As the stench of death thickens and the sound of rustling undergrowth grows ever closer, he backs up slowly toward the downed craft and watches the treeline carefully as he rapidly runs through his options. Animal instinct is screaming at him to run; he ruthlessly suppresses it. He doesn't know how many of them are out there or which direction they're coming from. If he goes charging off blindly into the trees, there's a very good chance he's going to run right into them. He needs to see what he's dealing with here before he makes a decision.
The first flicker of movement comes ahead and to his right. He keep an eye on it in the periphery of his vision as he continues scanning the treeline, watching humanoid shapes start to resolve themselves out of the shadows in the undergrowth. He keeps the pistol raised and ready, but he doesn't start firing, not yet. He can't afford to waste bullets on anything other than a clear shot. Putting a few new holes in some tree isn't going to help him right now.
The first of the things stumbles out into the open, and without hesitation he sights on it and squeezes off one shot, bone fragments and brain matter spraying out as the bullet punches through its skull. It crumples to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, but more are following relentlessly behind it, all slack rotten faces and bony, grasping hands. He continues backing up with steady, sure-footed steps, his shots urgent but not panicked as he takes down one after the other with deadly efficiency. Spray and pray won't do here; it's headshots or nothing. Staying calm is the only way to stay alive.
His back hits the cool metal of the aircraft's hull, and he swings the rucksack and rifle off his shoulders together as he drops down to one knee, yanking the rucksack open and leaving it by his forward foot - the better to easily reach his stash of ammo - and shouldering the rifle. He hasn't missed yet, but fuck, they just keep coming. He concentrates his fire on those stumbling over the fallen bodies of the others. If he can build up a roadblock of corpses it'll slow the ones still moving, maybe force them to bottleneck a little. And if he can get them to cluster...fuck, maybe if they clump up enough he'll be able to bring the homemade explosives stashed away in various pockets into play, blast a hole in the crowd big enough for him to make a run for it.
He'll think of something. He'll get out of this somehow. He's not fucking dying here, unmarked on this nowhere little backwater of a planet. He's getting home no matter what.
The pilot's voice draws him out of the trancelike ritual of aim-breathe-fire, and he chances a glance in her direction. The bodies that had been in the craft have been tossed outside, and she's standing at the hatch, gun drawn. It takes him half a heartbeat to get his head around what she's saying, what she's offering, but when he does-- fuck, he's in no position to question it. He downs one last target that's a little too close for comfort before grabbing the rucksack and making a break for it. The reassuring sound of cover fire rings out, and he doesn't waste time glancing back as he dives past her into the cover of the craft.
In a split-second decision he makes some hasty educated guesses about the structural integrity of their little bolthole, and pulls one of his improvized little explosives out of an inner pocket of his jacket. "Close it, close it--" he chants breathlessly as he primes the device and tosses it over her shoulder out of the hatch. The hatch scrapes shut, and for a moment, there's nothing but the muffled groaning and shuffling on the other side of the hull. Then the banging starts, the dull pounding on the closed hatch, the scratching of rotten nails and exposed fingerbones on the unyielding metal.
The subsonic thump of detonation shudders through the structure of the craft. And then, there is silence.
He takes another step back away from the hatch and draws in a steadying breath. The explosion, at least, should have taken care of any that actually saw them. With any luck those that will continue arriving over the next few hours will be sated by the charred corpses lying on the ground outside, and move on after they've finished eating never any the wiser that there's fresher meat a few yards away.
His gaze settles on the pilot, and after a moment he slowly moves to set his rifle aside, leaning it up against one of the (bloodstained) seats. They have supplies enough in here to last them at least a good few days - hopefully until the crowd outside dissipates. He doesn't know what the hell made her decide he might do her more good alive than dead, but if they're gonna be spending the next little while trapped in here together, he'd rather avoid giving her a reason to question that decision.
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The first flicker of movement comes ahead and to his right. He keep an eye on it in the periphery of his vision as he continues scanning the treeline, watching humanoid shapes start to resolve themselves out of the shadows in the undergrowth. He keeps the pistol raised and ready, but he doesn't start firing, not yet. He can't afford to waste bullets on anything other than a clear shot. Putting a few new holes in some tree isn't going to help him right now.
The first of the things stumbles out into the open, and without hesitation he sights on it and squeezes off one shot, bone fragments and brain matter spraying out as the bullet punches through its skull. It crumples to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, but more are following relentlessly behind it, all slack rotten faces and bony, grasping hands. He continues backing up with steady, sure-footed steps, his shots urgent but not panicked as he takes down one after the other with deadly efficiency. Spray and pray won't do here; it's headshots or nothing. Staying calm is the only way to stay alive.
His back hits the cool metal of the aircraft's hull, and he swings the rucksack and rifle off his shoulders together as he drops down to one knee, yanking the rucksack open and leaving it by his forward foot - the better to easily reach his stash of ammo - and shouldering the rifle. He hasn't missed yet, but fuck, they just keep coming. He concentrates his fire on those stumbling over the fallen bodies of the others. If he can build up a roadblock of corpses it'll slow the ones still moving, maybe force them to bottleneck a little. And if he can get them to cluster...fuck, maybe if they clump up enough he'll be able to bring the homemade explosives stashed away in various pockets into play, blast a hole in the crowd big enough for him to make a run for it.
He'll think of something. He'll get out of this somehow. He's not fucking dying here, unmarked on this nowhere little backwater of a planet. He's getting home no matter what.
The pilot's voice draws him out of the trancelike ritual of aim-breathe-fire, and he chances a glance in her direction. The bodies that had been in the craft have been tossed outside, and she's standing at the hatch, gun drawn. It takes him half a heartbeat to get his head around what she's saying, what she's offering, but when he does-- fuck, he's in no position to question it. He downs one last target that's a little too close for comfort before grabbing the rucksack and making a break for it. The reassuring sound of cover fire rings out, and he doesn't waste time glancing back as he dives past her into the cover of the craft.
In a split-second decision he makes some hasty educated guesses about the structural integrity of their little bolthole, and pulls one of his improvized little explosives out of an inner pocket of his jacket. "Close it, close it--" he chants breathlessly as he primes the device and tosses it over her shoulder out of the hatch. The hatch scrapes shut, and for a moment, there's nothing but the muffled groaning and shuffling on the other side of the hull. Then the banging starts, the dull pounding on the closed hatch, the scratching of rotten nails and exposed fingerbones on the unyielding metal.
The subsonic thump of detonation shudders through the structure of the craft. And then, there is silence.
He takes another step back away from the hatch and draws in a steadying breath. The explosion, at least, should have taken care of any that actually saw them. With any luck those that will continue arriving over the next few hours will be sated by the charred corpses lying on the ground outside, and move on after they've finished eating never any the wiser that there's fresher meat a few yards away.
His gaze settles on the pilot, and after a moment he slowly moves to set his rifle aside, leaning it up against one of the (bloodstained) seats. They have supplies enough in here to last them at least a good few days - hopefully until the crowd outside dissipates. He doesn't know what the hell made her decide he might do her more good alive than dead, but if they're gonna be spending the next little while trapped in here together, he'd rather avoid giving her a reason to question that decision.