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View the profile of Hendrik Casimir
| Hendrik Casimir, I don't like Mondays | Written: 2006-02-02 10:24:47 |
And school's out early and soon we'll be learning / And the lesson today is how to die. |
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It's late afternoon on January 30th. I've gathered about as much ammo as I can carry, so I can't put this off any longer. I check my equipment for the last time and leave my safe house to find some DOA members. I know a few of them by sight, I've gone over the description provided by my fellow DEM servicemembers a hundred times, and we're fairly familiar with their MO, so the most likely place to find at least a few of them is near a NecroTech facility. Once again, I head for the Preston Building. The first thing to do when launching a raid is to make sure you have a workable escape route, and I have to spend some time searching for one before I approach the objective. Many of the buildings surrounding the Preston are heavily barricaded, making it impossible to quickly get into cover from the open. However, the Club Doran looks to have been hit recently--again--and the doors are wide open. Some discreet observation around the corner confirms my suspicions: there are nine upright zulus outside the Preston (and about thirty corpses strewn about), and two of them match descriptions of DOA members. Neither of them is part of the "Unholy Trinity," the DOA's command group, but Target 1 is one of their second-tier players, the shock troops. He's bulky, wears lots of leather, and he's probably going to take some killing; that fact that in his addled state, he can't use the shotgun slung on his back is small comfort. Target 2 is one of their junior varsity; never been seen in human form, and hasn't been known to exhibit the range of abilities associated with "older" zombies (such as moving faster than a snail's funeral procession). Not much of a threat, though I can't ignore him entirely, and I should be wary that I don't become the first to discover the slag has hidden talents. Still, the big bruiser is obviously the one to deal with first. I decide to get on with it. The main advantage I have is that the zulus are all fixated on the building. I draw one of my pistols, bring it to the high ready position and advance quietly until I am about six meters behind Target 1. None of the zulus notice me until I open fire, rapidly emptying a full magazine into Target 1's back. All twelve rounds strike home, but that's not enough to bring him down; as he turns, it becomes evident why: under his leathers he's wearing a ballistic vest! It's an older model--most likely scavenged from an army surplus store or junkyard--but it's enough to slow my bullets. Still, I'm not suprised that he has one; most "career" zulus who find themselves involuntarily revivified almost invariably seem to make the best of the situation by looking for body armor, which they don before resuming undeath. Which is exactly why I've loaded my shotgun with mixed ammunition, alternating 00-buckshot with rifled slugs. You need at least level III-A to stop the latter, and this vest doesn't come close. As Target 1 begins to lumber towards me, I reholster my pistol, haul the Winchester from behind my back, and manage to get off the first round when he's still about two meters away. It's a slug round, which goes straight through the vest, stopping him in his tracks. The next, unfortunately, is buckshot and most of the pellets stick in the vest, though two embed themselves in his neck and lower face. The third is another slug, and this finishes him off; as I pump the slide to load another round, he slowly topples over backwards. In the meantime, Target 2 has noticed my presence and started dragging himself to where the action is. He's just in time to take my second buckshot shell full in the chest, and he's not wearing armor. Ouch. Since pistol rounds will therefore have full effect on this guy, I decide to save my dwindling supply of shotgun shells, sling the Winchester and draw my second pistol. Target 2 is still pretty tough, I'll give him that; he keeps advancing even when hit. As a result, I have to keep backing up between shots while trying to keep away from prone bodies (gotta look out for those ankle grabbers) and this throws off my aim several times. By the time I've fired the last round in the mag into him, he's on his knees, but he's not dead yet. So I do what I rarely do: I take the time to reload. The reason I don't usually bother with this is because the process gets rather involved; unlike in the normal world, you can't let an empty magazine just drop to the ground, because there's no guarantee that you'll have time to recover it later, or be able to buy a replacement. So I have to take the time to put the empty one away before I insert a fresh one. But I figure it's worth it, because I can't have this bugger following me to my safe house. I thumb the slide catch, and the slide slams forward, chambering a fresh round. Time seems to slow as I aim the weapon, squeeze the trigger and watch Target 2 shudder and slump to the ground. I take stock of my surroundings; there's still seven zulus left, but I don't have the ammunition nor the inclination to deal with them. However, if I hang around, they might do for me. I do notice that among the corpses on the ground are three other members of the DOA's goon squad, and even two of the "Unholy Trinity." The only one missing is the self-proclaimed "Dark Pope." It looks like somebody decided to shoot their whole day down. It's dusk by the time I get to my next safe house. That's one of the reasons I go on raids in the second half of the afternoon: as I said, it takes most zulus about five hours to heal up from being killed, so if I kill them just before nightfall, they'll stay incapacitated for at least half the night, which when they're most dangerous. At the safe house, I run into "21 Charlie," my opposite number in the MFD. In exchange for a cup of my coffee, he tells me something which completely makes my day: some guy named Troutman banjoed the Dark Pope a few hours ago in the Pippard Building. If we can keep this up, we might just drive 'em out. |
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