!!0ZviLFh59My 03/06/12(Tue)22:43 No.18234606|
File: 1331091791.jpg-(49 KB, 645x710, 1329296588107.jpg)
"We need to keep moving," you say. "I don't want to sit here with my thumb up my ass, waiting to be found."
"Move where?" Trude asks pointedly.
You point at her. "You've got the firepower of two gun crews, sweet-cheeks. Lets get up there and suppress those Martians and hope the tanks can plaster them."
"And if they've got more armor?"
You shrug. "Shit happens."
Trude sighs, clearly flummoxed, but she knows you're right. Not much to do but fight it out, and you don't have all day to dick around.
Your small group creeps forward through the grass, leaving Chris to tend to the horse. The thick weeds die out as you advance up the slope, where the drainage is better, and soon the rushes give way to pretty much open ground. Poking your heads over the high point, you see some Martians with the tell-tale "stove-pipes" they launch their anti-tank rockets from, holed up in the yard of a small church. Across from the church is a burning house.
"Well, we're getting closer to London, at any rate," you mutter.
"Even if I hose them down," Trude says, "I don't see any way to advance." She's right. Between the edge of the rise the sunken lane cuts into, and the headstones and monuments of the little country church's cemetery, there's naught but the split-rails of a fenced pasture connected to the burning house to provide cover.
"Hundred yards... no, a hundred-fifty, easy," Ian says stiffly. "Only a madman would try that."
As if on cue, the dramatic skirl of bagpipes sounds from behind.