Post by Deleted on Sept 13, 2015 7:06:10 GMT -5
“Tch.”
He looked down at the scratch on his forearm. One of those…was like a death sentence out here. He’d have to clear it up later. For now, he pulled out pliers, grabbing a bullet and popping the lead off the shell. He poured the gunpowder lightly on the cut, drawing a match and striking it before lighting the gunpowder up. His teeth clenched, and he reached out to slam a fist into the tree he was leaning against. A strangled scream died in his throat. The cut seared closed, but bubbled a little. His left arm shook as he let out a slow gasp and breath.
He would bend and grab some mud, smearing it over the wound to mask the smell of both burnt flesh and fresh blood. Then he stood, taking slow deep breaths to calm his body as he made his way closer to the compound. Crouching and then laying down, he pulled a hood up over his head, setting his bow down to grab his rifle and get in position. Taking some grass, he covered himself and the rifle itself, intent to block the scope from the glare of the sun, so the shine wouldn’t be seen in the distance, but so that he could still see through the grass.
Behind him, a broken light bulb or two along with sticks and rocks coated the path below to give him a fair warning in case someone tried to sneak up on him. As a last resort, he had a one inch piece of mirror attached to the rifle, giving him a rear view mirror of sorts. He would peer through his scope, staring down at this place that seemed to have so many bodies moving in and out. He scanned the defenses, checking all stationed scouts and sentries. He watched the man at the gate, then let out a slow and very soft whistle. A very slight rustle in the bush beside him, and his pup, Knuckles, came forward. He spoke in a low and dulcet tone.
“Good boy.”
The dog would stay still as he stared down. People, men, munitions. No way he was sneaking in there to take what he needed. He assumed he would get to the gate and they would take his guns, possibly his knives. He couldn’t have that- large civilian populations would just draw a hive like a magnet, or a moth to a flame. And when hundreds or thousands of sleepers, runners, jumpers, spitters- when they hit this place it would come down like a sledgehammer. Life like that…people got soft. They let their guard down. He glanced at Knuckles.
“Watch my six.”
The dog slowly turned around, facing his ass, and looked out intently into the forest. Aaron would be good for a while, content to sit and watch, for now.
He looked down at the scratch on his forearm. One of those…was like a death sentence out here. He’d have to clear it up later. For now, he pulled out pliers, grabbing a bullet and popping the lead off the shell. He poured the gunpowder lightly on the cut, drawing a match and striking it before lighting the gunpowder up. His teeth clenched, and he reached out to slam a fist into the tree he was leaning against. A strangled scream died in his throat. The cut seared closed, but bubbled a little. His left arm shook as he let out a slow gasp and breath.
He would bend and grab some mud, smearing it over the wound to mask the smell of both burnt flesh and fresh blood. Then he stood, taking slow deep breaths to calm his body as he made his way closer to the compound. Crouching and then laying down, he pulled a hood up over his head, setting his bow down to grab his rifle and get in position. Taking some grass, he covered himself and the rifle itself, intent to block the scope from the glare of the sun, so the shine wouldn’t be seen in the distance, but so that he could still see through the grass.
Behind him, a broken light bulb or two along with sticks and rocks coated the path below to give him a fair warning in case someone tried to sneak up on him. As a last resort, he had a one inch piece of mirror attached to the rifle, giving him a rear view mirror of sorts. He would peer through his scope, staring down at this place that seemed to have so many bodies moving in and out. He scanned the defenses, checking all stationed scouts and sentries. He watched the man at the gate, then let out a slow and very soft whistle. A very slight rustle in the bush beside him, and his pup, Knuckles, came forward. He spoke in a low and dulcet tone.
“Good boy.”
The dog would stay still as he stared down. People, men, munitions. No way he was sneaking in there to take what he needed. He assumed he would get to the gate and they would take his guns, possibly his knives. He couldn’t have that- large civilian populations would just draw a hive like a magnet, or a moth to a flame. And when hundreds or thousands of sleepers, runners, jumpers, spitters- when they hit this place it would come down like a sledgehammer. Life like that…people got soft. They let their guard down. He glanced at Knuckles.
“Watch my six.”
The dog slowly turned around, facing his ass, and looked out intently into the forest. Aaron would be good for a while, content to sit and watch, for now.