(Book 3) Left 4 Dead 3: Dry County

2.4

The fiery exchange ensued within the dry junction, whizzing sounds became a lethal warrant of danger that permeated the atmosphere. Iron blizzard clouded that part of the town, bullets gnashed everywhere, and the streets were filled with shells and blood.

The covetous mob had taken their toll as they waged a war against the heroes. But they were persistent, driven by their greed. Those desires led them to believe they were going to get everything they wanted, only to be barred by a group of people whose sole objectives are just to survive. But at this moment, those survivors are being pinned down.

"Damn!" Dwain growled as he changed the magazine of his rifle. "Those motherfuckers would really go all the way to this just fo' a couple tanks of diesel?!" He grumbled as he punched the bolt and held the gun across his chest as he hid from the lead storm. He looked at Daeshim and checked on him. "You a'ight, Asian??" He yelled.

Hands yet on his head, the Korean stole a second and nodded as a response. He couldn't talk because of the fright that's constricting his heart.

"Just stay down, you'll be good!"

Soon, the gunshots had decreased like rain drizzling after the storm. And this is the moment that Dwain has been waiting for.

He knocked at the reinforced alloy of the humvee and yelled, "Doc! Now!"

Brenan racked the giant bolt of the M2 Browning mounted on the humvee sitting within huge armor plates surrounding him, and aimed at the main street.

"Yippee Ki Yay, motherfuckers!"

And then, the whole town was bombarded by a heavy, deafening barrage of explosions as the medic pressed the trigger. Sharp, bright rays were emitted by tracers of each round that flew towards the enemies. Some of them were unfortunate and had turned into mists of red as they caught the huge plums.

Each object that surrounded the assailants bursted and was torn into shreds. The bullets ripped through the thickest of the thickest wall the bandits could've hidden within, there was no escape from the constant hellfire that had erupted.

The blasts crawled in a fine line like a serpent as Brenan swept the machine gun with sheer ferocity. He delighted upon the rampage he was bringing down unto the foes. His whole body, quavering as he unleashed the fiery, destructive hurricane with a grit. But unbeknownst to him, he was on the other end of another gun.

Somewhere in a corner along the streets, a hand holding a Ruger .357 was sticking out of the wall. It was of the man whom Jess shot. He was wearing a bulletproof vest, the reason he was still alive.

The turret's rear was exposed, and so the man took that opportunity. He pulled the trigger, and the monstrous revolver erupted and launched a slug.

Brenan was in the middle of his mechanical frenzy when he felt an abrupt burst from his shoulder. A painful sensation followed, and he was compelled to stop. The sudden cessation of the thundering gunfires was followed by his loud, brief cry.

"Doc!" Dwain yelled. His agility allowed him to hop on the turret and reach for the medic.

The shooter's grin turned to a grimace as lead ripped through the wall where he was holed up. He threw his back against the wall, crumbs of concrete fell from his refuge as the shots rang out.

It was Jess who caught him, she had come down to finish the job. She fired her pistols at the man while striding through the scrap-infested street. Her fierce bullets came at him with no pity.

The man fought back and crouched by the corner of the wall as he stuck his revolver out and fired multiple times.

Jess could hear the bullets zip by her as she dodged while running past the cars, windows breaking and shattering as she went by them. The nun kept firing despite being shot at. Not even a hail of lead can stop her ferocious wrath and burning will.

But in the middle of that exchange, one of those metallic stallions turned up on the road. The biker then opened fire at her. The ground she stood on lit up with sparks. She was counting her shots, and so she thought there was no way she could shoot back.

The nun dashed on the side and leaped over one of the parked cars. She flipped mid-air, dodging the bullets that chased her, like a fighter jet in a dogfight. She landed on the other side of the vehicle as the biker roared past her.

Jess quickly resurfaced, but as she aimed at the wall, the man was long gone, he was just as slick as his hair. She glanced around and scanned the place for the long-faced bastard, but there was no sign of him. The man talks a lot, but she admired his cadence in battle. For some, it's rankling to have faced a worthy foe, but not for her. She savors a bit of spunk every once in a while, don't care if it spells her doom.

The nun crossed the road, her irons raised. Winter wind waltzing with her dark fabric in the air, its breeze brushing her face. But then, her senses nudged her. She turned her head and caught another bandit on his mechanical mare, dashing at her with a murderous intent.

Jess aimed at the madman on his chopper bike and fired the remaining shots, but none of them even caught his hair. He was swooping in on her like a hawk.

She threw her empty pistols away and sprang towards the biker, who was coming at her at a breakneck speed. The woman in the habit feared nothing, she had come against blazing bullets that would make everything else a snail. Then, she dashed on the side, and hopped on a car's hood. She ran all the way up to its roof, and there she leapt and propelled herself in the air. And when she got close enough, she stretched out her legs.

At that moment, Jess precisely nailed the biker and threw him off his two-wheeled machine while it was speeding. The force of her suicide kick struck him dead on, the impact between the two was akin to being hit by a bus.

They both hit the ground hard, whereas the motorcycle drove by itself for a few meters before crashing. The biker, indisputably, took most of the hurt. Jess was able to use him to absorb all the force that would've fouled her.

She dug into her pockets, and there she pulled out a piece of metal. The object spun around her hand, and suddenly, it grew a blade. A butterfly knife. She crawled and got on top of the biker, then watched his trembling glares fade as she sank the blade within his fatty chest.

She then pulled out the knife and threw it on the front. The knife pierced the air like lightning and struck another biker down.

Then, she picked up the first biker's machine pistol and pulled out its magazine, checking its bullets. It was empty. She threw the useless piece of scrap and fumbled through the dead biker's coat. There it was, a couple of full magazines.

In the meantime, Brenan winced in pain as he grasped his wound. Dwain climbed over the humvee and reached him. Bullets didn't stop hailing at the vehicle's armor, but they were few.

"Lemme see it," he cooed.

The medic removed his hand and revealed the grisly split on his shoulder. Groans escape him, a plea of extreme discomfort. It was his first time getting shot.

Dwain scanned the wound carefully, he tried to look for the opening, but he didn't see any. Right then, everything made sense to him.

"Man, it's just a graze," said him. "You one lucky motherfucker."

Brenan sighed in relief and in pain as he heard him. "Argh, shit. But it stings, patch it up."

"Asian! Come up here!"

Daeshim looked up as he heard Dwain's call.

"Doc needs your help, come up here and patch him up."

The Korean struggled as he tried to climb up the Humvee. But Dwain lent a hand and helped him up.

"Medpack's in my belt," Brenan uttered.

Daeshim reached for his medical pouch and pulled out every single thing he needed as Brenan told him. The medic started giving instructions which the Asian carefully listened to and followed. Whereas Dwain jumped down and went back from engaging against the bikers.

But then, monstrous roars filled the skies, and that had put more weight into the survivors' hearts. Those roars can only mean one thing.

"Fuck!" Dwain exclaimed. "I'm fuckin' tired of this shit!"