short story i wrote entitled "there i was.." (pic unrelated)

There I was off the shoulder of Orion. Orion street that is. It wasn't the name that the locals used for the avenue (there were some illegible moon runes on the street sign), but as for the 190th infantry aka "The Devil's Dicks," we dubbed it Orion. Originally our orders were only to patrol the area, while a smaller, elite, platoon of Dicks fortified two adjoined houses to be used as a command center, and while an even smaller, even more elite, platoon of Dicks did recon on the neighboring zone that was next in line to be made compliant.

"Something just doesn't feel right," Johnson said to me. We were on, what was supposed to be our last, night patrol on Orion street.
"You always get paranoid when we're on night duty," i replied.
"You'd be paranoid too if you'd been there with me at the Tanhouser Gate, and had seen what I'd seen."
In a way, he was right. I was too young at the time to have joined the military yet. Hardly anyone had survived that assault on the T-Gate, and the few who did were never the same. A side effect from the cosmic radiation. That's a whole other story entirely though..
"That was 14 years ago, Johnson. Do you think you'll ever get over it?"
Whatever the answer to my question was, I'd never get it. No sooner than I had asked him, a carbine round whizzed by my shoulder and hit him in the torso, penetrating his bulletproof vest, and exploding his chest. Years of training immediately took over, and I did a barrell roll and ran for the nearest cover, dodging shells the whole way, and ducking into a nearby alley. "Johnson is fucking dead.." I thought to myself. I couldn't believe it. My closest friend.. My mentor.. The epitomy of a warrior, and the embodiment of martial power.. Dead. I chanced a peek around the corner to try and spot my enemy. Two douchebag towel-heads were making there way over to my position, with a third douchebag towel-head covering them from the alleyway diagonal from mine. In typical camel jockey fashion, they were all yielding AK-47's with pocket knives crudely taped onto the end of them, and had towels wrapped around their heads.

"CR-123! CR-123! I need support on Orion fucking 3 minutes ago. Douchebag towel-heads have me pinned down. Johnson just fucking got aced! I need support fucking now, goddamnit!"
"Support en route. ETA 1 minute. Hold your position," replied the operator. God how I hate operators.
"Copy that. I'll hold here."

One minute that cunt operator had said. Another minute and I'd be dead, I was sure of it. And I had zero fucking intention of dying in some dirty ass iraqi alley. Fueled by thoughts of my fallen brother, I dove back out into the street, firing two four-shot bursts at the sand gooks that were closing in on me, turning one of their domes into a stadium, and punching right through the stomach of the other. Before their bodies even hit the ground, I was up and running straight at the third who was supposed to be covering them. Fifteen feet away.. Ten feet away.. Seven feet.. 5.. KLAK KLAK KLAK! Fucker had turned the corner guns blazing right before I got there. He got three shots off, the first two missing and the third dirty ass round hitting me in my right bicep, before I lowered my shoulder and slammed into him, knocking him off his feet and onto his back. The melee was on and I was at a disadvantage from being shot seconds before. With unnatural speed he attempted some sort of leg sweep and almost succeeded. It was enough to push me back onto my heels, and that's all the leeway he needed. In that split second he had jumped up and summoned his AK back to him with his black magic, and drove the pocket knife on the end of it into my right shoulder. The pain was excruciating, compounded by the fact that the knife was probably coated with AIDS virus and God knows whatever else these savages are carriers of. A lesser person would've folded under a fraction of this pressure, but I was an American, and a soldier to boot. I waxed off with my left hand, hitting the AK free of his grip, and severing the scotch tape that was holding the knife to it. A dumbfounded look crossed his face as I grabbed the back of his neck and headbutted him, flash KO'ing him (and I mean flash). He woke back up as he was falling to the ground with my left hand clutched around his throat. I squeezed with every ounce of white pride in me as he flailed on the ground, struggling to get free. He wheezed out words in his moonspeak, but I couldn't understand, nor did I give a shit. With my God, the one true God, and memories of Johnson giving me the strength to perservere, I finally choked the life out of the bastard. I crawled over to the wall and leaned up against it. The adreneline rush was wearing off, and as my mind cleared I began to think.. "Johnson was hit with a carbine shell, not a bullet from a dirty ass AK," I thought out loud. I looked up, and saw them walking towards me. The sand niggers had hired slightly better equipped soviet mercenaries. Bleeding profusely, I knew I didn't have enough fight left in me to stay alive until my backup arrived. It was over..

There I was off the shoulder of Orion, blood leaking from my right arm like a faucet, and for the first time in my life I had no fucking clue what to do. So instead of doing nothing, I just did the mash... The monster mash.