"TAKE HIM DOWN!" A masked man roared, swinging the Kalashnikov erratically as the recoil bucked harshly, propelling high speed destruction everywhere, yet not actually at where Captain Price was fiercely dashing for his life and physical well being.
"Keep moving, don't get shot, keep running, don't get shot, keep running, don't get shot..." Price uttered under his breath as he furiously pumped adrenaline throughout his circulatory system, seemingly gliding though turbulence across the ground with long, graceless lunging strides. Smashing your feet into the ground rather than performing fluid movements works too!
At least, until the sudden lack of ground to smash your feet into impedes your land-borne movement, creating an impromptu human glider. The narrow, yet deep ditch concealed by long grass and reeds seemingly swallowed up their prey, and the pursuing terrorists ground to a halt in sheer amazement. A Captain, of all people, falling into a ditch.
"Oh man... can you guys get that idiot in the ditch for me, my gut is cooking up something fierce..." Johnny Saski grumbled, shuffling back to a nearby Portaloo.
The other terrorists looked each other, choked down some vomit, and then continued to the ditch with their rifles raised.
"WHY ARE YOU HERE?" The tallest of the terrorist squad screamed at Price, whipping the stock of his kalashnikov across Price's face.
"Oh hi mommy, the boys at school keep calling me Fisher for some reason, is it because they like my goggles?" Price garbled concussedly.
SMACK. More Kalashnikov rifle stock seems to cure concussions.
"WHY. ARE. YOU. HERE?!" The terrorist roared, enraged.
"Well it seemed like a good idea.."
--
"Sneaking, sneaking, wanna keep sneaking..." Captain Price muttered under his breath, stealthily flicking between the midnight shadows within the terrorist compound. "Stupid terrorists and their stupid nuclear weapons and stupid searchlights with stupid guard patrols and stupid attack dogs..." Price thought irritatedly, attaching his silencer to his M9 pistol. Crouching down behind a low wall, he checked the clip. "It's all good..." he confirmed, slipping the magazine back into the hilt of the pistol. He leaned out of his hiding place slightly to acquire some intelligence on the area he was to progress through. Oh why did fate mock him so? His face visibly fell as he witnessed the "PERFECT" path through the enemy territory according to his mission breifing to the reconnaissance documents he sought. A kilometer and a half of runway and helipad greeted his eyes, and through the zoom function on his scope, the Office of Intelligence, within which lays the Documents.
"Oh yes, because everyone can bulldoze thirty armouries and replace them with an airport in three days..." Price sarcastically growled, getting ready for his one thousand five hundred meter sprint.
"Meh, done this in boot camp, only this time, I won't be carrying myself, I will be carrying a twenty five kilo backpack across twice the distance with an extra knife wound in my left kneecap. This is going to be easy..."
He grounded himself and readied to run. "Yeah, I can't do this."
Fate has an insatiable hatred. With a hatred with anyone called Price too, aparrently.
Six and a half steps, ten spotlights, one nasty dog bite, one frantic chase and a Ditch later...
"Well, it seemed like a good idea..."
--
Sorry people for those waiting on an update to Enter Apocalypse, but had other high priority objectives. This fic is actually an essay for English I adapted ASAP so don't complain.
Apologies again, and a new chapter for Enter Apocalypse will be in early May.
ThePyro