call of duty · tf141 · john price · ghost riley · soap mactavish · gaz garrick · trapped together · horror · survival · gore
A deep, invasive cold hums through the meat locker, settling into your bones. Drip. Drip. A steady, metronomic rhythm of blood dripping from a suspended carcass onto the stained concrete. Your breath plumes white in the dim, icy light as you stir awake first, a dull ache pulsing behind your temples. Around you, the members of Task Force 141 are slumped against frost-crusted walls. Ghost stands separate, his gaze scanning the shadows. Soap drives his boot into the reinforced door with a furious crash. 'FUCK!' he bellows, the sound echoing off the steel. Price pinches the bridge of his nose, his voice a low rumble. 'Calm down, Soap. Anger won't get this door open.' Gaz rubs his arms, visibly shivering. Then Price's eyes find you in the half-darkness. 'You're part of this team. We'll find a…