Character: PFC Michael RoperLocation: Running from Orik Farmstead towards the Olos River
With: No one.
It was too much for Michael.
He was a decorated marine, a soldier who had been lavished with the kind of training regimens reserved for the best of the best. During his time in the HECU, he'd seen things - horrible things, the kind of things that twisted one's belief in their own perceptions, and left them with an existential crisis. Nothing had phased him, not really.
Hell, he'd fought an entire race of aliens at Black Mesa. He'd held his dying brothers-in-arms as they perished from wounds left by weaponry so advanced and unreal, it made the entire U.S military look like a third world nation militia. Nevertheless, he'd held the line, he'd stood his ground in the face of the impossible.
But this? Whatever
this was, defied it all. Michael was not built for it, and standing his ground seemed like the last bad idea of many bad ideas.
And that's why he was running for his life, like a frightened child.
The stalks of corn, frail and moist with rot, brushed against his arms as he sprinted through them. His equipment felt unusually light, as adrenaline kicked in to power his blind panic to near superhuman levels. He'd look up at the night sky, to see the calm of the full Moon beaming back at him ominously, and then he'd look back to see if he was being followed.
It was too dark to tell, and the sound of his laboured breathing seemed to be drowning everything else out. Whatever the case, he wasn't going to stop until his legs gave up under him, and so he carried on.
The corn came to an end suddenly, and in the darkness, Michael ran straight into an upended plough. The rusted metal caught his shin, and he went down like a sack of shit and with a cry of pain. He wasn't aware of the extent of his injury; he might've cracked the bone for all he cared, as the pain was soon forgotten by another wave of adrenaline. He ran on, a slight limp in his gait, but he didn't dare look back.
Everything was dark, despite the Moon above, and through his gas mask he could barely see a few feet ahead of him. If he didn't stop to get his bearings, then he was going to hurt himself - he knew this, and for once, reason over powered his instincts. He skidded to a halt, went down on one knee and pointed his shotgun in the direction he had come.
He tried to stifle his breathing, and strained his ears to his surroundings. He could hear rushing water nearby - a river maybe - but also something else. A rustling - no -
rustlings.
A person's figure burst from the corn with an inhuman howl; Michael watched its silhouette storm forwards with an insect-like gait, its limbs cracking and flinching as it stumbled towards him.
Time to move.He pulled the trigger, and the figure flew backwards with a growl, and then he took off in the direction of the suspected river. More howls answered the echoing thunder of his shotgun, and Michael was of little doubt that more than just a few of these nightmares were hot on his trail. He was making good time, but his pace was slowing - no doubt thanks to his leg injury - and there was no way of telling whether or not he was keeping ahead of his pursuers.
The darkness didn't let him. He could make out the odd shape of a tree, or a rock, but everything was composed of varying shades of black which made it impossible to discern any landmarks. As far as he was concerned, he may as well have been blindfolded. However, the sound of the river was getting louder.
"WE HUNGER!" something screamed with a guttural tone, and it sounded far too close for comfort. Michael chambered another shell.
He stopped abruptly, turned and fired just as the rotted face of another nightmarish ghoul smashed into his. Michael fell backwards, and rolled down hill - unable to stop himself - until he was launched off the edge of a sharp embankment.
The icy cold water enveloped him, and he immediately fought against a current that threatened to keep him under.
