Survival Stories
Prologue: Introduction of Sgt. T. Jackson
I tightened my grip on the assault rifle held in my hands. I knew I only had a few half empty clips of ammunition left on my person, and I knew that the woman sitting in the pilot seat of the crashed helicopter, callsign Deadly, had most likely already been shot dead by some damned raghead. I also knew that there was a nuke sitting somewhere in the city, and that even if we did save her, we'd most likely die from that blasted device going off. But, I mused to myself, it didn't really matter to me. I had little to lose. I had grown up an orphan in the small unincorporated town of Cross Lanes, West Virginia. I was lucky; the small orphanage I had spent my childhood in was of high quality. The caretakers were probably the nicest women I'd ever met, and ever would meet, in my entire life. The food was nothing short of delicious. Unfortunately, I hadn't had many friends in my age group. I only tended to get close to the much older children and adults. The others just seemed so… childish, for the lack of a better word. They just didn't seem to enjoy the same things as I, and didn't understand when I tried to approach a conversation on more intellectual subjects than the latest antics of a known cartoon character or who the most athletic child of our age group was. I tried to ignore it, turning to my older companions for social support, but it still bothered me. The problem quickly ascended to a desperate need to fit in, a yearning for recognition among my peers. In order to solve this problem, I studied the other children from afar, listening in on cafeteria talk and searching incessantly for topics of interest. I quickly discovered that the most popular among the others were the troublemakers, children that riled the adults and rebelled against authority. I figured, at the time, that the most obvious route to instant popularity was to perform a so-called 'prank' to amuse the-
"Jackson, what the hell?! Get your head out of the clouds! We don't have much time!" My eyes snapped wide open, the voice of one of the soldiers from my squad- I can't remember which –pulling me quickly back into reality. I hastily flipped the safety switch on my gun before rushing out of the helicopter and into the street. I moved up quickly, covering as much distance as I could before taking cover behind a destroyed car. I flinched slightly as a hail of bullets sailed both into the opposite car door and over my head. I knew that the thin steel of the car could be easily penetrated by high velocity bullets, and thanked whatever higher deity was up there that the enemies' less powerful AK47s weren't properly equipped to handle such projectiles. I moved my gun upward and blindfired over the hood of the car, then hearing the shriek of a downed tango, felt relief when the constant sound of bullets pinging against my measly cover temporarily ceased. I quickly took a peek around and saw that the ragheads were falling back. With a cry of, "Cover me!" I sprinted for the downed heli. I quickly grabbed the pilot out of the nigh destroyed cockpit bridal style, and then made another sprint back towards cover. Then, with a loud warcry, a tango darted out from behind a dumpster and rained lead upon me. I felt a searing pain rip through my right leg, and I stumbled, nearly dropping the woman in my arms. Reacting quickly, and much to my immense surprise, she aimed her G36 and fired the last few bullets in the clip. The tango fell backward, and I quickly limped the rest of my way to the helicopter, my squadmates falling back as I did so. I set the pilot down on the first seat to my right, then stood across from her as the other soldiers piled in. As soon as the last one of us was inside, I reloaded my clip and then opened fire on the incoming tangos as the heli lifted off. We were quickly flown out of the range of their weapons, and then I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. I gave a smile to the woman across from me, and she returned the sentiment.
Then all hell broke loose.
AN: I genuinely apologize if anyone of Arabian descent takes offense to the term 'raghead.' It is commonly used in most war games and, unfortunately, in the US Army as well. It helps set the mood in the story, and… well… there's only so many things you can call an enemy. I didn't want to overuse 'tango.'
Well, explanations aside, please R&R. I truly enjoy all the feedback I get, and it provides me reason to continue. I'm not saying that I'll stop writing because of lack of reviews, but the extra motivation really helps things come along faster.