A Metaphor that may be a bit of a reach
Jackboots on pavement. The sound always defied onomatopoeia. And it always gave Vitali that same jump at the very core of his being, that surge of interest and energy, the adrenaline that comes with the rush of the moment, as he unrolls the canvas camouflaging his rifle and pulls the grate covering the sewer entrance. Ammunition clinking in his pocket, Vitali rushed underground to the outskirts of the city. He'd kill tonight.
Leaning a metal sheet against a culvert opening which was exposed from the ground, Vitali snaked himself into a tight position so that his sight and his barrel rifle lined up with a three-inch gap between the sheet and the culvert wall. He settled in, it could be a long wait.
He waited, and waited. Patience over valor was the watchword; and soon enough his patience was rewarded. A Nazi patrol wandered into sight, ambling down the street away from him. He lined his sites up with the head of the rearmost man, made sure his aim was true, and squeezed the trigger.
BANG.
His man dropped, spurting blood profusely from the back of the skull. He was dead, and Vitali was alive. The other two men on patrol paused for a moment, and looked at each other. Vitali made certain they were the only other two, for once he dropped one, he'd only have enough time to fire at one other person, and if there were more, he'd be flushed out. He lined up his sights with the eyeball of the rightmost man and squeezed the trigger.
BANG.
The top half of the doomed Nazi's head sheard straight off with the force of the impact from the .30 caliber grim reaper which had come calling for him. Quickly, Vitali snapped his aim to the other man. It was imperative that he die before he figure out what was going on.
BANG.
The man clutched his throat, and his hands ran over with blood. The man sunk to his knees, and collapsed, a very wide scarlet pool forming around his corpse. Vitali made sure his quarry was finished. he waited about two minutes just to make sure no one else came into view. He wriggled back out of his hole and made his way to the bodies. He searched the Nazi corpses and took from them their dog tags, weapons, and any papers they were carrying. Though he was not a member of the Red Army, the Soviet high command would pay him well for any proof of his kill. He dragged the bodies to the canal and dropped them in, and threw cement dust and dirt into the road, trying to disguise the blood spilled there. He spirited away quickly when the work was done; the longer he was out in the open, the more likely it was he'd be spotted.
Vitali went to another of his favorite spots. The top floor of a tractor factory offered a great view of the main promenade from elevation, it could be an ideal sniper stand. He settled in to wait.
After a while, he sighted another Nazi patrol. This one was heading the opposite direction as normal; usually they headed away from his position with their backs to him; this one was headed toward him. It was also larger than normal. He pulled out his binoculars and surveyed the scene. In the back was a vehicle, an open-top touring car. In the rear seat was a man with the most rank on his collar as Vitali had ever seen. he wasn't an expert in Nazi rank insignia but he could tell by his seat in the touring car and the sheer size and grandeur of the insignia, he was looking at a general officer. If he could find a way to prove his kill, the Soviet high command would make him a very, very wealthy man for this. He lined up the sights, adjusted for elevation and windage, double-checked his aim, and squeezed the trigger.
BANG.
The general was unharmed, but the sniper was not watching. Vitali's eyes went wide and he shrieked, aghast. Had he just done that? Fired from directly in front of the large vanguard? He turned to run but it was too late; his muzzle flash had been spotted by nearly all of them and the whole room erupted in a storm of bullets. Lead crisscrossed through his body and he fell to the ground, his vision slowly going, his mind slowly slipping, but not losing grip on his fatal mistake.
Leaning a metal sheet against a culvert opening which was exposed from the ground, Vitali snaked himself into a tight position so that his sight and his barrel rifle lined up with a three-inch gap between the sheet and the culvert wall. He settled in, it could be a long wait.
He waited, and waited. Patience over valor was the watchword; and soon enough his patience was rewarded. A Nazi patrol wandered into sight, ambling down the street away from him. He lined his sites up with the head of the rearmost man, made sure his aim was true, and squeezed the trigger.
BANG.
His man dropped, spurting blood profusely from the back of the skull. He was dead, and Vitali was alive. The other two men on patrol paused for a moment, and looked at each other. Vitali made certain they were the only other two, for once he dropped one, he'd only have enough time to fire at one other person, and if there were more, he'd be flushed out. He lined up his sights with the eyeball of the rightmost man and squeezed the trigger.
BANG.
The top half of the doomed Nazi's head sheard straight off with the force of the impact from the .30 caliber grim reaper which had come calling for him. Quickly, Vitali snapped his aim to the other man. It was imperative that he die before he figure out what was going on.
BANG.
The man clutched his throat, and his hands ran over with blood. The man sunk to his knees, and collapsed, a very wide scarlet pool forming around his corpse. Vitali made sure his quarry was finished. he waited about two minutes just to make sure no one else came into view. He wriggled back out of his hole and made his way to the bodies. He searched the Nazi corpses and took from them their dog tags, weapons, and any papers they were carrying. Though he was not a member of the Red Army, the Soviet high command would pay him well for any proof of his kill. He dragged the bodies to the canal and dropped them in, and threw cement dust and dirt into the road, trying to disguise the blood spilled there. He spirited away quickly when the work was done; the longer he was out in the open, the more likely it was he'd be spotted.
Vitali went to another of his favorite spots. The top floor of a tractor factory offered a great view of the main promenade from elevation, it could be an ideal sniper stand. He settled in to wait.
After a while, he sighted another Nazi patrol. This one was heading the opposite direction as normal; usually they headed away from his position with their backs to him; this one was headed toward him. It was also larger than normal. He pulled out his binoculars and surveyed the scene. In the back was a vehicle, an open-top touring car. In the rear seat was a man with the most rank on his collar as Vitali had ever seen. he wasn't an expert in Nazi rank insignia but he could tell by his seat in the touring car and the sheer size and grandeur of the insignia, he was looking at a general officer. If he could find a way to prove his kill, the Soviet high command would make him a very, very wealthy man for this. He lined up the sights, adjusted for elevation and windage, double-checked his aim, and squeezed the trigger.
BANG.
The general was unharmed, but the sniper was not watching. Vitali's eyes went wide and he shrieked, aghast. Had he just done that? Fired from directly in front of the large vanguard? He turned to run but it was too late; his muzzle flash had been spotted by nearly all of them and the whole room erupted in a storm of bullets. Lead crisscrossed through his body and he fell to the ground, his vision slowly going, his mind slowly slipping, but not losing grip on his fatal mistake.
posted by Hegemon at 12:50 PM
2 Comments:
Not that ultimately it would necessarily matter, but do you know that you are quite possibly what my book is missing? Both as a critic, and in the description of setting that I so frequently lose in the grander setting? I have often thought that I couldn't possibly pay you back short of making this book work financially. (Much less a drive than my creative desire to share it, but this does not diminish the former desire, but magnify the latter.)
Why haven't I ever pushed to gain your aid in helping me to settle me debt with you?
Has anyone even read this or tried to make a guess for what this is a metaphor?
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