chsdbacks Chapter 5 Massacre
Chapter 5 Massacre
"boom!"
With a loud bang, the heavy blast door in the hall was blown away.
The twisted metal door tumbled through the air and crashed heavily into a group of screaming refugees who were scattering in all directions, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Immediately afterwards, those nauseating roars poured in along with the thick smoke.
"Meat! Fresh meat!"
"Skin them alive! Offer them to the God of Blood!"
A dozen or so figures rushed into the hall.
This group is known as the Skinners gang.
At the bottom of Forge-7, the Skinners are the second biggest pest after the Mutant Tribe.
These people are not fanatical believers in chaos, nor do they have the intelligence to understand the whispers of the warp. They are just a group of lunatics whose frontal lobes have degenerated due to long-term consumption of industrially contaminated corpse starch.
The skinners believe that skinning their enemies allows them to absorb their power, so each official member carries several roughly tanned "trophies." Although their equipment is tattered and pieced together from scraps, their sheer numbers and complete lack of pain receptors make them a formidable force, capable of overwhelming their opponents with sheer numbers.
Their image is usually that of someone shirtless with dried human skin hanging on their body; some even sew the victim's face onto their own mask.
He was holding a crudely made chainsaw, a spiked club made from a water pipe, and several automatic pistols that had changed hands countless times.
To the commoners in the hall, they were a group of demons from hell.
But in Andy's eyes, they were just a bunch of moving red boxes.
[Battle protocol activated.]
Threat assessment: Extremely low.
Target quantity: 14.
[Suggested solution: Targeted elimination.]
Andy stood still, his feet slightly apart, locking the hydraulic joints.
He doesn't need to find cover.
For these low-level thugs wielding fire sticks, the best cover is absolute firepower suppression.
He raised the automatic gun that had just been cleaned.
The butt of the gun struck the metal shoulder armor with a crisp clanging sound.
No breathing adjustments or heart rate control are required.
His STC ballistic computer calculated wind speed, humidity, recoil compensation, and the target's trajectory in a fraction of a second.
"Bang."
The first shot rang out.
The thug at the front was waving a rusty chainsaw sword and shouting something.
The next second, a black hole appeared between his eyebrows.
His head snapped back, but his body was propelled forward two steps by inertia before finally collapsing to the ground like a tattered sack.
The surrounding thugs were stunned; they had never seen this kind of fighting before.
In the gang war at the bottom of the nest, everyone is holding the trigger, shouting and spraying bullets. Whether they hit or not depends entirely on luck and the Emperor's blessing.
How can something fire only one shot and then stop?
But Andy didn't give them time to think.
"Bang. Bang. Bang."
Three very rhythmic gunshots rang out.
Every time the gun barrel bounced, it was perfectly suppressed by that metal arm.
The three thugs fell to the ground, all shot between the eyebrows.
In the Warhammer 40K universe, such precision is typically only achievable by veteran Astronauts who have undergone decades of training, or by Space Marines with assisted aiming systems.
The automatic gun, now cleaned of lubricant and sealant by Andy, was displaying the excellent performance it was originally designed for.
The feeding was smooth, the firing was crisp, and the spent cartridge cases flying out of the ejection port drew graceful arcs in the air.
There was no jamming, and no explosion.
As it turns out, as long as you don't fill the gun with sand, human-made products are actually quite durable.
In just five seconds, seven people had already fallen to the ground.
The remaining thugs finally realized what was happening.
"Dry that tin can!"
A burly gang leader roared and fired a shot at Andy, brandishing a bomb pistol he'd picked up from who-knows-where.
"boom!"
The bomb exploded on the floor at Andy's feet, and shrapnel clattered against his leg armor, only scratching the paint a little.
The engineering alloys from the DAOT era were many orders of magnitude harder than these homemade explosives.
Before the gang leader could fire a second shot, Andy had already moved his gun over.
"Bang."
The leader's hand holding the gun was broken off.
Andy deliberately didn't shoot the head because he saw that the guy had several fragmentation grenades hanging on his body that looked usable.
If we destroy it, it's a waste of resources.
At that moment, two bloodthirsty thugs rushed up to Andy.
Since a gun can't penetrate it, then use a knife to cut it.
Two chainsaw swords slashed toward Andy's neck with a piercing noise.
Andy didn't even put down his gun.
His left hand suddenly rose, so fast that it was impossible to see it.
"Click."
That was the sound of bones breaking.
Andy grabbed the blade of one of the chainsaw swords.
The high-speed rotating saw blades cut into Andy's palm, sparks flying and a teeth-grinding scraping sound, but they just couldn't cut through.
Andy clenched his fist tightly.
The drive shaft of the chainsaw sword was snapped off.
Immediately afterwards, he swung his hand back, and the thug, sword and all, was sent flying seven or eight meters away, crashing heavily into the wall and turning into a puddle of mud on the spot.
The other thug was terrified, unsure whether to slash or put away his knife.
Without any hesitation, Andy smashed the butt of his gun directly into Andy's Adam's apple.
The thug clutched his throat and collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath; he was clearly not going to make it.
Ten seconds.
Or perhaps fifteen seconds later, the hall fell silent.
All that remained was the petty boss with the severed hand rolling on the ground screaming in agony, and the wisps of smoke rising from the muzzle of the automatic gun.
Andy stood amidst the pile of corpses, his red electronic eyes slowly turning back to a soft blue.
He skillfully pressed the magazine release button, caught the empty magazine, and replaced it with a new one.
The movements were precise and fluid, without any unnecessary emotional expression.
It could even be described as somewhat boring.
For an Ironman with a complete database, this kind of battle is as simple as cleaning up junk files on a computer desktop.
Simply select it and then click delete.
A short while later, Gamma-9 poked its head out from under a table.
He looked at Andy with his one eye, then at the corpses scattered on the ground, his mouth agape enough to fit a light bulb.
He had witnessed fighter spies killing people; it was a violent, bloody scene.
He had also witnessed the purists commit murder, a kind of ritualistic escalation.
But he had never seen such carnage before.
Ruthless, efficient, without any nonsense or pity.
It's like... like a precision instrument undergoing calibration.
Andy slung the gun back over his shoulder and walked up to the small-time leader who was still screaming in pain.
He raised his foot and stepped on the guy's head.
The screams abruptly stopped.
Andy turned his head and looked at Gamma-9, who was still lying on the ground.
"What are you standing there for?"
Andy pointed to the corpses on the ground.
"This trash is also a resource."
"Take off their weapons, ammunition, and all the metal ornaments they wear."
"Especially that grenade, handle it carefully, don't let it explode."
"With the great cause of farming above us, we are in dire need of supplies right now."