Call of Duty: Ghosts
Chapter 5: Hand-to-Hand
Ghost fired as he charged at the walking tank, pumping all thirteen rounds of his magazine into him. It wouldn't do much against the amount of armour the man was wearing, but it did knock him off balance as he raised the M60. Ghost dropped his Glock, and rugby-tackled the man to the floor, using the lack of balance the man had after being shot thirteen times to his advantage. Ghost landed heavily on top of the man as he fell, and ripped off his helmet. The walking tank was clearly a combat veteran, with a face covered in dozens of scars. He was bald, with dark brown eyes.
Ghost punched him in the face, bursting his lip. He then hit the inside of the tank's wrist, on the arm that was holding the M60, causing him to let go of it. Ghost tossed it away, and then punched the man in the face again. The tank gritted his teeth in pain as Ghost landed another punch, knocking two molars out. As Ghost raised his fist for another punch, the tank flipped him over like he was made of paper. Christ, this guy's strong, Ghost thought.
The two combatants were up on their feet in an instant. Ghost ducked under a punch and sent an elbow into the man's ribcage, before bringing his fist up and upper-cutting the man on the chin. Ghost used his momentum to roundhouse kick the man in his side, before kneeing him in the gut. The tank recoiled from the brutal offensive, before catching Ghost's fist in his hand and delivered a punch to Ghost's face that swung into his right cheek like a sledgehammer. Ghost staggered into the wall, and then the tank grabbed the back of his head and slammed his face into the wall. He then slugged Ghost in the stomach, winding him, before booting him in the chest. Ghost fell backwards, but somehow found the strength to get back up.
He stepped out of the range of a Haymaker and countered with two punches to the stomach, followed by an elbow to the face. He heard the tank's nose break, and blood dripped from the wound. Ghost threw another punch, but the tank ducked under it, and picked up Ghost by his waist. With a roar of anger, he charged towards the far wall, carrying Ghost over his shoulder. The two men slammed into the wall, and Ghost cried out in agony. The tank released his grip on Ghost, and punched the British soldier in the ribs and midriff repeatedly. Ghost recoiled from the attacks, and covered his ribs with his arms, before upper-cutting the tank again, causing him to stagger back. Ghost followed it up with two punches to the face, before reaching up and grabbing the back of the man's head with both hands, before smashing it down on his knee. The tank staggered backwards, towards the staircase, spitting out teeth and blood.
Ghost charged the tank, and tackled him down the stairs. The two fighters tumbled down the stairs. Ghost felt one rib crack, and another take a bruising. His side flared in pain as he climbed to his feet. The tank was up on his feet already, and Ghost barely ducked under a vicious punch. He sent an elbow into the man's midriff, and another elbow to the chin, following it up with a boot to the chest as he staggered back. He scrambled back up the stairs, an idea suddenly forming in his mind. The tank gave chase, and grabbed his ankle, but a boot to the face freed him.
Ghost tripped on a stair and fell down, and that was all the tank needed. He climbed on top of Ghost and turned him over, beginning to relentlessly smash his fists into Ghost's face. The British soldier saw stars, then rubber ducks, then more stars. He felt the familiar metallic taste of blood in his mouth, then blinding hot pain. He screamed in pain as the tank dug his thumb into his bullet wound, twisting and turning, with a snarl on his face. Ghost snapped out of his daze, and kneed the man where the sun won't shine. The tank gave a similar scream of pain to Ghost's, before being shoved off him. Ghost punched the tank in the face four times, before sending an elbow into his throat. The tank gasped for air as Ghost raced up the rest of the stairs before he could recover.
He reached the top, and instantly began searching for his Glock 21.
"Come on," He muttered to himself, "where the fuck is it?" He heard footsteps behind him, and turned round as a fist flew towards him. He ducked just in time, and lashed out with a haymaker that sent the tank staggering. Ghost then turned round and continued his search for the Glock. As he spotted it, what felt like a train smashed into his back, sending him flying to the floor. He was turned over, and the tank strangled him with a vice-like grip. He gasped as the air was forced out of his lungs by a knee to his belly. With one hand, he felt around the tank's fingers as he desperately tried to breathe. Thankfully, the tank had made one fatal mistake.
Ghost pressed down on the open fingers of the tank's right hand, feeling the fingers slowly snap. The grip only tightened. He did the same with the other hand as spots appeared in his vision. His other hand finally reached what it had been searching for as the tank roared curses that'd make Gordon Ramsay blush.
The Glock might be unloaded, but it'd still hurt if it hit someone.
His vision was going dark as he thrust his thumb into the corner of the tank's eye, and twisted. More profanities, but this time the tank took one hand off Ghost's throat and grabbed his wrist, trying to force his hand used the respite to draw several quick breaths, clearing his vision, and twisted his thumb harder, drawing blood. Nearly every word the tank was saying now was a profanity that would probably offend every deity known to man, and some besides. One, two, three, four, Ghost began counting in his head. The tank was using both hands to try and pull Ghost's hand away from his eye by the time he reached six. By seven, he had managed to get his breath back slightly as his hand moved gradually away from the tank's eye. Eight.
Ghost swung the Glock towards the side of the man's head. It connected with furious force, sending the tank sprawling. Ghost climbed to his feet slowly, taking in deep breaths, gasping for air. The tank was just as slow, shaking his head and wobbling like a drunk. Ghost pulled a new magazine out of his tactical vest for his Glock, and took out the empty one, placing it back in his vest for later use. He slammed the fresh mag in, and was about to cock the gun, but the tank threw a punch, that glanced off his bad shoulder. That made Ghost realise just how much pain he was in, and how tired he was. He dropped the Glock by accident as his hand rushed to clutch his wounded shoulder.
A .44 Magnum round, even though it was slowed down by the short range, and his body armour, still packed a ferocious punch, and was worse than any other time Ghost had been shot. He shook the pain away, and sidestepped a head-butt, responding by kicking the tank in the knee. He shouted in pain and fell down onto one knee. The tank somehow found the strength to get back on both feet, and threw another desperate punch towards Ghost, which he again sidestepped.
"Just, fucking, die." The tank growled. It was probably the corniest thing Ghost had ever heard.
"Really? Just fucking die? That all you got?" He sarcastically spat at his opponent, throat dry and hoarse.
"I'm all out." The response was simple, but the fact the man charged him after that proved that it was just insults he was out of. Ghost grabbed the man by his body armour, and spun him round as he charged, slamming him into the wall. He punched the tank in the face, sending him staggering, and again, before he grabbed his webbing, and head-butted him down the stairs. The tank fell backwards, falling over himself once, twice, before landing in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Ghost got a glimpse of the tank's face. He looked like shit, two teeth missing, broken nose, bloodshot and bleeding eye, bruised to hell. But one thing struck Ghost like the tank's punches. He was scared.
"I don't want to"- A deafening thunderclap prematurely ended the tank's last sentence, smoke and little chunks of body parts flying everywhere. The shockwave hit Ghost, but he stayed stood.
Ghost dropped the pins of the grenades he had just pulled, hearing them hit the floor like a pin. He'd pulled them on the tank's webbing, as he head head-butted him. He heard gunfire, from downstairs, and walked towards his Glock 21. He picked it up, and cocked the gun, the metallic click reassuring him. He held it in one hand as he walked towards the final room that needed to be cleared, the one the tank was originally in. He stacked up against the wall, changing his grip to a two-handed one. He swept into the room, Glock raised. He saw a body sitting, leaning against the wall, and instantly snapped towards the centre mass.
It was a Shadow Company soldier, without a balaclava. Or a helmet. The soldier looked more like a schoolboy though. He was holding an FN Five Seven pistol on Ghost, in a shaking grip. He looked terrified, with blood and dirt and sweat staining his face, blue eyes wide.
"D-d-d-drop the gun." The Shadow Company soldier said weakly. Ghost noticed he was holding his side, which had a spreading wet patch against the black cloth. "Just drop the gun." The man, hell, no, boy repeated. His arm was shaking worse now. Ghost adjusted his aim as he read the boy's surname on his uniform. Webb.
"Webb, that your name? Webb?" Ghost asked softly. The boy nodded. "Alright, Webb. You've been shot. There's nothing I can do to help you. I'm sorry but you're going to die." He said bluntly, without emotion. Christ, the boy even looked like Joseph.
"Oh wow! A fighter jet! That's so cool Uncle Simon! You're the best uncle ever."
Ghost snapped the flashback out of his mind.
"That's okay, I guess. Everyone dies in the end." That stunned Ghost, Webb's acceptance of death. It didn't stop him squeezing the trigger. The .45 round hit Webb's forehead in under a second, snapping it backwards. The bullet travelled through his head in under a second again, before coming out the other end and taking half of the back of his head with it. Blood and brain matter splattered the wall behind Webb, and smeared Ghost's MTP trousers. Webb's body went limp, and his arm dropped. The shell casing hit the ground with a ping. It all took just under a second.
"Sorry, Webb." Ghost whispered, before he picked up an M4A1, fitted with an Aimpoint M68 sight, X3 magnifier and grippod, as well as an AN/PEQ-15 laser designator, before he walked out of the room. Webb's corpse was left there, no longer scared, no longer in pain, no longer alive.
A/N: Finally, sorry about the long wait for an update. Well, that was meant to be a sad ending to the otherwise bombastic chapter, please put what you thought of it in a review. Hope you enjoyed it. Also, I'm working on a massive new story, called Kill House, following a Marine from his basic training all the way to selection for the 141. It'll tie in with MW1 and 2, and bridge the gap between them. Look out for it over the next few days on Fanfiction.