Hurrikane
Slayer
- Joined
- Jan 28, 2006
- Posts
- 8,358
- Location
- Bristol
- Society
- GloryHound Irregulars
- Avatar Name
- Oscar Hurrikane SkyQuake
Calypsian Stand-Off
The plain stretched out before him, cracked and flat, a haze blurring the air. The trembling, distant horizon offered only more desert. The mud crunched beneath his boots. No-one had walked here in a while, he thought. At least a few hundred years. The crust of lichen and mould that covered the stark desert floor took centuries to grow, and beneath his feet, spores and the exhalations of surprised bacteria billowed invisibly from each step.
He squinted into the haze. The sky wasn’t just blue. It was as if each pixel of the sky had been to a party held by the sun, and they all came back wearing glitter. Beneath it’s brilliance the stark, empty desert was featureless, a yellow-brown slab of heat. On he walked.
The gun was heavy. He didn’t mind that. He hadn’t considered weight an issue when he’d bought it. The more he carried it, the easier it got. Besides, there wasn’t an option. Sniper rifles were large by nature. The longer the range, the longer the gun.
And he wanted range. Up close was too personal.
It wasn’t his war.
He allowed himself to stop, his legs feeling strange at rest. How long had he walked, four hours, maybe more? He raised him arms aloft in a stretch, the rifle hanging from it’s strap. He reached down for his water bottle and flipped the top with his thumb, then took a steady drink and re-sealed it. He enabled the HUD in his helmet, and the semi-opaque display flickered into life inside the visor.
He was still unable to use his radar. The locator could only tell him how far he’d walked; eleven miles that day, twenty-five the day before. At least it was in the same direction. He checked the temperature; he was as hot as he could imagine enduring. His sweat evaporated as it dripped onto his armour. He readied himself to walk again, peering at the bare route ahead. He blinked, and looked with more purpose. He dropped to his knee, swinging the gun up to a ready position. A blemish. A spot. Solid behind the haze. How far? Tiny. Far. On the brink of too far.
If you could see it, it wasn’t too far.
He sunk to his elbows, the long rifle extended in front, his eye at the sight. Blurred images of desert became crystal clear, and he panned across the area he’d seen it. One pan and there he was. Uniform of the enemy. Also laid down. Also with a large gun extended in front. And firing.
Without thinking or breathing he rolled to the side. As the high-velocity round flew by him with a terrifying closeness he knew he’d reckoned right; anyone that quick to ready himself and fire was probably a good shot too. No point dodging a bad shot; you might as likely dive in front of it.
He stopped rolling and came up with his response, a hastily but accurately aimed shot across the vast expanse. He knew the distance now. The round would take two seconds to reach him. Through his scope he saw the enemy’s gun fire again, and bit his lip, risking staying where he was. The round screamed by to his right. That was where the enemy thought he’d roll, as he’d rolled right before. This guy was good. He knew he’d dodged his first shot; the guy was relocating as soon as his second round left the barrel.
He blinked, and rolled quickly to the left, coming up to a firing position and focusing once more on his foe. Again, he saw the enemy’s gun firing and again, he fired back, both rounds being evaded by the successful impulses of the combatants.
He sought around for cover, but none existed. He had to keep moving. He couldn’t stand and run; he’d be cut down before he got upright. The enemy would see his position shifting and know he was looking to bolt. Bolt? Where to?
Two more shots from each of them, again relocating. How long could this go on? How long before one of them guessed right?
He chanced another wait; he’d rolled right the last three times. He gasped as he was proved right, the deadly bullet leaving a raised trail of dust to his left. He rolled left again. He could pause, he thought. He had enough time.
He worked the forward controls on the rifle and from each side of the barrel, the bipod legs extended. The feet settled on the dry desert soil. He looked though his sights; he could see the enemy rolling, his free arm reaching for something. An attachment depleted, he thought. Swapping out a replacement. He did have time.
He had the enemy in focus. His gun was steady. The target stopped rolling, readying to fire back and continue the game. He pulled the trigger. The enemy chose to stay put. The enemy chose wrong.
He stood up. The enemy’s last round whistled between his ankles and into the distance behind him. He shouldered his rifle, standing still while his heartbeat returned to normal, taking a short drink from his water bottle.
It wasn’t his war. But he was seeing it out. So far so good.
He started walking towards his fallen opponent. He hoped for something, even rations; the desert was a scant provider. He’d take what he could, apart from the enemy’s rifle. He couldn’t carry two guns.
And anyway, he had the better one.
Hurrikane
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