Posted 20 March 2006 - 10:25 PM
Probably. Her team-mate Greg might try to retrieve some of the equipment she dropped. He'll probably die too. (With half baked idea, poorly written)
An awful ruckus behind the tree line, damn Lucy. She's always making too much noise.
Greg, an cheery looking boy--hardly eighteen with three kills. He makes his way, casually, through the Norman thicket. Some thorns, leaves, wild grapes. He pops his head through the foliage, snickering some odd comment about keeping quiet. Lucy, several feet away behind a blood soaked tree stump, could hardly care. Her ears are no longer attached to her brain. Greg looks around, trying to find his shooter.
She's always hiding, playing games. I oughta smack some sense into her, he thinks.
He creeps through the bush, finds his footing and takes a step. Step, step, step. Soft ground, fresh grass. It's been raining off and on all morning. He finds the body, or rather the legs. He smiles and whispers to the void, found you. He leaps forward and grasps the leg. His arms are soaked in blood. He wiggles the body but it doesn't wiggle back. He smells it, that damp ochre. He backs off, gets a better look. His breath quickens, his mind races. He ducks and runs. Familiar ground, mostly soft, except for a small patch. A metallic feel, almost like a nail. A click, the world turns upside down. The dust clears and the mud falls. He opens his eyes and looks up. What just happened, he asks. Nobody answers, but he swears his foot stings. He rolls onto his side, only a stump. He tilts his head down, a mess of red.
Damn, this game is hard.