Welcome to Gaia! ::

(It's true, but you should also start taking a couple shots LD. Nothing lethal of course, and it might be that we don't seen Slate and Onyx again until they're recovered. Still, three men firing into a hallway -at least one of them a marksman- should do something razz Even if it's only shooting off poor Slate's toe crying )

It had never been his intention to advance into the hallway. Crouched at the corner of the threshold, he stayed where he was to insure his accuracy would be optimal, and that no surprises waited for him in the backside of the hall.

He raised his rifle and pushed his feet into the floor, propelling him backwards onto the carpet as the first door slammed into the wall. The sound was deep and percussive, and he could feel the vibrations of impact ripple out into the floor.

((To be continued))

(Instead of finishing my last post, I'll just continue here. LD, I get what you mean -- just a little more specificity would be nice. The particular wound, etc. That way you don't have to go the generic route of "wounded." He might still be able to run, but is an arm injured? Or maybe he can use his arms fine, but is unable to sprint. It just helps to keep everyone informed.)

He leveled his rifle in front of him and leaned to his left, granting him a sliver of visibility into the hallway. It appeared that whatever infected had been trapped in the cells were finished. The doors, however, had left a hefty mark on the opposite side of the wall. Long gouged marks of white showed how the metal had torn through the paneling and dry wall, and powdered shards of plaster dotted the floor.

Neon's beam lingered in the hall long enough to show Artemas the thin line of blood racing up from the floor, across the wall, and into an open air vent. That explained how they had gotten back in. It also explained how further engagements with these Deviants would have to be executed.

The Syndicate requested a quick inventory of his resources. Twelve rounds left in Umbro, thirty in the spare magazine, and 18 total for the handgun. He had not misfired a single shot.

As the unknown started shouting Artemas rose up from the ground. His binoculars were back at his eyes, scanning the lobby and the ceiling. That's where the deviants had escaped to. Or so it had been until one came plummeting through the ceiling.

He made no attempt to fire another shot. In fact, he watched the second drop from above them and collect its companion in its arms and run for the entrance. He watched the woman draw and fire her pistol, calculating she had little over a 30% chance of hitting them with each shot. She confirmed his presumption on the second shot.

His feet didn't wait for the gunfire to cease. There was plenty of noise going on in this sector now. Between the cars, the guns, the shouting and the doors, there would undoubtedly be more infected. If they were lucky, only a small pack had come into the near vicinity.

Reaching the entrance, he noted the number present. The Syndicate had taught him well. Fifteen with a field density of two per five feet. Only one stood between him and a clear path into the alleys. Once he made it that far, it wouldn't take much longer before he would be secure.

The binoculars fell as Umbro rose, and he took aim on the steps of the PD. Thunderclap. A single shell ejected from its chamber. Eleven rounds remained as the twelfth struck his chosen target at the base of its neck, the paltry yards between himself and the zombie allowing for the rounds maximum force.

It teetered on its legs as its head swung loose from its shoulders, connected by a gory rope of skin and flesh. With its spine severed from the brain, the infected crumpled to the ground.

Eliminating that target opened the way into the side streets. Immediately after he faced the first runner, who came at him with its jaws wide and arms thrown open in a ghastly embrace.

He drove Umbro forward like a lance, and it burst into the beast's right eye socket. He pivoted at his waist when he felt the stop - the front of the barrel striking the back of its cranium- as he swung his arms down and clockwise. The creature, its skull hooked to the front of his rifle, tumbled onto the ground without an ounce of grace. It didn't get back up.

The force of his foot and the jerk of his arms was enough to tear Umbro free as the second and third runner approached. He didn't have time to mark for a kill, so he settled for the next best thing. With less than six feet between himself and a certain mangling, he fired from the hip; discharging another six rounds in a wave from left to right. The spray of fire served as a crude saw, hacking apart both of the the closest runner's knees and completely removing one of the second's legs.

Missing a leg, the lagging runner fell flying forward. The lead made it two strides farther before his knees completely failed; both femurs piercing through the length of its calves before it crashed into the stairs.

Five rounds remaining. Not a scratch so far.