Blocky and Bombhead descriptions

A black shape emerged from cover. Thirty feet away. Just close enough to make out the form of a man in black tactical gear, face hidden behind a visor. At his shoulder . . . was that . . . ? Another crunch of snow. Behind me. I spun ninety degrees, my back to the fence, keeping the guy in my peripheral vision. A second shape emerged from the cover of the trees thirty feet to my right.

The quickest of glances in his direction was enough to confirm my fear: There were two guys in here with me.

And they had fucking rifles.

...

Over a near-eternal first millisecond, I assessed the situation. The two shooters stood roughly thirty feet from me on opposite sides, the three of us forming an obtuse triangle with me at the peak. The guy to my left was blocky, with bunched traps and bowling-ball shoulders crowding a muscled neck. His HK416 looked like a styrofoam toy in his meaty bare hands. The guy on the right was taller. Wiry. Like a four-hundred meter runner. From his angled stance and perfectly still upper-body he looked more proficient than Blocky at putting holes in me.

They wore identical outfits: black tactical gear with visored helmets like you’d see on a snowmobiler. Either they’d separately stumbled upon identical caches of gear that just happened to fit their drastically different body shapes, or I’d been set up.

Those helmets though . . . ? You couldn’t get a cheek to a rifle wearing one of those. Not that it mattered much at this distance. And those visors were great for keeping your eyeballs from freezing solid atop a snowmobile, but you couldn’t see shit to either side. If I could survive the next ten seconds, maybe, just maybe, I could use that to my advantage.
-Sledge vs. The Labyrinth, pg. 172-183