Post by King on Aug 23, 2008 19:47:05 GMT -5
This all happened today during the Hellfish Rec Game at No Limits. I’m going to write this as if real weapons were used, because well, it makes for a more exciting and dangerous sounding story.
I am not being paid enough for this. My M4 Jammed hours ago, I pitched it in the river; it could only slow me down from there. KBR can afford to replace it. Now, the vast majority of our guys have gone missing, probably dead. The Grays have pushed out of their island fortress and now have us overwhelmed, exactly what we intended not to happen. Only a few minutes ago I found myself in the thicket of bushes that was our right flank. The idea was to draw fire and thin the attacker’s numbers. That idea, needless to say, backfired. A sniper who accompanied me was now dead, and I fell back, only after taking a round in the plates. It was small, probably 9mil, but it knocked the wind out of me, felt like I took a major league pitch in the chest. I wasn’t going to stick around to see if the armor could take something larger.
The run, or hobble rather, was taxing, every breath of the 200 yards making me wince in pain. The situation I found upon regrouping with my team… the remainder of my team…was grim to say the least. The Grays were on top of the berm now, 6 or 7 of them. CQBR was pumping off 3 round bursts with his M4, effectively keeping the enemy’s heads down. Knife, his back against a large spool turned to me, pale.
“It’s just us man”. He said, as he slapped a fresh magazine into
his rifle, thumbed the bolt release, and turned toward the hill.
I shouted to him “They’re pushing hard on the right flank, at least four or fi…
“I know” He cut me off, keeping his eyes on the enemy.
My Mark 23 felt heavy in my hands. It had served me well since the failure of my M4. The heavy .45 caliber rounds had taken more lives than I would have liked today, but it was them or me, and I had the feeling more rounds would need to be relocated from their casings to the chests and heads of my enemy. Just then, my mind jumped back to why we were in this position in the first place. The objective. The flag. The small defilade I found myself lying in was just yards from the flag’s position. Those colors (purple) were what I was fighting for, and the enemy would have to kill me to take it from me. Unfortunately, I believe that was their plan.
By now the men who had pushed me back to this position were now moving up, effectively backing us into a corner. I positioned myself looking where I had just come from, the bushes and foliage giving me good visual cover from any encroaching targets, but once I was found, the only thing stopping incoming rounds from killing me were my ballcap and goggles. I could see heads bobbing past gaps in the bushes 200 yards away. They were coming. Knife was know lying down, attempting to suppress the oncoming tide of flesh, steel, and malice. He felled a few of them with accurate fire. We lie parallel with each other, about 20 yards separating us, he had better cover than I, but was visually exposed on his right side, where the round came from. I didn’t hear the rifle, but I knew it was a sniper, just one, silent shot. I looked to Knife only to see his corpse, his head missing it’s contents, and the wall which covered his left side, now looking as if someone had whipped a jar of Smucker’s at it.
I didn’t need to look behind me. I knew CQBR was unflinchingly killing the enemy. I had much confidence in his ability, his rifle’s report reassuring me that we would not be alone on our way to the afterlife. There, lying in those bushes, I waited for a clean shot. The first Gray came from my right, the direction of the sniper that killed Knife. He came running, fast. Not fast enough though, no one is faster than Mr. .45. The pistol bucked twice in my hands, both shots hitting their mark, square in his chest, not more than 3 inches from each other. He slowed, but did not stop. Unsure if he was wearing armor or not, I squeezed off one more silent round. The pistol coughed silently, only the action of the slide audible. The bullet caught him in the neck. He went down. After that I could no longer hear CQBR’s rifle. I thought the worst, but held my position. There was now shouting and footsteps coming from my left.
“Move in!”
“The flag is clear!”
The next Gray I saw actually had the satisfaction of touching the flag. He came from behind me, running straight past me, his eyes fixated on the objective. He shouted happily.
“I’ve got it! It’s ours!”
He sprinted off towards the thicket of bushes.
I can only assume the bullet impacted him just below the base of his skull in the back of the neck, judging by the way his body crumpled limply to the dirt. My flag lay gloriously next to his dead body. A few yards to his left, his fellow Gray, enraged, lept from cover. I’d been spotted. His anger clouded his judgement, fortunately for me. He fired wildly at a full sprint, his shots going wild, clipping the branches above my head. A quick double tap in the belly turned his battlecry into a sick warble, and he fell pathetically to the ground. My Mark 23 was now empty, the slide locked back, exposing it’s inner workings to the elements. I fumbled for a fresh magazine, adrenaline coursing through my veins, sweat stinging my eyes and clouding my vision. The movement must have given me away, as a fourth gray, peeked out from cover, leveling his rifle towards my position. The magazine was cool in my grip, I removed it from it’s pouch and slammed it home, thumbing the slide release, preparing the pistol to take yet another life, to defend my fl…
The Tanny in the bushes had killed far too many of us. I quickly popped above my cover and trained my iron sights on his face, basically all that was visible through the bushes, despite his Civilian attire. The recoil shook through my shoulder, into my chest, and down into my knees. I heard his head pop with a sickening SCHUK. The flag was ripe for the picking. Unguarded, vulnerable. The day was ours, a Gray day.
I am not being paid enough for this. My M4 Jammed hours ago, I pitched it in the river; it could only slow me down from there. KBR can afford to replace it. Now, the vast majority of our guys have gone missing, probably dead. The Grays have pushed out of their island fortress and now have us overwhelmed, exactly what we intended not to happen. Only a few minutes ago I found myself in the thicket of bushes that was our right flank. The idea was to draw fire and thin the attacker’s numbers. That idea, needless to say, backfired. A sniper who accompanied me was now dead, and I fell back, only after taking a round in the plates. It was small, probably 9mil, but it knocked the wind out of me, felt like I took a major league pitch in the chest. I wasn’t going to stick around to see if the armor could take something larger.
The run, or hobble rather, was taxing, every breath of the 200 yards making me wince in pain. The situation I found upon regrouping with my team… the remainder of my team…was grim to say the least. The Grays were on top of the berm now, 6 or 7 of them. CQBR was pumping off 3 round bursts with his M4, effectively keeping the enemy’s heads down. Knife, his back against a large spool turned to me, pale.
“It’s just us man”. He said, as he slapped a fresh magazine into
his rifle, thumbed the bolt release, and turned toward the hill.
I shouted to him “They’re pushing hard on the right flank, at least four or fi…
“I know” He cut me off, keeping his eyes on the enemy.
My Mark 23 felt heavy in my hands. It had served me well since the failure of my M4. The heavy .45 caliber rounds had taken more lives than I would have liked today, but it was them or me, and I had the feeling more rounds would need to be relocated from their casings to the chests and heads of my enemy. Just then, my mind jumped back to why we were in this position in the first place. The objective. The flag. The small defilade I found myself lying in was just yards from the flag’s position. Those colors (purple) were what I was fighting for, and the enemy would have to kill me to take it from me. Unfortunately, I believe that was their plan.
By now the men who had pushed me back to this position were now moving up, effectively backing us into a corner. I positioned myself looking where I had just come from, the bushes and foliage giving me good visual cover from any encroaching targets, but once I was found, the only thing stopping incoming rounds from killing me were my ballcap and goggles. I could see heads bobbing past gaps in the bushes 200 yards away. They were coming. Knife was know lying down, attempting to suppress the oncoming tide of flesh, steel, and malice. He felled a few of them with accurate fire. We lie parallel with each other, about 20 yards separating us, he had better cover than I, but was visually exposed on his right side, where the round came from. I didn’t hear the rifle, but I knew it was a sniper, just one, silent shot. I looked to Knife only to see his corpse, his head missing it’s contents, and the wall which covered his left side, now looking as if someone had whipped a jar of Smucker’s at it.
I didn’t need to look behind me. I knew CQBR was unflinchingly killing the enemy. I had much confidence in his ability, his rifle’s report reassuring me that we would not be alone on our way to the afterlife. There, lying in those bushes, I waited for a clean shot. The first Gray came from my right, the direction of the sniper that killed Knife. He came running, fast. Not fast enough though, no one is faster than Mr. .45. The pistol bucked twice in my hands, both shots hitting their mark, square in his chest, not more than 3 inches from each other. He slowed, but did not stop. Unsure if he was wearing armor or not, I squeezed off one more silent round. The pistol coughed silently, only the action of the slide audible. The bullet caught him in the neck. He went down. After that I could no longer hear CQBR’s rifle. I thought the worst, but held my position. There was now shouting and footsteps coming from my left.
“Move in!”
“The flag is clear!”
The next Gray I saw actually had the satisfaction of touching the flag. He came from behind me, running straight past me, his eyes fixated on the objective. He shouted happily.
“I’ve got it! It’s ours!”
He sprinted off towards the thicket of bushes.
I can only assume the bullet impacted him just below the base of his skull in the back of the neck, judging by the way his body crumpled limply to the dirt. My flag lay gloriously next to his dead body. A few yards to his left, his fellow Gray, enraged, lept from cover. I’d been spotted. His anger clouded his judgement, fortunately for me. He fired wildly at a full sprint, his shots going wild, clipping the branches above my head. A quick double tap in the belly turned his battlecry into a sick warble, and he fell pathetically to the ground. My Mark 23 was now empty, the slide locked back, exposing it’s inner workings to the elements. I fumbled for a fresh magazine, adrenaline coursing through my veins, sweat stinging my eyes and clouding my vision. The movement must have given me away, as a fourth gray, peeked out from cover, leveling his rifle towards my position. The magazine was cool in my grip, I removed it from it’s pouch and slammed it home, thumbing the slide release, preparing the pistol to take yet another life, to defend my fl…
The Tanny in the bushes had killed far too many of us. I quickly popped above my cover and trained my iron sights on his face, basically all that was visible through the bushes, despite his Civilian attire. The recoil shook through my shoulder, into my chest, and down into my knees. I heard his head pop with a sickening SCHUK. The flag was ripe for the picking. Unguarded, vulnerable. The day was ours, a Gray day.
