Rounding the wall to a barrage of gunfire, facing a torrent of bullet-rain that distorted the air around him and blasting air from his lungs, Ryan snapped off a burst of gunfire of his own. His gun bucked fiercely, muzzle flashing to light up the darkened street in glimpses of clarity like lightning in the night as the weapon roared it's war shout. He ducked back behind his cover and breathed, grateful that he had survived one more salvo unharmed even as his ears rang from the cacophony of sound.
Further down the street the rest of his squad remained, their forms broken and sprawled across the floor, sprayed across the walls, glassy eyed on those who had been fortunate enough to retain enough of their forms that such expressions were discernable. Ryan simply hunched behind his scrap of rapidly dissolving cover, breathing ragged as he hoped, no, prayed for survival. It had been too late when his warning shout sounded and the enemy had landed his rpg squad centre, obliterating the fledgling group. The street boomed and echoed with gunfire and now the steady, ominous iambic pentameter of heavy footsteps drawing ever closer to his position. Two magazines left... A couple of grenades... A flare.
Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Ryan was out of options. He raised the pistol-like device of his flare to the sky and fired, his final prayer for help. The weapon recoiled lightly into his palm and with a hiss it's slug flew into the sky, burning bright and lighting the street in eerie red. Now he would wait and see who, if anyone, would come to his aid.
Further down the street the rest of his squad remained, their forms broken and sprawled across the floor, sprayed across the walls, glassy eyed on those who had been fortunate enough to retain enough of their forms that such expressions were discernable. Ryan simply hunched behind his scrap of rapidly dissolving cover, breathing ragged as he hoped, no, prayed for survival. It had been too late when his warning shout sounded and the enemy had landed his rpg squad centre, obliterating the fledgling group. The street boomed and echoed with gunfire and now the steady, ominous iambic pentameter of heavy footsteps drawing ever closer to his position. Two magazines left... A couple of grenades... A flare.
Desperate times called for desperate measures, and Ryan was out of options. He raised the pistol-like device of his flare to the sky and fired, his final prayer for help. The weapon recoiled lightly into his palm and with a hiss it's slug flew into the sky, burning bright and lighting the street in eerie red. Now he would wait and see who, if anyone, would come to his aid.
