Reminded Jack of his story of Icicle, and gave him a nudge by pointing out that "tomorrow" in regards to the last post was a looong time ago. He agreed, and started writing again. The first bit I got last week - before he left on holiday, and the last bit I just got. Missed the original post? It's here.
Icicle exhaled heavily as he saw the guerilla fighter slump into a bloody pool on the hot dry ground. Hands shaking from the shear amount of adrenaline coursing through his pulsating veins, Icicle gently rested his dirty rifle against a withered bush, pausing for a second to make sure it was still in working order. Despite it being the standard issue assault weapon for the US army, the rifle was notorious for jamming in the heat of combat, which was exactly the last thing he wanted, now he was stranded in the arid heat of the Badlands. An eerie silence hovered over the surrounding area, only broken by the gentle breeze whistling through the wreckage of the now ruined car. The car! Slowly, Icicle hobbled over to the crumpled mess he had been driving moments earlier, all the while assessing his surroundings. Heat shimmered off of the rocks and sand that called this terrible place home, all the while being foreshadowed by the ominous mountain terrain not too far off from his position. Despite his rugged physique, Icicle had been rattled by the crash, and as his heart rate started to lower, the true physical pain of what had just happened stared to creep through him like spiders crawling under his skin. Cuts and abrasions, some deep, some shallow littered his arms, legs and face, chewing at his skin. Gently, he removed his stone washed shirt to reveal yellow-purple bruised menacingly flowering their way up the right hand side of his body. “Still, could be worse” he muttered to himself in his surprisingly low but soft voice. However, as he reached the wreckage, the realisation of how bad things were hit him like the crash he’d just been in, as his worst fears were confirmed…
One small red hole. That’s all it had taken to so suddenly and abruptly take the life of the man he’d been traveling across this harsh terrain with for the past few days. Hundreds of different missions and assignments completed over the years, and yet one small, fast moving piece of lead had brought all that to a close. Face almost unrecognisable from the crash, James (cant remember the name so change if needed) sat slumped, his seatbelt wrapped around him, squeezing him to his seat like a Boa Constrictor. The distinctive smell of iron-tinged blood haunted the air, clinging to Icicles nostrils, bringing back memories of the many horrors he’d committed through his life. It always amazed him how much there always was, the life giving fluid almost eager to escape the very body that had contained it through the years. It was pointless to check for a pulse, but an almost childlike sense of hope drove Icicle to do so anyway. Nothing. One last look at his fallen comrade was his way of saying goodbye, and with that, he turned back into the robot like character he was paid to be. Calmly he walked around the car to the other side, his hand gliding over the fiercely hot metal of the trunk. Grasping the handle firmly, he yanked the deformed metal of the backside door away from its one functioning joint, dumping it unceremoniously on the dirt. The familiar sauna-like heat of the inside of the car hit Icicle as he leaned in, slightly melting his icy composure as he grimaced. On the back seat lay his and James’ webbing and packs, frayed but still intact. With a couple of swift, almost effortless movements, he hauled the whole lot out of the door, landing on the ground with a dull thud. Then moving to the front of the car, he grasped his map, binoculars and sunglasses and made his way to the packs he’d just removed. Gently placing himself down on his own pack, he started to rifle through James’, picking out different rations and equipment, carefully ordering them into piles. Then he hit the jackpot, as he pulled out an elongated, dull, black case. Quickly popping the locks with a metallic click, he carefully opened the case to reveal its contents, a disassembled Vanquish .308 sniper rifle, complete with bipod and scope. Gently he stoked over the weapon to make sure it was ok, before closing the case with a snap. After pilling in the scavenged equipment into his already bursting pack, he forcefully closed the bag, straining to tighten the straps so eager to loose themselves. After securing the sniper rifle case to his pack, he removed all of the magazines from James’ webbing, adding them to his already substantial collection. Not that that mattered now. He knew as well as anyone, this mission was a two-man job, and he was still facing a 70-mile trek on foot after the destruction of his car, and that was without taking into consideration he was about to enter one of the most heavily guarded places in the world. Briskly walking over to the wreckage, he pulled a tan coloured shirt from under the drivers seat, tenderly sliding it over his beaten body. A sun-bleached baseball cap lay in between the legs of James, flecks of dirt giving it an uneven texture. Without disturbing James’ body, he hastily grabbed it, plonking it on his head as his eyes moved up to the neck of his deceased companion. A surprisingly untarnished set of dog tags wrapped round his neck, sitting calmly on his chest. Grasping firmly, Icicle pulled the tags, the bead link chain clinging to James’ skin till a ping signalled its release. The sound of fabric rubbing was the only sound Icicle could hear as he slid out of the car; such was the remoteness of this place. Making a grunt as he put on his pack and webbing, he looked at his wrist to see his GPS, only to find an un-tanned strip where the GPS had once sat. “Useless made in china shit” Icicle mused to himself as he pulled out his map. A couple of thinking minutes later, Icicle started to set off toward the North-West mountain ranges, breathing gently as he bent over to pick up his rifle. Then, with a determined look soldered into his eyes, he began his trek, constantly processing the information around him. His thoughts then turned to his target. “What had he done? Why was he a target?” Quickly, Icicle forced these thought out of his head, replacing them with more information about his surroundings. After all, his job was not to ask why, only how. All he needed to know was who the target was, and how much he would get. £20 million was the price, and quite rightly. It wasn’t every day someone ordered a hit on the United States Vice-President after all…
Yay! I do love a little writing. So thank-you to Jack :)
(Yes, I shall be fixing the formatting and such (can't do on my phone :/), don't worry, just wanted to get this up before I forgot :) )
See ya next time,
Zahra (and mostly Jack)