Dognag was lost. This was not particularly unexpected, indeed he was often paid large amounts of teef specifically to get lost, usually deep behind enemy lines. Only then he had his boyz with him, and all it took to locate the Waaggh again was a large explosion, which always brought the bosses running (or trukking, or biking, or whatever was their chosen mode of transport for the day). The preferred targets were a large ammo dump, a supply depot, a hanger full of fuel, or even, on a good day, a bunker full of humans who were trying to stay out of the way. But anything would do, the Waaggh would come just the same. On Adrimas VI, a large field of particularly dim-witted farm animals had sufficed.
But today was different. Dognag was lost again, but this time he was on his own; and without the means to trigger an explosion - he had used all his grenades in the ambush. That still rankled - the humans had ambushed him. All had been going well - they had helped to penetrate the frontier defences with ease, the vigilant human guards not even guessing that his kommandos were virtually among them in the night, disabling perimeters, scavenging mines, even taking out the odd sentry without so much as a cheer. The next day, when the main force had breached the walls, Mugragga had sent him and his ladz off again, to do what they did best - what they had done best.
But this time had been different. Humans dressed like grass; a clever trick, worthy of his own repertoire, and it had annoyed him even further amidst the smoke and chaos. They had walked into it, too; half of the squad was gone before he could even uncork a stikk bomb. He wondered idly if any others had survived; he had left the scene in an unanticipated hurry, as his power klaw had got stuck in the side of the low vehicle (which moments before had been a grassy hill) as it tried to mow him down, and he hadn’t managed to dislodge it for a mile or more, even after he had dispatched most of the contents of the transport by liberally posting bombs through the vision slits. Now the smoking wreck lay off to one side of the clearing, the last human to die several feet from the wreckage, his jumpsuit still smoking lazily.
He looked around. The clearing was on the edge of a sparse wood, which seemed to thicken the further he looked into it. He considered this for a moment, and then shook his head. Trees burned, but they rarely exploded; he didn’t think the war boss would come for a smoking forest, and even if he did, he wouldn’t be best pleased that he had rolled up the entire Waaggh for a mass of burning timber. No, he needed to find a settlement, or better, a military installation, and then find a way to attract some attention.
He ducked for cover at the familiar whining sound of engines in the sky, and risked a glance upward as a human flier suddenly burst over the treeline, and sped off across the adjacent grassland. In the distance, something flashed in the sunlight. Dognag grinned widely, displaying an impressive array of teeth, and pulled a crumpled cigar from his pocket. He lit it, and tossed the flame over his shoulder as he set off purposefully across the plain. Behind him, in the sudden silence, the dry grass crackled softly and began to smoulder.
****
Dognag froze, his shoulders taut against the corrugated iron wall of the hangar. Two humans walked past, deep in conversation, their whiny, high-pitched voices echoing in the vastness. They didn’t throw a second glance towards the large pile of fuel drums behind which Dognag crouched, another cigar clenched determinedly between his teeth. When he was sure they had passed, he gingerly upended one of the drums, easing off the cap as he did so. Fuel sloshed onto the hangar floor, splashing his boots. He held onto the drum until it was firmly on its side, rocking slightly from side to side as fuel pulsed out of it in short staccato gulps. He took a long thoughtful draw on his cigar as he watched it spread; then, when he was satisfied, he stole quietly towards the rear of the hanger.
The flight crew turned round in surprise as their aircraft trundled quietly away from them. Their surprise turned to concern as they caught site of the pile of fuel drums in its path. Concern turned to horror and then the overwhelming desire to run as they also took in not only the fuel spill coating a fair proportion of the hangar floor, but also the wildly burning tyres on the base of their aircraft. Most made it to the double-doors when the explosion hit, spilling them haphazardly onto the runway.
Dognag watched the hangar collapse beneath the ballooning mushroom cloud, with a satisfied smile. Robbed of his last cigar, he spat on the floor instead, a large, tobacco-darkened globule. That should do it, he thought cheerfully.
