Star Trek: The Romulan Wars - The Outpost Page #2

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Jesus!

Don't just f***ing stand there! Help me!

- Sh*t!

- Jesus f***!

Look at him.

Name?

Poor bastard.

His brain is totally minced.

Name?

Back off!

He's f***ing gone, guys. Pluto.

I'm shot.

What part of me looks like I give a f***?

Wait a sec.

He could just be a f***ing farmer.

Farmer? Yeah, right.

- Talk, fuckmeat!

- That's enough.

Top, I reckon the locals used this place

for a little bit of ethnic cleansing

- then moved on.

- It's possible.

It's like a slaughterhouse down there.

- He's the only one we found breathing.

- Christ.

Your guess is as good as mine.

So what does that make you?

Some kind of f***ing tourist?

- I could ask you the same.

- I'm a soldier.

No, you're an employee.

Speaking of which, aren't you supposed

to be protecting someone?

How do you think I got that?

- And how does beating him up help?

- It made me feel better, all right?

Running a little low on causes, though,

wouldn't you say?

Walk away.

You know, getting punchy

isn't the smartest play with these guys.

Which is why I hired you to hold their leash.

You seem pretty concerned for his welfare.

It's just a little thing called compassion.

- So he's nothing to do with you?

- Nothing.

And finding all those dead bodies

and him in the middle

has got nothing to do

with your assignment?

I don't think he looked like

he was in my line of business, do you?

Now, am I dismissed?

That being the case,

I think you might all want to see this.

You can say what you like about the Nazis,

but they had style.

What the f*** are we doing

standing in a German bunker?

SS.

- But not since about 1945.

- Aye, right.

Wait a minute.

You're looking for gold out here, right?

I know about all this sh*t.

Lost Nazi gold.

Right. F*** gold.

I want three primaries up there

in the tree line, 30 meters spread

- and lay some wire beyond that.

- Whoa, stop the f***ing bus.

I thought this was strictly a 48, in and out.

And now we've got an unknown number

of hostiles sending down fire.

So we, meaning you, dig in.

Bodies.

Dead men this high.

Why dump them here?

Because they more than just killed

these men.

Burying someone already, eh?

Set in for the night.

- Mr. C*nt thinks he's onto some Nazi gold.

- Gold?

Those bushwhackers out there

think they're following a money train.

They'll be back.

So you better watch your arses. All right?

Forty-eight hour job.

You have better places to be?

Nice.

You play?

All this sh*t is why I left the Marines.

- Strike gold yet?

- Can't even find a match to strike. You got?

Sure.

I hate that feeling you get in the field.

You know, always like

someone is watching you.

Apparently someone is.

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