Our guns had no affect. Stevie blasted every energy burst he had. He was our best shooter and I even saw the bolts strike again and again I. The same marksman grouping, to no avail. Nothing. If Stevie, at full-bore, with his pinpoint accuracy, couldn’t put a dent into this thing, what the fuck else are we supposed to do?

I changed my bolt battery pack, the polymer case ejecting from the back of my blaster and tumbling down the growing pile of expended packs.

A trio of Maxles boomed down from the mountains to our west and straffed the lead beasts. These strikes, at last, had an affect. Bits and chunks of the beasts exploded from their backs. Their protective armor unable to withstand thousands of massive carbonate rail-gun slivers launched at supersonic speeds. A roar burst from the entrenched grunts. I stole a quick look at Stevie as he ejected another battery pack. He giggled and immediately began firing on the nearest beast’s semi-exposed visual-sensory organ.

Our duckbird science guys still couldn’t figure out how the beasts saw, or sensed? Or communicated. It was basically a nothingbar of knowledge. So we just had to keep shooting. And moving. And shooting.

Stevie and I hadn’t lost anybody we knew yet, but it was only a matter of time. This couldn’t go on forever. The beasts were tough and they never slowed down.