Sergeant Barrymon sat for a moment as Bub finished speaking. Then he said, “What the hell kind of story was that? You trying to scare me or something, man?”
He opened his eyes. Then he yelled in terror, jumping to his feet with the vox set still coverng his ears.
The platoon was gone. There were star-burts of blood on the trench walls here and there, over the piles of neatly folded clothing. Each Mk-VII helmet had a neat hole punched through it, rimmed with blood. The forty five lasguns and five grenade launchers were leaned against the trench wall in a single line.
A shadowy figure stood a metre away from Barrymon. It loomed over him, somehow drawing the shadows from the trench walls over itself to meld with the dark cloak covering it's carapace armour; a pair of glowing red eyes burned from within the hood. A single blade, of ancient, pitted steel, hung from a twisted hand.
“Your unit engaged the forces of Chaos three years ago,” Bub's voice said in his ear, slowly changing from the light-hearted Elysian's twang to a rasping, guttural tone, “The Mordian Iron Guard weren't in a position to see the Astartes leading the foul heretics. But they could see your unit, and your unit...could see the Astartes.”
Barrymon screamed. Briefly.