Counter Strike

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
A special forces squad is patrolling woods when Nazi Zombies appear in the night and nearly tear the unit apart until help arrives.

Submitted: May 28, 2009

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Submitted: May 28, 2009

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Counter Strike!

I creep silently, swatting at the branches that claw at my face. In my hands I clutch an RMTAR (Razice Multi-task Assault Rifle). Behind me, I hear the soft crunch of the three other members of my squadron as they follow behind. Crinch. Crunch. Crinch. Crunch.

My members follow codenames, as we are a special force of the military. Our heavy-duty man is named Rambo, armed with heavy weaponry of a machine gun and a PML (photon missile launcher). The next member of our group is known as Panda. He is our demolition specialist, armed with Photon grenades, landmines, and demolition packs. He is also armed with a XT9 Laser Rifle. The last member of our group chose codename Falcon. He is our sniper, armed with a Rail Rifle, a sniper rifle with so much power it can cut into the thickest armor. He also is armed with Photon grenades. All of us are armed with Plasma Ray daggers for dire situations.

As part of the Special Forces, my unit is granted machinery that the army has no access to. We all have integrated ESP Chips in our heads that allow us to share thoughts when activated, or send pictures, or even see through another’s eyes.

Moose. Falcon calls my name with thought communication. Movement has been spotted ahead. A picture of a clearing in this forest bursts into my vision. Activate stealth generators, I command my team.

Almost immediately, my hands disappear, as well as my specially designed stealth suit. The team flicks their suit switch to battle mode and ready their weapons. Using a single thought command, my Razice shifts form in my hands by moving around the metal plates and becomes one of it many uses. Cannon.

Zeus, I call to our air support man, get ready for any attack; we will probably need an air strike.

“Roger that,” his voice crackles in the radio transmitter, “I’m ready to shimmy up some homies.”

Chuckling to that old joke, I approach the clearing warily, unsure about what to expect, my squad close behind. I peer around the tangle of weeds and grass, scanning for any danger. A flicker of movement catches my infrared vision, and I see the vegetation dancing in the center of the clearing. Slowly, steadily, a rotting hand rises out of the mud, the fingers gripping the weeds. Like a wildfire, more hands rise up as well.

I signal to Rambo to arm his PML. Falcon takes his position behind a fallen log, and Panda sets up land mines and brings out his Photon grenades. Falcon and Panda lob the grenades at the swarm of bodies rising out of the ground. After a short delay, they burst into a blue bolt of lightning, vaporizing all around it.

The grenades only left pin-pricks in the multitude of arms, bodies rising up. Suddenly, a head rose from the churning mud. The sockets had no eyes, but glowing red orbs. The head was bald, and the skin a hideous green. It let out a long, heart-stopping moan. Heads pop out, joining the horrid shrieks.  I am only left standing in horror, assuming the first one is the leader.

A bolt of light flashes past me, exploding into a mammoth explosion, decimating zombies everywhere. Rambo was already reloading another missile. My turn. I bring my Razice to my chest, taking aim with its auto lock.

The instant I pull the trigger, a large, neon blue missile launched from the barrel, growing brighter every second. It plummeted to the ground, creating an explosion of one-eighth the power of a nuke.

The leader, a seemingly large zombie compared to the others, rises from the ground. A Nazi symbol flashes in the crimson flare. Hitler. He roars, his fangs almost glowing. With a deafening charge, Nazi zombies swarm from the crater that the neon cannon had created. The green tide crashes onto my squad wave after wave.

Rambo rapid fires desperately, shooting at the decayed zombies. Falcon tries to snipe down Hitler, but his mutated hide blocks all damage. Panda sets out packs of demolition everywhere and activates them, causing hundreds of the abominations to fly everywhere, leaving stinking corpses.

But even all of this barely scars the army. For every zombie slain, 3 more lumber in place. Panda keeps slicing zombies with lasers, Rambo tearing their flesh, and Falcon sniping the big guys. I flick my switch on my Lazice to Plasma Sword, for I know it is pointless to try and gun them down.

The red eyes fill the landscape, glaring at us, zombies swinging their arms wildly in an angered fury to cut us down. My teammates also notice our issue, and belt their weapons and bring out the dual Plasma Ray daggers.

We hack at the bellowing, animated dead in an attempt to hold back the endless numbers. Out of a sudden my worst fear comes true.

  We are surrounded.

Hitler is at the front lines, a giant standing amongst dwarves. The fighting ceases and silence welcomes us. We stand, panting, out of breath.

A sudden thought flashes through my mind, then directing to the others. We had once fought a squadron of werewolves, so we had decided to carry special silver bullets. That may be a life saving idea right now. I feel like face palming.

As Hitler scans us we quickly arm out guns with silver bullets, trying not to draw attention. Hitler seems to notice something wrong, and bellows a mutated war cry. The zombies charge, knowing we are just dead meat. With our own war cry, we fire bullets into enemy lines, cutting down zombies, making them burn to ashes.  Our surprise only delays them for a second before they recover and charge ever more fiercely.

Now my team is in close combat, with the daggers, for our guns won’t do much in close combat. The zombies aimlessly try to pummel us, but we are too quick. Then Hitler joins.

He lumbers up, grabs Rambo like a toy doll, and shakes him violently. Rambo sends out distress signals, but we can’t do anything to help, just fight on.

O Lord, spare us this day. My prayer is silently relayed by my grim comrades.

A sudden blast of noise pierces the zombies, stunning them for seconds. “Activate shield generators, boys,” Zeus’s advises us, “Big boy comin’ ‘round.”

Our prayer is answered by St. Michael, Zeus’s jet. It shoots across the sky, leaving a bright blue trail in the pitch-black sky. A single nuke drops from one of the enormous wings, a black missile with a single yellow smiley face on a cross painted on the side. The nuke is mammoth, but drops at a surprising speed.

A low hum of our generators activates, and the zombies try to get through, but fail miserably. The nuke has only seconds until it arrives, and we break off from the fight with an effort. Rambo is snatched away from Hitler, his eyes a crimson red of anger.

Rambo is bleeding heavily, a huge gash in his side. I have to tow him with an invisible stretcher, but it takes almost no effort. We sprint as far as we can, but the nuke strikes.

The explosion was incredible. A colossal mushroom cloud of fire erupts in the atmosphere, and a blast so powerful, we fly off our feet for several hundred yards. Luckily, our generators take most of the impact, but we still feel the pain.

It is raining corpses. They come from everywhere, some crashing into us. We’re alive, I messaged my team, but- Out of the blue, Hitler lumbers from behind a tree, snarling with all the anger anyone could have times ten, his eyes dual red suns in the night.

“CUT, CUT, CUT!!!!!!” The director shouts over a deafening speaker. “Boys, clean up this mess!!! All zombies are free to be dismissed. Squad 4, I would like to have a word with you.

Men transfigure out of nowhere, carrying cameras and movie equipment, and walk to a large clearing where a multitude of houses were set up. My group and I swagger to our boss.

“Excellent job, boys. I bet our special effects will be completely breathtaking. You guys go home and have a good day’s rest.”

“Thanks, boss,” we walk slowly toward a house with refreshments. We quietly relay all of the exciting scenes we just preformed and congratulate each other on how well we played our roll.

“Steven, you should have seen the look on your face when you were grabbed by ‘Hitler’” I tell my fellow actor who played Rambo.

“Yeah, my expression was half real. I mean, that thing just plucked me right off the ground!” Steven exclaims.

I grab my Hollywood cap from a chair with my belongings and head to the refreshments where I spot sandwiches. Mmmmm. Being an actor sure has some great rewards.

I catch my bus home, my face pressing against the glass panel of the window. I zone off, slipping into a daydream-like state. I recall the events of the day that has passed like a snap. Waking up to the shining sunlight of the brisk morning air, having breakfast with my family, calling my manager, and speaking with my siblings. All of these inspire me to press on my work every day.

I remember the day I acted in my first major Broadway movie, the thrill of the stage, just as much as a roller coaster. It has all lead me to this, being a famous actor in Hollywood, pursuing my Catholic faith, having a bright and cheerful family.

The bus halts to a screeching stop and I am jerked back to reality. Down the street stands my house, not a single light on. I tip the bus driver with a smile, and hop off the bus and inhale deeply. I’m home.

 

 


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