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InfectedThe sound of glass shattering and metal being pounded on by flesh filled the silence that once filled the once safe lab. In a bulletproof observation room Jake was in a corner huddled over the bite slowly taking over his body. It was only two weeks ago he was just a normal teenage boy with normal teenage boy problems. Remembering homework, who should I take to the prom, and working a minimum wage job, not a constant struggle for survival against an infected horde. But to tell this story it needs to be told from the beginning.
The final bell rang and a flood of students came running out of the school, the start of spring break, senior year spring break. Thoughts of parties full of beautiful girls filled his mind, until realizing he was probably going to spend his whole break inside playing video games instead. No. This time it'll be different he told himself. He had caught wind that there was going to be a party the first night of break at the most po
TogetherA large group of people are all gathered around an open casket. The body of a elderly women lies in it lifeless, yet still a smile on her face. The people are asked to sit as a pastor walks to a podium on the side of the casket. He gives a little spcheel just filling in the womens name where needed. He then asks if anyone would like to say anything. The womens husband, also elderly and sickly, grabs his cane and slowly makes his way to the podium. He already has the look of days of mourning on his face and pauses a moment before he starts to say, "She was the love of my life, she was the reason I got up every day. She meant the world to me, my perfect match. We did everything together, even up to her last week with me. She was my best friend and I will miss her every day. I love you Elizabeth." Soft applose can be heard and quiet mutterings among the crowd. Others go and give stories of them and her, and tell of the good times they spent together. The husband just sat there thinking of
BLU SpyThe gates opened and instantly the engineers head was blown clean off his body. The red dot of the sniper rifle now moving to the head of the team medic. Checking his equipment before he moved out, Knife he spun the knife around his hand looking like a pro; check, Sapper Charges; check, Disguise Kit with a full supply of cigarettes; check, Cloaking Watch to help infiltrate the enemy base; check, and a gun more powerful than any handgun would ever need to be; check. Ready to move out he ran from the gate and into the fray.
He opened his disguise kit and took the role of a enemy pyro, a person in a fireproof suit with a nag for catching things aflame. Now taking out his knife he cloaked and ran behind enemy lines. The spy loved excitement and there was no better thrill to him then knowing if he was caught he was dead. As he rounded the first corner he encountered his first threat. A RED engineer. A sentry beeping looking for any unlucky BLU members that would happen to walk by.
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
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