Daniel Clarke

The building seemed to creak under it’s own weight. It was decrepit, old, and smothered in the dust of generations long past. Judging by the graffiti and the occasional shattered window or broken down wall I’d say it’s seen it’s share of abuse. Today it’s going to have to see a little more. I’m sure it’ll hold up, I wonder if I will?
A high pitched whistles zips past my head. Damn these guys are getting good. They’ve had their practice though. Over the last hour or so I estimate something on the order of 2 to 3 thousand rounds have been emptied into this building. Why in the hell do they want to kill us that badly?
I slip new clips in my weapons and brace myself for what’s to come. In in an instant I’m up over the barrier shooting out what was once a window but is now just a jagged hole in the wall. To my left I can here Phill doing the same. 15 seconds of firing seems to stretch on for hours; I guess that’s relativity for you. I drop to my haunches and lean back against the cinder block wall. What the hell did we do to piss these guys off? I glance over at Phill on the other side of the open doorway. He shoots back a look of concern. We’ve managed to salvage a few weapons and several clips of ammo from the guys stupid enough  to come in after us. There’s no way it’ll hold out against a siege like this though. It seems Hollywood has lied to us yet again. The good guy does not have the infinite ammo cheat. The bloodied rag serving as a makeshift tourniquet on my upper arm says he doesn’t have the invulnerability code either. Shit. You’d think something would go right somewhere.
*Squeeeee-eeeeech* A bullhorn gives some ear wrenching feed back followed by a tinny sounding voice.
“Give yourselves up now. You don’t stand a chance.” Thank you captain obvious. “If you come out now, and surrender peaceably I give you my personal guarantee that you will live to see another day” Sounds like a good deal. Phill shouts back over the now crumbling wall.
“Is that because you plan on killing us tomorrow?” In spite if the admittedly tense situation, I crack a smile. No sense dying without a sense of humour.
“Is that a ‘no’ then gentlemen?” the voice responds, obviously getting testy.
“Bite me, asshole!” I call back. The response is less diplomatic this time. Another few hundred rounds smack into the side of the building. “Hey,” I call out to Phill, “you know I think they  really mean to do us harm.” All I get is a stony glare. “Okay, okay, lighten up. You’d think this was life or death or something. On three then?” He nods and I give the count down.
On cue we pop up and unleash another barrage of bullets.  Phill’s MP5 crackling like a bowl of rice crispies on steroids serves as treble to the bass beat of my twin 45s. Another 15 seconds of hell and I drop down to reload.
“Hey I think I nailed one or two, how bout you?” Phill yells over the deafening gunfire.
“I think I sent a few to dirt naps. How many left you think? 50? 60?” I peak though a crack in the wall to take a quick assessment. Man I hate these odds.
“Oh at least,” he pauses to do some math, “I’ve got 20 rounds left, you?” I check my clips, and look around for more.
“16. 8 per clip. I got a grenade here too, no sense letting it go to waste.” As I pull the pin I slowly begin to realize, this may well be the proverbial ‘it’ I’ve heard so much about. After this there’s nothing but the credits. I hope they had someone good playing me. With a grunt I lob the grenade out the window and plug my ears. A dull whoomph and a shower of dirt and debris signal the passing of a few more of our antagonists. “Well that should take care of 4 or 5 at least”
“You know, these really are terrible odds” Phill observes, chambering a round from his last clip.
“Tell me about it. 60 guys, maybe 30 bullets between the two of us.” I cock the hammers on my guns and a slight sick feeling grips my gut. No time for that now.
“I guess we’d better make them count then, hadn’t we?” Phill grins. “I’ve always wanted to go out with guns a blazing.”
“Let’s do it!” I break into a laugh. God what a way to spend a weekend. In unison we spin into the doorway and empty our weapons into the face of a tsunami of hot lead.
And after that, it all sort of fades to black. . .