W.G. vs. Hewie

[Mission 13 drabble; minor spoilers]

"There's no time for that! Runner Five, whatever you're going to get, grab it and get out of there - NOW!"

No time for subtlety? Well wasn't that just an awful shame. I grinned as I slipped my satchel from my shoulders and pulled my lovely long axe free from its strap. Sorry, Jack - Hewie here might put a little more strain on me, but I'll take him over your cricket bat any day.

I plant my right foot solidly and then step and swing, and sheet metal doesn't stand a chance against Hewie's bite. The filing cabinet buckles and screams as the regularly-sharpened axe head slams into it, shearing past the feeble lock. I twist and shove, securing the axe inside the cabinet, then grab the end of the handle, push up and kind of sideways until I've loosened things up a bit. The lock slides out neatly, and now all I have to do is flip the latch on each drawer.

And a thousand thanks to whatever clerical assistant was in charge of these files (you know important people never do their own filing, after all), because voila, there's an entire hanging folder labeled VS 72 right here in the bottom drawer where it should be.

Carefully placing the folder and all its files into my satchel, I take a moment to roll my neck and shoulders before securing Hewie again. I'm sure he'd much rather stay out and play, but chances are pretty good that the folks who came out of that helo have got handguns. Now I've never actually attempted to deflect bullets with an axe - for all I know, hell, maybe it's actually possible - but that's one of the few things in life that I am perfectly content not to know.

Don't worry, handsome. If I get out of this one alive, there'll be plenty of chance to decap some zoms on the way back. Hewie seems mollified by this, or at least, I imagine he is. It's kind of weird that the person I trust and talk to most isn't even a person. Maybe even a little sad. But if there isn't time for subtlety, there sure isn't time for pondering the complexities of post-apocalyptic social interactions. So I pull my satchel over my shoulders, Hewie's weight a comforting presence between my shoulder blades.

And I run.