming our land." Kerensky continued. "This plan, we are willing to share. Commissar Trotsky...?" Revolutionary Commissar of Military Affairs. That was his title. Feeling vaguely embarrassed, Trotsky stood forward as a large map was brought up on the wall behind him--one marked with arrows and movements. He felt somewhat uncomfortable, sharing it to foreign representatives. As if it was a breach of intelligence. But again, by now, there was little choice. "We have a strategy." Trotsky started with the obvious, for the benefit of the interpreters. Gesticulating along the map, he pointed out the arrows and the movements. "Hardened regiments are to push out via rail into the taiga--we do not expect all of them to make it, but they will be outfitted with armored trains and as much supplies as we can muster. Should they be in a position to approach the Roach nest, they will deal as much damage to it as they can, or otherwise bolster positions for reinforcements." Potentially fatal. But it was that, or try and hold increasingly overstretched lines across

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 an entire mountain range, against an enemy that would surely penetrate in time. "At the same time, we are mustering forces in the north, to move along the arctic shore by water and eventually push downward, travelling via airship and ground. These will complement our primary push, or at least confirm their fate. They will bring heavier equipment and explosives, and will hopefully be able to assist in burning out their hive." That was not all. For a strike as vital as this, all directions had to be considered. "We have also sent messages to the central Asian plains. Contact has been lost with some areas, but we know of at least several provinces still untainted. Kazakh forces will come in from the south as soon as they are mobilized, to push in with the remainder of our columns. We hope to encircle their hive and bring it to ruin. I am counting on the bulk of their swarms still engaged at the Urals, but we are under no illusion that this will be easy, or will be guaranteed to work." He paused to take in reactions. Poker faces. As you would expected from ambassadors. "The Tsar was in talks with Great Britain for support from their Indian dominion, and with the United States for technological and material aid. With this in hand, our plan will be that much more guaranteed to work. We can end the plague in Siberia now, if only everything is focused. That is why we ask you now for help." Silence. Soft murmurings exchanged among the envoys. Deliberation. As if there was anything to fucking deliberate. Trotsky felt he had some perspective. Not only for Russia, but for all of man's civilization. "The United States will be willing to continue with our aid shipments." The American translator finally spoke up. "We will engage in new diplomatic talks once this threat is ended, however." "We extend our thanks." Kerensky murmured. "Great Britain does this reluctantly, but I will move to continue our operation to push into the Siberian hive." The British representative soon spoke up. "We have auxiliary regiments mobilized in the Kush already, and awaiting direction." Similar things came from the rest of them. Supplies. Men. Equipment. Trotsky wasn't sure how much they'd follow through, but they'd be damned fools if they didn't. "My friends," Lenin spoke up, again in English, "we hope that this will signify the start in a new chapter of relations between our nation and yourselves..." One entirely down to the whims of fate's hand, Trotsky thought soberly. Even if they were to triumph, out there in the frosty taiga, so many sobering possibilities still awaited. Still, for now, at least these people had seen sense. It wouldn't be long, if they followed through, before the strategy of the committee and himself would come into action. Fate would take it from there.

BlackWave

March 27th, 2013 01:54 AM

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013

April 19th, near Loos, France The Roaches had been expunged from Loos. At the expense of most of the town itself. His lower jaw unshaven, his body dotted with scars from shrapnel to stray rounds, Charles de Gaulle slung a Lebel Model 1886 over his shoulder--a ragged weapon caked with thin layers of dirt and grime accumulated from so many weeks, such an eternity, of fighting in the defence of this shithole. Fields had been wiped of life by chemical and gas bombardment. Buildings had been levelled by artillery, the obscene weapons of the insects, explosives, and simple inability to withstand the madness of the fight around them. Bayonets were stained with the blood of their owners, and if they were lucky, with the mark of purple. Nevertheless, the defenders had prevailed. The Roaches had stopped attacking. Perhaps because there was nothing here of value left for them. Perhaps because there were more important fights elsewhere. But the insects did not seem to understand well how important some morale, any morale, was to the men of all nations fighting here. And finally, they had got some. Viva la France. Amidst the rubble of Loos, command camps, artillery positions, and supply dumps had already been set up. The trenches around the place were being refurbished, designed for easy transit of supplies to places on the front where they were needed most. Groups of Renault Land Dreadnoughts, most of them straight from the factories were the men and women of France worked with every iota of strength their muscles could summon, were parked near the trenches, awaiting men to pilot them into battle. Though most of the soldiers here wore the blue coats of the Armée de Terre, there were also dark-skinned Algerian auxiliaries, no doubt taken aback by the weather and the viciousness of the fighting. Tommy veterans. Australians. Italians. Some Spanish artillery groups, as inexperienced as their equipment was dated. But every man meant more bullets with which to kill the disgusting animals they faced. Now, new uniforms were coming. American Army. Their first wave, those men that had come in as their token Marine forces was extinguished, had proven itself here at Loos, partially. It too had moved on, as newer troops, some of them looking barely fit to hold a rifle, came marching in, taking their positions in readying supplies and establishing defences. Some of them, de Gaulle reckoned, had come in confident, that America had already beaten her own infestation, and thus need only show the Europeans how to do so. What shock hit their faces when they saw the true scale of the pestilence here. He did not disrespect them, however. He had fought alongside foreign troops long enough now to see they all shamed that same human valor. Whites, negroes, Indians...by now, everyone bore the same skin, one covered in scars and dirt, but a skin nonetheless. Merde. He wasn't sure himself if his own mind had made it through all this madness intact. Those memories of holding the Loos defences, praying that no leak would emerge in his gas mask as the chemical shells rained down, hoping no monster would erupt from the earth to drag him into whatever hell they came on, hoping no stray rifle shot or grenade explosion would riddle his ribcage with shrapnel...they all blurred together into one confused sensation of insanity and barely holding perseverance.

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 Vive Europa. "Sir? American officers. They are requesting briefing." Stepping away from the edge of the Loos fortifications, de Gaulle followed the rifleman in front of him towards one of the tents set up in the battered foundations of what was probably once a house. He had learned enough English in his fighting alongside Tommys and the first wave of Yanks. He supposed that was reason enough why he had been chosen to educate these ones. To teach them that whatever they faced in their homeland, it paled next to the monstrosities plaguing the fields here. They thought their homeland had been defiled? De Gaulle wondered if there would be anything left of the north of France after all this. Entering the tent, he found the customary maps spread out. It was hard to tell how upto-date it was. Runners weren't always reliable. The Roaches had learned to cut cables where they found them. That was why individual teams and companies had been forced to learn more initiative, over the course of this insane new war. Men could no longer rely entirely on generals sitting so many miles from the front. Against the insect, it was just a case of bravery and bayonets. Vive le soldat. "Sir?" An American-accented voice in English drawled. He looked up to see one of the Yankee officers, a man with a cavalry sword sheathed by his side, talking to him. "Captain George Patton, at your service." "Bonjour." de Gaulle said simply. "Commander de Gaulle, at yours." "Great to meet a Frenchman who can speak English." The man called Patton grinned. "One learns." de Gaulle murmured. "What is our discussion here?" "Your higher command has agreed to assign Land Dreadnoughts to American expeditionary forces here." one of the other Americans present began. "We have began manufacturing our own, but it will take time for us to established a corps of our own in that regard." Merde. Would the Americans even be able to understand the complexity of such machines? "They were built in France." de Gaulle said simply. "They should be driven by Frenchmen." "Be that as it may, sir, American forces have already deployed and successfully operated Land Dreadnoughts in our retaking of San Francisco..." "Your own copies." "Of your design, yes." "I will give French engineering some credit." The one called Patton said. "What I want to get my hands on is one of those motorized cutting saws you people mounted on those things..."

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 "Oui. To fend off the things that may attempt to latch onto them..." "If you could somehow issue a version operable by a single man...well...I would certainly be honored to test such a thing in the field." "What?" "The sword is the most elegant expression of man's propensity to warfare." Patton simply said. "Such a thing would probably sacrifice elegance for noise...but what noise that would be." "Monsieur." de Gaulle said curtly. "You are...strange." "Aren't we all?" Patton laughed. "We're fighting giant fucking insects from the stars. What isn't strange these days?" "That is a point." de Gaulle sighed. "I take it...you will be working on this front?" "You damned right." Patton grunted. "I saw these Roachy sons of bitches over in California. They got me to get the recruits sorted over at Calais. Now it's time I saw a real fight from them." "Are you sure you want one?" "Frenchy," Patton leaned in, grinning. "You have no idea."

BlackWave

March 27th, 2013 02:25 AM

April 20th 1915, New York City, United States of America Lowering thick safety glasses over his face, Nikola Tesla kept his expression focused as he stood over a bronze control panel at the edge of one of the halls of the hotel, converted into a laboratory for testing unusual experimentals. The German, Einstein, and others, stood crowded behind him. Some of them clearly wanting for sleep. But Tesla's experiment had to be conducted as quickly as it could. So many things rested on it. Potentially the fate of mankind. Unlocking an ethereal source of energy, conducted by the human mind, no less. It seemed mind-boggling. But, ironically, it had been the Grex that had opened their eyes to the concept. Perhaps that would be what saved all civilization. Victor Camporini, the subject recovered from an institute, sat locked into a frame within the center of the room. Multiple electrodes fitted to his head, serving as conduits to a Tesla coil placed nearby. There would be no intermediate generator. He had to witness for himself what it would take to handle such power. And how to begin generation? That was the undefined part. Suggestions had been passed around. None of them particularly welcoming. But for the greater good, they had to be attempted. He was Tesla, after all. He had faced ruin once before. After this, after he would be the one to save humanity, nobody would have the name of Edison on their lips, regardless of what he contributed here. What his work would leave here would be something to

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 change the course of all mankind's development. Energy. Of the mind itself. Representative of the true spirit of the human consciousness. What could be more poetic? "We are due to begin, gentlemen." he spoke up. They had already done some initial tests on Mr. Camporini to determine what it would take to begin...generation of his untapped energies. Stress seemed to be the main factor. Forcing him to recall the experiences he had suffered in the institute, the otherworldly voices that had come to him...that had seen a surge in the energy flowing from his head into the electrodes they had hooked up to him. Here...it would simply be a matter of upping that. Would it be uncomfortable for him? Likely. But...this was a matter of survival, for them all. Sacrifice...was inevitable, as much as it pained Tesla. "Mr. Camporini." one of the assistants walked up to the man, stripped of his shirt, dotted with electrodes. "Victor. Do you understand what we are asking of you." "...I guess." The mumbled response came. "Do you consent to what we are about to this?" "...Yeah. Sure." "Then let us commence." Telsa said. "Victor. I am going to ask you to focus on what has pained you. I want you to bring your worst memories to the forefront. I want you to confront all that has been worst in your life." The assistant said. "Let it all come out. Do not restrain anything." "Nikola." It was the German. Einstein. "Are you certain over this?" "I'm sorry?" The young German, with his wild hair and mustache, seemed despondent. "We are turning our fellow man into living batteries. We are asking them to endure great levels of pain and agony, for the sake of our technology. What...what has this made us? Can...can we really consider ourselves better than the monsters we fight?" "Is it better than the soldiers who must bleed in the trenches fighting for the rest of us?" Tesla said. "Is it better than those who must choke on gas and acid?" "I have never been much in favor of warfare. At least against one's fellow man." Einstein said. "What we are doing...it is inhumane." "He has consented." "Does he truthfully understand all this? How many individuals will we have to find, to make batteries of their very minds, if we are to win this? As conduits for energy we barely understand, for a science we were clearly not meant to uncover for at least a few decades?" "We have compressed all those years of scientific uncovery into a space of time nobody would've thought possible." mused Tesla. "To continue doing so...there are...painful

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SWARM ON THE SOMME March 28, 2013 things we must unfortunately do." "But where will it stop? It is bad enough when men must die in meaningless wars of politics and arrogance. Now we ask them to sacrifice minds and bodies in the name of technology, of this industrialization? I fear how future generations will view us." "We must only do what we can to defeat the Grex." Tesla sighed. "You think there will not be nations who will continue doing so even if we vanquish the pestilence?" Einstein said. "Nikola...you must do all you can to limit...this monstrousness. If only for the sake of the poor souls we must sacrifice...if their sacrifice truly is the only way." Tesla breathed in heavily. Einstein's voice was a mere reflection of his own conscience, one that insisted he was going too far in his desire to prove his name, to prove the technology he had invested in could truly save the human race. One that only grew louder as he saw Camporini squirm in his harnesses. Static was starting to run down the electrodes, as evidenced by dials and that feeling in the air. As his mind found stress, it began to gather this energy, from aspects of the universe nobody had even considered-through whatever unique function of his brain had been left untapped until the dark ethereal intelligence of the Grex had touched it. This aspect of human evolution not even Darwin could've considered. The man looked like he was in a cage. Tesla's heart, despite his desire to see this experiment through, weighed heavy as sparks began to dance around the coil. "Current rising..." "I think..." Camporini was saying, his voice wreaked by incredible pain. "I can hear...oh god! Oh, please! Oh, please!" Tesla jumped back as the electrode cables leapt into the air--there was a crack in the air, as hair stood up on its end. The top of the coil glowed bright, enough to disorientate him despite the goggles--cracking like a falling hammer, a stream of lightning-like energy leapt from the coil. Glowing bright blue, it was not mere electricity, that much he could tell. And, in sheer amazement, he could only watch as it struck a nearby wall. There was a flash. And in place of that section of wall was an empty, smoke-filled hole, surrounded by ash. What he had seen...it could only be this mental energy harnessed. To a degree, for now... Camporini was lying limp, seemingly exhausted. Tesla lifted his goggles, taking in the smell in the air. Euphoria, triumph, hit him all at once. They had found a way. They had found a way to power his inventions, which would otherwise take material and generation the world did not have. They could power one particular invention he had always imagined, one that could change the course of this war. One that had already requested be already having its foundations being belt. Then he looked to Camporini's limp body, and Einstein's disapproving face, and sighed. Wondering just what other sacrifice they would be asking of their fellow man. Perhaps Albert was right. At the end of this...who would be able to say what breed was truly monstrous.

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