lostromantic
First time out of the vault
A little vignette from my main fanfic. I think it's strong enough to stand on its own.
--
What's in a Name?
Click. Pull lever up.
"Red!"
Pull bolt back. The round was indented, a misfire.
"Red! Red! Where the fuck are you!"
Extract round. Careful with the fingers. Slide in five fresh cartridges. Quick count--palming the pouch, weighing it. Empty.
"Red! Oh God, is this my own blood? I'm bleeding, man, I'm hurt bad. Help me, Red!"
Raise rifle. Freeze frame: a two-man sniper team, deployed as overwatch for an infantry position that no longer exists. One man lies wounded, slumped against a rock, a perfect target. Baiting, tormenting the other man.
His partner--behind a few scraggly rocks piled around a secondary foxhole. Primary foxhole--abandoned. Both foxholes slightly behind a ridgeline. Peek over the edge--a symphony of calibers and screams. The tune, all wrong--far too many enemy calibers, far too many friendly men crying out for God, mother, or water. Or for a friend.
A wind, bearing aloft pale yellow sand kicked up by explosions, and the garlic-and-onions stink of exploded ordnance.
"Red! Please. Please. Don't do this. Don't let them get to me. Red. Get me home. Get me someplace--AAHHHHH!"
Now one-and-a half men.
"My legs! My legs! Oh no, oh no, no, no."
Rest stock against shoulder. Lift receiver, flush against the cheek. Place scope two inches from eye socket, to prevent the recoil from gouging out the eyeball. Target, front, two-fifty. Squeeze.
Lift bolt. Pull back. Eject shell. Push forward. Check target.
A modern art masterpiece. Canvas: desert sand. Paintbrush: two-thousand eight-hundred and twenty pounds of muzzle energy concentrated in a thirty-cal round. Paint: the human torso.
Three more Legionnaires appear behind him. Feathers glued to gleaming motorcycle helmets, football pads painted mauve. They disappear behind a small set of boulders. Two men emerge with machetes, fanning out.
"Red." Almost a whisper now, the breathing ragged. "Red, I can see them coming. They're gonna cut me up, do you know that? Red. Please!"
Watch the point of origin for the covering man. The black snub nose of a 12.7mm submachine gun peeks over a rock. Then a face. Squeeze. A flash of pink mist.
Then, quick, cycle action, eject cartridge. No time to check target. Next man, caught in the open, one shot. Pull up, back, forward. Eyes to scope. The last man suddenly appears, impossibly huge, a giant, preparing to leap.
He's way too close. Drop rifle to hip, squeeze. A gaping hole punctuated by unevenly arranged ribs, wheezing, then silence. There's blood on the scope.
Poke head out of foxhole. The orchestra has reached its climax. A massive noise, warcries mixing with stampeding feet.
Cock. Reload. Peer through scope. See the machetes. See madness. A world turned red, black shapes swarming forward like beetles moving through the bottom of a hellish ocean. A fresh company joining the battle. Coming straight for them.
A crawling shape, twenty yards out, a bear on his helmet. "Red. What are we going to do?" Calm now, no more strength left for hysteria.
Covering fire, coming from an entire thirty-man submachinegun platoon, a fusillade. The company is closing now. Two hundred yards out, almost to the first foxhole. Flip the switch. A gout of flame, almost like a volcano, ejecting hot chunks of flesh.
Not enough. Still eighty men left, swinging, surging, uncontrollable.
Lift stock. Press cheek to receiver. Scope two inches from eyeball.
Target, right, twenty yards.
Squeeze.
Now a one-man team.
Back at the camp, assigned to a new unit.
"Hank? I thought people called you Red." Shrug.
"Well, what's in a name, eh?"
--
What's in a Name?
Click. Pull lever up.
"Red!"
Pull bolt back. The round was indented, a misfire.
"Red! Red! Where the fuck are you!"
Extract round. Careful with the fingers. Slide in five fresh cartridges. Quick count--palming the pouch, weighing it. Empty.
"Red! Oh God, is this my own blood? I'm bleeding, man, I'm hurt bad. Help me, Red!"
Raise rifle. Freeze frame: a two-man sniper team, deployed as overwatch for an infantry position that no longer exists. One man lies wounded, slumped against a rock, a perfect target. Baiting, tormenting the other man.
His partner--behind a few scraggly rocks piled around a secondary foxhole. Primary foxhole--abandoned. Both foxholes slightly behind a ridgeline. Peek over the edge--a symphony of calibers and screams. The tune, all wrong--far too many enemy calibers, far too many friendly men crying out for God, mother, or water. Or for a friend.
A wind, bearing aloft pale yellow sand kicked up by explosions, and the garlic-and-onions stink of exploded ordnance.
"Red! Please. Please. Don't do this. Don't let them get to me. Red. Get me home. Get me someplace--AAHHHHH!"
Now one-and-a half men.
"My legs! My legs! Oh no, oh no, no, no."
Rest stock against shoulder. Lift receiver, flush against the cheek. Place scope two inches from eye socket, to prevent the recoil from gouging out the eyeball. Target, front, two-fifty. Squeeze.
Lift bolt. Pull back. Eject shell. Push forward. Check target.
A modern art masterpiece. Canvas: desert sand. Paintbrush: two-thousand eight-hundred and twenty pounds of muzzle energy concentrated in a thirty-cal round. Paint: the human torso.
Three more Legionnaires appear behind him. Feathers glued to gleaming motorcycle helmets, football pads painted mauve. They disappear behind a small set of boulders. Two men emerge with machetes, fanning out.
"Red." Almost a whisper now, the breathing ragged. "Red, I can see them coming. They're gonna cut me up, do you know that? Red. Please!"
Watch the point of origin for the covering man. The black snub nose of a 12.7mm submachine gun peeks over a rock. Then a face. Squeeze. A flash of pink mist.
Then, quick, cycle action, eject cartridge. No time to check target. Next man, caught in the open, one shot. Pull up, back, forward. Eyes to scope. The last man suddenly appears, impossibly huge, a giant, preparing to leap.
He's way too close. Drop rifle to hip, squeeze. A gaping hole punctuated by unevenly arranged ribs, wheezing, then silence. There's blood on the scope.
Poke head out of foxhole. The orchestra has reached its climax. A massive noise, warcries mixing with stampeding feet.
Cock. Reload. Peer through scope. See the machetes. See madness. A world turned red, black shapes swarming forward like beetles moving through the bottom of a hellish ocean. A fresh company joining the battle. Coming straight for them.
A crawling shape, twenty yards out, a bear on his helmet. "Red. What are we going to do?" Calm now, no more strength left for hysteria.
Covering fire, coming from an entire thirty-man submachinegun platoon, a fusillade. The company is closing now. Two hundred yards out, almost to the first foxhole. Flip the switch. A gout of flame, almost like a volcano, ejecting hot chunks of flesh.
Not enough. Still eighty men left, swinging, surging, uncontrollable.
Lift stock. Press cheek to receiver. Scope two inches from eyeball.
Target, right, twenty yards.
Squeeze.
Now a one-man team.
Back at the camp, assigned to a new unit.
"Hank? I thought people called you Red." Shrug.
"Well, what's in a name, eh?"