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Author Topic: Bury My Heart at Kent State - Tales from the Apocalypse  (Read 109880 times)
Jocassee
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« on: June 28, 2010, 10:01:59 AM »

#&(%(@) that!

I need to write a post apocalyptic fiction film about a proper American's response to SHTF.  It involves the main character sticking his head out the side of the lead helicopter waving a bottle of moonshine screaming "WHOOO!", then taking a leak on the emo Hollywood types huddling wet and shivering in their postmodern bleakness 2000 ft AGL below, on the way back from swiping supplies to set up greenhouses and other critical infrastructure.

See if you can write in a religious-fanatic Mauser-toting South Carolinian.

*Title edited at RevDisk's request. -Nick1911
« Last Edit: July 26, 2010, 06:06:35 AM by Nick1911 » Logged

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« Reply #1 on: June 28, 2010, 11:57:12 AM »

See if you can write in a religious-fanatic Mauser-toting South Carolinian.

Gotcha


Ahem, ahem.   *coughHACKcough*

Scene opens on a very grey SW Pennsylvania day, along the long Abandoned Turnpike

Decent Enough Guy and Very Whiny Son are trudging through the ash and snow.  They go out of their way to be cold, dirty, wet and shivering at all moments instead of fashioning ponchos or insulation.  A rapid thumping sound begins in the distance.  Lacking any survival instincts, they jump into a near by ditch as much to stay cold, dirty wet and shivering as to escape this potential threat.

A bright red helicopter vividly stands out in the distance.  The helicopter dramatically banks sharply as a ball on the front rotates, seemingly locked on their hiding spot in the cold, dirty and wet ditch.  It flares into a stationary position a few hundred meters away.  A man sticks his head out, waving a clear glass that may contain pure water, but most likely contains pure alcohol distilled from the finest 'shine in all of Pennsylvania.   Even over the incredible noise of the aircraft, a single "WHOOOOOOO!" could be heard.  

A obvious southern gentleman shoved his head out of the other side of the aircraft.  After irately scawling at the drunken native, he picked up a corded microphone and a mild South Carolina accent filled the sky.

"Are y'all Americans, or incompetent whining nihilists who see post-modern despair as literary deepness?  Stand up tall, glare and shake your fist defiantly if you're Americans.  If yer one of 'em post-modern nihilists filled with angst and misunderstood deepness, run around with a circle flapping yer arms."

The very whiney son immediately began running in a circle, flapping his arms like his life depended on it, while attempting at the top of his feeble malnourished lungs to scold the gentlemen for doing anything actually productive.  For he had noticed sin around the helicopter.  Below it, attached by a single cable, was a bundle of piping, rolls of plastic and other useful goods for building infrastructure.  The very whiney son screamed at this heresy for not giving in to the inevitable, calling them "bad men", and "evil libertarian warmongering capitalists".  He screamed that the only glory of man was to wallow in the mud and accept his proper place.

The decent enough guy looked longingly at the helicopter.  His now weakened spine stiffening to a posture he believed he had long since forgotten, his eyes hardening into a fearsome glare.  Remembering times past.  He had many meaningful and deep flashbacks, to the times before the end of the world.   He remembered how things used to be.  He remembered a time when being an American meant something more than just living.  He remembered, he remembered.  With tears in his eyes, he looked upon his idiot hippy son.  His posture lackened, his arms rose, and he began to flail them mercilessly.  His legs on their own lift and fell of their own accord, compelling him to furiously run in a circle.

Southern gentleman was first to glance at the drunken sot.  The drunken lunatic dramatically sighed, and locked eyes.  They both nodded.  Immediately afterward, the helicopter immediately turned sideways, presenting the southern gentleman fully for the first time.  Across his chest was an ancient leather bandoleer, neatly complimenting the well worn but much beloved Mauser cradled in his arm.   Above the X formed by the rifle and leather bandoleer was a simple but large cross.  Without a dramatic sigh nor any response to the inaudible craven and childish screams imploring him to embrace the empty and sullen arms of nihilism, self-loathing and despair, he gracefully lifted the ancient and scarred rifle to his shoulder.  While it had seen hard service over the years, it retained its functional beauty crafted in days where life was worth living and people believed that they could make themselves better.  He slowly breathed in, and as he released his breath, he felt only recoil and nothing more.  He shifted just slightly, racking the bolt quickly but not haphazardly.  Again, he felt the recoil and nothing more.

At last, he finally nodded.  The drunken sot turned, displaying an interrupted circle with a snake like figure on one arm, dropping a cannister out of the aircraft.  Immediately after it hit the ground with a solid thud, it hisses and began to breath a thick red mist.  The powerful wind from the helicopter immediately took force of the red smoke and contorted it in many directions in a complex but incomprehensible pattern.  The helicopter shifted again, and dipped the nose to gain forward speed.   The bearer of the cross slung his rifle, and took the offered bottle from the drunken sot who slung his own hidden stubby seeming-rifle, actually a single shot grenade launcher.  

"Even after all these years, we're still finding those damned by God emo-hippy kids.  I ask him every day in my prayers when we will finally be free of their smug and self-righteous presence."   The religious man looked worried.  While he was pleased that the new civilizations that began to re-emerge from the darkness did not tolerate the emo hippies that orginally caused the downfall of civilization, they always somehow lingered on.  Like cockroaches or bacteria, but without any redeeming qualities. Tempting man to abandon reason and live for nothing.  To become nothing.  Even in his own mind and soul.  He shivered at this and crossed himself.

"Worry not, friend.  Beautiful shots, the both.  Straight through the ankle.  The red smoke will bring the cannibals, as always.  Now, I know I'm a heathen and all that.  But at least remember, they're both in a state of grace, in their own minds.  Bleeding out in the mud, helpless and cattle for anyone that wishes to come by and eat them over the course of several weeks."  The drunk sot was significantly less drunk than he initially seemed, but still had a cheerful disposition as he turned back to an instrument panel with several screens.  The crude snake image on his arm contorted and twitched with the purposeful moments of hammering the buttons.  With the doorways closed, the aircraft was significantly more quiet.  

"A heathen and a mad man.  Who else would believe it was possible to overcome the cannibals, hippies and nihilists, to reclaim the land from all such Abominations?"

"We are Americans.  The only thing that can destroy us is forgetting that fact.  And not shooting hippies whenever possible."

"Amen."
« Last Edit: June 28, 2010, 12:16:35 PM by RevDisk » Logged

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« Reply #2 on: June 28, 2010, 12:03:57 PM »

By God that's beautiful. Now for the sequel where you meet up with the ex-grunt Marine with a 91/30 who divides his time between shooting hippies and bitching about being on the east coast...  grin
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« Reply #3 on: June 28, 2010, 12:33:52 PM »

Can you somehow fit in a Swedish tourist who got trapped when the SHTF? Someone with few resources at the beginning, but who still managed to pull through and keep sane, warm, well-fed and armed? Obviously I'd he would have a few bags full of useful seeds in his bag, to be used as soon as he can gang up with someone who isn't either a deranged cannibalistic scumbag or a nihilistic idiot and his whiny kid. laugh grin
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« Reply #4 on: June 28, 2010, 12:44:34 PM »


"A heathen and a mad man.  Who else would believe it was possible to overcome the cannibals, hippies and nihilists, to reclaim the land from all such Abominations?"

"We are Americans.  The only thing that can destroy us is forgetting that fact.  And not shooting hippies whenever possible."

"Amen."

"Poetic, stirring...a beautiful story of two men against the world--and they attack at dawn"

/New York Times literary review voice


Seriously though...that was awesome.
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« Reply #5 on: June 28, 2010, 01:26:16 PM »

By God that's beautiful. Now for the sequel where you meet up with the ex-grunt Marine with a 91/30 who divides his time between shooting hippies and bitching about being on the east coast...  grin



Scene opens up on a ridge line in SW Pennsylvania, quite a distance from the Abandoned Turnpike.  

The Marine grumbled as was his habit when he heard the distant thumping of the approaching helicopter.  At any time he wasn't cursing some random piece of machinery or shooting hippies that came to preach social justice and redistribution of wealth outside the walls of their small but somewhat tidy camp on a high ridge overlooking the Susquehanna River.  Instead, the Carolina book thumper and that annoying pagan geek got to spend the day scalvaging (a cross of scavenging and salvaging) from the nearby ruins for useful material.  And bloody well using the IR and heat sensors on the aircraft to see hippies on the sensors as bright as a flare at midnight.  He grumbled furiously and with much determination, mostly relating to being now stuck on the Eastern Coast.  Hopefully the lazy bastards picked up actually useful in between hunting stops...

As the aircraft buzzed his high post on the edge of camp overlooking the entire river valley, nearly knocking him off his favorite comfy chair which he assisted by flailing backwards.   He rushed to the edge of the post, and screamed new and inventive curses.   Both pilots and both passengers more or less fell out of their helicopter rather than properly exited with some level of decorum.  The fact that they were hysterically laughing did not help the Marine's disposition.  He snarled, grabbed his Russian Mosin Nagant 91/30 and calmly stated, "Stay.  Off.  My.  Lawn.   AND THAT MEANS STAYING MORE THAN 50 METERS ABOVE IT!"

If the crew were lesser individuals, they'd wisely cower at such a tone.   Instead, one of the insolent bastards merely wandered over and offered a clear and unmarked bottle.  The Marine took a single sniff and coughed approvingly.  "You are forgiven of your many sins, Army puke, for offering such a worthy tribute to the local emissary of wise and benevolent Corps."

"Yea, yea, save it for the new folks or the Swede.  He usually buys that Hollywood inspired drivel.  Why do you think he got the Garand?  Though... you failed to refer to me a maggot, even a single time.  Slipping up, eh?  East Coast making you soft?"   The Marine scowled at this.  "Relax, relax.  We snagged a good haul, and made contact with Centralia again."

"Gods that Sikorsky bird can really haul some weight!  And I still can't believe those crazy bastards rebuilt a town over an underground coal fire."

"Keeps 'em quite warm once they sunk some shafts.  Just makes them smarter than us.  We have to haul the coal up to the surface.  Speaking of which, that's where that fine bottle of moonshine was stilled.  From the fires of the earth and the crisp chill of a fine Pennsylvanian nuclear winter."

"OOORAH!"


The Marine and the Pagan walked back to the large aircraft.  It had been loaded to the maximum weight with various material for various projects.  Tubing and plastic sheets for the greenhouses.  Glass bottles for winemaking.  Various metalworking tools to continue the constant struggle to keep up on maintenance and expand the capabilities of their small band.  The Swede had already organized folks into groups stripping all goodies off and out of the aircraft.  He was one of the few folks to have many nicknames.  Swede, Viking or occassionally, TechnoViking.  He happened to look quite a bit like the guy from the internet video, so it did fit rather amusingly.

"ABOUT TIME YOU LAZY AMERICANS GOT BACK!   Bah, in my home country, we would have always unloaded the aircraft, pillaged half of Normandy, and punched out a bear!"   The Swede proudly has his Garand slung across his back.  He never noticed other folks carrying ancient weapons for their reliability in absolutely freezing conditions.  The Garand was a beautiful and reliable weapon.  But it was not forged in the North, nor designed for sub-Arctic conditions.  Nor would the Swede care, for his Garand had saved his life too many times for him to lightly part with it.

"Your country is currently an ice cube so pillaging by sea is out, I think every bear in this country has been dead for quite some time now.  Anyways, how go the greenhouses, o' Master of the Frozen North and his pretty Garand, the traditional weapon of the mighty Viking."  

The Swede laughed and went back with a vengeance to unloading the aircraft.  He had merely come to the United States as a tourist.  The end of the world made him a citizen.

One of their five proud Sikorsky S-92 Superhawks, each just slightly smaller than a school bus and capable of hauling 5 tons each.  It was backed into its concrete and sandbag rivet, securing it from enemy fire or just plain accidents.  It had been many months since the last band of cannibals tried attacking, but one doesn't survive very long in this new world unless one is very cautious.  Actually, insane paranoia and lots of firepower tended to do the job quite nicely.  In this case, it was provided by the little brothers of the giant S-92 Superhawk, two dark green UH-60 Blackhawks mounted with anything that could fire a projectile or drop something sharp, burning or acidic.  On Mondays, all three.  Because, well, no one really likes a Monday.  

The red S-92's were bright and shiny, regularly seen throughout the river valley and all of the small bastions of civilization that began to spring all down the river.  Trading, gossiping, or providing warning of marauder bands of hippies or cannibals.  Once, such threats were terrifying.  When the Marine came from the mysterious Western Coast, he brought with him the powerful secret to fighting off the rampaging evil nihilists...  Their secret historical weakness:  Napalm.  

When the two smaller yet stalwart UH-60's left the camp loaded for bear, it meant the Marine Prayer of War were answered.  
« Last Edit: June 28, 2010, 02:25:34 PM by RevDisk » Logged

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« Reply #6 on: June 28, 2010, 01:34:03 PM »

Made of Awesome. Sprinkled with Win.  grin
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« Reply #7 on: June 28, 2010, 02:00:03 PM »

Many words.

Teehee. I wholeheartedly approve, especially the (apparently) basing me the Marine on LotR Gimli. Cheesy

Seriously though, if this was any day but McD v Chicago Day that'd be the best thing that happened to me all day. As it is.... a distant second.  Wink
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« Reply #8 on: June 28, 2010, 02:21:00 PM »

Quote from: RevDisk
scalvaging

Is that like scavenging and salvaging? 
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« Reply #9 on: June 28, 2010, 02:27:48 PM »

Teehee. I wholeheartedly approve, especially the (apparently) basing me the Marine on LotR Gimli. Cheesy

Seriously though, if this was any day but McD v Chicago Day that'd be the best thing that happened to me all day. As it is.... a distant second.  Wink

You, Gimli and R. Lee Ermey.  It amused me.   grin



Is that like scavenging and salvaging? 

Fixed for ya.   grin



I went back and edited the last post to include a touch more awesomeness.  Hope ya guys like.  Any more requests?
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« Reply #10 on: June 28, 2010, 02:37:25 PM »

Fixed for ya.   grin


Awesome.  Totally awesome.  You not only coined a fun new word, you invented interactive prose.  I like you.
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« Reply #11 on: June 28, 2010, 06:35:58 PM »

How about another former Marine, calls himself RocketMan er...somethin' about rockets.  Webfooted fellow from the Great Pacific Northwet.  Got himself an awesome blonde sothron girl from NC that keeps him relatively sane.  One of the few things he did right.
He's building a whole slew of rocket-powered goodies for the flying awesomeness that is Sikorsky.  That's when he's not out practicing his butt-stroke technique on idiot hippies with his Garand, or trying to outshoot the Viking Swedish guy for bottles quarts of moonshine.
« Last Edit: June 28, 2010, 08:23:22 PM by RocketMan » Logged

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My wife often says to me, "You are evil and must be destroyed."  She may be right.

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Someone scribbled below in answer, "Yes, but I am going home next Tuesday."

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« Reply #12 on: June 29, 2010, 04:27:22 PM »

How about another former Marine, calls himself RocketMan er...somethin' about rockets.  Webfooted fellow from the Great Pacific Northwet.  Got himself an awesome blonde sothron girl from NC that keeps him relatively sane.  One of the few things he did right.
He's building a whole slew of rocket-powered goodies for the flying awesomeness that is Sikorsky.  That's when he's not out practicing his butt-stroke technique on idiot hippies with his Garand, or trying to outshoot the Viking Swedish guy for bottles quarts of moonshine.

As ye request...  


---------------



The Marine and the Pagan watched the orderly dissemination of the loot was sorted and moved to its proper place.  The entire camp entirely populated by one of the most brutal tests in the history of humanity.  They survived the end of the world and what followed with their sanity intact.  With the exception of the hippies, who survived on the same tactics as the common cockroach, anyone left in the world was hard as a rock.  They survived the Event, they survived the anarchy following, and they survived years of starvation, disease, marauders, death cults and worse of all, gazing into their own souls.  Survivor guilt was a term shrinks liked to toss around, before the Event, when someone that was lucky witnessed those who were not.

No one knows what the Event was.  Everyone had their own theory.  Nuclear war, asteroid strike, divine judgment, mad science gone wrong, and any number of equally implausible.  One of the insane death cults claimed it was global cooling brought on by global warming.  They believed it was their duty to wipe out what little remained of humanity remained so that the earth could be repopulated as a perfect Garden of Eden, but without any pesky people mucking it up.  They were particularly hard to kill.  Wincing, the Pagan glanced off at a building FAR away from everything combustible.  

The Rocketman, another former Marine, had provided a gift to the camp that had saved many lives and taken even more.  With only crude tools and supplies, he armed the last two Blackhawks with rockets.  Lots and lots of rockets in pods that he stole from some attack helicopter.  The only person who listened to Rocketman's lengthy explanation of how he jury rigged the rockets and rocket pods refused to ever fly again.  But surprising everyone, they worked.  Rocketman flew in one of the Blackhawks every time they sortied, nursing his little babies any time they were needed.  His babies and his beautiful wife were his life, he'd never abandon either if he had a breath left in his body.  

The Marine claimed that any weapon forged by the hand of a Marine was guaranteed to be reliable and enthusiastically using said rockets whenever possible.  Still, even the Marine never asked too many questions about how the system was put together and out of which spare parts.  He merely used them to smite any evil that happened to wander into this dark and grey corner of the world.  The mad rocketeer claimed he'd have a working cruise missile within a year.  He pestered the salvage crews to no end for various odds and ends he claimed were absolutely essential for smiting.

For whatever reason, the insane are always terrified of fire.  Perhaps because their higher brain functions were gone, they resorted to their near animal instincts.  It was as good of a guess as any.  At that cheery thought, the Pagan pulled out a small cigar and lit up.

"Those things will kill you, bro."

"These days, anything can.  We had a good haul today.  Plenty of piping for the greenhouses.  Half a chem lab from Penn State for the chemistry geeks.  More welding supplies."

"Those chemistry geeks are keeping us alive.  Well, them and St. Igor's blessings."  

Early on, one of the too few mechanics joked that only the ghost of Igor Sikorsky kept the helicopters flying.  Igor build the first true helicopter in 1939.  More than a few people devoutly believed his spirit refused to let his gift to humanity disappear.  He had become the patron saint of those rebuilding the shattered world.  No aircraft left the earth without a prayer to him, even and especially during an emergency.  

The Pagan sighed.

"I know...  I know. You still think we're too thin. Too many projects. Too little of a safety margain if a serious threat comes up.  But we haven't seen any group larger than a few dozen in years.  They tend to eat each other first.  The greenhouses are starting to put out almost enough food to live on.  We can be people again instead of scavenging rats if we get farming back.  Once we get enough of a surplus of crops, we can try domesticating animals again."

"True.  The cracker is marginally working.  Enough to keep fuel in our trucks and choppers, barely.  God, shale oil is pretty hard to make.  We had to drag out tons of coal every week to just make a couple dozen barrels of oil.  And the cracker isn't all that efficient either.  All it would take at this point is one single failure, and cannibalism won't look so evil anymore."  Both men grimaced at the thought.  It was not a figure of speech and both knew it in the depths of their souls.

"Ain't gonna happen, Marine.  Not now, not ever.  We're people.  Cannibals are not."

The camp hummed around them with the sound and smell of life.  Food cooking, the snarl of power tools, the roar of primitive steam engines to power the ever growing needs for more light and more tools, good natured cursing of craftsmen and craftswomen at work.  It was nearing dinner time.  People started to leave their workshops and drift towards the smell of cooking food.  

"Well, Marine.  If you're pissed about overreaching, you're gonna love this.  Tomorrow, we go down river to Three Mile Island."

"You are joking.  TELL me you are joking.  LIE TO ME, DAMN IT!  We are NOT screwing around with nuclear fission!"

"Full combat sortie.  All of the helicopters, loaded for bear and praying for war.  Gather the shooters and a third of the engineers.  Calm down, Marine, it's not like I'm going to ask Rocketman to build us an ICBM or anything.  Well...  Actually...  Hrm."

The Marine loudly and at length cursed himself for being enough of a fool to ever come to the godforsaken East coast and added a few choice remarks about the wisdom of mad engineers.  He attempted to calm himself with St Igor's Litany against Despair. 

"Our concerns sink into insignificance when compared with the eternal value of human personality - a potential child of God which is destined to triumph over lie, pain, and death. No one can take this sublime meaning of life away from us, and this is the one thing that matters"
« Last Edit: June 29, 2010, 04:33:37 PM by RevDisk » Logged

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« Reply #13 on: June 29, 2010, 04:38:12 PM »

Great wordsmithing, RD.  Really enjoyed it.
This has the makings of a separate thread.
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“Don’t be so open-minded that your brains fall out.” - G.K. Chesterton

My wife often says to me, "You are evil and must be destroyed."  She may be right.

Some joker wrote on a bathroom wall, "Is there really intelligent life on Earth?"
Someone scribbled below in answer, "Yes, but I am going home next Tuesday."

"I'm sciencing as fast as I can!"

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« Reply #14 on: June 29, 2010, 06:32:38 PM »

Muahahahahahaha..../gasp /gasp /pant buwahahahahahaha....

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« Reply #15 on: June 29, 2010, 07:31:41 PM »

Legendary thread. Posting in it.
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« Reply #16 on: June 29, 2010, 08:38:49 PM »

Heh.

If you need more characters, I'll tossmy hat in, but you're doing fine with what you got.
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« Reply #17 on: June 30, 2010, 05:17:44 AM »

Very impressive. My kind of utop-, I mean post-apocalyptic fiction. If you can work in a misanthropic Polak-Texan who carries an Albion Aquilifer gladius to disembowel cannibals out of paranoid fear that he'll run out of ammo for his prized FR8 carbine, all while frequently quoting Winston Churchill, that'd be neat.
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« Reply #18 on: June 30, 2010, 07:26:57 AM »

APS: The Novel!

I love it!!!
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What if we tried more?


« Reply #19 on: June 30, 2010, 07:29:58 AM »

It could be like The Avengers: East and West coast versions Cheesy
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« Reply #20 on: July 25, 2010, 08:07:44 PM »

A few hours before dawn, everything was ready.  Actually, it was a complete cluster, but it was sorted out in good time.  An early lesson learned was to keep all the schedules randomized.  A few years back, they had launched a full airborne trip and some raiders had attempted to capitalize on the shortage of people back in the camp.  The raiders hadn't counted on ground to air HAM radios, and were reduced to mostly carbon and air pollution.  The lesson stuck anyways.  All of the guard and patrol rotations were randomized as schedules allowed, and mock full sorties were launched as often as the fuel allowed.  

Everyone assembled in front of the crude runway in front of the rivets storing the helicopters for a good old fashion mission and safety brief.  Normally, people would be virtually asleep standing up.  Today word had spread about where they were heading and absolutely no one was bored.  

"Ok.  Mission.  To follow the river downstream to Three Mile Island, hereafter TMI.  Loading.  One Blackhawk scouting ahead, one Blackhawk riding herd on the S-92's.  One engineer per Blackhawk, rest evenly divided between the S-92's.  Blackhawks will be light on shooters to maximize ammo loadout.  All S-92's will be loaded with all the door guns we can fit."   Quite a few of the pilots looked quite a bit relieved at that welcome news.

"Safety. We're going to swing a bit west of Harrisburg to avoid trouble, then follow the river to Harrisburg International Airport, hereafter HIA.  For you non-locals, it's a couple of miles north from TMI by land and hopefully upwind.  We'll check for radiation or other concerns.  There was an Pennsylvania Air Guard special Operations unit stationed there, but I'm not expecting much useful kit to be remaining.  Hopefully some usable fuel and tools.  From HIA, one Blackhawk will scout the Island and if it is safe, everyone follows.  Fallback point is Capital City Airport nearby, and is a small airport that serviced light aircraft, Cessna's and whatnot.  If we have time, we will scout that airport and surrounding military installations. "

The Marine and Rocketman perked at that.  The Marine cleared his throat and muttered.  "What military installations?  There ain't any bases that ain't tiny Weekend Warrior types within two hundred miles!"

"Ah...  Actually, there is Defense Logistics Agency New Cumberland.  It was the largest distribution point for the entire DoD back in the day.  There's also the Naval Support Activity Mechanicsburg.  Intel claims that DLA had about a hundred billion bucks worth of stuff, and the Navy base had roughly thirty billion."

The Marine choked and started nearly retching.  Everyone else looked absolutely stunned and slightly horrified.

"Oh dear and fluffy Lord.  You're planning on looting a nuclear reactor and tens of billions of dollars of military hardware, ain't ya?"  The Marine had started off queasy and was looking worse for the wear as time continued.  

"No, no...  Well.  Actually, yea.  I was mostly pondering if they had any huge cannons they put on those Navy ships...  Always wanted a couple of those.  They'd make great and functional lawn decoration, you know."

"You are launching a fleet of helicopters in order to raid a hundred billion dollar military facility to steal some naval artillery pieces..?"

"Well, no.  WE are launching a fleet of helicopters to seize a nuclear power plant.  That's a side trip if we have time.  Ok, in the helicopters and remember to pray extra hard to St Igor for an early Christmas."  


----------------


There's nothing quite like wearing extra thick headsets and staring out the window of a helicopter.  Before the Event, everyone flew on huge jets bigger than football fields.  They flew so high nothing on the ground was very visible.  Flying 1000 feet above the Susquehanna River, one could see everything.  Unfortunately, it was mostly a grey and dead world.  Fertile farmland was now a dust field or a mess of weeds.  Town after town, crumbling and decaying.  There was occasional evidence of post-apocalyptic life, but no people were seen.  Oddly so.  Normally there is some evidence of scavenging or survivors.  Humans are surprisingly resilient.

"Falcon Niner Juliet, this is Falcon Forward.  You notice yet?"

"Hawk Forward, roger that.  Lemme guess, FLIR is showing a whole lot of nothing?"

"Niner Juliet, ayep. Everything around here is dead and scourged clean.  Has to be raiders, a large group."

"All stations, this is Falcon Niner Juliet.  Everyone, keep a sharp lookout for raiders.  Keep off the net unless you see something.  All S-92's, descend to 500 feet AGL.  Hawk 2, get up to 12,000 feet and look around.  Folks, we don't want anyone to see us coming."

Except for the background thumping of the blades, silence fell over the group.  Everyone was staring out a window or into a monitor, watching for any signs of life.  If someone scoured at least 50 miles of humanity off the map, they were definitely not folks to take lightly.

"All stations this net, this Hawk 2, long range FLIR shows a lot of heat.  Somewhere near TMI, on the eastern bank.  Uh.  Looks like a fire fight."

"Hawk 1, this is Niner Juliet.  Get your signal intelligence up.  Anyone using radio?"

"Niner Juliet, roger.  We're just starting to pick up some 600mhz, probably Motorola handhelds.  My guess is whomever took over TMI looted some of the radios used by the pre-event security.  Only one side is using radio."

"Looks like we're bypassing Harrisburg International.  Get as low as possible, do a fly-by.  No way they're expecting you.  Lemme know which side is raiders so we know who to toast.  Or both if necessary, but I'd rather cut a deal and save on ammo."  


---------------


SAD sighed to himself.  Yet another day in Post-Apocalyptia.  Granted, being stuck on an island with a nuclear reactor while a horde of cannibalistic savages try to kill, eat you and then make a hat out of whatever is left, hopefully in that order, is a bit of novelty.  But not that much.  

Surprisingly, some of the savages make it past the black powder mortar fire on the sole remaining bridge.  A quick chop of the gladius works wonders.  A lot of the guys give him hell for carrying around a friggin sword, but the rather pleasant aspect of swords is they don't run out of ammo.  He always carried his beautiful and historic FR8, but rarely used it.  Ammo isn't cheap after the world ends.  Sharpening stones are.

"Hey Rooster.  You hear something funny?"

Rooster pondered for a moment, being slightly inconvenienced by the necessity of shooting a particularly ugly cannibal wearing clothing primarily made out of human leather.  He was quite partial to his M4.  He kept it plain, just like in his Army days.  He pondered that one positive aspect of the world ending was the end of people attaching half a dozen "tactical" gadgets to their rifles.  

"Sad, we are holding off a couple hundred cannibals with a handful of rifles, some jury rigged mortars made out of pipe stolen from a nuclear reactor, and an idiotic sword.  I'm not overly concerned with funny sounds as I'm half deaf from the pipe-cannon that blew up last night.  You were right, chain shot did work wonders.  Go ahead and gloat."

SAD took a moment to gloat.  Then took off an arm holding baseball bat with some pointy and rusty metal bits added.  They had put a lot of effort into building fortifications on the shorelines, mostly around the bridges.  The other bridge had been blown up weeks ago when they realized the size of the cannibalistic army camped on the eastern shore.  They couldn't afford to guard both.  They were starting to run very low on their homemade black powder and it'd only be a matter of time after the powder ran out that they'd be overrun.

" 'Although personally I am quite content with existing explosives, I feel we must not stand in the path of improvement.'   One of my favorite quotes.  I still thought I heard something, Rooster.  A thumping sound.  Mechanical."
 
"Oh, that?  Yea, that's probably the voices in your head that make you keep quoting friggin Churchill lines all of the time.  There has been nothing mechanical runnin a decade, SAD.  Idiot."

Rooster stopped for a moment and pondered if insanity was contagious, as he thought he heard something quite odd.  Something oddly familiar.  His jaw dropped when a UH-60 Blackhawk flew about 200 feet over his head, and starting pouring down rockets and gunfire.  Yep.  Apparently, insanity is contagious.

"SAD, I swear to God, if I see you gloating, I'm gonna stab you with your own sword."

A second Blackhawk came in from the North, raining down hellfire on the cannibal army.  A windstorm nearly knocked him over, as he glanced over his shoulder to see a number of helicopters that looked like Blackhawks on steroids landed.  As soon as they touched concrete, what could only be described as combat troops jumped out of every opening and ran to cover behind the fortifications.  

Rooster pegged one guy as a Jarhead half a second after the Jarhead started yelling out orders to set up the crew served machine guns and mortars.  He cringed.  He pondered which was worse, being slowly devoured by cannibals over the course of a week...  or being saved by Marines.  

One large and ugly gentleman carrying an FAL landed beside him and began to lay down fire on the retreating horde.  "Sup?  I'm the Chief Operations Officer of Post-Apocalyptic Enterprises, Incorporated, but you can call me Pagan.  Who's your CEO?"

SAD quickly pointed at Rooster.  Bastard.  The Pagan had an impressive sales grin plastered across his face.

"Uh.  I guess I am.  I'm Rooster.  Post-Apocalyptic wha?"

"Post-Apocalyptic Enterprises Incorporated."

"Uh.  Are you like Blackwater or some CIA company?"

"Nope, we're primarily a construction, chemical, agriculture and mad engineering corporation, but we do a bit of everything.  You know how it is these days.  Hard to specialize."

"Mad Engineering?"

"Yep.  Vice President of Mad Engineering Nick, the dude with the AK and 1911 over there setting up the laser guided mortars, is the head of our Mad Engineering Department.  One of our flag ship divisions, of course.  Now you're probably wondering what we're doing here..."  Rooster nodded.  "Well, thing is.  We were hoping to take this place over and fire up your reactor.  But since you're here, obviously the facility is your's.  Hopefully we can work out a deal?  Lease agreement, stock swap, or perhaps even a merger?"
 
"Uh...  Sure?"

"See, we kinda wanna build a secure base here so we can loot the hundred billion dollars of military hardware in the neighborhood.  Mind if I get our Mad Engineering Division working on your reactor and get her fired up?  I'm pretty sure they won't detonate the reactor.  Accidentally, anyways.  Then we can maybe sit down and negotiate out a deal?"

Rooster decided, insanity was contagious.

SAD chuckled and soothly quoted, "I like a man who grins when he fights."

Yep, definitely contagious.
« Last Edit: July 25, 2010, 09:01:55 PM by RevDisk » Logged

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« Reply #21 on: July 25, 2010, 08:09:47 PM »

All, I separated this thread from the "The Road" topic because somebody started to write an AWESOME novel in the middle of it.   grin

(Good work, Rev.  Love it! )
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« Reply #22 on: July 26, 2010, 03:28:48 AM »

This is getting pretty interesting.  Don't stop now, Rev, you're on to something.
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Viking
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« Reply #23 on: July 26, 2010, 08:44:49 AM »

Awesome story is Awesome.
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SADShooter
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« Reply #24 on: July 26, 2010, 10:41:07 AM »

That's beautiful. Thank you.
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