theres the WIP army codex and now heres the fun bit i like
Jonathan stood over the body of his dead brother. Those filthy damned raiders had cut him open and stuffed his own guts down his throat. It felt like only yesterday Jonathan as an eight-year-old boy watched as his mother and two sisters get beaten bound and cared away by slavers. That had been twenty years ago, and over that twenty-year span three of his brothers, and his father had been killed fighting raiders, or slavers, or whatever the filth the plagued this wasteland wanted to call themselves. And now look were he was, standing over the body of his last family member. Sam was the only reason he had stayed here. Now that he was dead there was nothing left here for Jonathan.
He looked up at the house he had spent the last twenty-eight years of his life in, it’s peeling paint, it’s broken windows, it’s door hanging on now by only one hinge. He waked up the three wooden steps to the front door, as he opened the termite-infested piece of scrap wood its last hinge broke. He let it fall he didn’t care anymore. He went inside, and the place was a mess, the raiders lived up to their name, tables we turned over, cabinets destroyed, everything was on the floor. It looked as if a bomb had gone off in there. The rest of the house was the same, but that didn’t matter as long as they hadn’t gotten into his footlocker. He walked down the hall to his room, and there it was, his footlocker, lying on his bed battered and beaten but unopened. He undid the lock and opened it up; he pulled out his rifle, which was the only thing worth keeping in this house. He went to the kitchen grabbed the kerosene, poured it all over, struck a match, and burned the place to the ground. Turning around he stared into the barren wastes that once were lush and beautiful hills.
Vars sat on the sand bag bunker staring of into the wastes. Behind him fifteen some odd people huddled around the converted flat bed. Over the last week and a half Vars, Richard, and Jack had been working day and night to get that thing ready. Two gun ports behind the divers seat, with light mounted machine guns in them, thick armor on the side to keep the passengers safe, and an armored front with a slit a few inches wide to see out of, all and all a fairly good job for such a short time frame to do it in. Although really what is the point Vars knew what kind of weapons the slavers and raiders had. This armor wasn’t going to hold log, and the truck was too heavy in the back. To fast of a turn and they were all going flying, plus the wheels weren’t meant to drive over the lose dirt of the wastes; hell they can barely handle the few paved roads that are left after the bombs dropped.
Vars heard his name being called; he turned to see the civilians, if you could call them that, getting into the back of the truck. He picked up his machinegun and walked the few yards to the drivers seat. He got in and tuned the truck on. As the little scrap metal village disappeared into the horizon Vars tried to remember exactly how to get back to Hell. Laughing to himself he though about why the founders of the underground complex decided on that as a name.
The rocket exploded into the side of the truck, punching through the armour and sending sharps of metal everywhere. Vars was thrown from the truck and smashed into the ground. A second rocket slammed into the wheels of the truck, throwing it into the air and tossing the passengers right and left. Most ended up underneath the truck crushing them instantly. Blood stained the ash and sand and the cries of the survivors filled the air. Vars ran over to help a woman whose leg and been caught underneath some of the armour panels of the truck. He knew the moment he saw her that she could not travel either way, back to town or to the safety network tunnels, he did the only other thing he could think of, and as Vars aimed the pistol and pulled the trigger he felt no remorse for the woman’s life he just took. Now he and the few survivors had to start their trek to the safety of the tunnels before nightfall, that’s when the orks came out and no one lived through that.
John’s eyes flew open to the sounds of screams and yells. He felt the back of his head, it was bleeding, must have hit a rock when the missile hit the truck and he was thrown. He sat up and stared up at the sun; it was at about midday, maybe a little after. Lifting his head caused a throbbing ach in the back of his skull. He dropped his gaze again, and as his eyes fell he saw a grotesque sight. Most of the party that had set out in the truck was either crushed under it, or slowly dieing from shrapnel wounds. He sat there and watched Vars stand up and hobble over to a woman whose leg was caught under the Truck bed, which had been blown off by the explosion.
He looked on as Vars pulled out his gun, and put one round into her head. He was shocked that he didn’t feel anything for the woman “well maybe” he thought to himself “it because I would have done the same thing to her as well.” Then hoisting himself to his feet he picked up the mounted light machineguns that had been thrown from its stand, like the truck bed, by the explosion. It was a glorified assault rifle really, standard rounds, thirty to a magazine, handle and grip. Nothing to it, this could have been the very gun that he had lost to raiders 6 months ago. Except that on had his fathers name carved into the side, this one was not marked. Well save the scratches that just come with time and use. He looked around and saw that there were eight survivors in all. Himself, Vars, Jack, Richard, and the four survivors from his little town, Katherine, Ron, then the two ex-mercs Sledge and Scrap. They had come fully armed, and ready to kill, before leaving John and mocked them for bringing guns. Now though he was glad they were armed to the teeth.
i know its alot for one sitting but how did you like it
leave some C&C and i hope its co writer will post and give himself some credit
i do action he does the rest
o and i write the stats