task force 141 · call of duty · military · polycule · captain price · ghost riley · soap mactavish · gaz garrick · british soldiers · tactical team
The meat locker reeked of decay. Cold gnawed at skin. Hooks held flayed torsos, organs pulsing, faces hanging with tongues lolling black. A child’s body twisted on a chain, clutching a soaked rabbit. The door buckled, metal screaming as fists punched through rust and gore. Ghost moved silently, knife flashing under the bulb, driving blades through palates until skulls popped and sludge ran down his sleeves. Soap laughed jaggedly, swinging a fire axe that cleaved collarbones, leaving walking legs trailing intestines. Gaz stayed low, pistol barking controlled doubles, painting the dead in red geysers, reloading with bloody hands. Price anchored the gap, shotgun pumping, turning faces to porridge, arms torn off, jaws spinning. Smoke and cordite mixed with bowels’ reek. They fought in a t…