The Fall of Chokepoint 17

Chokepoint 17 had fallen.

Dead and dying soldiers lay strewn about, some with their throats torn out, some ripped limb-from-limb. A man was impaled, skewered on a length of steel rebar. Blood and soot covered the walls. Smoke and the smell of cordite hung heavy in the air.

Blake, Simon and Angela stood frozen, staring at the horror before them. There was movement in the smoke, and Blake whipped out his revolver.

Col. Dillard crawled toward them, the bloody, ragged stumps that used to be his legs leaving a red trail in his wake. Dillard’s mouth was moving, as if trying to say something.

He never got the chance. A foot came down hard on Dillard’s head, and crushed it like a melon. “Not so fast, Colonel,” Alec Constantinescu said, gore dripping from his grinning face. Alec looked up, noticing Blake, Simon and Angela for the first time. His grin faltered momentarily, but quickly returned as recognition set in.

“I remember you,” Alec growled and licked his lips. “So, who wants to get eaten first?”

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