Urban Decay

[arvg]

Pasha groaned, he was wet, cold, and hurt in places he wasn't sure he had. Nothing new, he was in the Coalition after all, and that usually meant he woke up in varying states similar to the one he felt now.

He wasn't, however, where he was supposed to be.

Opening an eye he was greeted by a frog.

It was a large bullfrog, the kind that had been a popular delicacy amongst the former Chinese population of JiangXi, back before the bombardment had rendered them radioactively toxic.

"Great," Pasha intoned, trying to sit up, shaking his head against the fog. He remembered the explosion, and trying to find cover in the Jeep...

The Jeep in question was in the lake, surrounded by burning cargo pods, scattered around the area. The gun turret was mangled, but the jeep's formidable suspension, and the fact that it had landed in water had saved it from being smashed into pieces.

More than Pasha could say.

He struggled to his feet, stretching his back and feeling bones popping. Trying to search the horizon for where the Social Credit would have crashed. No column of smoke... that had to be a good sign, maybe Major Ling had managed to get clear...

The Raiders...

Pasha swore a long string of Russian curse words, loosely associated with his situation, a pineapple, and someone's sphincter... He was unarmed, alone, unprotected, in the middle of a JiangXi field... with a bunch of canniblistic, blood thirsty Chinamen heading his way. It was definitely not a good day to be Polish.

He sprinted for the jeep, cursing at the fact that it was nearly submerged... getting it started could prove a problem, but it really was his only chance, he could take stock of the rest of the situation later...

Clambering into the seat, he powered the ignition, relieved when he heard it roar to life, the on board computer quickly spitting out a hundred and one complaints about the vehicles condition, all of which Pasha ignored, as he gunned the Engine and drove the durable vehicle off of it's parachute sled, and up onto the shore of the lake.

Nodding to himself in satisfaction, he slowly began to swear. On the horizon of the treeline, groups of eyes and a cluster of motorcyles were watching him.

"Oh... hell... no!" he murmured, noting that the lead motorcyclist was wearing a dirty chef's hat and wielding what looked like a meat cleaver.

it was a very... very... very bad day to be a pole!

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