Berserker - Green Hell: Sometimes War Is Beyond Hell by Lee Franklin

Author:Lee Franklin [Franklin, Lee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

I woke to an icy blast of high-pressure water blasting on my face and needling my body. I groaned with the agony of my bruised flesh and the feeling that my skull was being crushed between two rocks. With limbs of rubber, I floundered pathetically against the surge of water.

I lay there, naked and helpless as a new-born baby, unable to comprehend what had happened to me. I remembered, though, I’d had a fucking spear through my chest! My hands clutched at my chest, searching for the raw, gaping wound, but there was nothing more than an angry red scar and a dull, bruising throb.

I was relieved to find myself back in my own skin at least, and alive. My hands were no longer deformed and clawed, or my muscles—they were still a lot larger than they had ever been—long and sinewy. Maybe it had all been a damn good hallucination from the drugs I was sure they were pumping into us— alien blood, DNA, crazy shit!

Chook!

The water stopped and a pathetic, wailing noise filled the void. I realised it was me.

“Get dressed, Lance Corporal Pinfold. There’s a bed there. Catch some shut-eye. We’ll be back for you soon enough,” barked a faceless voice. I heard the hosepipe hit the floor and whoever owned the voice left the room.

I heard a key turn the lock, and the tumblers fall into place.

I rolled onto my hands and knees, and rested there until the room stopped spinning. I panted with the effort.

The arena seemed like a lifetime ago, but the mud and blood crusted in my fingernails said different. I vomited, as the wet schlucking sound of pulped Berserker brain replayed in my mind.

Chook…

Climbing to my feet, I shut the thought away. Did it even happen, or was it part of one very fucked up, drug-induced nightmare?

The room was another small cubicle. It was clinical, cold, concrete, and much like every other room I’d seen in the place. I collapsed onto the bed, pulled the thin blanket over my wet, naked body, and closed my eyes. I tried to push away all the crap that threatened to overwhelm me.

I failed.

I kept looking at my hands, which trembled as they had since my first tour. But there was no sign of those beastly claws I’d seen in the arena. Like the rest of the larger and stronger me, my hands were familiar, but not quite mine.

I’d been stoned before; smoked a little bit of grass. I always stayed away from the hard drugs—I saw what they did to people, black and white, and I never wanted to lose myself like that. I hadn’t felt stoned in the arena, though, I had been terrified as shit and running on adrenaline. Then there had been the rage, a boiling, bubbling rage as I beat that thing’s head to a pulp. I don’t ever remember feeling rage like that before. Not even when Jenny…

Jenny, was she safe? Was Harding telling the truth, or did I

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