Russian Disasterpeace: A Warm Gun, A Song of Storms

The hours have not been kind.

My clothes have worn down, my weapons need replacing. I’ve managed to hoard twenty or so grenades by picking them off the dead. I don’t think this rifle will hold out for me much longer. I’ve been wandering along this hillside, trying to find a way to the helicopter crash site; no luck. I do find a condemned building, some kind of dam control maybe.

Footsteps. A platoon of men. Bandits, I think. Eight, ten, maybe. A deal is going on. There are weapons. Motivation enough.

I creep out of sight, near the foot of the small hill. My gun is warm in the sunset.

My rifle is jamming. Bullets are low. I take potshots with my pistol, near broken as well. I’m doing what I can to keep them away. Grenades make distance between us, and I add some shotgun shells to the mix in desperation.  It’s obvious they’ve some high grade scoped and silenced weapons. Dark is approaching quickly. I can only shoot with my flashlight on, but it’s only making it easier for them. I’ll head around the pond welling up in the dam.

Lights off, head for the grates: they’ll make good cover.

I find a ladder inside, and ascend. It leads me right into the building, behind them. One of the them is standing guard, looking in the wrong direction. I take him out with a quick knife swipe and pick off his ammo. Another outside, on the stairs. He’s dead, and I retreat back inside to the pitch black.

I find a few documents and artifacts, but I’ll leave them until I’ve dealt with this. I’m spotted. I quickly empty shells into the offender and head downstairs. I hold my breath behind a support beam as the rest of the crew approach from outside. I take a swig of vodka and bandage my wounds.

I shine my flashlight in their faces and my shotgun catches them unaware. I’m at lethal distance, and so are they. Their bullets tear the armor right off my body, and I duck again behind the beam to hastily perform some first aid. Only a few left.

Grenades. Shells. Pistol. Blood—bandages.

They’re dead. I loot the remains and pick up the documents.
These are heavy guns, worth a good price. I’m not wasting them, but its too much to carry.

I drop my armor. It’s nothing more than a rag now, anyway. Its pitch black out there, and it’s started to rain.

I walk back in the rain. The rain is cold on my bandages. The barrel of my gun is still hot.

2 thoughts on “Russian Disasterpeace: A Warm Gun, A Song of Storms”

  1. Wow, that was a pretty tense piece. Made me nervous just reading it. Good work — my (figurative) hat’s off to you!

    …You know what? *Puts on actual hat, then takes it off*

    Because you’re worth it.

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