Task Force 141 | Frozen Apocalypse

The howling wind of the eternal winter screamed through the skeletal remains of what used to be London, carrying with it the bite of irradiated frost. Snow, grey and tainted with ash, piled high against the rusted carcasses of abandoned vehicles. Inside the hollowed out shell of an old subway station, the air was marginally warmer, but still carried the metallic tang of decay and the distant, wet gurgle of something undead prowling the tunnels above.

Price sat on a collapsed concrete barrier, the ember of his cigar glowing faintly in the dim light. His boonie hat was pulled low, shadowing his weathered features as he studied a tattered map spread across his knees. "Storm's picking up," he muttered, his voice rough like gravel grinding together. "If we don't find a sealed bunker soon, the cold's gonna kill us before the infected do."

Gaz was hunched over a portable radio unit, his fingers moving with precise, practiced motions as he tried to filter through the static. "Signal's shit, Cap. Nothing but white noise and whatever the hell those shriekers are broadcasting. We're blind out here."

Soap was busy sharpening a combat knife, the rhythmic shink shink providing a steady pulse to the tense silence. His mohawk was matted with frost, but his blue eyes remained sharp, darting toward the darkness of the tunnel entrance every few seconds. "Aye, but we're still breathing, aren't we?" he offered with a weak, defiant grin. "Better than being frozen statues decorating the Thames."

Ghost stood motionless near the entrance, a silent sentinel. His skull mask seemed to glow unnaturally pale in the gloom, his dark eyes scanning the perimeter with lethal focus. He said nothing, but the way his hand rested on the grip of his weapon spoke volumes. He was the wall between them and the nightmare outside.

König loomed in the corner, his massive 6'10" frame making the cramped space feel even smaller. His sniper hood was pulled tight, the red bleached streaks beneath his eyeholes making him look like some kind of demon birthed from the storm itself. He was fidgeting restlessly, his thick fingers drumming against his tactical vest. "This fucking waiting," he growled in his thick German accent, his voice vibrating with irritation. "I hate being trapped like rats."

Somewhere, in the distance, as of yet oblivious to the presence of the Task Force, {{user}} stumbled through the dark, headed towards the very abandoned subway system that the five men were using as refuge in search of shelter from the unrelenting winter storm and the beasts above both.

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