The Chase

The cold snowy ground crumbled under Private Jansen deVire's feet as he ran for his dear life. Once in a while he turned back to look out for his pursuers, hoping that they wouldn't gain on him. It sounds impossible to escape from them, but if no one tried how would they know?

It was a risk Jansen never intended to make, but in the end it was necessary. At least he had his armor, and in this cold, it'd provided him the heat needed so he wouldn't freeze. But would he last long?

Jansen checked his rifle as he ran: 97 rounds left. Fuck, he thought. It would take more than what he has now to strike down all his enemies. With only this much left and no spare ammo, it'd mean game over for him. But this game over doesn't come with a restart.

He heard them thunder after him, and it made his blood boil. They must have been toying around with him, so they let him run ahead before they do. But their patience must've been expended by now - if they had patience, of course. Switching his gun's firing rate to "Semi", Jansen let loose a few rounds wildly at his pursuers. He couldn't let them get him, and he couldn't let his rifle's only rounds go to waste.

Another three rounds poured out violently from his weapon. He heard one of them scream in pain as a bullet tear flesh and bone. Out of satisfaction, he barked at them gloriously. Their thundering feet seemed to sound much faster than before. This would mean...

...he's fucked.

Running on for his life, Jansen misses a step and trips on his own feet., slamming hard into the ground. His rifle fell away from his grip, and he cursed under his breath. He heard them approach, now so slowly as they knew he was about to die. Not wanting to give up, Jansen crawled as quickly as he could toward his gun. One of them lunged forward and kicked him aside into a fallen tree. He howled in pain as he crashed hard into its bark.

The others ran up to him and threw him around here and there, seemingly enjoying this whole new ball game. Jansen, utterly terrified and angered at the same time, desperately tried to escape them but all to no avail. It seemed his death draweth near...

He crashed into the ground again, cursing the beasts at their amusement. He turned to look away, and there in front of him, his rifle beckonned. It seemed none of them noticed the gun that lay right next to him at all, oblivious in their excitement to toy with their prey.

With lightning quick reflexes, he reached out for the rifle and grabbed it. In a split second he noted its ammo indicator - now at 67 - and cocked the gun, just in time before they realized what juist happened.

"Assholes," he spat at them, before the gun spewed fire and tore the heads of half the group off. The rest backed off as he fired another salvo, tearing their brains apart as the whizzing projectiles punched through their cranium in a bloody mess. So much for protection, he thought.

The gun clicked on empty. Just as one more was about to be blown apart by him.

The foe spun around to face Jansen. He was perspiring excessively under the helm, but he knew he couldn't let his fear be seen. Both of them stared at each other for a while, before the attacker growled.

"Come on, you bitch," Jansen murmured to the hunter, as he held the rifle like a club. His eyes gazed longingly at the sky as he thought of home. Winter has just begun, and he hopes his family's doing fine.

Both sides waited for a fleeting moment before they lunged at each other's throat.

* * * * *

The cold snowy ground was stained with fresh red blood as the Zergling fed itself on the clawed remains of Private Jansen deVire. It looked up from its meal and watched its surroundings intently, before it ululated a loud and piercing shriek into the air.

There was just enough for a few more Zerglings. They would come soon. It just knows.

As it went back to feasting, the air began to pour with snowflakes.