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Old 03-24-2017, 09:30 AM   #124
Icelander
 
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Join Date: Mar 2006
Location: Iceland*
Default I Am Wrath

As O’Toole continues to operate without thought, consultation or tactical sense, Cherry Bell backs away from where he went and takes up position where the corridor that O‘Toole was in connects with the open area of the staff rec room. She seems to be assuming that O’Toole will draw hostile attention to them and is preparing to meet it. Considering the length of the corridor, Bell places her shotgun by the corner she stands at and readies her M16A2 assault rifle. Dr. Anderson stays by her side, with Dr. Emma King and the former hostages being about thirty feet away, most of them clustered around the small kitchenette, where King is doling out stale coffee, tap water and glasses of flat Pepsi.

O’Toole jumps when he hears three shotgun blasts from downstairs. As he does, he notices that the lights on the next room suddenly turn on. There is a connecting door between the two rooms, which is half ajar. O’Toole can’t hear or see anyone, but belatedly realises that someone has probably passed him and is between him and the others. This might not be much of a concern assuming that this hypothetical person exclusively means harm to the people in the kitchenette and rec room, but given the likelihood that the isolated O’Toole might become a victim of anyone stalking around the dark room he is in, he rushes into the corridor again.

Bell and Dr. Anderson remain confident that sounds of a shotgun mean Taylor is stunning guards rather than taking fire. None of the three have the auditory acuity or familiarity with firearms to distinguish the report of a LTL beanbag round from 00 buckshot, not 200 feet away and through two windows. Dr. Anderson can tell that the three blasts were not the exact same kind of sound and all occurred within less than a second, but this information does not tell him much, as he has no idea of the cycle rate of a pump-action shotgun or whether Taylor might have his weapon loaded with more than one type of shell.

Emma King starts walking toward Dr. Anderson and Bell, obviously with the intent of asking them what is going on. King whispers before she has entirely reached them.

Emma King: “Is there anything I can do?”
Dr. Anderson: “Perhaps…”
Bell [glancing back]: “Ssh! I’m trying to listen!

Something comes out of the shadows on Bell’s blind side. It’s black and grey, with tones of brown, blue and glints of white. It appears humanoid in shape, apart from the strange skin tone. Everyone notices the wide staring eyes filled with murderous madness, the uncanny ear-to-ear grin and a gleaming autopsy knife in the right hand as the humanoid leaps toward them. The figure grabs Bell’s chest and stabs her savagely in the lower back.

For the frozen fraction of second that Dr. Anderson sees the autopsy knife disappear under Bell’s tactical vest, he can recognise the attacker. It’s the patient he saw in J Wing when they first arrived on the island. Derek, his name was. A bald, pale fellow, drooled a bit when he saw him. Derek has taken off the patient issue shirt, but is still wearing the blue hospital pants. The unusual skin tone is the result of paint or some other material that Derek has poured all over himself, painting himself and rubbing various coloured substances all over. It’s fairly effective as camouflage and Dr. Anderson can see that he has applied what may be shoeshine to his face with an obvious intent to fall better into shadows.

Bell gasps in stunned surprise as she staggers forward a step, Dr. Anderson suddenly has a scalpel in hand, conjured from his sleeve like a stage magician and Dr. Emma King screams and faints. O’Toole, hearing the scream, runs back down the corridor to reach them. Instead of readying his M16A2, though, he draws the baton and Mace from his tool belt, letting the assault rifle hang on his patrol sling.

---

Way back in those halcyon days when Chase Taylor got to redshirt with the Crimson Tide, he had the honour and privilege to play with offensive tackle Chris Samuels, who went on to six Pro Bowls. At the time, Samuels was playing as a starter and already had a whole host of NFL scouts watching his every move. He outweighed puny freshman Taylor by about one cheerleader, and not one of the anorexic ones, either. Samuels was also a world-class athlete, fierce competitor and approximately as powerful as a freight train. For all his bulk, he could match Taylor step for step on the run, while he hit about two times as hard.

Taylor is sure that his estimate of Tyrrell being about the size of Chris Samuels is an exaggeration brought on by nerves. Taylor is all too afraid that his estimate of their relative speed is depressingly accurate, however, which means that Warden Tyrrell, wearing full tactical gear, is somehow running at the speed of a top NFL tackle. Trying to crush much smaller Taylor between a wall and a rifle held in a staff grip. And while Samuels could be a pretty intimidating guy and wasn’t averse to teaching uppity freshman outside linebackers who thought they could blitz through his offence some respect, he had never worn a face of such demonical murderous fury as disfigures the face of incoherently screaming Warden Tyrrell.

Taylor couldn’t prevent contact, so he moved into the Warden’s charge. Bending down and pushing at Tyrrell’s face, Taylor got him off balance and then interposed his leg in front of Tyrrell’s front foot in what would have been a blatantly illegal tackle against a blocker in a football game. Three feet away from the wall, moving at that speed, that massive and hyper-focused on hurting Taylor, there was simply no way that Tyrrell could retain his feet. An Olympic gymnast probably couldn’t.

Except that Tyrell somehow corrects for his lost footing and while he does end up crashing into the wall with an almighty crash, he does so in a controlled manner, retains his balance and even manages to almost catch Taylor’s left arm between him and the wall using his rifle as a staff. Only supreme effort, good interference with his right hand in Tyrrell’s face, a lower centre of balance and using the wall to bounce to the side allows Taylor to avoid being grappled. The two men are now side by side, Taylor facing outward into the corridor and Tyrrell facing the wall, with their right arms struggling for position. Tyrrell has already started pivoting on his right foot to bring his whole weight to bear on Taylor.

Hot fudge, he’s fast! An’ too darn strong! But fury has a price when it comes to fighting and Warden Tyrrell, for all his speed and strength, can’t turn 90° faster than Taylor can rake his right boot at the side of the knee bearing all Tyrrell’s weight while grabbing the Warden’s right arm for leverage. There’s a nasty pop as the knee joint snaps out of alignment. Taylor finishes his motion by spinning into position behind Tyrrell with his right arm in a picture-perfect standing arm lock, forcing Tyrrell down as his damaged knee can’t hold his weight.

Though the Warden is furious beyond any rational thought, he realises that his position is untenable and he must try to get out of the lock before he can resume breaking his puny foe into pieces. To that end, Tyrrell allows himself to be dragged slightly backwards, creating some space for his attempt to escape. In a MACP competition, Taylor would counter and then try to improve his position even further, force Tyrrell to tap out. But this isn’t competition and there is no tapping out.

Tyrrell drops his useless rifle, held by the barrel, and tries to drive his left elbow through Taylor’s midsection with a massive grunt. It’s the obvious counter, however, and Taylor simply bends forward and pushes Tyrrell out of position, robbing the blow of its force. Tyrrell simultaneously tries to push right and then break away to the left, trying to get out of the lock, but Taylor ignores the fake and follows along with a nimble sidestep, reading Tyrrell easily and keeping his superior position.

The huge man is powerful beyond belief, way too fast and even seems to be an experienced hand-to-hand fighter, but Taylor can see in a flash of insight that Tyrrell always defaults to the obvious high-percentage move for a streetfighter. It’s understandable for someone who learned to brawl mostly by arresting people for real, in that it generally works much better to perform a simple trick well than to do something complex imperfectly, but against someone reading his tactics and anticipating them, it’s a weakness. Another weakness is his anger, as a calmer man would have shot Taylor instead of charging him. There is a degree of hypocrisy in that judgment, as Taylor might be able to reach his pistol if he were to move backward, but he makes no attempt to do so.

Instead, Taylor tries to break Tyrrell’s arm with a brutal muscling of the locked arm. Taylor has the advantage of leverage, seventeen years of martial arts training and frankly, awesome strength for his lean weight of 165 lbs. He discovers that while Tyrrell may only outweigh him by half a cheerleader or so, he’s way stronger than anyone he’s ever fought before, with the possible exception of Terry Amiti. Instead of breaking, Tyrrell’s arm simply twists a bit, joint creaking, but he seems to be succeeding at brute forcing it out of the lock.

Taylor uses his left knee to slam Tyrrell’s head into the wall while they’re wrestling for position, but the first strike barely nudges the Warden’s thick skull. A second knee strike is more successful, mashing Tyrrell’s face into the wall and breaking his nose, to judge from the spout of blood that starts leaking down the off-white wall. With a grunt of effort, but no trace of emotion on his face, Taylor grabs Tyrrell’s head in both hands, yanks it back and drives it back into the wall with all his power, aiming the temple at the sharp corner.
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Last edited by Icelander; 12-06-2017 at 10:00 AM.
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