Stuttgart, May 1947
With a grinding squeal of metal on metal, the back of the truck swung open. The creature within opened his eyes, as a barked order rang out from beyond the exit. What remained of his humanity recognised the sound for what it was, and he rolled to his feet.
Time to hunt…
A clawed hand, large enough to enclose a man’s head, grasped the side of the hatch frame, the inch-long talons scoring the metal. Sinewy muscles, taught as steel cord, rippled as he pulled himself through the exit, landing on the cracked pavement with a quiet that belied his bulk. Slowly, he rose to his full height, his wire-furred form almost as tall as the truck he had just vacated. His commanding officer stood resolute a few feet away, fearless and dominant. He instead locked his attention on the soldier next to the commander. Fear radiated off that one; he drank in the smell and bared his teeth, revelling in the wretch’s terror. The commander snapped the orders once more, and he bowed his head with a rumbling growl of acknowledgement. Turning, he saw the two hulking forms of his pack-mates clambering from the truck to join him in the gathering dark. He snarled, and as one they crouched and bounded off into the twilight shadows.
He saw the ruined city in monochrome, bright as day to his sight despite the moonless sky overhead. His loping gait carried him swiftly across the broken ground, and his hackles rose slightly as he saw the crumpled wreck. A snap of his teeth, and his pack-mates slowed to a walk beside him. The American walker was a smashed, mangled mess. The Maschinen Schweren had done their work well; armour panels buckled and crushed, the struts of the legs twisted and bowed into uselessness. Ammo lockers had imploded from the external pressure, sending shrapnel throughout the inner workings of the arms. Internal wiring had run like streams of water from the cockpit. Even now, around the impact sites were etched lines of crackling Rift energy, still bright to his enhanced senses. The American cannon bore similar fading echoes of vivid electric blue, evaporating as the last vestiges of stored energy fled the dead machine.
All the glass in the canopy had shattered, even before the pilot had blown it to make their escape. Drying blood left a coppery stink on the inside of the cockpit and the edges of the canopy frame, partially obscuring the name painted there – Carroll. Clearly, the American pilot hadn’t made it out unscathed. The acrid tang of the man’s pain and terror filled his nose as he breathed deeply of the lingering scent. He licked his lips, drooling as anticipation burned in his limbs. His vision narrowed to the warm, enticing trail that wound away from the wreckage and into the nearby remnants of a shattered warehouse.
The hunt was on.
by Kirsten Williams
John Carroll’s adventures continue, and it’s not looking good for him! What is looking good are the Konflikt ’47 pre-orders. With all-new plastic vehicles and infantry and a range of awesome starter boxes, there’s something for everyone to get excited about.