|
Post by Metal Head on Mar 1, 2009 14:19:47 GMT -5
“One, two, three!” With a thunderous kick, the thick wooden door that stood before me swung wide open, the wood around the locks cracking under the strain, ripping the deadbolt and chain from their places. Pieces of debris littered the floor around the door, although surprisingly the break in was very silent.
With the female survivor still slung over my shoulder, I carried her quickly into the house, the second survivor following. The wood and lock debris made crackling sounds under my boots, and I quickly dropped the women down upon a soft leather couch that sat in the living room area of the house. Obviously. The place was deserted. Cabinets in the kitchen hung open, revealing the bareness inside, expensive items from around the house had been relocated, or may have even been taken with the owners. Either way the place was calm, and as I went back to the door to shut it, I felt goose bumps spread across my neck.
From the outside, the door didn’t look too damaged. At least, not from a distance. Inside was where you could really see what had happened, so in an attempt to make the door less noticeable, I pushed back the cracked wood into it’s place. It didn’t make it look too much better, but at least it made it a little harder to spot from outside.
Now, I began my search of the building. First I headed down the nearest hallway, which connected directly to the living room and ran straight to the back of the house. At the end, the last door was slightly ajar, a blue kind of darkness filling the void between door frame and door. Instead of going straight to the door however, I checked the four others. Two on the left and two on the right.
The two on the left were bedrooms. One an obvious master bedroom, with an expensive king sized bed, decorated to give it a warm feeling. The brown paint on the walls looked new, and I could only assume the residents had only moved back in a short time ago. Now the next bedroom was a different case. Race car bed, toy box in the corner, it was obviously a Childs room. But, I didn’t linger, and shut the door carefully behind me, checking the locks to see if they’d be safer than the living room for the survivors, yet neither of them did.
On the other side of the hall was a rather large office (most of it’s office equipment gone), and a small library of sorts, the walls lined with books, accompanied by a very relaxed looking leather recliner, near the far corner. When I had also checked those knobs and found that neither had a lock, I moved onto the open door. Effortlessly I unholstered my sidearm and raised it to the door, my boots making soft padding sounds on the white plush carpet.
With my free hand, I gently reached for the door, my movements slow and deliberate before I pushed the door hard open and quickly stepped into the room. Nothing. A simple bathroom, with a large hot tube looking bath and very expensive looking fixtures all around. Holstering my sidearm, I checked the knob of the door and found that it did in fact lock.
Happy that I’d found a room that locked, I headed into the master bedroom, grabbed as many blankets as I could carry and dumped them into the hot tube in the bathroom. The only light came from a small privacy window, near the ceiling above the hot tub. When I found myself back in the hallway, I flicked on the bathroom lights and then walked into the living room.
“Hey, I need you to pick your girl up and carry her to the bathroom, it’s safer for you two there,” While telling the survivor what I needed him to do, I headed into the kitchen and began to search the empty cabinets for anything of use. Most of the cleaning supplies had been left untouched, but I found that worthless unless I was going to try and make mustard gas.
Cereal on the counter had been left, about four boxes, so I carried those along with a few bowls (couldn’t find any regular bowls so I had to take some from a China cabinet in the living room that had been left untouched) and took them into the bathroom. Setting it all down on the floor, I took a seat on the counter beside the sink and turned on my comms.
“This is Ludolf, package secure. Should I regroup on your position? Over,”
|
|
|
Post by Lunapocalypse on Mar 2, 2009 3:13:10 GMT -5
The night sky lit up and rained brick and asphalt.
Aya had covered her head even though she was so far away from the explosion, she stood up to look over the crates of equipment finding half the street had been torn to bits, the gas station nearly non existant. A sheet of concern embraced her as she scanned furiously for signs of either Claypoole or Tyson amongst all of the commotion, the signal was clear although Aya had never assumed for it to be that intense.
A voice crackled over the radio, Aya pressing her ear piece further in, "This is Ludolf, package secure. Should I regroup on your position? Over,"
Aya quickly thumbed through her PDA and chose a preset message, sending <Regroup> over the network to Ludolf. Aya looked up to see men flooding out through the main doors of the radio station in order to get a better view of what was going on before massing together and moving down the lit up hill side towards the gas station. More gunfire spat off here and there, another glimps showed flashes from along the hillside down at the street below. This was it, Aya sent another global preset message to everyone.
<Engage>
She remained knelt beside the huge wheel of a work vehicle, suppressed 226 equiped along with her knife. She waited for the perfect moment when the last of the reinforcements pooled out. Aya stood up and followed them from the maingate into the hill side amongst all of the thick foliage, it wasn't until they were well into the darkness before Aya grabbed the last hostile from the pack and pulled him back covering his mouth and slashing his neck; discarding him beneath a cover of ferns, checking her six before scrambling through the foliage behind enemy lines and pulling another man under the sea of green.
|
|
|
Post by Mikey on Mar 2, 2009 5:14:21 GMT -5
Matthew remained unresponsive, and Tyson couldnt help but think he was messed up bad. He knew better than most soldiers what a good blast at close range could do to a person. He had the scars and the dented peice of metal he wore on his face to prove it. But even still, when he had gotten blown up, he'd been awake and responsive when the medics got to him.
The order came through to engage threats at almost the same moment Tyson heard the distinct sound of a 7.62mm bullet fired from an AK-47 hit something very close. He surmised that it was the brick wall he was behind at the moment, but that was still too close for comfort. Especially with Claypoole out of commission for the moment. He decided that it was time to take some more heat. He always liked doing that.
He fed rounds from his pouch into the magazine tube of the pump action, taking the first one from the belt of rounds he had slung around his chest. He had always hated loose ends and loose rounds, and dealt with both accordingly. When his weapon was packed with 11 rounds, he held it and peeked around the corner. He saw a group of at least four of the fu*kers. There was probably more given the ammount of gunfire being put out, but he wasnt going to stick his head out and make himself a target unless he was shooting back.
He let out a few shallow breaths and took a deep one in, seemingly trying to get his blood flowing and adrenaline pumping. In an instant, he spun out, shotgun first and lined up a shot. The buckshot exited the barrel and peppered the mans chest, ending with a brilliant mist of blood fuming out into the night air.
"Come on bi*ches!" He yelled out for three reasons. First off, he was the only one of two standing who were supposed to be taking the heat. This also tied in with keeping them off of Claypoole while he got up and dusted himself off. Secondly, he knew for a fact that it stimulated the lungs, in turn making the heart beat more and hence putting out more adrenaline to his system. And lastly, he was playing the part of the invincible monster in the mind of his enemy's. Fear and panic did more damage to an enemy force than he could ever do with a weapon that never ran out of ammo. Already, he could see it manifest on some faces, and he could almost read their minds.
"We're fighting a loseing fight! He's not going down! We're fu*ked!" He could almost hear being shouted from their mouthes as clear as his own shotgun blasts. One thing was for sure. For each load of buckshot he fired, another man fell.
|
|
|
Post by Metal Head on Mar 2, 2009 9:06:12 GMT -5
“Roger that, moving out,” Taking my hand down from the comm., I rechecked my gear quickly and then after making sure the two survivors were safe in the bathroom, I headed out the front door. The overwhelming darkness devoured me, and I felt more alive than I had in years as I hoofed it down the street my squad had been down only a short time ago. My boots beat loudly on the black asphalt, and all of my gear rattled in their pouches, but the sounds were welcoming, they told me that I could still move if I had to.
As soon as I found myself surrounded by buildings, I knew I was in the city. The gunfire that I’d heard sporadically back at the cabin now sounded loudly from all sides. Reaching the first intersection I could see the utility vehicle to the right from before, and debris from some sort of explosion to the front. Deciding that the best idea was to go where the most debris was, I headed straight down the street.
Almost as soon as I’d crossed the intersection, I spotted them. Four armed men moving up the middle of the street, another three moving down the right side in half crouches. They looked like they were trying to sneak up on someone, and when I took cover inside of an alleyway not too far from the intersection, I found out who.
Tyson in his heavy duty armor stood just to the side of a large brick wall, his armor soaking up the shots from the armed tango’s who had now ducked behind cover around the street. As the 7.62 rounds drummed on Tyson’s large steel plating, I could tell he wasn’t going to be able to take much more and raised my M4 to engage the hostiles.
My first target was one of the creepers, his chest exploding out his back in a large spray of red mist, his withering body falling backwards as if he’d been punched in the chest. Two pristine holes bled through his front. The others saw me though, and even though I got off another two shots, only one hit home, embedding itself deep in one of the hostiles thighs, obviously hitting the Femoral Artery as blood squirted profusely from the wound.
Now it was my turn to take cover, and I fell back into the alleyway, a sprinkle of 7.62 rounds landing flush where I had been. To my right where I had been sitting was a medium sized house, surrounded by a waist high iron fence. It was a simple task to hop it, but I wasn’t sure how well the house would hold up to gunfire, but that didn’t stop me from moving to the front side of the house and take a peek out onto the street.
Luckily the militants couldn’t see me, their attention focused on Tyson as they tried to figure a way to take him out. Unfortunately, the buckshot from Tyson’s shotgun could seem to penetrate the walls that some of the men had taken cover behind, yet he still took the shots from the Ak’s like nothing.
My M4 was up even before I thought about it, and I fired off a quick burst of three rounds. A difficult task with a semi-auto, but a task I’d learned long ago. Through the iron sights of the rifle, I saw the shots rifle into one of the militamen’s foreheads, his brain matter spraying out the back in a perfect example of gore, body going limp and collapsing to the ground. He hadn’t had a chance to safety his Ak, and as the rifle clattered to the ground, a single shot fired off from it’s barrel, the round flying flush into the ankle of one of the fallen men’s comrades. Shouts of both anger and pain rang out, and I traced what I thought was the trajectory of the bullet, and spotted two more hostiles. One was seated with his back against a low brick wall, his non-injured foot sticking out just barely in my view. The second was hunched over the first, his hands moving feverously as he applied a bandage to his comrades wound. Only a T2, severe injury but not life threatening. Firing off a final salvo of rounds, the wall the men were behind crumpled under the fire and both were hit by the barrage of six rounds, though I couldn’t tell how many hit each.
These .338 Spectre rounds were a blast.
|
|
|
Post by Lance Bishop on Mar 2, 2009 20:41:34 GMT -5
[[OOC: I totally forgot we switched threads. My bad. I'm assuming these peaks are buildingless?]]
Aya showed Lance the areas of interest. They were three distinct locations, each sitting on a hill top over looking the radio station. These hills, due to the area's climate, terrain, and geographical location would probably be covered in mostly grass and rocks. Lance could spot a few trees on the nearest one, he decided that would be the ideal place.
The sniper broke off from the group at the designated position. He shouldered the M21 SWS and withdrew the 1911. He moved across the street and immediately sought cover behind a series of bushes. The sharpshooter whipped out a set of his binoculars. He flipped the high grade optics over to night vision mode and gave the hillside and quick look-see. Quiet and seemingly untouched. A gust of wind swept over the area, heading from the West to the Northeast/Eastern direction.
Bishop capped off the binos and shoved them back in to his pack. He lifted from his knee and moved up the slope, trying his best not to disturb the few jagged rocks weaved in and out of the grass. After about a minute he had made it up the small slope. He gave the hill top a quick and informal recon with his eyes, all looked clear.
Lance holstered his sidearm and picked a prime spot. Just between three trees. He could prop his back against the tree to his rear, move a log in front of him for a perch, and use the two trees just three yards at each side for cover. Within seconds he had his prime shooting position established. Now for the more difficult task. The man pulled out his GPS integrated with real time weather, windage, and climate updates. The sharpshooter quickly jotted down a few notes on his pad with a pencil. He then drew a makeshift range card with the space behind the radio station being the farthest target.
A quick tap on the GPS declared that the radio station was a good five hundred meters out. Not to hard of a shot. He adjusted his sights using the mil-dots in accordance with his windage and elevation calculations. His left gloved hand adjusted the respective turrets until he was on target. Bishop pushed on his mic twice, a voiceless radio technique used to signal. He was telling the team he was in position.
Suddenly the hill top exploded in a fury of debris. Bishop kept his cool and actively began searching for a presentable target. A group of men emerged from the radio station. Lance studied them for a moment, then chose to engage the most immediate threat. He saw muzzle flashes dancing along one of the roads, staggered alongside the hill.
Bishop steadied his rifle, he found the perfect target of opportunity. A man crouched behind a rock. He would pop up every few seconds and spit out a few rounds, then duck back down for cover. Lance moved his right index finger from the rifle, looping it inside of the trigger guard. His finger rubbed the trigger as it pulled back two of three pounds needed to iniate the internal firing mechanisms. Bishop controlled his breathing. Take deep and relaxing breaths. His body relaxed, the muscles loosening. It was a process he had done so many times before.
"Hold scope.. On target.. Kill... Kill..-" The sniper muttered. The target popped up to spray a few rounds down range. He squeezed back the trigger, applying that last pound of pressure needed. The rifle barked and jerked back, his body absorbing the recoil in a natural manner only acquired through training and years of experience. The 7.62mm round met home, the bullet hitting center mass. The man with the AK fell backwards, a large bloody hole in the center of his chest. He rolled down the hill, his body coming to rest against a large rock.
"Confirmed kill.." Lance muttered out of habit. He then began searching for a new victim. His scope sweeping over the battlefield. Bishop adjusted his eye relief on the stock piece and continued his sweep. It was hard finding an openly available target, many of them were hidden by the night and by the natural curves of the hillside.
[[OOC: Hope that auto - kill was okay.]]
|
|
|
Post by thegunny on Mar 2, 2009 22:03:04 GMT -5
Claypoole slowly got to get up laggedly, getting to his knees and then to his feet still out of it a bit. Bullets whizzed all around him when he popped up, it taking him a second before he dropped down again behind cover and dusted himself off. Claypoole couldn't believe so many of the f**kers had survived. He was still only half in it as he started to wield his AR-10A2 again, and start to stay down low and fire from behind the cover that Tyson had dragged him back to. He quickly fired off bursts of semi automatic fire, taking down one man with 3-4 quick .308 Win shots, and then reaiming to take down another. Claypoole wasn't a marksman, he had been an automatic rifleman for a reason. With the S.A.W's and machine guns he'd made sweet music, but he wasn't the guy to be put in a sniper or D.M role. Claypoole kept pouring out the fire, silent and still quite distant even as he killed one man after another. -------------- Emily hadn't brought any suppressed firearms, and she was for all intents and purposes, non-combat. Right now, since they weren't up against B.O.W's, the only real use for her was her medical expertise... but that narrowed down her options of what to do. She wasn't supposed to fight, so one side of her told her she should stick back with Bishop out of the fight and in safety, at the radio station, and where here unsuppressed firearms wouldn't screw up the plan. But at the same time, she knew that as the medic she had to be up at the frontlines in case she was needed. She knew that everyone BUT Bishop was engaged in a fight... or having to fight their way to where ever they were going. So Emily was doubtful that she should follow ANY of them ANYWHERE. But her medical duties told her otherwise... Emily, against her better judgement and dominant instincts, immediately stuck behind Aya at a reasonable distance. She was at a distance so that she didn't screw Aya's stealth kills up, but close enough that she could rely on Aya for defense and on her to clear the enemies out. Emily couldnt help without giving their position away. So she used what few military skills she had been trained in, specialized in, and had focused on; stealth. She was able to follow Aya unnoticed and without being threatened, and follow up with her medical duties by being relatively on the frontlines and ready to help if needed.
|
|
|
Post by thegunny on Mar 9, 2009 19:14:20 GMT -5
OOC: We need to get this going and keep it going again. The T.F.P is relying on this RP finishing as much as we're using it for RP.
|
|
|
Post by thegunny on Mar 12, 2009 7:48:30 GMT -5
I believe its metal head or Mikey's post
|
|
|
Post by Metal Head on Mar 12, 2009 15:55:29 GMT -5
I posted one post prior to you so it's not me.
|
|
|
Post by thegunny on Mar 12, 2009 16:20:40 GMT -5
OOC: Bishop posted after you, and then I posted. Mikey isn't involved in RPing with either of you. That means its your post metalhead. Even if Mikey posted, he wouldn't change anything regarding you and Bishop.
|
|
|
Post by Metal Head on Mar 12, 2009 16:51:50 GMT -5
Actually Mikey is centered around my post, and since no one has responded regarding anything I wrote at all, then I'm gonna stick with the fact it's not my post.
|
|
|
Post by Lance Bishop on Mar 13, 2009 22:01:52 GMT -5
[[OOC: I'll go ahead and post again to keep things alive.]]
Lance had confirmed one target already, he couldn't even remember what his daily total was, nor did he care. His PMC - D comrades were in the thick of the fight while he lay in a small grove of trees on an overlooking hill. He felt as though he were in the middle of the firefight though, his scope sweeping over the battlezone.
"MP5.." Was all the sharpshooter thought. He was going to use his earnings on this contract to buy one and some extra magazines for it. While he was an expert marksman, he was also a trained infantryman. The Jack of Trades, the basic description of a Green Beret which was his former profession.
The muzzle flash from a rifle caught his attention. There was another militant, hanging out from behind the trunk of a car firing at the Dragonfly's position. The sharpshooter lined up his mil-dots and centered the crosshairs on the man's form. "Hold scope.." He thought, acting as his own spotter. A gentle breeze swept over the hill, the grass bending to the wind's will. The M21 settled, the cold metal barrel stuck between two rocks, balanced on a log.
The sniper's breathing slowed, his posture relaxed. The gloved hand tightened on the stock of the weapon, the index finger; which was bare the sniper had cut the finger out of the glove, rubbed the trigger. He gave about three and a half inches of eye relief from the scope, so no eye shadow got in the way of his adjustments. The PDA lay next to him, displaing windage and climate information. Bishop exhauled and squeezed the trigger, sending a 7.62mm bullet flying towards the target. The round slammed in to insurgent, penetrating the right side of his rib cage and rolling him on to his back.
The sniper's magazine was empty, luckily he was only on his first. A hand moved up and ejected the box mag, he set it on the ground and used a free hand to pull a fresh magazine from the slot on his vest. He shoved it in to the rifle and secured it in the port. Lance then pulled back the port, shoving the empty magazine in to the empy slot in his vest. A brass shell casing rolled off of the log and in to the grass. A small trail of smoke coming out of it.
|
|
|
Post by Mikey on Mar 15, 2009 1:37:34 GMT -5
Tyson, after expending all 11 rounds in his shotgun, spun to his left and pressed his back to the wall. He was taking too much fire. Until a few minutes ago, it had been only him shooting, then it had been only he and Claypoole shooting. And now, even with Ludolf joining, the enemy force was still very large. Well, he assumed it wasnt even in number of 50 men, but that was still quite massive when compared to six people. Two of which were seemingly MIA at the moment.
He fed new rounds into his shotgun as he listened to the sounds of battle. Claypoole was on the ground not three feet from him, capping off rounds with his AR platform of some kind. Ludolf with his M4 somewhere in the bushes, and he was quite sure Bishop was getting in on the action from some high point. Where were Aya and Emily?
He couldnt think of that now. He could only think of the firefight he was submerged in. And from the sounds of the rounds hitting the wall he was behind him, the enemy wasnt stopping to think about long lost friends either. Tyson racked a shell into the chamber of the shotgun and spun out into the thick of things once more, seeing several dead bodies that hadnt been there before. The enemy had them outmanned, but not outgunned. If things kept going like this, they'd have the superior force beat in no time.
|
|
|
Post by thegunny on Mar 16, 2009 1:14:12 GMT -5
Aya and Emily steadily made their way towards the radio tower, and observed from afar the situation at the gas station. They arrived just in time to observe the hostile survivors breaking formation and scattering, 15-18 of them running straight for the broadcasting tower, the remainder of them dead or soon to die as they continue to try and fight while disorganized, shocked, and completely demoralized as they lose so many comrades to cowardice and not bullets. The men still numbered at least as many who turned and ran. Aya relayed orders for everyone to finish off the last 15-20 men fighting around the ruins of the gas station, while she continued to watch as the men stampeded away from Ludolf, Claypoole, and Tyson, and made their way to a side exit. Emily and Aya skillfully and effortlessly moved for them, and remained anonymous to them.
Claypoole, finally waking up enough, grinned and barked out
F**K YEAH! RUN MOTHER F**KERS RUN!
FIRE IN THE HOLE!
Then he reached down, pulled out one of his remaining pipe bombs, lit it, and tossed it from cover into a grouping of three of them. The pipe bomb exploded and the three men were essentially knocked out of the fight. Immediately following that, he started to get more daring and stand up a little more, and work his way through his AR-10A2 magazines. He had at least 70-80 more rounds left
Deeper inside the radio station, the 18 men quickly dispersed, seeming to fued amongst themselves(But not moving to blows or gunshots yet) and break off into little packs and gangs of them, groupings differing from as many as 3 to 5 or 8. They were distributed throughout the station, frenzied, cornered, and desperate. Not to mention outright scared s**tless.
|
|
|
Post by thegunny on Mar 19, 2009 11:44:05 GMT -5
Someone post ffs!
|
|