EPISODE CXVI - SWEEPING THE STREETS OF INJUSTICE AFTER THE THANKSGIVING DAY PARADE
Reed, Proteau, Orwig, and Mr. Jeffy hugged the earth near one of Minnesota Tex's remote outbuildings, scanning the area for any signs of the enemy. Lt. Scott, Ensign VanTedly,
and the two commandos had circled around the compound to set up opposite their position. Reed saw the glint of steel across from them, the signal that the others were in position.
"Orwig", Reed instructed quietly, "move in a little closer...and no heroics.", he reminded the young non-comm.
Before the commander closed his mouth, Orwig sprang from his position and began running toward a nearby barn. Immediately gunfire rang out, causing dust motes to erupt all around the corporal as he scrambled
for cover. Proteau and Mr. Jeffy returned fire toward the main house, where it seemed the shots were coming from.
Once safe behind the barn, Orwig looked back with a pleading expression, dark blood trickling from a gash below his left eye. Reed motioned for him to remain where he was, and gestured for Number Two to send
Broski forward.
The commando corporal burst from his hiding place and sprinted toward a small, peaked, one room structure near their position. He was met with the same greeting as Orwig. Reaching the building, he slid
down into a crouch trying to make himself as small a target as possible.
Not satisfied with the meager cover, he reached around tentatively and tried the door. As he eased it open, a bullet tore through the wood where his head had been only moments before. Needing no more
prompting, Broski swung the door open and rushed inside the dark confines.
The first thing to greet him was the ghastly stench of the place. There was room enough for only one person, and from the light admitted by the crescent shaped window near the top of the structure, he saw
that a bench took up all of the back wall, a gaping hole yawning eternally from its center.
More rounds pounded the small shack, and Broski ducked instinctively bringing him frighteningly close to the literary bowels of Tex's compound. "Key-ripes", he observed, feeling his lunch churn scornfully
in his stomach, "I sure can pick, 'em."
More bullets ripped through the uncomfortably thin walls of his fragile fortress, leaving Broski feeling quite vulnerable. He eyed the door and considered making a run for it, but knew too well what fate
awaited him on the open ground outside. His gaze slid reluctantly back to the rancid abyss that stared impassively back.
"Damn, damn, damn!", he chanted, as he holstered his weapon and eased himself into the thick sludge below.
