The sound of gunfire is a peculiar thing. Many people believe that it is a sensory experience they are familiar with, one they know well, one that holds no surprise for them. How many movies, television shows, and video games, after all, feature a climactic gunfight or two in which dozens, if not hundreds, of rounds of ammunition are expended?
But this method of "experiencing" the sound of gunfire is not really that at all - rather, it is a second hand experience; the ears are merely hearing a recording of a gun firing, one that is warped and processed by the technology of modern media. One does not truly grasp the sound of gunfire, the visceral, throaty, heavy roar of a firearm discharging, unless one hears it in person.
But how many people, particularly those fortunate enough to live in "developed" countries, have heard a firearm discharged in real life? It is indeed a peculiar and interesting thing that the average seventeen year old, through many years of increasingly realistic video gaming, can probably operate an AK-47 were one plopped in front of him; whether that same seventeen year old can truly handle the fantastic sound that erupts from the weapon when the trigger is depressed is a different matter altogether.
It is not only a sound, but a feeling as well; it is a heavy, loud shock of sound and force which grasps the attention of everyone nearby and does not let go, greedily, enthralling all within earshot to pay attention to it. It is felt in the ears, but also in the rest of the body, and the instant human reaction to such a demanding sensory phenomenon is to direct one's attention to it, not because of curiosity, but because one has no choice. It is a selfish thing in that respect. One can choose, through sheer force of will, to ignore or at least mentally lessen the impact of some sensory input; not so with gunfire. It is always there, demanding and winning one's undivided attention, greedily, selfishly.
Chris Redfield pitied himself sometimes, because gunfire was such a common thing in his life. Every time he fired his weapon his attention is robbed, if even for a split second, by the sound of hammer hitting bullet, and the chemical reaction which propels the round from the chamber, through the barrel, and on its way to a target. Every time he pulls the trigger he is, for a split second, vulnerable. All his attention is focused on the weapon. Nothing else on God's green Earth exists save the thunderous chemical explosion going off in his hands.
Sheva Alomar's voice rocks him from his single minded attention to his weapon. It is a velvety, smooth sound, and Chris has wondered, somewhere, deep in the depths of his mind, if perhaps she has a good singing voice. At the moment, though, the voice is filled with alarm.
"Jammed!" she says, and Chris knows without looking that the M-14 she carries has had a loading malfunction. Calmly, she puts the safety on the weapon, swings it to hang at her side, and draws her sidearm before opening fire once more. The entire process, switching from one weapon to another, takes only three seconds.
"Move!" Chris says, rising from his crouched position into a standing one. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees three more targets emerge. His eye acquires them, his finger squeezes the trigger, his shoulder feels the weapon kick; it is a series of physical movements and reactions that he has grown familiar with through his years. Three bursts of gunfire, nine miniature explosions go off in his hands; three silhouettes fall with ragged, bloody holes in their bodies.
"Moving!" Sheva replies. She rises, fires twice more from her pistol, and dashes to a spot ten yards behind where Chris is standing, still firing bursts into the crowd. While she moves she takes the opportunity to reload her weapon; one hand ejects the spent magazine, another reaches for a fresh one and jams it home before pushing the slide forward. Another three seconds. She is standing in an alleyway. She turns and shouts.
"Moved! Covering!"
"Moving!"
Chris turns. He ejects his magazine, fishes for a new one. Rams it home. Hits the bolt release. New ammunition, new life. He dashes down the alleyway, ten yards past where Sheva is calmly placing her shots on the advancing enemies. He turns.
"Moved! Covering! Evade!"
Their communication is brief; it has to be in situations like this, when sometimes only a word or two is all you can get out, all that can be heard amongst the gunfire. Another example of gunfire's selfishness. It does not let mere words or conversation take your attention from it. It is greedy. It wants to be the center of attention. It wants to be all that exists. It often is.
"Moving! Evading!" Sheva turns; the crowd has become dangerously close. She runs, beyond their established ten yard cover distance, past Chris and down the alleyway. Two more bursts, six more rounds, six more milliseconds in which his attention is wholly occupied by his weapon, and Chris turns to follow her.
They run, dash, their minds combining with adrenaline to push tired, weary bodies. One alleyway, another, a small shack, a parking area filled with wrecked cars. It all goes by in a blur. Their minds are filled with one thought, and that is to run, to find a path through this God-forsaken place. To get away from the mobs of enemies chasing them. To find safety, as rare as that is here. They can hear their hearts beat in their ears. The soles of their feet ache; their arms are sore from having carried heavy weapons and absorbing the recoil of so many rounds. But they cannot slow down. Will not slow down.
Eventually, they find a small garage. Chris turns and locks the heavy door behind them. Sheva unclips the jammed M-14 from her weary body and sets it on a table that has seen better days. She is doubled over, breathing heavily, bracing her self with her arms against the table. After a couple of seconds she grasps the end of her purple tank top and peels it off and over her head before tossing it on the table. There is a scratch on her left side, where a protruding piece of fence ripped into soft, smooth chocolate skin. It is shallow but still warrants treatment. She reaches into a med kit and pulls out a small bandage.
Chris watches her for second more than he would admit; she is beautiful, extremely so, and not many men would ignore such a sight, despite the relative danger of their situation. She is wearing a scant black bra beneath her tank top, and although her back is to Chris he still takes a second to admire the graceful curve of her spine, the wide hips, and the powerful, long legs she possesses. The ever-present sunlight filters in through a dirty window and dances on the sweat on her skin, as if knowing her body held his attention at that moment, the rays of sun joining in on Chris' minute of voyeurism, allowing him to indulge, for a moment, in something other than keeping himself alive.
He rests his back against the locked door, confident at least for the near future that they had eluded their pursuers. He takes in his surroundings for the first time, eyes quickly scanning the room. It is dirty, broken down, has seen better days that have long passed. What furniture is in the room is old, worn out, what most people would call junk. His eyes are tired; when they were running his eyes were working overtime, discerning in split seconds what path to for his legs to take. Now fatigue has caught up to his eyes and the rest of his body, even if his physical pursuers did not. He closes his eyes and lets out a long exhale.
"Damn. That smarts," Sheva says, as she sprays some disinfectant on the wound before placing the bandage atop it. Her voice is soft, her musical voice and foreign accent turning even the simplest of statements into a wonderful, beautiful sound.
A small smile finds its way to the corners of Chris Redfield's lips. He much preferred her voice to gunfire.
---
Hello all dear readers,
This is a quick drabble I wrote after a random RE5 session. I've been away from writing for awhile - a long while, actually... I haven't published anything here for a couple of years now - and I apologize in advance for the flaws in this work. There's no real conflict, no real point to the story; I guess you can consider it me stretching long-unused writing muscles. A writing exercise, if you will. This will likely remain a one-shot unless reader reaction is through the roof... though I'll be writing a lot more in the near future, so hopefully you'll all keep an eye out for whatever I publish.
As always, any feedback is appreciated!
-Hustler One