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Post by Deleted on Aug 4, 2013 6:55:16 GMT -8
Now that the hole was plugged up on both ends, I manage to pull myself up into a sitting position. Still hurts like a son of a bitch, but the endorphins are kicking in. The Israeli bandage goes around my waste, the sterile pad on the the front side. I cinch the thing down, applying as much pressure as I can take. The pressure doesn't feel good at all, but it'll hold everything together for the time being. Now for the knee. It feels sprained, which is a problem, but not a huge one. I pull the emergency splint from the pack. It looks like a piece of foam, about 1 foot by 3, but if you bend it right, it's rigid. It'll keep my leg straight so I don't have to worry about it folding again. It goes on and is secured by copious amounts of duct tape.
With that out of the way, I pull out yet another packet of goodies, this time a combat pill pack. Antibiotics, painkiller, a few other little odds and ends to keep a guy going until the docs could take a look. It goes down with a swig of Jack from the canteen. Probably not the best of ideas, all things considered, but it helped steady my nerves.
Now for the hard part. Marilyn isn't around to help, so I use the stoop railing to pull myself to my feet. The splint is holding. My side feels like hell, and I'm a bit woozy, but I'm up. I manage to hobble around the corner to take a look at my handiwork.
The dead Russians were cleanly killed, one through the heart, the other through the brain stem. I can't help but shake my head. I'm a good shot, but that wasn't something you do on purpose with a pistol. The human body really is an amazing thing under pressure.
The third guy, the one trying to crawl away, wasn't going to be moving anywhere much longer. I missed the heart, judging by the exit wound, but, but I had at least punctured a lung. Freaking amazing that he was still conscious, really. I consider putting a round through the back of his head, but Marilyn looks like she has something in mind. This wasn't something as simple as giving her a chance to revenge. I need to see if she's going to crack. She damn near did a minute ago, and it almost got my ass shot off. Not going to abandon her to this wretched place if I can help it, but if she's going to be a loose cannon, she's not getting a goddamn gun.
Sound cold? Of course it is. Cold is going to get us out of this alive.
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Oct 21, 2013 7:14:13 GMT -8
So this was war, the exchange of violent conflict to determined who gets to live and who gets to clutch their guts while passing away. And for what? Pride? Purpose? Right now, all she can see are the red edges, the red vessels that surrounded her city as it was lit aflame. And then deep inside she felt something, something wasn't the instinct to crawl into a ball or hug a concrete wall and much as possible. It was burning, numbing. It was searing her insides, filling her with rage.
Not the kind you read about, not the kind you think about.
And before Marilyn had considered things like tactics or safety or even the implications of the actions.
!KKKRRROOMMMM!
A .303 up close to someone's head did such strange things when deforming it with its energy. Parts of his skull has smeared out steaming, bubbling with bits of brain and sticky trails that popped like boiling cheese and leaked like pumping streams of crimson. Who would of thought that an eyeball can roll before sticking to the dry and flame kissed pavement.
Just like that, she was a murderer.
What was this? Red blood droplets pockmarking her lenses? How annoying -glasses are always getting stained.
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Post by Deleted on Oct 21, 2013 7:54:10 GMT -8
I grit my teeth against the pain as I hobble over and examine her handiwork. Christ, that ballistic tip is a son of a bitch. It functions much like a hollow point pistol round, but has a frangible plastic tip to preserve aerodynamics. Makes a goddamn mess at any range, but point blank...
I can't really condemn her for shooting the poor bastard. Kinda wish she would have stabbed him instead. Gonna be a pain in the ass to get the blood out of the barrel. Still, it was clean and it was cold. He was armed, so I wouldn't call it murder, and she didn't play with him. All good signs.
I can't help but notice that she's fairly well covered in blood by this point, and a fair bit of it is mine. The dead Russian added a fine mist over top of everything else. Her glasses seem to have kept it out of her eyes. Good. If it were me planning this thing, I'd have made sure the suicide squad (because that's basically what these guys are at the end of the day) had something nasty. Give them motivation to die cleanly. No way to tell without a lab, and we're damn sure not going to find one on the street.
Right. We've got to get off this accursed street.
"Shall we get going, then? Probably ought to unass this place before their buddies get here."
I keep my tone light, voice as calm as it's going to be, what with my whole body trembling under the strain of standing.
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Oct 21, 2013 8:23:18 GMT -8
She was already continuing the general motion towards the apartment once he started speaking. Something was slowly clicking about her reality, and death was falling further and further back upon the objective list. By the time the soldier had gathered himself, the lass had unlatched the Russian's rifle, taken one of his packs of extra magazines, and taken his phone -ignoring any blood she was further smearing either over herself or over her loot.
It was probably a bit reckless, but rather than stop to properly stow the gear, she decided to march of and strap it on the go. It might have been odd to watch her spine twist, seemingly independent of her hips, but the young woman managed.
Slow and steady, he had said. Slow is careful. Slow is in control. Everything at this moment was charged with purpose -even her delayed breathing was slowed.
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Post by Deleted on Oct 21, 2013 9:01:56 GMT -8
Under less dire circumstances, I might have appreciated the view, or at least have time to wonder whether or not the human body is supposed to contort like that. As it stands, I'm barely able to force myself to hobble on after her. God, this is tiring. It's like the hole in my side is leaking energy, even if the bleeding stopped. Still, somehow I manage to stay on my feet as we pass what my internal map tells me is about the right distance.
I'm soaked with sweat by this point, and given the chill in the air, this is not good. The last thing I need is hypothermia in top of everything else. Breathing is hard; it feels like I just ran a marathon.
Look, don't believe what you see in the movies. You don't take a bullet, wrap a bit of torn cloth around the hole, and then act like nothing happened. It plays havoc with your body, and like it or not, you've got to take that into account. Shock, hypothermia in the cold and heat stroke in the warm, infection. There are a million things to consider, and all you really want to do is curl up in a ball and pass out. You can force your body to do amazing things in times of need, but there is always a price to pay after.
My payment would be due soon. Just a little further...
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Oct 27, 2013 12:52:34 GMT -8
At a certain point in her slow march she suddenly realizes that she has trotted out of their ragged formation and has let Wilson drop further and further behind. This realization did not bother her in the slightest. In fact, part of her wanted to start sprinting off and take a few wrong turns as to turn the soldier loose and drop him. There was no advantage to such an action, and there probably was no sense in it, and yet for the smallest of thought cycles this is all she could ever want.
Things would be simpler as one, anyway; besides, she might not be aiming to live in this world much longer.
A pause and deeper reflection provided the truth behind these odd thoughts: Marilyn simply wanted to be alone. Once they reached her apartment, she could have that peace -hopefully.
For now, she steps into cover carefully by taking refuge inside a stone archway and scanning up and down the avenue, waiting for the companion to reach her position.
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Post by Deleted on Oct 27, 2013 13:39:54 GMT -8
Another thing they don't tell you on TV: bullet wounds do nothing to improve one's temperament. So when, for a brief moment, she glances back and it looks for all the world like she's planning to bolt, I'm not in the most charitable of moods.
She has my rifle.
And right about now, I'd mow her down before I'd let her take it.
It's a sobering thought, one born from desperation and exhaustion and sheer frustration, but that doesn't make it any less true. Fortunately, it looks like she's stopping. I take this as a positive sign and hobble under the archway after her.
"Fancy meeting you here," I growl. The low pitched tones do an adequate job of both conveying my annoyance without giving away our attention. Believe it or not, a whisper travels farther than you might think.
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Nov 3, 2013 10:39:36 GMT -8
It has no effect upon her, and unless he was going to get hands on, the point would be moot. Frankly, she wouldn't respond to that kind of thing either. Most likely, our story would end right there.
Perhaps she was taking things too seriously, even if it was as if Hades had opened up and popped out of bunch of Russian death machines. In anycase, she simply grunts at his comment, continues to scan the street, and then looks him over once, asking:
"Five more blocks. Can you make it?"
He should know that Marilyn was one for dramatics and overwhelming gestures. This sort of stoic nonsense was either a really bad sign, or the perfect thing to rise to this troublesome occasion.
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Post by Deleted on Nov 3, 2013 11:36:30 GMT -8
Under normal circumstances, her dull, flat tone would bother me. Now though, I could hardly stand.
5 blocks? No way in hell. Not without some help. Fortunately, I had some. Sort of.
Without really thinking about it earlier, I had pulled an EpiPen out of my pack and threw it in my jacket pocket. Technically used to treat allergies, they are also of some utility as a last resort. They give a massive burst of energy, but the crash after is legendary. There's a reason you're supposed to have a prescription for them. Still, my mom is allergic to just about everything to ever walk, crawl, or grow, and she's always had a healthy stockpile on hand. She never objects to one being in the first aid kit.
I jab the thing into my thigh and hit the trigger. There's a sharp burst of pain, but it's a drop in the ocean compared to the bigger problems. Next comes a spreading feeling of warmth as the artificial endorphins begin to flood through my bloodstream.
30 seconds go by. I can feel my heart starting to race.
A minute. The pain begins to recede, not in intensity, but in, well, distance I guess. It's still there, it's still a sonofabitch, but it's like it's being transmitted from a long ways off.
"5 blocks? Let's roll."
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Diva, from Aeons Torn
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Post by Diva, from Aeons Torn on Nov 3, 2013 13:42:29 GMT -8
Great. Her surviving partner was the kind of wanker who said things like, 'Let's roll.' She thought that was a catchphrase made by frat boy movie producers when filming crappy movies about fighting arabs. Corny. Then again, she was willing to offer him the benefit of the doubt: the guy had just been lit the fuck up, and was still up.
This was good. She was glad all that talk he had about war was backed up with some brass balls. It would come in very handy.
For now, all they could do was walk carefully, and she did, this time making sure to stay in formation.
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Post by Deleted on Nov 3, 2013 14:32:06 GMT -8
Her grimace makes it apparent that I never told that story. Alas.
Oh well.
Five blocks. I'm twitchy as hell, enough that the revolver is definitely out as a weapon of choice. I'm kind of kicking myself for not bringing the AR along, but alas. The shotgun, and hopefully Marilyn, would pull through in a pinch.
Four blocks. I would have sworn the earlier gunfire would have attracted some attention, but I guess not. The sounds of a running battle are still echoing through the artificial canyons of the city. Oddly enough, it looks like the lights are still on in several buildings. It looks like they haven't yet cut the power.
Three blocks. More bodies. Definite signs of a massacre, though not as one sided as it could have been. Looks like one of the locals, an old man, had managed to hang on to a war trophy over the years. He must have been pushing 90, but there are three dead Russians in front of his slowly cooling corpse. I stop for a minute to pull the P38 from his hand. 9mm ammo is plentiful on any battlefield.
Two blocks. My phone is buzzing in my pocket, but I dare not check it. Not here. Odd, though. There's still power. They aren't jamming the cell freqs and they haven't destroyed the towers. It's almost like the attackers want us to be able to communicate with the outside world.
Last block. I hope to God we're almost there. Even with the boost from the epinephrine, my body is reaching its limit. Not that I'll say anything to her. Stubborn and potentially dangerous though it may be, I don't dare show more weakness than necessary. It's a pride thing, I guess. Your squad mates know just about everything except how you wipe, but you just don't let outsiders in. And whether I like it or not, Marilyn is still an outsider. We've written together for months, talked and joked about all sorts of things, but out here, when the bullets had flown, she froze. If I let her know exactly how badly I hurt, she might panic or run off or some other damn fool thing. And right now, she might not need me, but I need her, for shelter at the very least. Someplace off the street where I can hole up for a few days and recover some strength. It would be nice to have a friend, but right about now, I don't know where we stand and now isn't the time to worry about it.
"Ok, where to now?"
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Post by Deleted on Feb 18, 2014 7:53:20 GMT -8
1 month later
Whoever said the difference between a terrorist and a freedom fighter is all in the PR was an idiot. Or maybe they still are an idiot. Stupidity is no guarantor of a miserably unpleasant death in most of the world.
It is here, though.
At this point, the most foolhardy thing we could do is start acting like terrorists, getting all bomb happy and shit. The Russians already want our heads on pikes, and not in a metaphorical way. If we piss off the normal folks in this fine city, they'll make us wish the Russians had caught us. New Yorkers have a special relationship with terrorists.
So no mass casualty events for the Russians. No civilian casualties when we strike. In other words, stick to the international laws of war and we'll be fine. We'll be awful lonely, but at least the common folk won't rip us limb from limb.
It's been a little over a month since that first terrible night. I don't remember most of it. Between the epinephrine, the blood loss, and the shock, the next few days are sort of hazy. I vaguely remember making it back to the apartment. Once the drugs wore off, I crashed and slept for what felt like a few days. All I remember after that was waking up and getting the distinct impression that it was time for me to leave that place, and so I did. Left her the shotgun, some cash, and half my MRE supply. Life was pretty miserable out on my own, what with a hole in my side and Russians everywhere, but I had complete freedom to act without worrying about anyone else getting caught up in the crossfire.
I had a whole week of picking the bastards off with the Enfield before the main body arrived. Did you know that a single, well placed .303 round can kill three men of a similar height, if you get them lined up and hit the right spot? They stopped walking in a line after that one, and started spreading out. I almost feel like a proud papa every time I see a patrol walk past with proper intervals and in something resembling a tactical formation.
If nothing else, the survivors of this little expedition were getting a down and dirty education in the finer points of asymmetrical urban warfare. Don't walk in a line, all bunched up like kids heading to class at school. Don't make it easy to pick the officers out in a crowd, unless you really don't like them. Leave the women alone unless you want to learn what they can do with a cork and a bit of razor blade. You can always tell the ones that nearly made the transition from Ivan to Ivana. They walk like they've had their dick sliced in half.
That all changed when the regulars arrived. The first wave had been mostly the sons of convicts, inserted a year or two or even five ahead of time and supplied by other infiltrators. They had next to no real military training, which is why they weren't on any watch lists, but they were all quite eager to clear their families' names. The regulars, on the other hand, were actual soldiers, paratroopers, to be exact, dropped in a week after the initial attack. Apparently, they managed to avoid getting shot down by putting nukes on the transport planes. Blow up a plane, set off a nuke. Simple, but brilliant.
Anyway, things changed pretty quickly after that. Anyone out after curfew was rounded up and shot. Anyone caught talking on a cell phone was rounded up and shot. All the prostitutes were rounded up and shot. Their Intel section raided the register of deeds, looking for DD-214 files. Any veterans they found were rounded up and shot. Or at least that was the intent. They picked up a few POGs, but once it became clear what was going on, even the admin folks got dangerous. Still, these guys weren't playing games. They were smart enough to hunt down anyone they possibly could have considered a threat.
Fortunately for me, they weren't looking for artillery sergeants from North Carolina. They were pretty keen to catch the guy who popped two majors and a light colonel with a .303, but they didn't make the connection. All they knew was, out of the dozen or so active snipers in the Manhattan area, one was using a round that went out of style over 60 years ago. I was fourth on their shit list, right after a former Marine with a .338, an old Vietnam vet that apparently filled his rounds with mercury and thereby rendered them unidentifiable after impact, and a Cav scout that had somehow got his hands on a DShK. We all ran into each other from time to time, scouting out positions and occasionally coordinating. Cav was handy to have nearby; full auto from him would more or less baffle the range and direction finders the Russians had been using to root out snipers. Nam was a bit of a loner, but DD (Devil Dog, in case you're wondering) was a pretty decent fellow. He didn't mind coordinating with Arty (my handle, and a source of endless amusement for some.)
Numbers 5-8 were all part of a Special Forces squad that made their way into the city. The movies always portray SF guys as these invincible bearded badasses that eat bullets and piss napalm, and after meeting these guys, I'm not convinced that they're wrong. That being said, the primary mission of the SF has always been to train locals to do the fighting themselves, and that was what made them truly dangerous. Aside from teaching small bands of locals how to be very, very dangerous in close quarters, they also opened up supply lines for things like ammo. I don't know how they do it, and frankly, I don't care, so long as I keep getting .303 by the case.
So now you have a half decent picture of the world we're moving through. Bound by decency and duty, we few are fighting a clean fight against a bunch of dirty motherfuckers that have no problem sending rockets and kill squads into a civilian population center. We're no more than wasps pricking the sides of a giant, but before we inevitably screw up and get killed, that giant is going to learn to hate our asses. There's no relief. The government dares not commit to a counteroffensive, for fear that the Russians will destroy it with nuclear fire. We are on our own.
Works for me. I snug the butt of my Lee Enfield into the pocket of my shoulder. There's supposed to be a patrol moving through here soon. I settle down behind the rifle, ignoring the pain in my side, and wait.
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