A Combat Carol
Allen wasn't quite sure if he was dead or not. He sure felt like he was dead. The creepy darkness surrounding him in all directions didn't put him at ease either.
"So this is what it's like to be dead, hella creepy." he thought to himself. Taking in his new surroundings.
"Remember, No Russian." came a voice that sent shivers down his spine, turning he found himself standing in the check-out line of an airport. And based on the signs on the walls he was at Imran Zakhaev International Airport. Behind him the ding of an elevator caused him to whirl around, causing him to came face to face with a man in a black business suit. This would be totally fine if it wasn't for the fact that the man was also wearing heavy Kevlar body armor and carrying an M4A1 assault rifle. Also the face attached to that body was that of Vladimir Makarov, which informed Allen that this wasn't just a simple visit to the airport.
Instincts took over, Allen himself wasn't armed. He was dressed like the average tourist. So he figured the best option was to try and get the other people to leave. For some reason, screaming 'He's got a gun!' caused no reaction from the crowd.
"They can't hear you, save your breath." came a voice from behind.
A fully-equipped U.S. Marine strode up to Allen, which wasn't exactly cause for alarm if it wasn't for the fact the man was covered in blood.
"Who the hell are you?" Allen asked, still finding it odd for a Marine to be at a Russian airport.
"I could ask you the same," said the Marine, "Names Jackson. Paul Jackson."
"Joseph Allen," said Allen, shaking the dead Marines hand, "So, uh.. Why can't they hear me?"
"Simple. You're dead."
"Sarge!" screamed Dunn, his voice drowned out by the sounds of gunfire reverberating off the tile walls of the Burger Town kitchen.
"What is it, Corporal?" returned Foley, gunning down Russians who were advancing on the besieged fast food joint.
"Allen's acting really weird! His heart rate's plummeted, and I don't what the hell to do."
"Keep an eye on him, where the hell is Ramirez?" shouted the Sergeant, praying the BTR gunner didn't get smart and bombard the restaurant with High-Explosive shells.
"He's covering Raptor!" yelled the Medic, who was trying to deal with injuries that far exceeded his skills.
"You expect me to believe you?" said Allen, pointing an accusatory finger at Jackson.
"Well, I know I'm dead. I mean, I did get hit by a nuke." said the Marine. "Look, we got things to see and I'm on a bit of a time crunch here."
"Alright," said Allen, giving in, "What do you want to show me?"
"How 'bout you turn around and take a good long look at that gunman on the far end?" said Jackson, indicating the gunman with his finger.
Allen took a look at the gunman and saw he was looking at himself.
Ramirez wasn't sure if he was lucky or if he had been given the task of defending an unconscious man. He was lucky in that he wouldn't be in danger of being killed but on the flip side he could see describing this particular battle to his grandchildren.
"What'd you do during the war, Grandpa?" they'd ask.
"Oh, well I hid in a meat locker while my friends died all around me." he'd say.
Yeah, that wouldn't win him any admiration from his grandkids. But in combat he was a liability, so maybe it was for the best he stayed in the closet.
"Is this some kind of joke?" shouted Allen, yelling into the undead Marines translucent face.
"Let us continue," said the Ghost, following in the wake of the terrorists destruction.
Eventually, the ghost stopped at a food court. "See this?" said the ghost, referring to the carnage around them. Allen only nodded.
"Then let's see it five minutes ago," said the Marine, and with a snap of his fingers the room reverted to it's bustling appearance of five minutes prior. The room was bustling with people, but out of the corner of his eye, Allen could see the approaching line of terrorists. He felt a pit in his stomach as the five gunmen, including himself opened fire on the defenseless crowd. The other Allen waded through the piles of corpses, upturning tables to prevent anyone from escaping his wrath. Finally, one of the tables yielded a reward, beneath one of the tables hid a young girl. She pleaded with the other Allen, but her pleas went to deaf ears. With a sadistic grin he leveled his machine gun on her and pulled the trigger, he fired until the gun let out a dull click. Calmly, the other Allen flipped the top hatch on his M240 and dumped the empty box on the floor.
"Wha-what the hell is the point of all this?" screamed Allen, watching as his doppelganger laughed at the poor girls fate as he kicked her mangled corpse out of his way.
"Simple, to send a message." replied the ghost.
"Who the FUCK sends a message like that?"
"Simple, Vladimir Makorav. And more importantly, you."
"Me? Why the hell would I run rampage through a Russian airport?"
"Would you if Shepherd told you? If you thought it would stop Makarov?"
"Well…yeah."
"Then you are no better then those you aspire to takedown." said the ghost, slowly walking away until he disappeared into thin air.
"Shit! Foley! We got a problem!" shouted Dunn, still huddled behind an old beat-up grill in the back of some fast food joint while being surrounded on both sides by Russian forces.
"What is it now?" returned Foley, jamming a new magazine into his SCAR-H.
"It's Allen. He just flat lined." said Dunn, solemnly.
The amount of automatic weapons fire outside the meat locker told Ramirez one of two things. Either that the Rangers were kicking ass and the Russians were retreating or the Russians were overwhelming the defenders. A soft moan caused Ramirez to turn his attention away from the solid steel door and back towards the meat locker's guest.
"Where the hell am I?" asked the formerly unconscious man, rubbing his head with one hand while steadying himself with the other.
"Sir, you'd better sit down. We've got the situation under control." said Ramirez, trying to get the man to sit down, that way he'd be out of the line of fire.
"Like hell, I've got a situation to take command of." muttered the man, more to himself then Ramirez. "And why the hell are you in here? Shouldn't you be out their killing those damn Russians?"
"Sir, I'm under orders to keep you safe."
"Well, Private. My orders outweigh yours. Now I said, let me out of this damn freezer."
"Sir, I can't allow that." said Ramirez, unwilling to risk court-martial for letting the man put under his care die.
"Do you know who I am? I'm with the CIA. Now let me out of this godforsaken icebox this instance." Just to be sure that the idiot Private understood Raptor flashed his ID card which had CIA stamped in bold letters across the top.
With a groan, Ramirez twirled the knob and let the CIA agent out into the hellhole that was the Burger Town restaurant.
"If this guy dies, it'll be my ass." muttered Ramirez, silently praying that this whole fiasco would end without sending him to a military court for disobeying direct orders and causing the death of CIA field agent.
