MTML
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The soft clump-stick of rubber on boots was all that was noticable in this drab area. It was twelve-Thirty five PM and the AND, or Anti-Narcotics Devision, had just arrived on the scene. They dealt mainly with the hardcore dealers and infectee's living in the rundown houses of Los Lobos, Arizona's prime opium and trenaline den.
Oswald signaled to the others to crouch low. They had arrived at the front door of the targeted house, it's Detroit-esque style blending in with the rest. The top windows were caked with a thin layer of dust, grime, and cobwebs. The porch was littered with descarded cans of Bud and faded child's toys.
Oswald took out a small can and sprayed the substance inside on the door handle and through the tiny crack where the hinges on the inside would be. He signaled the count of three with his fingers.
One. Two. Three.
Instantly they seemed to go through the threshold, the muzzles on their weapons pointed to the ground. All 4 of them entered the living room, discarded squares of foils littered on the sofas and on the floor. The sick smell of trenaline smoke had soaked into the ceilings. Old, old beer was coating the linolium like veneer.
There was movement. The room wasn't large by any house's standards. Infront of them and to the left was the entrance to the kitchen. To the right, against the wall, was the entrance to the other part of the house. They saw the movement for what it was worth: a skinny man slumped against the wall by the kitchen door, his breathing silent. Tracy nodded to them and shot one dart at his stomach. No sound came from her pistol. The man was knocked out.
With caution, the party moved to the right, skipping the kitchen. There was no point in checking what they had cooked that night, whether it had been some mac and cheese or trenaline, that was not their duty. After passing through the right entrance, Tim looked around without moving anything but his head. A bedroom, a small hallway that lead to a narrow staircase. They skipped the bedroom, hoping that their main man was upstairs.
Along the hallway they treaded, beads of sweat drawn on their faces. Where was everyone? The resistance? Crooked photos were on the wall. Photos of good times. A little boy was at the lake, frozen in midair before cannonballing into the water.
A mother sitting by as her little girl opened up a Christmas box. Nothing but memories.
Tim led the party up the stairs. At the landing, there was just another hallway: to the left, a bedroom with it's doors shut, to the right, another. Straight ahead though, the bathroom door was opened slightly. A flourescent light cast it's rays through the crack. There was someone in there.
Shhck shhck shhck shhck. Tooth brush. Person. These facts raced through Oswalds mind as he neared the door. Slowly, he pushed the door open. A thin, pale man stood at the sink, brushing his teeth. The light played shadows on his gaunt features. Small amounts of blood were on his toothbrush. Oswald lifted his MP-5 Navy. The butt of the sub-machine gun caught the strap of his backback, making a tiny snap noise as the pressure was distributed on his kevlar.
The heart in Oswalds chest nearly stopped right then. Hardcore junkies like these were unpredictable like wild wolves. Tooth brush still in hand, the man lifted his head and turned towards Oswald, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and shock. Then came the fury.
Throwing the toothbrush to the side, he reached for his pistol on the sink. A cracked howl rose from this thin man as he lifted up the cheap pistol. Oswald stood there, frozen like a statue. Nick was crouched and shot his pistol into the mans shoulder. Out of reflexes, the nerves of the shot pulled the finger holding the other man's Glock, firing off 3 rounds in succession into the plastic bath tub.
" Mother ****er, " the man groaned as another bullet was placed into his chest, then his nose. He fell back, smacked his head on the toilet bowl, and blood spilled everywhere. Trenaline users were commonly known for having thin bones. The eyeballs in his head began rolling around as brains fell into the toilet.
" They know we're here, Oz, " Tracy said, looking towards the door on the right as it creaked open. The one on the left was now open. Chick-Cheenk. and then a boom as a full shell of pellets went into her left leg, blowing off her foot.
The other door opened and Oswald heard rustling around from downstairs as the backdoor opened with a rattle.
" We're ****ed, " he muttered.
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That's where I'll leave it for now. If you read to here, then POST.
Yes, do it. Even if you hate the story and think it's a pile of shit, post what you think!
Edit: Oi' Vai. Censored out the Cheenk ( replace the ee's with an i ).
Oswald signaled to the others to crouch low. They had arrived at the front door of the targeted house, it's Detroit-esque style blending in with the rest. The top windows were caked with a thin layer of dust, grime, and cobwebs. The porch was littered with descarded cans of Bud and faded child's toys.
Oswald took out a small can and sprayed the substance inside on the door handle and through the tiny crack where the hinges on the inside would be. He signaled the count of three with his fingers.
One. Two. Three.
Instantly they seemed to go through the threshold, the muzzles on their weapons pointed to the ground. All 4 of them entered the living room, discarded squares of foils littered on the sofas and on the floor. The sick smell of trenaline smoke had soaked into the ceilings. Old, old beer was coating the linolium like veneer.
There was movement. The room wasn't large by any house's standards. Infront of them and to the left was the entrance to the kitchen. To the right, against the wall, was the entrance to the other part of the house. They saw the movement for what it was worth: a skinny man slumped against the wall by the kitchen door, his breathing silent. Tracy nodded to them and shot one dart at his stomach. No sound came from her pistol. The man was knocked out.
With caution, the party moved to the right, skipping the kitchen. There was no point in checking what they had cooked that night, whether it had been some mac and cheese or trenaline, that was not their duty. After passing through the right entrance, Tim looked around without moving anything but his head. A bedroom, a small hallway that lead to a narrow staircase. They skipped the bedroom, hoping that their main man was upstairs.
Along the hallway they treaded, beads of sweat drawn on their faces. Where was everyone? The resistance? Crooked photos were on the wall. Photos of good times. A little boy was at the lake, frozen in midair before cannonballing into the water.
A mother sitting by as her little girl opened up a Christmas box. Nothing but memories.
Tim led the party up the stairs. At the landing, there was just another hallway: to the left, a bedroom with it's doors shut, to the right, another. Straight ahead though, the bathroom door was opened slightly. A flourescent light cast it's rays through the crack. There was someone in there.
Shhck shhck shhck shhck. Tooth brush. Person. These facts raced through Oswalds mind as he neared the door. Slowly, he pushed the door open. A thin, pale man stood at the sink, brushing his teeth. The light played shadows on his gaunt features. Small amounts of blood were on his toothbrush. Oswald lifted his MP-5 Navy. The butt of the sub-machine gun caught the strap of his backback, making a tiny snap noise as the pressure was distributed on his kevlar.
The heart in Oswalds chest nearly stopped right then. Hardcore junkies like these were unpredictable like wild wolves. Tooth brush still in hand, the man lifted his head and turned towards Oswald, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and shock. Then came the fury.
Throwing the toothbrush to the side, he reached for his pistol on the sink. A cracked howl rose from this thin man as he lifted up the cheap pistol. Oswald stood there, frozen like a statue. Nick was crouched and shot his pistol into the mans shoulder. Out of reflexes, the nerves of the shot pulled the finger holding the other man's Glock, firing off 3 rounds in succession into the plastic bath tub.
" Mother ****er, " the man groaned as another bullet was placed into his chest, then his nose. He fell back, smacked his head on the toilet bowl, and blood spilled everywhere. Trenaline users were commonly known for having thin bones. The eyeballs in his head began rolling around as brains fell into the toilet.
" They know we're here, Oz, " Tracy said, looking towards the door on the right as it creaked open. The one on the left was now open. Chick-Cheenk. and then a boom as a full shell of pellets went into her left leg, blowing off her foot.
The other door opened and Oswald heard rustling around from downstairs as the backdoor opened with a rattle.
" We're ****ed, " he muttered.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That's where I'll leave it for now. If you read to here, then POST.
Yes, do it. Even if you hate the story and think it's a pile of shit, post what you think!Edit: Oi' Vai. Censored out the Cheenk ( replace the ee's with an i ).
