Chapter Fourteen up.
So I guess nobody wants that story, eh?
Well, I am honored to have been added to the "Fanfiction Worth Reading" C2 archive. I don't know if that actually means anything, but the fact that it says "worth reading" tells me that people actually like this fic. This makes me very happy.
Anyhoo; this chapter's a big doozy of a chapter. There's gonna be gun battles, explosions, guys getting shot, guys getting killed, graveyards, and, of course, the Nemesis.
Just a few of the awesome and whiz-bang things to look forward to in Chap, 14 of Resident Evil: Another Side, Another Nightmare:
Chapter Fourteen: Ambush
The convoy pulled up right in front of the graveyard. Sergeants Waters and Arnold parked their Jeep, hopped out with weapons at the ready, and stepped forward. Their eyes scanned the dark, creepy patch of land wearily.
"Y'know, if these things are zombies like I think they are," said Waters, "then this is probably where they like to hang."
"We could just go around it," Arnold replied. "There's no need to place our guys at risk for something we're not even sure of."
"Naw, might as well," the other replied. "It might boost morale, wiping an entire sector of these freaks."
"Alright, so here's what we'll do." Arnold slung his M-4 on his shoulder and turned to Waters. "I'll take my team and steer the convoy around and wait by the exit. You'll take your team and do a mopping sweep of the graveyard, clean it out. Sound easy enough for you new boys?"
"Easy for us, but what about you old-timers?" Waters shot back. "Sure I shouldn't leave Ski or Mabrey behind with your group for support?"
"Delta Three's been handling itself since Desert Storm, kid. I think we can manage waiting in the cars for you girls to finish your shopping."
"Alright," the Delta Two sergeant grinned, and shook his friend's hand. "We'll see you on the other side."
"Yup. Good luck."
"Delta Two, on me!"
Waters tapped his helmet with fist. The three men on his team hopped down from the turrets and ran over to join them. Arnold hopped into his Jeep and waved the four Delta boys off as they moved into the graveyard.
The plan was simple: one team cuts through the graveyard; the other team goes around with the vehicles and waits for them. The first team looks for survivors and mops up resistance, and the second one reinforces their escape route. Then they'd roll up and go look somewhere else.
What could possibly go wrong?
-----
Captain Hannigan peered through his binoculars. He saw one of the Delta teams go through entrance of the graveyard, while the other one drove off and took a turn at the corner. He smirked.
"One goes through the trap," he said, "the other goes around. Both end up at the same point."
He turned to his men; about a platoon and a half's worth of riflemen, machine-gunners, and snipers. This was just a small fragment of the men under his command. The two Umbrella units sent in were now divided into three factions; the Special Forces unit, under Sergeant Hoss, was on the East side of town. He gave half of his own U.B.C.S unit to Lieutenant Spinelli, and took the rest under his own wing. They would ambush the remaining teams, and take them out, before they got back to base and became more trouble for Umbrella.
"Snipers on the roof," he ordered. "Wait for a good shot. We'll open up once Rogers fires the first shot. I want none of them getting away, you understand? None of them."
-----
Waters peeked out from behind the gravestone. Ahead, it looked empty, completely uninhabited. And yet, something was out there. Something…someone…
He looked back towards the others. The effect of this whole ordeal was taking its toll. Mabrey's hands were shaking; Owens had beads of sweat running down his face. Slowenski, however, was amazingly calm. The sergeant wished he could be the same right then.
Something moved off to his left. He glanced. A zombie walked there, shuffling his feet, moaning casually as if it were on a pleasure stroll. It was about 100 meters away; an easy shot.
He casually raised his rifle and peered down the scope. He could see close up the rotten flesh, the sunken, unfocused eyes, the drool sliding down his open mouth. He scrunched his face in disgust. Even though he was pretty much used to it by now, he still couldn't get over how despicable these vile creatures were.
Alls more the reason to put 'em out of their misery.
He squeezed off a round. The bullet made a loud crack as it exited the rifle and went through the zombie's head. He smirked with satisfaction as the body crumpled, dead again.
At first, he was pleased with himself, but then, after a moment of consultation, he cursed himself for his stupidity. Anyone within a five mile radius could've heard that shot being fired, and if they were zombies, they would be coming down on them in a heartbeat. Zombies had good hearing. That, and the quietness of the night in this dead city, and anyone, dead or alive, couldn't not hear a rifle being fired.
He turned back to the others and nodded. They started moving forward, one at a time, leapfrogging. He pulled out front, Slowenski right behind him, Mabrey and Owens covering the rear.
They had cleared three sections of the graveyard, and now they only had one main one to go. And, if luck prevailed, they would complete this and roll up as if they were never there.
Somehow, there was no way he could believe they could be that lucky.
-----
The sounds of the roaring engines soon died off as Delta Three pulled up to the exit of the park. Arnold got out of his driver's seat, finger on the trigger to his M-4, and went around to the other side, by the gate.
The rest of his team went on stand-by. Lake climbed up through the turret and manned the .50 cal on the top of his Humvee. Atkins placed his M-60 on the hood of the car and yanked the bolt back twice and released. Pettigrew got comfortable in his driver's seat, clutching his M-16 close to his chest.
It seemed OK, all quiet and peaceful, and yet, something wasn't right. It was too quiet, too peaceful. Arnold didn't like it. Experience had taught him out in the Gulf and here in Raccoon City that peace and quiet was a mixed curse. It could bring sweet salvation. At the same time, it could also bring a new ambush, a deadlier one than the one they had just escaped. Somewhere in this city was a sleeping enemy, ready to be awakened.
The peace had to end sometime.
And eventually, it would.
-----
Somehow, someway, the last section of a graveyard was always the hardest place to clear. It was like that with everything a group of soldiers had to clear out, but here, where they were, in the situation they were in, it was even worse. Waters glanced at Slowenski sitting behind him.
"Alright," he whispered to his machine-gunner, "You and Mabrey head up to that row up ahead. Then you cover me and Owens while we make our move up. You good?"
"Roger," was the calm, mellow reply.
Waters stared at the machine-gunner, amazed at how relaxed his friend was.
"How are you not afraid?" he found himself asking. "We're in the middle of some sort of outbreak, and we could be killed at any second. Don't you ever worry about that?"
Slowenski just smiled.
"What good would it do?" he asked simply. "Worrying about things never gets anything done. And that's what we're all about, right? Getting what won't be done done?"
Now Waters felt a big grin stretch across his face. This guy really was something.
"Alright," he snapped his hand forward, "get going."
Slowenski turned and nodded towards Mabrey. The two slung their bags off their shoulders, gripped their weapons, and proceeded, with Mabrey up front and Slowenski in the rear. They moved slowly, taking their time. They were in no hurry to get themselves possibly killed; they would be careful with it. Waters and Owens hid themselves behind a pair of gravestones and waited for a sign from the other two that they could move up.
Night was coming upon them again. Incredible…seemed like just an hour ago, the sun had risen, and now it was going back down again. So much, yet so little, had happened in a day. They were still stuck here, no sign of the others, and being attacked left and right by mindless hordes of dead humans, and that was what remained the same since the change of the mission. How he wished this would change again. Hopefully, to something better.
snap!
Waters jerked out of his thoughts and brought his M-4 to his shoulder. He had just heard something- a twig, or a branch, snapping. It was to his left, closer to where Owens was, and close enough to be almost on top of them. It wasn't the other two; they were up ahead. Whoever it was, it was moving from their left to Slowenski and Mabrey's front at a quick, steady pace.
He peered through his binoculars. He could vaguely make out the other guys. Mabrey leaned in and whispered something to his partner. Slowenski nodded and, through sign language, motioned for him to slowly creep around and take cover behind the large gravestone while he proceeded forward in a slow, low crouch, his machine-gun hanging almost limply on its strap.
He lowered the binoculars. As usual, it was all quiet. God, how he hated it when it was all quiet. It usually meant someone was cooking something up. He looked at Owens, who still had his rifle fixated straight ahead. The sergeant realized that he was too exposed; the sniper was kneeling over, exposed from the waste up. Which was a rookie mistake, of course, but given the situation, it might be considered forgivable. He bent forward to tell him to sit down, relax-
whooooosh! BOOM!
Both soldiers threw themselves to the ground as the RPG whizzed through the fog and slammed into the ground in front of them. When it ended, Waters brushed the dirt and rubble off his uniform and lifted his ashen-covered face up over the gravestone.
What had been originally a quiet little scenario had now turned into a ferocious firefight that had lit up the entire sector of the graveyard. Following the rocket, a machine-gun opened up and raked the field with its bullets. Waters again ducked as geysers of dirt shot up from the ground and showered him and Owens.
He could hear the other two firing back. He risked peeking up again to see what was going on. He could make out Mabrey's CAR-15 and Slowenski's SAW peppering the air, trying to hit their invisible assailant. Whenever they stopped, however, the opposing machine-gun fired right back. It was a game of war-tag, the way they went back and forth.
Someone on their side shot a long stream of lead out into the night. Seconds later, another bullet-stream came back, and there was a small spurt of red and someone letting out a quick yelp of pain.
It was getting really dark now. Waters flipped on his PNVs and looked out. For the first time, he could make out the outline of whoever was shooting at them. He was shocked at first- what kind of person was seven feet tall? - but it left him instantly when a low, hair-raising growl cried over the noise of the gunfire:
"Staaars…"
-----
"In my sights. Firing away."
-----
BAM!
It all started with a bullet. One small, insignificant bullet. One bullet that was fired from a sniper rifle hidden at a upper-floor window and shot down and entered Lake's left shoulder and then passed right out the back of it and slammed into the pavement and stopped. But it was enough to make Lake cry out in pain and topple backwards off the turret and into the Humvee and out of sight.
Atkins, who had been bored enough to begin cleaning his fingernails, had picked his head up the instant he heard the shot and was staring in Lake's direction just as his friend sank out of view. Piecing two and two together, he grabbed his M-60.
"Contact! Shots fired!"
And after that, everything went to Hell.
With that one sniper, the rest of the U.B.C.S soldiers that had been lying in wait to attack them did just that. they opened up with everything they had- M-4s, SAWs, Benelli shotguns, Dragnov sniper rifles, PK machine guns, and other assorted weapons. The four D-boys were facing roughly thirty or forty to one odds, with no hope of relief in sight. The worst odds in a terrible situation.
Arnold tumbled out of the Jeep's seats and fell behind the vehicle as Atkins fired his 60 into the window where he believed the sniper had been. From where they were, however, there was no way to tell for sure if he was actually hitting anybody. The sergeant handled his M-4, jerking back the bolt, and pointed it towards the building the enemy was taking cover in.
His scope trained on a rifleman, firing his own M-4 at Atkins' machine-gun. Aiming hard, he fired one, two, three shots up. The third shot did the trick, striking the man in the head and tearing off his left ear.
Pettigrew barreled out of his Humvee and joined alongside Arnold and Atkins at firing at the enemy.
"WHERE THE FUCK DID THEY COME FROM?!" he screamed.
"Just keep shooting!" Arnold screamed as he reloaded his M-4 and resumed firing.
Atkins' machine-gun jammed. He pulled the bolt back twice, in an attempt to un-jam it, when suddenly, he caught movement up in front of them. Three of the enemy, armed with a shotgun, M-4, and pistol apiece, trying to flank them. And, so far, not getting noticed by the other two D-Boys.
He raised his M-60 to meet them and pulled the trigger. "click!" Nothing. It was still jammed.
"Shit-"
They noticed him then. The one with the shotgun fired three shells, while another soldier fired several pistol rounds at him. Atkins stayed concealed, bracing himself as the bullets impacted on the Humvee. When they stopped, he figured it his chance.
He turned around and fired. His bulled slammed into the pistol-wielding soldier's chest, knocking him backwards onto the ground. The soldier with the M-4, seeing his comrade down, fired a quarter of a clip at the vehicle. Atkins stayed behind cover again, then whipped around and plugged the second soldier in his right side.
The shotgun soldier, seeing his men were down, began retreating back to his side of the street. By that time, however, Atkins had gotten his M-60 un-jammed, and started firing it in his direction. The first bullet hit his shoulder. The second one caught him in the leg. And as he limped towards safety, three more jack-knifed into his back, sending him spiraling once, twice, then landing and rolling onto the ground.
The enemy was taking to the streets now. Every now and again, when the machine-gunner in the windows was laying down enough suppressing fire, soldiers in groups of three and four would stalk towards them with their weapons firing. The three D-Boys fired their own suppressing fire, which time and again managed to repel the assailants. But their ammo was starting to run thin, and the enemy wasn't letting up.
Arnold fired. His bullet dropped an enemy fifty feet away. He fired again. Another enemy, directly behind the first one, fell as well. He fired again and again, sometimes stopping them for good, sometimes just wounding them. But the more he shot, the more kept coming, it seemed. It made his blood boil. Who were these guys? What right did they have for shooting them, in a situation like this? It all made no sense. What had they ever done to them?
BAM!
A bullet exploded through the hull of the Jeep right next to his head. He looked at the mark for a few moments, amazed and relieved that it hadn't been him. But he snapped out of it. It was that sniper that had fired it, he was sure of it. The sniper that had started the whole attack. Atkins must've missed him earlier.
"ZACK!" he shouted over to Pettigrew, "Get a forty millimeter in that window! We need to take that sniper out!"
Pettigrew looked up at the window where the sniper was. He nodded.
Grabbing his M-16 and holding it so that he was working the M-203 grenade launched underneath the barrel, he aimed it towards the building. He slid the breach back, then reached into his back belt and pulled out a 40mm grenade round. Jamming it into the breach, he then slid it back and aimed it up to a position where he believed the arch would send it far enough to impact the target.
When he was sure of the distance, he pulled the trigger.
The grenade sailed up and over, then landed in a window and exploded. Screams and cries of pain erupted, and one soldier came flying out of the inferno. It was then that Pettigrew realized his mistake; he had hit the window below, just missing the location of the sniper. He had to get at a better angle.
Re-opening the breach of the grenade launcher and ejecting the smoking grenade shell, he moved towards his third Humvee and climbed up onto the hood. Once on top of it, he took another grenade out of his belt. Slamming it into the breach, he aimed it up again, this time making sure his measurements were correct. Bullets pinged and ricocheted around him. He wasn't perplexed as to why; he was completely exposed right then. But he'd worry about that afterwards.
Taking direct aim, he again pulled the trigger.
This time, it was dead on.
The grenade landed right into the window where the sniper was. There was another loud explosion, and the sniper went flying out the window and landed on the ground three floors down and didn't move.
ping! snap!
Bullets peppered around the top of the Humvee. Now he was taking a notice to them. He looked around quickly, and then dove down into the .50 turret and into the Humvee cab.
Poking his M-16 out the window, he began popping off his random shots. One, two, three at a time. Then he switched to his three-round burst mode and opened up on the soldiers that were taking to the streets. It wasted more ammo than single-shot did, but it definitely put a man down. When his clip expired, Pettigrew switched to his M-9 and fired to as many as he could hit at a close enough range.
Arnold reached in and grabbed one of his few remaining clips when he caught movement to his left. He took a peak-
-And saw a soldier with a large tube on his shoulder, moving along a rooftop. Too far away to hit from where he was. Arnold had sinking feeling of what it was. And possibly what it was for.
"Zack," he called out, "We got a guy with an RPG on the rooftops. Stay alert."
Pettigrew was too busy firing to pay too much attention to his sergeant's orders. He reloaded his M-16 and continued taking potshots at the incoming soldiers. He was so involved in his work that he failed to see the RPG gunner, sticking out and aiming the tube straight down at the cab of the Humvee. Prepared to fire and send the man into another world.
Arnold, however, did see.
"ZACK! MOVE!"
This time, Pettigrew heard it. His eyes scanned, looking for the threat, but not seeing him until finally, he looked towards the roof and saw the RPG staring him right in the face. Even with all of his experience, all of his common knowledge, and all of his common sense, he didn't budge. He didn't raise his rifle to shoot him down. He froze, his eyes fixated on the enemy.
"Aw, shit…"
There was nothing they could do. Every single man at that intersection knew what was about to happen. Heard the trigger being pulled in their minds.
There was a "pop!" and a whooooosh! and the rocket left the tube and zoomed down and slammed into the Humvee, flipping it over at least twice in the air and then landing on its back, completely aflame and totally destroyed.
-----
Waters tensed up as the bullets continued to pepper the gravestone he was hiding behind. That thing fired away, never ceasing, never needing to stop for a reload.
The situation hadn't changed. He and Owens were still pinned down away from where Mabrey and Slowenski were, separated by a couple rows of headstones and about 7000 bullets fired per minute. They needed to get up there, they needed to take out the gun, they needed to meet up with Delta Three…there were about a million things they needed to do, and no easy way to do them.
He peered back over. Mabrey was firing his CAR-15, just a few shots here and there. Beside Waters, Owens was firing as well, more concentrated ones. But it was as though the guy was made out of metal; the bullets hit him, true, and blood still spurted out, but there was no inclination of the bullets actually bringing pain to his being.
"Owens!" he called. "We gotta get outta here! On my mark, you cover me while I try to move in close enough to lob a frag! Ready?"
Owens nodded and reloaded his M-21 with a fresh magazine. Waters rechecked his own M-4 clip-full up- and then got on his stomach. He had to stay low, because if that gun got a bead on him, he was as good as dead. Being low, he had a chance to elude getting riddled. He looked back at his teammate.
"Alright…GO!"
Owens got up and, taking careful aim, fired several shots at the monster. Waters rolled out from behind the grave and crawled as fast as he could to his cover. He crawled on his stomach, like he was supposed to- not like how a baby crawled. The lower to the ground you got, the longer chance you had to live in a war zone.
Bullets flew directly over his head. They were all green, so it was hard to tell if they were actually lead bullets or green tracers. Waters peered up for just a brief moment and was amazed at the fireworks display going off over his head. He now had an idea how the soldiers during the first and second World Wars felt when they were crawling under fire at nights. It was the most breathtaking and terrifying scene he had ever witnessed.
He kept crawling. He was close enough to hear the monster roaring clearly. He still couldn't see the other two D-Boys on his team, but he knew where they were. The monster was directly in front of him, maybe fifty or sixty feet up. Close enough to plug him.
He grabbed one of his M-67 fragmentation grenades and grasped it firmly in his hand. Removing the safety clip, he slid his finger into the pin and said a quick Hail Mary. The entire time, he held the spring lever down so he wouldn't accidentally kill himself. After the prayer was done, he waited for the firing to stop.
To his surprise, it actually did. For the first time, its Gatling Gun ceased firing. Now-
What happened next was in slow-motion. Waters jumped up and found him almost face-to-face with the monster, separated by only a couple rows of gravestones. It might as well have been right up against each other. He could see the creature's rage-filled eyes, almost smell his putrid breath. For the third time during this whole nightmare, he was face to face with the vilest creature on the face of the Earth, and this time, this encounter may very well be for keeps.
Before the thing could thumb the trigger again, the sergeant flung his arm forward and released the grenade. The small ball-shaped explosive flew out. The spring lever flew back up and the grenade landed at the monster's feet just as the trigger to the Gatling Gun was pressed.
As he whirled to sit back down, there was a whap! and a very loud CRACK! and a sharp, stinging pain. He let out a short, agonizing cry of pain. His breathing tensed up and grew ragged, as he lifted the back of his uniform to inspect his theory. He lowered back down quicker than he had lifted it, upon seeing the blood caked upon his fatigues and the still more flowing down his back. He could also see the piece of shattered bone sticking out through the vest. There was no use denying the fact.
Son of a bitch shot me!
BOOM!
The grenade went off then, showering debris over the poor sergeant. The monster roared, whether from pain of from surprise or from anger, no one could tell for sure. It let out one final burst from its machine-gun, and then, it was silent.
Waters tried to regain his breathing, however ragged it was from the running and his newly gained wound. There was no more shooting, which made things so much easier. Maybe now they could finish up and fall back to the convoy.
"SHIT! SARGE! OWENS! SOMEBODY GET UP HERE WITH THE MEDICAL GEAR! STAT!"
The sergeant froze. That was Mabrey. Requesting the medical gear.
"Shit…"
Forgetting about his own pain, he sprung up and sprinted over to where Mabrey's voice had come from. There was still a lot of smoke, courtesy of all the shooting from both sides. But through it, he could see two figures- three, counting the one lying on the ground-, moving quickly, fumbling around. He burst through the smoke and looked downward-
Owens was taking a knee, covering them with his rifle, trying not to look at the scene unfolding. And Mabrey was unfolding his medical gear while trying to tend to Slowenski, who was lying on the ground, his hands over his stomach which had a pool of blood forming. The machine-gunner was having trouble breathing, and he jerked a little.
Waters dropped his M-4 and kneeled at his side and grabbed his friend's hand to squeeze it in his own. Slowenski's eyes fluttered open and, upon seeing his team leader, managed a weak little smile.
"Hey, Sarge…hell of a fight, huh? Heh…"
Even inches from death, Waters had never known a man to be more calm that Slowenski. Mabrey dug into his kit and rolled out some bandages.
"Hang on, Ski. You're gonna be alright," he told the big man. Then, to Waters, he explained, "Bullet to the gut. Happened right at the beginning of the fight. It all happened so fast, I didn't-"
"Relax, Doc. Just patch him up," ordered Waters.
"Alright, Ski? I need you to move your hands for me, buddy. I gotta check out the wound," Mabrey ordered.
"Doc, really…it ain't that bad-"
"Let me be the judge of that. Hands."
Slowenski grunted and obeyed. Owens took that point in time to look over as he did, and when he saw it, he immediately looked away.
"Oh, dear God…" he said.
Waters looked at the wound and used what remained of his willpower to keep him from losing his control. The bullet had hit him so fast and so hard, it had gone completely through Slowenski's gut. Those very same organs were proceeded to slide out the exit wound into a piled heap underneath the big man. Mabrey looked up at Slowenski.
"I'm not gonna lie, buddy- it IS that bad," he said. "But you just hang in there. I'm gonna do my best."
He looked up at Waters, silently shaking his head. Waters looked back down. The color was completely drained from Slowenski's face, and his breathing was starting to pick itself up. No matter how hard he tried to control it, he just couldn't. Yet, despite all that, he never complained, never lost his cool. He just sat it out.
The sergeant looked at him painfully. There was no way they could get him out of this in a good way. The wound was just too deep; the man had lost too much blood. They didn't have the proper supplies to fully care for him. He hated to admit this, but Slowenski knew, and Mabrey knew. And now, he knew too.
They kept telling him to hang on, but he had let go the minute that bullet had hit him.
He reached over to Mabrey's bag. They couldn't let him suffer like this. He took out the morphine and began prepping it. Slowenski saw it and smiled a little.
"Yeah…morphine," he said. "Better…make it a double-shot…huh, Sarge?"
Owens turned back again at this, looking at his sergeant in disbelief. Waters paid him no mind. He nodded to his dying comrade.
"Ok. Sure, buddy."
Mabrey just stared at this, accepting that there was no other choice but still not fully accepting killing their friend. Owens looked away again. He couldn't watch this.
Waters slipped the first dose out of its pack, tore the cover off, and shot the drug into Slowenski's leg. The machine-gunner grunted, but soon let out a big sigh. The Delta Two sergeant paused for a couple seconds, then did the same steps with the second pack and shot that into his leg, above the first injection. This time, Slowenski didn't make any noise. He just stared off into space, this happy look on his face.
Mabrey then began tying on a Compress bandage tight around his stomach and lower back, to keep any more innards from vacating the premises. Owens still refused to look, but Waters could hear him sniffing and knew his emotions were getting the best of him. They were doing it to all of them. He shook it off and turned back to his dying friend.
"How ya feeling, buddy?" he asked.
Slowenski grinned a drugged-up grin.
"Mellow, man," he said. "We got ourselves a nice, mellow night tonight."
"That's good," said Waters. "That's real good. You just relax, man. It's all gonna be over soon."
"Hey, don't sweat, man. Worrying about things never gets anything done. Right?"
"…Yeah, man. That's right."
Slowenski looked up towards the sky again. Waters admired him so much; never was there a moment where he was worked up or freaking out. He lay there like a man before death, accepting what was to come and ready to go to his Lord.
"Boss?"
Waters came out of his thoughts. Slowenski was starting to shake a bit; his breathing grew more violent. The sergeant squeezed his hand tighter.
"What is it, Ski? What do you need?" he asked urgently.
"Now…" Slowenski choked out, and the other two soldiers started panicking- was this it? - but then he kept talking. "Now…as I lay me down to sleep…I pray the Lord…my soul, shall keep…"
Right then, Waters knew. His friend had once told him that, before he closed his eyes for the night, he always said that prayer. He said it was one his grandfather always used to say to him, when he was a little kid. Now he was saying it for the last time he would close his eyes on Earth. He joined his friend in the last two lines:
"And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord, my soul, shall take."
The dying soldier turned his head to his sergeant, his eyes glistening.
"You're gonna get 'em out, right?" he asked. "You're gonna find the others…and get 'em outta here, right? Get them all out?"
"I got it, Ski," Waters told him. "I'll get them out. I promise."
Slowenski smiled and looked up at the sky again.
It happened so fast. He was so quiet and calm through it all; they didn't even know his breathing had stopped until a minute or so after the fact. Waters had been staring at him the entire time, and it just dawned on him long after he had made the promise that his friend had stopped any form of movement. Mabrey checked his pulse, closed his eyes for a brief moment, then looked at the sergeant and confirmed it.
Slowenski had believed so strongly in God. Now he had gone to see if he was right.
The medic placed his hand over the dead man's eyes and closed them. He then made the Sign of the Cross over his deceased comrade's chest.
"Lord, into Thy hands, I send your servant's soul," he said in a very low voice. "May he find eternal peace amongst the paradise You have prepared for him. Amen."
Waters looked up towards the Heavens. He had always had some belief that God had been out there, and that he had a paradise for all of them. But now, he truly had to believe it. For Slowenski's sake.
"Keep him safe for us," he said, to no one in particular. "Tell him we'll never forget him."
"Sarge."
The Delta Two sergeant turned back to the medic. Mabrey nodded towards his arm.
"Want me to take a look at that?" he asked.
Waters then remembered the searing wound on his shoulder. The blood still trickled down, and the broken bone cracked whenever he moved his arm too roughly. But he just shrugged it off.
"I'll be alright," he told Mabrey. "Dress it when we get back to the Humvees."
The medic nodded, and again looked at Slowenski's body.
"What do you want to do with his body?" he questioned.
"We're taking him with us." Waters then looked over at the third member of their now three-man team. "Owens, you're on the SAW now. Grab it, and any ammo off of Ski before we get moving-"
"Wait, listen."
Owens held up his hand. The other two stopped moving and listened as well.
Faint at first, then becoming increasingly noticeable, the remaining Delta Two soldiers could hear the sound of an intense battle raging from somewhere close beyond the graveyard. The sounds of gunfire, explosions, and someone screaming like a stuck pig were sounds Waters had not heard since the LZ battle the previous night. Owens turned to the others with a serious look on his face.
"Sounds like we're not the only ones having a bad night…"
-----
Back at the ambush spot, the enemy forces were still raining down lead on Delta Three's position. But Arnold paid it no mind. His only concern was for the team member that, at that moment, was laying in an overturned, aflame Humvee.
"ZACK!!!" Arnold screamed the moment he saw the Humvee flip over after the RPG round hit it.
Atkins fired his machine-gun at the spot where the gunner had been. He wasn't sure if he had hit him or not, but no more rockets came from that position, so he could hopefully assume that he had. He twirled around and ran over to the wreckage.
Arnold was using the butt of his M-4 to try and smash the door of the Humvee in order to pull Pettigrew out. He turned to his machine-gunner, who was firing short, controlled bursts at the crowd.
"Atkins, grab the fire blanket out of the Jeep and bring it over here," he ordered.
click! Right then, Atkins had extended the rest of his last remaining M-60 ammo. He looked at the machine-gun, then up at the crowd he still had to deal with. Without a word, he went off to the Jeep, firing his 9mm as his only alternative.
Arnold quickly bolted to the second Humvee and grabbed the fire extinguisher. He returned to the wreckage and began shooting the contents onto the fire. He had to put it out. He had to get Pettigrew out of there. He wasn't leaving him to die like this. There was no way he was letting him die like this. The son of a bitch was too tough to let that happen to him. And Pettigrew was too good a friend to let go of like that.
Atkins returned with the fire blanket just as his sergeant began putting out the last of the fire. At the same time, behind them, there came a loud BANG! and Lake tumbled out backwards from the rear Humvee, one hand clutching the barrel of his CAR-15, and the other clamped over his wounded shoulder. He got himself up and sat against his Humvee, catching his breath.
"Lake! You alright?" Arnold called over to him.
The sniper waved his arm tiredly.
"I just got the wind knocked out of me by a 7.62 round," he stated somewhat sarcastically, talking more to himself than the others. "Nothing to worry about."
"Atkins, take him over to your Humvee and check him out," ordered Arnold. "Patch him up as best you can, let Mabrey handle the rest when he gets here."
Atkins nodded. He went over, lifted his partner up with a grunt and moved him as fast as he could towards the forward Humvees. Once there, he checked it out. The bullet had passed in and out of Lake's left shoulder, leaving a small little hole that left no lasting damage. There was very little blood. Atkins tied a quick Compress over both of Lake's holes and slapped his buddy on the back.
"You're good to go. Lock and load."
Meanwhile, with the fire gone, Arnold had finally managed to pull a screaming, badly wounded Pettigrew out of the smoking wreckage. He placed the fire blanket over his chest to rid of any more smoke or flames, and stared helplessly down at his friend.
The rocket had hit the back of the Humvee, but Pettigrew had still received the blunt of the impact. Shrapnel had all but decimated his chest, leaving bits of metal and steel sticking out of his chest. His uniform was torn, both from the explosion of the RPG and from the fire caused by it. His Kevlar vest virtually ceased to exist. His face was covered in blood and burn marks, but he didn't take time to notice it, for he was too busy screaming in complete agony. Arnold had seen some bad wounds before, and this was one of them. What he needed was a medic. Scratch that, he needed three surgeons and an anesthesiologist and plenty of operating gear in an O.R. And even that might not save him. He was millimeters away from death as it was.
BAM! BAM!
Two more enemy soldiers had taken to the streets and were firing at him and Pettigrew. Arnold lifted his M-4 and fired. The bullet grazed one in the shoulder, sending him spinning and falling, but not dead. His friend came to help him, while the sergeant trained his rifle on him.
click!
His eye opened. Empty. The other soldier heard the click, saw the raised gun, and brought his own up.
BAM!
Atkins rushed by, firing his handgun. The bullet hit the assailant's hand, sending the rifle flying out and clattering to the street. Atkins fired two more times, striking him in the chest. The man crumpled, expired.
The machine-gunner went past his sergeant and dying corporal and fired at more of the enemy mercenaries. He pumped another round into the head of the man Arnold had wounded before. He then ejected the spent clip and stuffed a new one in when something on the man's person caught his eye. He looked down at the person laying face-down and saw the giant umbrella imprinted on the back of a green jacket.
His face went pale. No, he thought to himself. It can't be-
BAM!
He jerked out of his trance. Another soldier had come, firing a handgun of his own. They aimed their weapons at each other and fired at the same time.
Both soldiers dropped, though only one howled in pain.
Atkins' bullet had hit him square in the head, leaving a neat little hole in the center of his forehead that one could see clear to the other side for a brief moment before blood clogged the entries and poured out. In return, the man's bullet hit Atkins by going through his left side, in and out, also leaving a nice little hole with the same attributes as the other one had. The foe fell backwards and lay still; the D-Boy fell backwards and couldn't stop moving. He writhed in pain and cursed whole-heartedly.
During this whole exchange, Arnold had been desperately searching for a new clip for his rifle. All he found out, to his horror, was that the one he had just emptied was his last one. Still, he searched, hoping against hope that he had missed a location for some extra ammo. But when Atkins was shot, he finally gave up. He threw his M-4 down and took out his .45 and fired with that. it was only a small handgun with a seven-round clip, but it would have to do.
On his back, Atkins somehow managed to scootch himself back over on his back. Bit by, bit, he crab-crawled himself back to the Humvees, with Arnold covering him as best he could with his .45. When he was close enough, Lake pulled him back in- not an easy feat, as he only had one fully-functioning arm to work with- and propped him up against the second Humvee. His partner continued to curse.
"God, this hurts like a son-of-a-bitch!" he cried out.
"Put pressure on the wound," Arnold told him and Lake. "Make sure you bandage it properly. If you still can, provide some supporting fire while I try to-AH!"
It happened quick. A rifleman's bullet hit the hood of the fourth Humvee, skidded off, and passed through the piece of skin that connected Arnold's neck with his right shoulder. His hand leapt to the wound as blood spurted out and fell against the wrecked Humvee, twitching and writhing.
"FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUCK! FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!" he hollered, kicking the ground in pain and frustration. Almost ten years with the force and he had to pick this shit mission to get shot! Of all the rotten luck.
"Sarge! You OK?" called Lake.
Arnold refused to take his hand off his wound. It was a thing with him. The sight of blood coming from the soldiers he had shot, the sight of Pettigrew lying mangled on the ground- that didn't affect him that much. But when he saw his own blood oozing from him, pouring out of him like water from a gutter in a rainstorm…that scared him to know end. It ended his feeling of being invincible, and made him vulnerable. Weak.
Which was not what they needed right now.
He looked around. Everyone on his team had been hit. Pettigrew was the worst out of all of them. The Humvees were all shot up, one of them blown all to Hell. And despite all they had done, they enemy were still pouring it on them, not ceasing. For the first time, he actually believed he was going to die. It was a weird feeling- he just knew this was it. It neither frightened nor comforted him. It was just there. After all these years of fighting, this was where his tale would end.
"Friendlies! Friendlies!"
And then Delta Two finally arrived, probably in just as worse shape as they were in. Waters was bleeding from a really nasty wound from his shoulder, but other than that was fine. Arnold's face cracked into a weary smile, which fled when he saw Owens and Mabrey dragging Slowenski's body as carefully as they could towards the column.
"Put him in the second Humvee," Waters ordered, before turning to Arnold. The Delta Three sergeant nodded towards the others' men.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Rather not talk about it," Waters answered, and then nodded to his wound. "What happened here?"
"I'd rather not talk about it," replied Arnold with a sarcastic grin.
"It's Umbrella."
Atkins groaned this from where he was sitting, grunting in pain as Mabrey cleaned out his wound. He looked at the two sergeants.
"Those guys…they're those Umbrella mercs from the LZ. I saw the patch on their uniforms," he told them. Arnold moaned in pain and frustration.
"Of all the low down…aren't they supposed to be on our side?" he demanded.
"Somehow, I don't think they care anymore," answered Waters.
BOOM!
Both men ducked as the fourth Humvee, the one Lake had been in when he had been shot, blew up. A grenade had landed in the cab and exploded. The detonation disabled the vehicle completely, grounding it to its spot. Arnold groaned.
"Bill, we gotta get out of here," he said.
"Yeah, I know," Waters replied, concentrating some fire on the enemy in the windows. "Let's hop into the Humvees and roll our way out. We still gotta find the others-"
"No, I mean, WE have to get out of here. As in, we have to get our teams out of this city."
The Delta Two sergeant's head whipped back towards the Delta Three one.
"What?!"
Arnold shifted uncomfortable, as Mabrey turned his attention to him while also prepping an IV for Pettigrew.
"Pettigrew's fucked up real bad. I don't get him to a doctor- a REAL doctor, no offense, Mabrey-, he's not gonna make it. I gotta get him back to base so the docs can patch him up."
"Wait, what about the others? Bradley and Horan and Sandy? We can't just leave them in here, Sam, they'll die!"
"Bill, LOOK at us!" Arnold waved around to the wrecked vehicles, the shot-up crew. "What use are we gonna be? I'm down to two running vehicles, and everyone on the team's fucking shot! By the time we find the others, we'll have nothing left to call a convoy! Face it; we'll be more harm than good to them. And who the fuck even knows if they're still alive?"
"Sam," Waters grabbed his friend's collar and pulled him closer to him so that they were eye to eye. "I promised Ski, right before he died, that I would find the others. And that I would bring them home. And I plan on keeping that promise, no-matter-what. You do what you have to do, but I'm staying. And I'm going to find them. And I am going to get them home. All of them."
Arnold found himself amazed at the other sergeant's determination. A few days ago, he had been the green, nervous leader of the new Delta Two team. Now he was this expert killer, bravely taking his remaining soldiers into territory his own seasoned team could not go into. In the last twenty-four hours or so, Waters had been baptized by fire, and now he was a true soldier. And he was going to step in for the old-timers. To get the others home.
He finally nodded.
"OK," he said. "You're on your own. I'm gonna take my guys and get us back to base to get patched up. Now look, I can't promise we'll be able to get back out. You're gonna have to make your own way out. Just try to be back at HQ within a 24-hour time limit. Otherwise, it's probably gonna be too late."
"Alright. Sounds good."
Waters stood and reached down. Arnold grabbed his hand and was hoisted up onto his feet. The two tightly gripped each other's hand, not letting go, not losing eye contact. This was good-bye for now, but not forever. They would all make it out. They had to believe that they would. Alive, they would all be coming home.
"Good luck, Bill," said Arnold. "See you back at base."
"You too, Sam," replied Waters. "See you in twenty-four hours."
Then they turned to their men.
"Atkins! Lake!" Arnold called. "Grab Pettigrew and get him in the Humvee. We're going home, boys!"
"Mabrey! Owens!" Waters ordered. "Weapons and ammo, on me. Grab any other supplies you can, and let's move 'em out!"
And so, it was with this that Delta Two and Delta Three, the only two teams to have so far been in contact with each other, went their separate ways. Waters ran as fast as he could around the corner and down another side-street to avoid the crossfire, while Arnold's convoy, now down to the Jeep and the second Humvee, roared out, Lake hammering away one-handedly on the .50 cal while Atkins followed Arnold out of the battle and out of the city.
And out of any chance of being any help to the other teams.
The others were now truly, totally, on their own.
…Wow.
Not bad.
As you can see, this chapter took time because of length (at 20 pages and over 8,000 words, this is my longest A.S.A.N chapter to date) and volume (this is the longest scripted fight I think I have ever written, beating out the previous two major fights by a long shot).
Jamie Gartland, I will write the next chapter, and I'll work out the whole deal with you after I do.
I pray you enjoy this fight, and I also pray you review it when you finish it.
Peace out for now.