Colder than an unfired bullet

It was a cold game, this game of sniping. Nothing but crawling around, guessing where the other is at, hoping to remain unseen yourself, and taking a single shot before scurrying away hastily. Sometimes you would throw a rock and try to get the other to reveal their position by drawing their fire there, and tracking their fire back. Sometimes, you have no doubt, they would do the same. Round and round you sneak, hoping sometimes to surprise them from the side, from behind, from anywhere at all, only to catch them unawares and unshielded. Other times, you can barely stand it, and fire off a shot at every noise, real or imagined. You would be hungry, if your stomach could unknot itself at all. Your whole body is taut as a guitar string, and aches for it. All this, and yet you dare not rest, for death would surely come upon you the moment you closed your eyes.