The loud, low bass of an explosion rattled the rusted iron bars that were long ago welded over the small general store's windows. The glass was blown out long ago, a result of the lengthy battles that regularly tore through the slummy Jordanian market. A beam of light narrowed as it entered through the window, illuminating a small patch of rough concrete where a lone soldier crouched, slowly regaining his composure and health so he could rejoin the battle outside.
A green nametag, visible to those who needed to see it, simply read "SC829". Dressed in desert fatigues, body armor, and a combat helmet, the soldier rose from his crouch, satisfied with his state of health, and heaved a heavily modified SCAR-H assault rifle to his shoulder, prepared to snap it to the ready at the first sign of life.
As though imbued with a new spirit, the soldier rushed forward and out of the general store, his rifle up and his eyes darting for likely locations where enemies might lie in wait. He stayed closed to the general store's cracking, sand scarred adobe walls and tightly took a right around the building. A narrow street laid ahead of him, with small homes lining the way, stacked high upon each other. Walking paths and small alleys leading into the surrounding neighborhoods provided a worrying amount of sniper nest and ambush locations along the street. It didn't matter — the road led to a central market, which was serving as a center point for the conflict. Smoke rose from the market, and an inconsistent stream of gunshots perforated the background hum of the city.
Rushing forward, the soldier moved quickly but cautiously, checking each alley and window as he advanced. A few meters ahead of him, an armed man emerged from the remains of a building complex that had collapsed from earlier shelling. The man hadn't taken the time to fully investigate his surroundings before emerging from cover. Before he had a moment to react, the soldier snapped his weapon to the ready and fired a three round burst, dropping the man.
Knowing the sound of gunfire may have drawn the attention of other enemies, the soldier hurried along towards the market, knowing the man he needed to stop was somewhere among the rubble and overturned vending tables. Time was running out, and, if left unchallenged, the soldier's target could end the skirmish once and for all.
As the soldier descended a flight of broken stone stairs into the market, a bullet tore through the flesh of his right arm, severing no muscle but sending a searing pain through his entire upper body. A mix of instinct and training kicked in, and the soldier dropped behind a waist high stone wall separating a group of vendor stands. The dull thump of bullets smashing impotently against the stone gave him just enough information to determine where the shots where coming from. Pushing down his pain, the soldier readied his rifle and popped up. A muzzle flash from within a dark building across the market told him both the shooter's location and that he needed to get behind the wall yet again. Another volley of thumps filled the soldier's ears as he slid his hand to the smaller trigger beneath the barrel of his rifle.
The soldier knew he'd have only one shot at hitting the shooter before his assailant moved or advanced. SC829 prepared the grenade launcher that was attached to his rifle, popped above his cover, and arced a grenade towards his enemy's building.
His training with the weapon paid off. A quick, loud blast and the silencing of the other man's weapon told the soldier his shot found its mark.
"Two down." The soldier thought to himself, reloading his grenade attachment. "Almost time for the airstrike. That bastard won't know what hit him."
After waiting a moment to recover from his wound, the soldier peeked out from his cover, looking for his target. Before long, he saw an enemy, not his target but still dangerous, ducked behind a crate. There was a considerable distance between the men, and the shot would be difficult. The soldier switched his weapon to semi-auto fire, and steadied his breathing to prepare for the shot. A sniper rifle would have been preferred, but he had to make due with the loadout he brought. He leveled his sights on the enemy, still crouched behind hopelessly ineffective cover.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Fire.
A bullet ripped across the market and found its mark, tearing through the flesh of the assailant and toppling him. A smile crept across the soldier's filthy, bloodied face.
A static voice in the soldier's helmet, almost as though on cue, informed him that an airstrike would be made available for use on a target of his designation.
He knew exactly who needed to die.
The soldier burst from his cover, weaving between stands and tents, bounding craters and ducking clotheslines. A bell tower at the edge of the city was his next targ—
A quick flash from a high window and a loud pop were the soldier's final experience. A sniper's bullet flew from the window and bore through his skull, ignoring the durability of the combat helmet and exploding bits of brain matter from the exit wound.
The skirmish ended. The scoreboard flashed across the screen.
"You camping piece of shit!" Sam Costas yelled to his friend, tossing his game controller into the soft pillows of the RV's onboard couch in a mock fit of rage.
"It's a legitimate strategy." His friend, Alan Conti, shot back from the other side of the RV. "Also, you were my last kill. How embarrassing."
" 'It's a legitimate strategy'? That's like the gaming equivalent of 'I'm not racist, but…' It only highlights your guilt." Costas replied, pointing an accusatory finger at his friend. "Whatever. Good game."
"Go again?" Conti asked, waggling his controller.
"Not right now. Need to nurse my pride. Beer?" Costas asked, moving through the large RV to the onboard refrigerator.
"Sure." Conti replied. "So, I been meaning to talk to you. You know last week when you were in town, and Amanda and I invited you to dinner?"
"You mean that obvious set-up double date dinner with that girl Jamie?" Costas asked, popping the tops off a pair of lagers.
"Oh, ok good, so you're aware."
"Yeah no shit I was aware. Don't get me wrong, food was good, and the girl was fine. But yeah, awkward city. I appreciate Amanda's intentions, but I'm more than capable of finding a girlfriend on my own." Sam replied. He took a seat across from his friend and began his imbibe.
"I know that, and she knows that. It's just… I mean I know I haven't known you for all that long, but I've known you long enough. You're a good guy. I mean you're ugly as shit but you've got a great personality." Conti laughed as Costas silently flipped him off, grinning as he did. "But seriously, I've known you since you moved to Colorado and I don't think I've ever seen you do more than flirt. And that's only when you're drunk."
"Look. I'm good. Still kind of getting over something from awhile ago. Plus with work…"
"Oh, fuck that! You're a freelance writer, you are the last person who gets to use work as an excuse for anything." Conti replied.
"Ehhh…it's more involved than you'd think." Sam said, laughing not at the joke but at the absurdity of his real job.
The door to the RV swung open, and another one of Sam and Alan's friends poked his head in.
The heat from the desert rushed in through the open door, and the sounds of revving engines broke through the quiet moment, while the smell of gasoline and oil reminded the men of what they came to the desert to do.
"Hey, you shitlords gonna come and ride with us or are you just gonna hangout inside the fucking RV and diddle yourselves all day?" The friend shouted.
"I'm ok with diddling." Sam said, looking to Alan. "Al?"
"Diddle, for sure." Al nodded.
"Fuck you, come on." The friend said, popping back out of the RV.
Sam and Alan followed. It took a moment for the men's eyes to adjust to the bright desert sun, but when they did, they were reminded of why they sought out such remote locations for their camping trips. The men were surrounded by dusty hills, with just enough color dotting the slopes to give personality to each peak.
Cacti and yucca broke the horizon in every direction, while dry shrubs and monolithic rocks created the trails the men would soon speed along.
Between Alan's RV and Sam's Cessna puddle jumper, four ATVs were prepped and ready for a day of high speed desert exploration.
The men donned their helmets and boarded their ATVs.
Sam slid the visor on his helmet up and called over the revving engines to Alan.
"Al. Don't think I forgot your filthy cheating in the game. I'm going to run you into a cactus." Sam nodded matter-of-factly to his friend.
"Do that and I'll give that Jamie girl your number!" Alan flipped a quick middle finger to his friend and shot forward on the ATV. Sam slid his visor down and blasted off into the dust.
