A Long Shot

A story written for Microsoft Studios, based on their video game series Halo. Unfortunately This is not the working Manuscript, as I am contractually not allowed to post it. But, I can post the original rough draft, so I hope you enjoy.
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Part I

Men Down

Through the cracks of a stained glass window, Burham watched the clouds roll in from the north. The clouds were the only peaceful masses he had seen in some time, too long to try and recall; in a life that scarcely existed in fading memories. No banshees to circle him like vultures, no long-swords itching to engage them. Nothing above but an overcast, and a few squeaking birds fleeing towards the horizon. This was peace, lost since his childhood, forgotten since the war. He recalled sitting at the banks of the Withlachoochi river, the comfort of the rushing water, the music of the song birds. He was a boy then, casting lines out for the monster cats, pulling sea scallops from their sandy hovels. The idea of a war with other worldly horrors, the thought of the end of man; those were but stories from a comic.
But now, those childhood fables were more real then anything from his past. The faces of these invaders were fresher then any memory of youth, and haunted him more so then any boyhood nightmare. The reality of it surrounded him, in the crumbling remains of an abandoned city. It mocked him through smiles on dead men's skulls, and the fading eyes of the critical. He could smell it in the smoke billowing from craters and rifle shafts, he could feel it caking his hands like blood and oil. The reality of war, the reality of brutality, the reality of futility.
He pulled his head back to the world of the grounded; to the skeletal remains of a church, fighting against neglect to keep from collapsing upon itself. Its pews had long sat empty, its pulpit long since abandoned. It was easy for men to lose faith in a god, when their children are dying, and their world Is being stripped from their hands. The promise of a life everlasting was no comfort to the suffering, the hope for the kingdom to come, was but a luxury for those slow in their final breath. Burham was never religious, time enlisted would have certainly changed that, even if he had been. But even for the godless, to see this place of former worship, this house of hope falling into the ashes of once civilized world, was disheartening at very least. His eyes trailed along the debris scattered amongst the main isle, forward toward the pulpit, upwards to a mangled crucifix, dangling like a wooden corpse. Christ laid before it, his head split by a carbine shot, his body broken and dismembered. “A house of god..” He thought to himself, shaking his head at the fallen Christ. “ I'm guess'n he wasn't home.”
God cared not for fates in the hands of men; In men like Burham. Hardened, emotionless, splinters of humanity. In a forsaken world, amongst forsaken people, only the bold were ordained, only the brave, only the Spartans.
Burham took one last glance around. The light of the midday sun poured over the remnants of a steeple, and spilled onto the weathered rosewood floor below. The light seemed to take a breath, glowing with a sudden intensity before retreating back upwards, beyond the dull gray of clouds. As the world transitioned over to black and white, Burham reached for his sniper rifle resting gently against the window ledge. Today’s service was over.
He flung the rifle over his shoulder, a swift sliding motion to keep the barrel from smacking his armor, a veteran trick of the trade. With sure footing, he moved up a nearby plank that extended over one of the churches damaged walls, and stepped off into an open courtyard. “shit.”
As much as he hated being exposed, he was left with little options. No comms, no reinforcements, and his spotter was, in all likelihood, dead. Their pelican was brought down only about a mile south of his position; a small crew of 8 recons, all assumed to be killed on impact. At least that's how it will look on the report, but the records aren't usually written by the survivors; more often then not, there were none. Yet, two did survive the crash, Burham was one of them, his spotter Tilsdale was the other. Tilsdale was accomplished for a rookie, with a tough as nails persona held true by his kill tally. He couldn't have been more then 25 years old, though his face was aged with conflict and pain. Burham tried to never get that personal with his spotters, or anyone else for that matter. To know them, is to soon mourn them, and Burham had mourned enough for two lifetimes; So when a spotter took a spike to neck, or a gunner disintegrated in his turret, flinging bits of his flesh across the asphalt, they were no more then a statistic. It was just easier to bury a number, then a name. But, nobody liked to watch a cherry come back in the box; even a coldhearted son of a bitch like Burham. He left Tilsdale with a shattered femur at the crash site, a few rounds for the magnum, and an ominous good luck. The same comfort and care as an underpaid doctor might give a terminal man. That was more then two hours ago, and behind enemy lines. Surely the recovery team was on its way, perhaps held up, perhaps shot down. Burham took solace in knowing that a man would never be left behind, even if only the shell remained. But he was quick to leave Tilsdale, quick to abandon him to fend for himself. And he wondered, would command be inclined to do the same.

Somewhere in the distance, the steady hum of an engine harmonized with the rushing of a dusty breeze.
From the mangled, smoldering wreckage of a downed pelican; the potent and noxious smell of fuel wafted from its remains. Its iron frame lay twisted on the ground; the name “Chevron”, visible on a shattered side panel, slowly being eaten away by a hungry flame. Near what used to be a tail end, resting up against a blade prop, was a dazed and battered Tilsdale. He stripped his helmet, discarding it like a broken tool, revealing a dirt laden face squinted in pain. His youthful appearance was lost long ago, somewhere on the training grounds. The light was fading from his brown eyes. Gristly stubble had claimed is checks and jawbone, and the wound over his brow just recently receded to a not so subtle scar. His stomach churned as he looked down at his leg, or what remained of it. A large stub of broken bone protruded from his leg guards, glistening red, with a small bit of flesh still latched to its jagged end. This would bring his short, but accomplished, career to an end, there was no denying that. The idea of life off the front line hit him like a shock wave, more unbearable then the pain in his throbbing leg, and far more troubling then lying alone in a war zone. Even here, deep in enemy territory, with his shooter gone and his security non existent; He had no fear of death. In fact, he would have rested well in flames with the others. There were more frightening things in life then death, and he had experienced them all. But of all the horrors and all the nightmarish events he had witnessed in the past few years, dying a crippled old man, lame and bitter in a hospital bed, horrified him. He couldn't return home, not like this. He thought of his fiances face, the pale shade of horror it would certainly fade to, as she stared at him in disbelief. She'd shudder as she hugged him, whimpering like a child, clinging to the remains of a broken man. Would it pain her less to see him cold in his coffin? He thought not. Yet, in his mind, it was better that she loved him as he was, and not as he is, and should now forever be.
A movement in the haze pulled him back to reality. Squinting through the sting of sand and residue, he made out a figure just beyond a row of buildings to his immediate left. A tall, broad silhouette contorted behind a film of heatwaves, wafting from gasoline fumes. Though distorted, he could make out the distinctive mandibles of an elite. The crash site was just outside the green zone in a city known now as “Dirty Rock”, formally Detroit in the northern Americas. Dirty rock was once the engineering strong hold for for the allied forces. The factory's that once pumped out vehicles for Chrysler and ford, were converted to produce scorpions and warthogs. It didn't take long before the covenant made it a primary point of attack. Marines and ragtags from the UNSC managed to hold the city for more then 5 months. But, like most of earths major cities, it too was lost to the covenant hordes, and eventually abandoned. An O.P. Was set up shortly there after, ironically named “Megiddo”. Originally used as a base to observe covenant archeological operations, O.P. Megiddo was now one of the last remaining launch points for earth based pelicans, and troop drop ships. The O.P. Was only a few miles away. Looking to the high horizon he could see the towers of the control center. He could see the black spots rising from where the air field would be, sitting atop a cloud for a moment, before fading into the blue. A glimmer of hope shined from each spot, but vanished as swiftly as they did, letting his heart drop deeper into him with each lost opportunity. They weren't coming, not for him, not for his shooter, nor the dead among the wreckage. He was alone, dying, and soon he would be spotted by the devils from the sky. The nightmares he so bravely fought for years, would now make death his new reality.

Part II

Live or Die

Back at the churchyard, Burham was stumbling through a maze of fallen bricks and tangled vines. He knew he had traveled too far from the crash site; it was after that hesitant realization, that he began to wonder what brought him this far out to begin with. He was dazed when he hit the ground, the world was still spinning as he left Tilsdale a few hours ago. When thrown into a chaotic situation such as this, a soldier immediately references their training. Training, that seemed so menial at the time, would make the difference between life and death on the battlefield. Death was staying at the crash site, waiting on a rescue. Life, meant heading south, to another wreck site. He thought of the “Sloop” campaign. It happened only months before he was stationed at O.P. Megiddo; and remained an example of the devastation that could occur when communications amongst troops goes awry. In an attempt to reclaim a primary transport rout on the I75, 400 troops stormed a small covenant outpost controlling its north end. In less then 40 minutes, 50 elites managed to quaff the assault without a single loss. Command had failed to take into account the lack of combat experience of the squad. 400 rookies, fresh out of camp, on the ground for less then 17 days before they were sent to their untimely deaths. Speakers screamed “Man Down” through the heavy buzz of gunfire, one after another. They cried “ what do we do Top!..WHAT DO WE DO!”. They were dead before they even arrived.
Command shoved the incident aside, claiming it as another horrible tragedy in a series. The story stuck with Burham from the moment he heard it.
When the bird went down, that deadly campaign flooded his thoughts. He thought of the allied Vehicles that, surely, were still rotting with the soldiers along that highway. It was a long shot to think that any of them were possibly still in operating condition; But, being a sniper, a long shot worked just as well in his mind. If he could just get to a warthog, a ghost, even a bicycle with a flat tire, he would stand a better chance of getting back to the O.P. But getting to that highway proved to be much more difficult then he prepared for. He's flown over the 75 several times, and saw the remains below. In the confusion of the crash, he miscalculated the distance. What seemed like a mile, could well be 6 or more. He noticed no landmarks he could recognize from the ground, no streets signs or arrows to fallow. It was sinking in. Going any further might do nothing more but take him further from safety and seal Tilsdale's fate, as well as his own. He stopped in his tracks. He had to make a decision. Should he continue on? Risk his life and his comrades by moving forward in what, in all likelihood, could be a fruitless venture? Or should he turn back now; return to the crash site, that in all probability was now overrun by covenant butchers, and die with honor amongst his brethren? The choice was not simple, but obvious. He had wasted time on a fools venture, and Tilsdale would pay for his neglect. He spun around, spooking a gaggle of ravens, sending them screeching towards the heavens. As they flew into the unknown, he sprinted towards the church from which he came. He jumped through a shattered window, back up that wooden isle, and out the splintered double doors. “ Hang in their brother, Don't die yet...Not without me.”

In the reflection of his visor, Tilsdale saw a stranger. A scarred, weathered, frightened man stared back at him, confusion in his glare, sorrow in his brow. Blood stained his face like warpaint, slowly washing away in streams of glistening sweat. A stranger, familiar in memory, unrecognizable in sight. This is the face his fiance would see, though then more pale and still. No frown nor smile plastered upon it, no look or gaze at all; But the cold, lifeless peace of a statue. What was death in the mind of a killer? Could it be that such a fate scared him not, but more the aftermath of the certain inevitable? Yet to have a fear is weakness, thus, is this why he lay dying on the ground? A manifestation of a fear he failed to hide? The pain in his own heart, dulled the pain of his shattered limb, but could not mask it. He could hear them now, his death bringers. Squabbling grunts, with there high pitched banter. The thick garbled voices of elites, perhaps two, perhaps more. They were laying claim to the kill, feuding over who shall get the credit for downing such a prized target. Whom shall get the honor of hanging Tilsdale's polished skull from its mighty waist. If that was to be his fate; If he was to die here along side this crumbled bird, He will not make it so simple. The silver of his pistol caught his eye, a parting gift from his shooter as he disappeared into the city. He was even kind enough to leave two extra clips along with it. A rifle would have been better, but the only visible one remained locked within the cockpit, stuffed underneath the pilots charred corpse. He would never get off more then a few shots anyway. A few well aimed, precise shots to the heads of his attackers. There eyes would roll back in there skulls, the body would hit the dirt with a satisfying thud that would ring like music to his ears. In a cinematic slow motion, he'd deliver a lead kiss goodbye to all those present in his final moment. He let his fingers feel there way over the bits of concrete and shrapnel, coming to rest in the pistols handle. He gripped it, pulling it to his chest like a cherished amulet from a lost relative. He prayed to it, caressing it like one would a rosary. It was a simple prayer.
“ I know nothing of heaven, as am a product of hell. All my life, I have known nothing but demon versus demon. And if there is something that has love for any of us wretched things., Please, let it be for me, at least for this day. Guide me; and if death come now, let it come swiftly. And let these beasts, these hallow things, go with me. Amen.”
The voices were closer now. He could feel their heavy steps quickening. The shadows in the haze grew in numbers, first two, then three, then five. Colors soon fallowed. The pale blue of the elite armor, the electric glow of plasma swords.
Around a flame, peeked the ghastly mask of the first grunt, his glassy black eyes widening before skirting back startled.
“ Over Here! ”
It squealed, “I found one! “
Tilsdale remained still. He didn't realize he had dropped his hands and pistol into his lap; hopefully, the grunt hadn't either. He fixed his gaze upon the creature, doing nothing to hide his disgust in such a vile looking thing. A creature that knew nothing of human emotion, and little of his true hatred towards it. Two more grunts came over the wing to join it. Their curiosity in him herded them into a whispering huddle, saying who knows what about this frail human in his mushy flesh and cracked armor.
“ Insignificant kills,” he reminded himself. He'll save the shots for ones that might matter.
His targets showed themselves a few moments later. Five elites, stood over him with what he assumed to be smirks on there revolting faces. The center figure was the obvious leader, looking down at him like a hunter upon its paralyzed prey.
“ This one is alive.” He crackled. The one on the nearest left brimmed with repugnance “Barely. Just kill him and be done with it.” One of the grunts jumped at the thought of it, volunteering his services with delight. “I wanna do it! Let me! Let me!” The lead Elite, swung his arm back, connecting with the grunts head, and knocking him over. “Shut up you fool. I'll make the decisions around here.”
Another Elite spoke up, kicking Tilsdale's broken leg, causing him to break his stone glare with a pained wince. “He's broken. He can't even rise for a real fight. Humans are weak things, no wonder we overtook them so easily.”
“ That they are.” the leader replied. “ But do not underestimate their cleverness. They're as cunning as they are brazen.” He noticed the pistol in Tilsdale's hand. He found the site of him clutching it secretly in his lap amusing, and laughed at his attempts. “Whats that? “ He chuckled. “You plan to kill us with that crude thing?”. Tilsdale didn't respond, but wrapped his finger around the trigger and stiffened his posture as best he could. The elite scanned him with a sneer, letting go a sigh before reaching down to pull him up by his neck. The strength of the Elites was astounding, and Tilsdale could feel his bones cracking as its cold hand squeezed his throat. It twisted Tilsdale face, examining the scars and wounds. “ Such a pathetic looking thing you are human.” Reaching in to smell him, he quickly pulled back.
“ And your stench is fowl. Just like this planet. I'll be glad to see you both exterminated.” squeezing harder on his neck, he pulled Tilsdale in closer. His arms hung limp at his side, pistol still gripped in his palm. He couldn't breathe, and his vision began to dim, as the elite spoke to him. “ speak human. I wish to hear you beg before you die.” Tilsdale curled his lips inwards, gritting his teeth, before spitting out a few choked words. “ Go fuck yourself you ugly bitch.”
The Elite primed his sword, pulling it up to Tilsdale's gut. “ That will do fine.”
As Tilsdale prepared to feel the jolting pain of being impaled, a crack rang through the valley, and the elites grip loosened. Tilsdale felt the warmth of its blood splatter on his face. He looked at the Elites eyes, and saw shock within them before he was dropped back onto the ground, the elite fallowing sute; dead as a doornail. An unseen shot had penetrated its skull, killing him, and forcing the others to duck in reaction. “ Sniper.” they yelled in panic. “ Were under fire!”
“its a trap!”....
“ Kill the Human! ”