Week 8 was all about creativity, what it is and how to be better at it. One of the suggested exercises was a short story of 500 words that uses the numbers 1 to 12. I decided to go with that one. I hope you like the story, but its not pretty. It could do with development and editing but it was just an exercise. I completed it within an hour and a half. Any thoughts, let me know.
12 to 1.
Move, you must move.
It was almost inaudible over the com devices military static…
Push off the right foot, explode back, pull triggers. Complete. Good, that’s good. Red mist, sparks, perforated equipment and fifteen stone of ‘man down’ in front of me. 11 to go.
On your knees, check the machine pistols. Right, good, left, nearly out. Gunfire, loud and intrusive, about ten feet away. Swearing and the sound of armour hitting cover. Opportunity. Slide to the corner, that’s it.
Rounds leaping from the left hands’ asset, shattering his knees from behind. Three more to the head as he crumples in on himself, rolling back looking up at me with a tattered face. Grab the weapon. Grab the grenade. 10 to go.
What now? Don’t think.
Moving right, vaulting the concrete, landing softly. Three up ahead, back to back, teamed up. Against the rules. Setting off Crawler Grenade. “What the f…”. Too late. Shock-wave deployed, hydro-static shock rupturing everything biological, soon to be dribbling from the openings in their kit. Back the way you came. Kill, move, kill, move, just like they taught you. 7 to go.
At the door now. I could pop this in like foil. You’re thinking again.
Limpet fitted, armed, three seconds… two… one…
Moved into the room too early, Limpet blast softened by Tac Armour. Foolish move. Flashes from the dark, rounds inbound. Fuck.
Missed. Returning fire. Staccato illumination, blood mist, panic, intense noise but over quickly. The big one is down. 6 to go.
Sun-Stick deployed. Big one still moving, moaning like a deer from back home. Leave him, good distraction.
You need to get out.
Another door, open. Weapon up and ready to destroy. Moving to the frame. Footsteps. Slide back now, gently. He’s coming in to investigate the big one’s death rattle, score some kit no doubt.
Sling the weapon, use the Razor, it’s worth more points after all. Flexing the right hand, I can never get this work… Ah, there it is.
Three of the four blades disappear in the slit between the collar and the head dress. Silly design really, leaving the neck exposed like that. Odd though, the feeling of the skin conceding after the initial resistance. I’ve pushed too hard, I can feel the muscles of his neck on my fingertips. Torrential blood upon extraction, not efficient. 5 to go.
Pain. The ribs. From the doorway I popped earlier. Too busy fucking thinking. Any second now.
Sorry Mum, I’m sorry…
The head shatters, Cranial Homing round I think, pink paste and fractured technology everywhere. 4 to go
Stooped and wincing but I can fight. Aim at the door. Steady. Yep, reckless idiot, gone right to ‘Stumpy’ to get his kit. Automatic discharge from the Sabre and your full of Ignition rounds. The two to your face will kill you, I’ll wait a sec’ before popping the Alternate-Fire.
Nothing. Fine. Drop a Proximity-Ping then. 3 to go.
Moving from the room, heel, toe and in half crouch. There, waiting on another target. Do I have a…? Yes, I do. Creeper initiated. Up the wall, across the ceiling and… yes, onto his shoulder. I said that slit is a poor design.
Shrieks of excruciating pain, clawing at the neck and terror that there is nothing to be done. Quite now, its shredded the trachea. He should stop moving soon. 2 to Go.
Well, 1 really.
Perfect. Proximity ping. Hitting Alternate-Fire on the Sabre should set off the Ignition rounds from earlier and yes, I can hear the howls of the last combatant fighting for a reprieve from the chemical torture.
No more to go.
A calm voice over the global comms. “Well done Lilly. You’re in.”