Monday, March 11, 2013

102: Beseiged, Day 4, part 3

January 6th, 2001


The first floor is theirs.  They can choke on it.  There's six stairwells in the hospital.  Four are crammed with beds, desks, chairs, and booby traps; have fun.  The northernmost center stairwell is open, but the halls leading to it are barricaded and trapped as well.  This last one, the one right here, is still open.  Hope they didn't bring a flamethrower.


Ed's pop-gun keeps hammering away.  It is no time to slow down.  I draw my hatchet and let the rifle swing on its sling.  Down a short hall and turn back towards pediatrics. 

"Stop or..."

Lt George sprawled, unconscious, by the door, pinch-faced Jones sheltering behind him, pistol in one hand and grenade in the other.


Nope!  No stopping.  That big handgun of Jones' starts to shift away from George's head.  Too slow.


I swing with all my might down from on high into his shoulder.  I might as well have struck a concrete wall.  The blade doesn't sink in.  Instead, its as if I'd struck with the flat.  He flails under the impact, hand open instinctively, and the live grenade bounces loose.

Sorry, George.


The men following Alpha stop and backpedal away from turn to pediatrics.  A flash and bang tell me why.  I pass them as they recover their senses with my rifle tucked tight into my shoulder.  Blast marks on the walls and door, one body setting limply, and two other struggling up.  Alpha's gripping his head and using the wall for support.  The other (oh, Mr. Jones!) on one knee with his monster handgun getting ready to cap my comrade. 

Not today.  The first two bursts do little but stagger him.  He screams with the third.  Falls, clawing at his chest, with the fourth.  There's blood at the sixth.  He's tough.  Keep pounding till blood and guts spill onto the floor. I drop the magazine from the wells and reach to swap out another.

The doors to pediatrics fly open as a hose-head charges through.  I double over, ribs cracking, as it shoulder checks me.  The blow knocks me from my feet.  The fresh magazine clatters away.  It screeches, raising a foot, about to curb stomp my head.

Alpha's men open up. 


Time enough to pick myself up once the hose-head drops.  The men gabble at me, but the concussion grenade did enough damage to stop that for the day.  I wave them away and find my hatchet.  Work to do.


Ed limps out into the hall.  Some black guy in sweats with an M-16 moves painfully behind him.  Ed laughs darkly and spits on the hose-head.  "All secure," he reports.

Down the halls gunfire still sounds.


We hold them at the stairs.  The partially clogged well allows one man at a time to get up and the netting set down the gaps prevents them from giving us an explosive present.  We hold them.

Then, they stop trying.  Someone down there tries to push them on.  There's a shot.  Someone isn't pushing them anymore.

They break.  It isn't a dignified retreat, falling back by the numbers, and covering their ass.  Whoever fired that shot takes off at the run and his panic spreads.  They run.

J-boy jeers and the men pick it up. 

1 comment:

  1. And then what?!?!?!
    4 years late, but I have really been enjoying reading this adventure. It has been both epic and inspiring! Thank you so much for writing all of these posts. Great story telling!
    But what happened next? Did you guys stop playing? I need closure...:)