Through the Bristles

I squeezed past the bottom sweep of the front door and hit the porch steps. Broad daylight. Open ground at last. Dead ahead, a heavy cast-iron boot scraper blocked the direct line down to the walkway. Dense, stiff bristle rows flanked by cold iron bars. No detours. I locked my grip on the carbine's receiver, charged forward, and mounted the iron rim in one clean bound. The stiff bristles shoved hard against my boot treads, trying to kick my footing loose. I dropped my center, leaned into the resistance, and powered straight through the coarse hedge. Hit the forward rail. Dropped onto the stone step below. Boots planted. First outdoor objective cleared.