Shrieks whistled over head as several mortars were lobbed into the air. Moments later thunderous booms echoed across the no-mans land. A lone figure dived into a crater made by one of the very mortars he was hiding from. Mud seeped into his cloths as he made contact with a puddle left from the previous nights rain. He barely had time to register this however, before more canisters hit the ground and detonated, releasing a powerful blasts and an even more powerful concussion. The figure closed his eyes, trying to shield himself from the bits of dirt, metal, and lord knows what else that the blast had thrown into the sky.
Then there was an eerie piece, lasting only the amount of time it takes for another round of mortars to be launched, in which another figure sprinted across the muddy plain, and dived beside the first. "I can feel the noise!" he exclaimed, referencing his favorite Quiet Riot song.
The first figure made a reply, but it was drowned out by the sudden shrieks of a new wave of mortars. A third figure watched this, his cloths stained to where they looked as brown as the mud around him. He slowly drew the knife out of the sheath on his hip. It was a normal knife, no smaller than average. This knife had no special meaning. Except for the role it would play in the lives of the two figures he was watching from only a few feet above.
The two figures were part of a unique group. Trench warfare is a difficult kind to fight. Without tanks, or very few, it is hard to advance. So, to counteract this, special teams hard been developed to eliminate "nests" of enemy resistance. Primarily those pockets that had been armed with machine guns. Armed with the best weapons the Bronies could muster, they would clear a spot through means of explosives, then signal for the bulk of the army to advance.
To counteract this, the Haters had positioned lookouts, such as the one above, to spot, and then quietly remove the advanced scouts. And now we find Jake Highlander, a large, red-haired boy, with a reputation for aggressiveness on the football field and his friend, Alex Dapt, a skinny brown haired lad of average hight and the friendlier one of the two, but not the funniest, hiding from a barrage in a crater, waiting for it to die out, whilst, unbeknownst to them, possible death awaits only an arms length away.
The look out above them, whom we shall call simply Bob for now, gazed down at the two opponents before him. He didn't want to fight the ginger at odds of two to one. He looked like he might be a problem by himself with that large machete strung across his back. If he could kill the other quickly, then he might have a shot. He could shoot them just fine, but the thought of alerting other advanced teams to his position was not one he was happy about.
Another burst of mortars came from Bob's lines, which he used to mask the sounds of his getting into a striking position. He thought that his canteen hitting a grenade might have given him away, but it appeared that the two figures were two engrossed in the sounds of the mortars to hear him, perfect. In fact, Jake had heard him, but wasn't prepared to think that another human would be above trench hight right now.
He was proven wrong when Bob jumped from the mound of dirt above the two, aiming for Alex's jugular. By sheer luck, Alex had readjusted his position, to provide more comfort, causing Bobs knife to pass harmlessly three inches to the right of Alex's eye. Quick as something that is quick, Jake had the blade of his machete buried in the mid back of Bob. It wasn't a killing blow, but it would be extremely pain full, enough so to cause Bob to scream loudly in pain. Loud enough to alert other lookouts that something was afoot.
Jake, not in as much shock as Alex, was sprinting back to Brony lines, not waiting for another lookout(s) to find the temporarily injured comrade, and them as well. Alex, somewhat dazed by the near death experience, was still sitting in the trench, pondering the life that had flashed before his eyes. As far as he could tell, it hadn't been a good one. Indeed it was a life most would be envious of, but humans measure things by suffering, as such, all he saw were the relatively few dark moments he had, so to him it seemed as if nothing had happened in his years. Suddenly a loud crack, then a second, as jake fired rounds from an old M14.
He looked around, returning to reality. Hater lookouts were sprinting toward the screaming figure of Bob, trying to break through the barrage of riffle fire that Jake and several other advanced Brony teams were laying down. Alex stood up, looking around in an attempt to comprehend what had just taken place. Then it hit him, literally in the canteen, as a 9mm round bounced off of it and into the dirt, leaving a small depression. His reflexes kicked in, causing him to dive to the ground, searching for his dropped 22. caliber. It wasn't the biggest gun, but it was accurate and the rounds were small, so he could carry more of them.
He found it, sticking out of the mud, looking like just another stick. In Alex's mind, he was moving with the utmost swiftness and agility. In the eyes of others however, he was stepping around lethargically. He crawled to the top of the crater, directing the muzzle of the gun toward the onrushing haters. Then stopped. It wasn't just lookouts any more, troops were pouring out of the trenches, charging, bayonets extended. Alex looked behind himself.
Bronies were pouring out of their own trenches, attaching all assortments of blades to the ends of the fire arms.
Jake was no more than two feet from Alex, but as far as he could tell from his pretrial vision, he was in shock after a narrow brush with death. Not that he could blame him for that. At least he was trying to regain a straight line of thought.
A sharp clink alerted Jake to the emptied magazine. He reached down to his belt, his fingers searching the emptied pockets for some trace of ammunition that wasn't spent. A pained scream sounded to his right. Impaled with a bayonet, a brony lay on the ground, trying to staunch the flow of blood leaking from a wound in his chest. Trying to rip his weapon from between the ribs of his victim, the hater whom had stabbed him only made the wound wider by twisting the blade around.
Before he could remove the blade completely, however, he fell to the ground, a hole evident in his neck where Jake had shot him with his .357. It appeared to him that the time for close quarters combat was at hand. An assortment of pistols, knifes, and if you were lucky, a shotgun or fully automatic weapon.
The two sides had already clashed, small arms ringing out in a defiant call amidst the shrieks of blades against blades. Jake stood there, pistol in one hand, machete in the other, firing at point blake into the onrushing noobs. This was too easy.
But then his six rounds were spent, and he was forced to reload. Pushing forward the latch, knocked the magazine out, spinning it to drop the bullet casing to the ground. Reaching into his pocket, he removed a handful of rounds, shoving them into place with practice ease, and shoving the rest into his mouth so they would be easier to reach the next time he had to reload.
Six more figures dropped as Jake's chamber emptied, then five more, then six, then four, then-
A loud yell echoed across the battle field as a lone figure ran across the ground, closing the gap between himself and the reloading gunman. Bayonet extended, shell in the chamber, he ran towards him. Jake looked up, taking in the onrushing figure. Beating aside the riffle with his machete, he drew the blade across the opponents neck, then brought it around into the scull of another Hater.
Noticing the death of his comrade, another came toward Jake. Jake gave another jerk on the machete, trying to free it from its position in the head of the recently deceased. Rushing closer to the momentarily stagnated enemy, the tire-iron wielding Hater pulled along side himself a man by the name of Rick "the ripper" Isaac Persival. (R.I.P.)
He was the champion of the Hater legions in this sector, and had a large scar across his left arm, left their by a machete. He now carried a large wooden shield on that arm, to make sure nothing like that ever happened again. Now he reveled in his chance to repay the scar, and a little extra.
Jake killed the first one easily, then realized that the ripper was the exceedingly large figure behind the first. That noted, all he could do was try and stuff more rounds into his revolver. His attempt proved fruitless however, as he dropped the gun dodging a blow from the Ripper's ax.
Swinging the machete around his head to build momentum, Jake brought it down it a slash aiming for the head of his adversary. The Ripper, for all his size, was a fairly agile man, not as much as Jake, but in comparison to any other person of his stature. Bringing his shield across his head to deflect the attack, the Ripper thrust the head of his ax into Jake's stomach, sending him into a hunched position. Rick then brought the head of the ax up, into the chin of Jake, sending him sprawling back into the mud.
Fortunately for jake, he ended up next to his .357, which he wasted no time in grasping. Lining up the sights, he aimed for the head of Rick, in an attempt to finish him with the one shot one kill idea. The gun was dislodged again however, by a kick from the Ripper, breaking Jakes left wrist. Rick grabbed Jake by the neck, raising him to eye level, then spat into his face.
Jake, still having kept hold of the machete, swung it over over his head into the skull of the Ripper with a sickening crack. Jake relished in his victory as blood splashed onto his cloths and face. The sharp crack of a short gun sounded to his left, alerting him to the battle ragging about him. He grasped his pistol, pulling the hammer back to take it off safety, then fired. A bust of sound and metal split the air in front of his face. THe barrel to his .357 had blown apart. When Jake had dropped the fire arm, mud had lodged in the barrel, causing the pressure to build up until it sheathed when he fired.
Lovely. Switching his machete back to his right hand, He ran forward.
Alex was still popping rounds out of his crater when he saw the towering figure of Jake sprinting across the battle field, lashing out with his machete at any and all who were in arms reach. He used the garden tool with deadly efficiency, never wasting energy delivering the blow. It was the form of a practiced wielder, of someone who hard been using it since before the war started.
Jake was making steady progress. the Haters trenches were only several yards ahead of him. Thrusting his machete through the last opponent, he jumped into the trench, startling several haters manning a machine gun.
It was a quick fight. Bringing the blade directly down, he split the skull of the closest one, punching the second in the face, then prying the machete out of the corpses skull. The other two had both drawn shovels, trying to stave of the inevitable attack that was coming.
Jake didn't quite know how to go about this. If he attacked one, the other would b able to get him. Slowly raising the machete to his mouth, Jake liked the blood of the blade.
"Still warm, just the way I like it." he said, flashing a smile of red teeth. The Haters glanced at each other, then dropped the shovels, screaming at the top of their lungs. JAke quietly grabbed the handle of the S.A.W. that the three had left behind, and fired into the large pockets of haters that had formed close to their trench.
Bodies fell to the ground, dead. Bodies snapped in half, heads were removed from shoulders, intestines and muscles sprayed all who were near enough. The wave of Bronies came crashing into the trenches, eliminating the reaming resistance in the front trenches, then pushing to the defenses.
These were trenches with earth-works behind them, followed by another line of trenches. These rear trenches were the same ones that the mortars were being fired from. If they could be eliminated, the jeeps could punch a hole through the entire Hater line, cutting it in two and making it that much easier to destroy.
Grasping the forward handle with his left hand, Jake removed the S.A.W. from it's position in the ground, marching through the trenches to the rear line.
The S.A.W (squad automatic weapon) is a fully automatic weapon, made to be fired in short burst. Long enough for the gunner to repeat the word: Die mother fucker die. Jake, despite his knowledge, never let up on the trigger, stopping the garage of fire long enough to reload. The one man army marched through the mud and gore, heading towards the mortar teams.
Rounding the final corner in the trenches, Jake turned to the right, 600 rounds a minute bursting from his S.A.W. Suddenly a sharp pain entered his chest, then the world went black as his heart stopped beating with the steady rhythm that resembled Master of Puppets. Jakes last thoughts were ones of hope, oddly enough. Hope to achieve the ultimate heaven a Brony could ask for. Equestria.