Unknown map, 48 hours ago.

The things, whatever they were, were massing at the bottom of the tower.
He checked his pockets. Twenty shells, twelve arrows, some pocket lint and- ahem- a few miscellaneous jars.
You know, now that he got right down to it, now that the icy breath of death (as it were) was hissing down his neck (score another point for a hyperactive sense of morbidity, he thought absently, where had that particular phrase sprung from?) they seemed like the silliest weapon.
And no way to restock without either risking the hoard or taking a swift, unforgettable drop to the floor below.
Thankfully, he consoled himself, the Medic had said the things weren't intelligent; not like real people were. So logically, he could just wait for someone to-
behind him.
A creak.
The ladder to the roof took some weight, on its lowest rung.
("Clever girl", he said absentmindedly.)
He was never a man to panic. He took off his hat, and scratched a trail in his close-cropped hair. Thought deeply; for he understood that, in a life or death situation, the first move, perhaps even the first word, would be the most vital.
That said, he sat down and considered his position. Impeachable position, really, in sniping terms. Though not so much in the way of real, practical, go-on-living terms. Limited ammo. No supplies. Respawn terminally off-line. Slavering masses below. Sky (with vultures at no extra cost) above. After creak on ladder, heart firmly in mouth. Creaking on ladder getting closer. Closer. Really quite too close.
"Bugger," he said, in a small, heartfelt way.
But then again...
Impeachable position. Some ammunition. Faithful kukri, edge undulled. Overwhelming odds below. Sky above. Nobody waiting at home, to grieve and mourn and pity (how he would have hated that.)
He ran a thumb along the soft felt rim. And his hat, of course. He had his hat.
Always a comfort in times of stress, that hat.
He popped it on, and settled it squarely. Drew himself up. Racked up a shell in the chamber of the gun, with a meaningful click.
Perhaps, if the masses below had heard that, and if they could have felt, they would have felt scared, then.
He stood up, his legs shaking only slightly, and strode over to the edge of the roof. Looked down at the indistinct mass, as they looked up at him. Hungrily.
"G'day mates!" he said cheerily. He flung the kukri almost carelessly behind him. It hit something solid, and the something solid stumbled back, and fell down the access hatch, messily, landing in a crumpled heap at the foot of the ladder it had so recently climbed.
His voice was only a little hoarse, he thought. That was good. He glanced down the scope. Beautiful. Couldn't have gotten a better spec with a magnifying glass. He shouldered the rifle; took fairly indiscriminate aim at the heads of the masses below. Felt the 19 shells jangling in his pocket. Felt a lump rising in his throat. Smiled. Took careful aim. Fired. Something crumpled and fell, folding like a house of cards.
He racked the shell out; took no. 19 out of his pocket; smiled again.
"Right, you cursory bastards," he sang out, "anybody else want's to come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?"