SHTF fiction: Final Hour
- Thread starter Caimlas
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LJ-MosinFreak-Buck
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I'm hooked. Can you do an electronic mailing list maybe? lol
357fan
Member
Yeah, more!
Er, oops?
Sorry for the lengthy delay, folks! Seriously. It wasn't because I'd forgotten, simply that I've been busy as h***. We're currently in a tenuous temporary living situation where I'm largely living out of boxes, and I've recently started a new job which is stealing all of my intellectual capacity due to the relatively foreign nature of the work (and time - 50ish hours a week, on top of additional home obligations).
But, I think I've got some more here I can post, and I've got a little time and energy, so I'm going to try and get more written tonight.
Send me a message and I'll put the sender on a mailing list when I write more, if interested...
Sorry for the lengthy delay, folks! Seriously. It wasn't because I'd forgotten, simply that I've been busy as h***. We're currently in a tenuous temporary living situation where I'm largely living out of boxes, and I've recently started a new job which is stealing all of my intellectual capacity due to the relatively foreign nature of the work (and time - 50ish hours a week, on top of additional home obligations).
But, I think I've got some more here I can post, and I've got a little time and energy, so I'm going to try and get more written tonight.
Send me a message and I'll put the sender on a mailing list when I write more, if interested...
Chapter 7: The Farm
Chapter 7: The Farm
Jason drove home in the approaching darkess of night, now somewhat shellshocked and not simply confused about the day's events. It was quite the jolt from the slow daily routine he'd been living.
He drove silently along the small gravel roads leading up to the farm. The radio was off; even the talk radio stations had nothing new to report since the initial reports of the afternoon. Listening to them repeat the same thing over and over was frustrating, like he was stuck in time.
He arrived at the front entrance to the farm shortly before 10pm. If a person didn't know to look for it, it would be easily missed: there was no mailbox, as it was outside the normal postal routes, and there was brush growing close to either side of the rutted dirt drive. Jason had to take the road slower than normal due to the weighted trailer, and the waiting strained on his desire to be fully home, where he might be able to relax a bit from the day's events.
The drive was about a mile long from the entrance to the house, winding through a gulch on the edge of the national forest. Jason had taken the route thousands of times over the years, dating back to his youth, and he could, in all liklihood, drive it in pitch darkness. Just the same, the bumps and divots caused by runoff and ill-repair jarred him every time he would hit one, as they were constantly changing position and size.
The actual approach to the house was sudden, with a cleft in the tree line to the right displaying the whole farm - first the original farm house and barn, and then further back the newer utility building and Jason's dome - with the dirt drive ending shortly thereafter.
Jason pulled the truck around the house towards the cellar, a Cold War era bomb shelter his crazy uncle had built from the old cold cellar. It was big enough now that nobody had ever bothered to bring items all the way into the back of the cellar, instead simply placing them near the foot of the steps. Despite the extravagance in size and durability, it did manage to keep its contents cool and dry year-long.
Marcus sauntered from the house, pulling a light jacket onto his muscular frame to fend off the evening cool. Even though Marcus was 57, his body was still fighting off the approach of middle age. His hair was thick and only starting to take on some grey, and his body was still limber due to the rigorous work he daily put himself through.
Marcus walked up to Jason, who was wearily stepping from his Jeep. He surprised his son, setting him slightly off balance as he hugged him in a tight embrace.
"Dad, is everything OK?" Jason awkwardly returned the embrace.
Marcus stood back from the hug, still holding Jason's arms, the tell-tale sign of moisture in his eyes evident from the yard light.
"I'll be OK. I just wanted to let you know that..." he hesitated, clearing his throat. He was now looking at the ground. "I'm glad you're here, and not stuck in a big city somewhere. I really appreciate it."
"Sure, Dad. I love you too," Jason said, filling in the blanks of his father's silence. He gave his dad's arm a firm squeeze. "Let's get this stuff unpacked, OK? I'm exhausted."
Marcus pulled the cellar doors open as Jason carried the first load from the back of the trailer. They each carried several boxes of food stuffs into the cellar, working in familiar silence. There was a lot to be said, but it could wait until the heavier goods were put away. Finally, Jason uttered a short question which would lead to any and all possible answers of importance. He hoped to avoid talking about his day's events until he'd had some more time to think things through.
"Anything new?"
"Not much." Marcus shook his head. "The local TV network is doing their normal schedule, with a little national news. A lot of vague generalities and not much to go on. Though I did get a call from Dan Hutches about an hour ago. He said the local cable networks went dark, telling viewers to switch over to the local news. Talk radio has been a bunch of speculation - just some speculation about nuking China, or Russia, or the Saudis in retaliation, even though there's been no confirmation on who started it."
Jason reached for his jacket in the front seat as his father continued.
"Oh, hell. We don't even know what's really been done at this point, or to where. Never mind the who."
"Did they give any sort of updated list of places attacked?" Jason said, thinking of his brother in Minneapolis.
"Nothing about anywhere we actually care about, but there were some extra cities, sure. Nothing real major, it seems, but on the scale that these bastards attacked, well..." He let the thought trail off as he grabbed another box from the back of the trailer.
"Never mind that stuff for now. We've got more important things to talk about and do tonight."
The two finished unloading the trailer and went into the house. It was now almost midnight, but Mary Anne, Jason and Frank's mom, was still up and in the kitchen. Hearing them come in, she stopped kneading the pie dough on the counter (for what smelled like apple pie) and got a pot of leftover stew from the fridge.
"Would either of you care for some venison stew? Jason, I'm sure you're hungry after today." Without waiting for an answer, Mary Anne put the pot on the range and started to heat it up. As it warmed up, she started cutting a loaf of bread into slices.
"Thanks Mom, that'd be great," Jason replied, knowing he had no choice in the matter - even if he wasn't famished. He sat himself heavily at the kitchen table and with his elbows on the table, burried his eyes in the palms of his hands. The warmth and pressure felt good, instantly relieving at least some of the stress from the drive.
Marcus opened a cabinet and gingerly pulled out a pipe and a small pouch of tobacco. He sat opposite Jason, slightly recumbent, with his legs crossed cowboy-style as he packed the bowl. Lighting it, the savory yet subtle armoa Virginia leaf filled the rustic kitchen.
It wasn't long before the pot of stew on the stove was simmering, and Mary Anne was dolling out large bowls of stew for the two men. She deftly buttered several pieces of the homemade bread and placed them on the lip of the bowls before placing them in front of Jason and Marcus.
Jason tore into his with a voracious hunger he hadn't realized was there. He knew he'd been hungry, but not that hungry. He hadn't done all that much during the day, though it's possible the emotional stresses brought on by the grocery shooting had taken more energy than he'd thought.
He'd never experienced anything like it before, and he hadn't even allowed himself to really think about it until just now. It wasn't something he'd really prepared for, even when in the Army. No, he hadn't done the killing himself, and it had needed to be done, obviously. The suddenness of it all, and the feeling of powerlessness when he wasn't able to bring his weapon to bear in time to make it useful...
He cleaned the last of his stew with the bread crust, and pushed the empty bowl away. He placed his head on his hands and leaned on the table.
"Another bowl, sweetie?" his mother called from the other side of the room, where she'd started to pour the pie's stuffing into the pan. Looking up, Mary Anne waited for a response, but Jason wasn't forthcoming.
"Jason, are you OK?" she said as she put down the bowl and walked to his side.
Jason sat back in his chair, looking at both of his parents. Should he tell them just now, or wait until the morning? He began to talk, not really sure what he was going to say.
"Mom... Dad... When I stopped at the grocery today, Tom and I had a little... confrontation."
Concern in her voice, Mary Anne quickly responded. "A problem with Tom? Whatever for? We've..."
Jason quickly stopped her short. "No, no. Nothing at all happened between me and Tom. It's just, well, a couple drunk gang member types tried to assault and rob us - well, assault me, and rob Tom - at knife point, and Tom blew them both away right there in front of me with a shotgun. It was really sudden."
The room was quiet for a second as Jason's parents looked at him, their expressions fluctuating from concern, to disbelief, to amusement - and in the case of his mom, back to concern.
Marcus let out a little guffaw as his face lit up. "That old bird, Tom. He's got some real spirit."
He leaned in conspiratorially, ignoring the aghast look on his wife's face. "You know he fought against the Viet Cong before coming here to the US, don't you? Or at least that's the rumor. I've never bothered to ask him, but now I very well might!"
Jason's eyes darted back and forth as he started to run through the encounter with the additional information. He took in a deep breath, leaned back, and let out a deep sigh. "Well, that at least makes me feel better about being slow on the draw," he said with a tired smile.
"Jason, are you going to be OK? We could give the pastor a call tomorrow if you want." Mary Anne said as she gently squeezed his shoulder.
"I'll work through it, Mom. It'll bug me for a while, I'm sure. But the worst is over, as they say, and I'll have some time to deal with it. Just not tonight."
With that, Jason stood from the table and stretched, gave his mother and father a hug, and pulled himself down the hall to his bedroom.
Chapter 7: The Farm
Jason drove home in the approaching darkess of night, now somewhat shellshocked and not simply confused about the day's events. It was quite the jolt from the slow daily routine he'd been living.
He drove silently along the small gravel roads leading up to the farm. The radio was off; even the talk radio stations had nothing new to report since the initial reports of the afternoon. Listening to them repeat the same thing over and over was frustrating, like he was stuck in time.
He arrived at the front entrance to the farm shortly before 10pm. If a person didn't know to look for it, it would be easily missed: there was no mailbox, as it was outside the normal postal routes, and there was brush growing close to either side of the rutted dirt drive. Jason had to take the road slower than normal due to the weighted trailer, and the waiting strained on his desire to be fully home, where he might be able to relax a bit from the day's events.
The drive was about a mile long from the entrance to the house, winding through a gulch on the edge of the national forest. Jason had taken the route thousands of times over the years, dating back to his youth, and he could, in all liklihood, drive it in pitch darkness. Just the same, the bumps and divots caused by runoff and ill-repair jarred him every time he would hit one, as they were constantly changing position and size.
The actual approach to the house was sudden, with a cleft in the tree line to the right displaying the whole farm - first the original farm house and barn, and then further back the newer utility building and Jason's dome - with the dirt drive ending shortly thereafter.
Jason pulled the truck around the house towards the cellar, a Cold War era bomb shelter his crazy uncle had built from the old cold cellar. It was big enough now that nobody had ever bothered to bring items all the way into the back of the cellar, instead simply placing them near the foot of the steps. Despite the extravagance in size and durability, it did manage to keep its contents cool and dry year-long.
Marcus sauntered from the house, pulling a light jacket onto his muscular frame to fend off the evening cool. Even though Marcus was 57, his body was still fighting off the approach of middle age. His hair was thick and only starting to take on some grey, and his body was still limber due to the rigorous work he daily put himself through.
Marcus walked up to Jason, who was wearily stepping from his Jeep. He surprised his son, setting him slightly off balance as he hugged him in a tight embrace.
"Dad, is everything OK?" Jason awkwardly returned the embrace.
Marcus stood back from the hug, still holding Jason's arms, the tell-tale sign of moisture in his eyes evident from the yard light.
"I'll be OK. I just wanted to let you know that..." he hesitated, clearing his throat. He was now looking at the ground. "I'm glad you're here, and not stuck in a big city somewhere. I really appreciate it."
"Sure, Dad. I love you too," Jason said, filling in the blanks of his father's silence. He gave his dad's arm a firm squeeze. "Let's get this stuff unpacked, OK? I'm exhausted."
Marcus pulled the cellar doors open as Jason carried the first load from the back of the trailer. They each carried several boxes of food stuffs into the cellar, working in familiar silence. There was a lot to be said, but it could wait until the heavier goods were put away. Finally, Jason uttered a short question which would lead to any and all possible answers of importance. He hoped to avoid talking about his day's events until he'd had some more time to think things through.
"Anything new?"
"Not much." Marcus shook his head. "The local TV network is doing their normal schedule, with a little national news. A lot of vague generalities and not much to go on. Though I did get a call from Dan Hutches about an hour ago. He said the local cable networks went dark, telling viewers to switch over to the local news. Talk radio has been a bunch of speculation - just some speculation about nuking China, or Russia, or the Saudis in retaliation, even though there's been no confirmation on who started it."
Jason reached for his jacket in the front seat as his father continued.
"Oh, hell. We don't even know what's really been done at this point, or to where. Never mind the who."
"Did they give any sort of updated list of places attacked?" Jason said, thinking of his brother in Minneapolis.
"Nothing about anywhere we actually care about, but there were some extra cities, sure. Nothing real major, it seems, but on the scale that these bastards attacked, well..." He let the thought trail off as he grabbed another box from the back of the trailer.
"Never mind that stuff for now. We've got more important things to talk about and do tonight."
The two finished unloading the trailer and went into the house. It was now almost midnight, but Mary Anne, Jason and Frank's mom, was still up and in the kitchen. Hearing them come in, she stopped kneading the pie dough on the counter (for what smelled like apple pie) and got a pot of leftover stew from the fridge.
"Would either of you care for some venison stew? Jason, I'm sure you're hungry after today." Without waiting for an answer, Mary Anne put the pot on the range and started to heat it up. As it warmed up, she started cutting a loaf of bread into slices.
"Thanks Mom, that'd be great," Jason replied, knowing he had no choice in the matter - even if he wasn't famished. He sat himself heavily at the kitchen table and with his elbows on the table, burried his eyes in the palms of his hands. The warmth and pressure felt good, instantly relieving at least some of the stress from the drive.
Marcus opened a cabinet and gingerly pulled out a pipe and a small pouch of tobacco. He sat opposite Jason, slightly recumbent, with his legs crossed cowboy-style as he packed the bowl. Lighting it, the savory yet subtle armoa Virginia leaf filled the rustic kitchen.
It wasn't long before the pot of stew on the stove was simmering, and Mary Anne was dolling out large bowls of stew for the two men. She deftly buttered several pieces of the homemade bread and placed them on the lip of the bowls before placing them in front of Jason and Marcus.
Jason tore into his with a voracious hunger he hadn't realized was there. He knew he'd been hungry, but not that hungry. He hadn't done all that much during the day, though it's possible the emotional stresses brought on by the grocery shooting had taken more energy than he'd thought.
He'd never experienced anything like it before, and he hadn't even allowed himself to really think about it until just now. It wasn't something he'd really prepared for, even when in the Army. No, he hadn't done the killing himself, and it had needed to be done, obviously. The suddenness of it all, and the feeling of powerlessness when he wasn't able to bring his weapon to bear in time to make it useful...
He cleaned the last of his stew with the bread crust, and pushed the empty bowl away. He placed his head on his hands and leaned on the table.
"Another bowl, sweetie?" his mother called from the other side of the room, where she'd started to pour the pie's stuffing into the pan. Looking up, Mary Anne waited for a response, but Jason wasn't forthcoming.
"Jason, are you OK?" she said as she put down the bowl and walked to his side.
Jason sat back in his chair, looking at both of his parents. Should he tell them just now, or wait until the morning? He began to talk, not really sure what he was going to say.
"Mom... Dad... When I stopped at the grocery today, Tom and I had a little... confrontation."
Concern in her voice, Mary Anne quickly responded. "A problem with Tom? Whatever for? We've..."
Jason quickly stopped her short. "No, no. Nothing at all happened between me and Tom. It's just, well, a couple drunk gang member types tried to assault and rob us - well, assault me, and rob Tom - at knife point, and Tom blew them both away right there in front of me with a shotgun. It was really sudden."
The room was quiet for a second as Jason's parents looked at him, their expressions fluctuating from concern, to disbelief, to amusement - and in the case of his mom, back to concern.
Marcus let out a little guffaw as his face lit up. "That old bird, Tom. He's got some real spirit."
He leaned in conspiratorially, ignoring the aghast look on his wife's face. "You know he fought against the Viet Cong before coming here to the US, don't you? Or at least that's the rumor. I've never bothered to ask him, but now I very well might!"
Jason's eyes darted back and forth as he started to run through the encounter with the additional information. He took in a deep breath, leaned back, and let out a deep sigh. "Well, that at least makes me feel better about being slow on the draw," he said with a tired smile.
"Jason, are you going to be OK? We could give the pastor a call tomorrow if you want." Mary Anne said as she gently squeezed his shoulder.
"I'll work through it, Mom. It'll bug me for a while, I'm sure. But the worst is over, as they say, and I'll have some time to deal with it. Just not tonight."
With that, Jason stood from the table and stretched, gave his mother and father a hug, and pulled himself down the hall to his bedroom.
*Chapter 8: Quagmire
Mitch leaned into the horn with frustration, letting out a long blast. "Son of a bitch! What the hell? Rush-hour already?"
Frank just leaned forward and put his head into his hands, pressing firmly against his eyes. Were people evacuating the city? Or just trying to get home?
Bruce barked an order. "Put this hog in reverse and find us another route." He need not have worried; Mitch was already punching buttons on a dashboard-mounted GPS unit while glancing back and forth between it and the side mirrors.
Susan opined from the back seat. "Turn on the radio, maybe the news can tell us something."
"Do it yourself!" Mitch snapped, as he spun the van around to head down the other way of the road. Michelle strained against her seat belt and pressed what looked like the radio's power button.
Static erupted from the speakers. Mitch quickly reached down and slapped Michelle's hand away, quickly hitting the power button again, and switching on another one of the many devices hanging from the dash. Michelle quietly leaned back into the seat as Mitch picked up one of several remotes and thrust it at Bruce.
Mitch spoke quickly, but with cold, unexcited calculation - despite his earlier outburst. "Bruce, CB. Scan through for a local channel and see if you can't raise someone who knows what's going on and where we might find a way out of this ****hole."
Bruce started scanning the channels, but the airwaves either didn't offer a response to his queries or they were greeted with a staccato of responses and deafening crosstalk.
Mitch flicked the power on the CB off and pulled up the door on the front console, reached into the console, pulled out a headset, and pugged it into an idle jack. With his attention divided, he swerved into the oncoming lane of traffic, narrowly missing a large sedan.
Ignoring his near collision and the ensuing angry honking of horns, Mitch spoke to Bruce. He said, "You know how to use this?"
Bruce deftly took the headset and started to scan for specific frequencies, intermittently sending out a verbal response request.
In the back seat, Frank's heart beat was starting to idle, and he was starting to get the shakes. His mind went to what was most familiar to him - the criminal justice system - and he couldn't help but think about how many criminally minded people Minneapolis had underneath the surface. No, it wasn't politically correct to think of criminals as being innately criminal, but as a prosecutor that was his job. And based on his experiences with calloused repeat offenders, he felt it was the more correct assumption.
Michelle nudged Frank, pulling him out of his thoughts. "What kind of radio is that? Your friend has a lot of stuff in here." She spoke quietly, so as to not distract the two in the front from their tasks.
"Uh, it's shortwave." He thought back to his childhood for a moment, and the radio his father kept in the closet over the gun safe. "It's like a CB, but you need a license to use it, so there aren't as many people on it. Mostly just hobbyists. And it has a much longer range than CB. We should be able to get some useful information on it."
Mitch continued to barrel through side streets, closely following the map on the dashboard GPS. The residential roads were mostly clear, but there was the occasional vehicle on the curb or backed into a yard, with people hurriedly loading possessions. Every person Mitch saw was moving quickly with something in their arms.
"We've got to get out of town soon," Mitch yelled over his shoulder into the back. "I think we should be able to get out before the worst of it. These roads are going to be clogged like a public toilet when people start getting back from work."
Bruce pulled the headset off and turned in his seat slightly to face the other passengers. "OK, we've got some more information. We've got a couple choices. If we take 494 to 94 north out of the city, we should be able to avoid heavy traffic. It seems almost everyone is going in the other direction."
"Can't we get out on 55 going west? It's mostly just residential out that way." Susan asked from the back.
"No, that's even worse than the southern route," Bruce said, shaking his head. "And there's rioting over in that direction, too, apparently," Bruce added as an afterthought.
"North it is, then," Mitch said with a sigh, as he took a sharp turn away from the setting sun onto an empty one-way street and gunned the engine.
Susan raised her voice over the roar of the racing engine. "Wait, you said there's rioting out by Loretto? My boss lives out that way. It's all nice suburban neighborhoods. Who would be rioting?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. Probably urban dwellers looking for highly discounted electronics and jewelry," Bruce said glibly.
As Susan sat back in her seat with a pensive look on her face, Frank tried to avoid any eye contact. He didn't want to open the can of worms that explaining it further would surely bring. The way things were progressing, there wouldn't be any need to do so anyway. It would become self-evident.
__________________________________________
The group traveled on through the evening urban landscape. Traffic remained intermittent, with occasional congestion. Almost everyone was trying to drive South. They passed occasional looters in the streets. Mitch would accelerate rapidly when he saw them, dodging in and out of traffic, not wanting them to get any ideas about his overloaded vehicle and what it might contain.
They'd been on the road for several hours by the time they had managed to reach the outer limits of the Minneapolis congestion. The traffic was only slightly worse than normal now, and most of the traffic, though heavy, was moving in the same direction they were at a reasonable speed - out of the city. They passed by the smaller outskirt towns and suburbs without incident.
Michelle, Frank, and Susan had, one by one, started to fall asleep, sprawling against each other's shoulders and laps. Mitch drove on mechanically, with Bruce keeping silent watch in the front seat. The GPS unit on the dash occasionally lectured Mitch, and Bruce had one ear glued to the shortwave radio's headset.
"Anything new on the airwaves?" Mitch asked as he shifted in his seat to get more comfortable.
Bruce pulled off the headset. "There are a couple communities without power in the area. Apparently Minneapolis has rolling brown-outs, and there are riots in the commercial areas. Not all that much chatter tonight for the area, but everyone who's speaking is just reporting local events." He took in a deep breath and let out a sigh. "There were a couple broadcasts from the Chicago area I was able to pick up, and the situation there is mostly the same, it appears. ****ing bad. Chicago's police headquarters was bombed around 6 this evening, and apparently the cops are having a hard time organizing."
It was the top of the hour, and there should be something in terms of news on the radio, Mitch thought. He reached down, flicked on the radio, and started scanning through the AM and FM channels. Oldies, classic rock, hardcore, country... finally he found NPR on a low-frequency AM channel after scanning the entire AM range with no success. It barely came in, but it was clear enough to understand, with the volume turned up.
"...the French Premiere spoke frankly today in response to this week's riots, stating there would be no more tolerance for the riotous acts perpetrated, and that any organized violence will be met quote, fiercely and decisively with prejudicial force.
"In national news, the President will be meeting with top aids this evening in an attempt to determine a solution to the chaos and violence which has suddenly struck across the nation today. Minority leaders have been quick to speak out in response, claiming economic frustrations and racist oppression by the majority as being at the root of the civil unrest.
Earlier today, the President met in teleconference with the Vice President and the governors of several affected states in an attempt to coordinate an effective response.
"Preliminary reports indicate that the Vice President is to be moved to a secure location, and Congress is to declare an emergency recess in light of these current events.
"With National Public Radio, this is Melissa Harding."
The radio then went into advertisements for the United Negro Fund, and Mitch, figuring he'd already gotten all he was going to get from the channel for the time being, turned off the radio.
Mitch rubbed his eyes. "We've got to stop for a while and at least change drivers. I'm starting to get road daze."
"There's an exit coming up in three miles. Despite my ex living in that town, it should be a safe place to stop. Lots of middle class yuppie types." Bruce stretched his arms and arched his back, trying to limber himself up for anything that might happen at the stop. "But just in case..." Habitually, he pulled the bolt back slightly to check that a round was chambered, verified the magazine was properly seated, and again placed the rifle across his lap.
Frank felt the van starting to slow, the change in momentum pushing him towards wakefulness. His tried to move his right arm to wipe away the sleep from his face, but it was unresponsive.
He fluttered his eyes open, hoping to get his tear ducts working so his sleepy vision would clear. The muscles in his neck burned from his head hanging over the back of the bench as he'd slept, and his mouth was tacky and dry - likely from his mouth having hung open.
Looking down, he noticed he'd become an improvised pillow. Both Susan and Michelle were propped up against him, with Michelle laying on him, and Susan laying on Michelle. Michelle was curled up towards the front, nearly laying all the way down, with Frank's arm serving as the pillow.
He tried to gently lift her head to reacquire his arm, hoping she wouldn't wake. He placed her head back on his thigh. She stirred slightly, but did not fully wake. There was a serene look on her face; Frank took a moment to appreciate it, but it threw up dissonance against the day's events. Better to not dwell on such things, he mused.
Frank leaned forward between the seats, stretching his lower back and neck as he did so. "Why are we slowing? What time is it?" he said groggily.
Bruce responded. "We're about 230 miles from Minneapolis now and need to make a driver change. Mitch is getting weary."
With a lopsided grin, Mitch looked back at Frank and said, "Guess who's turn it is?"
Mitch found a a daytime-only gas station several blocks from the exit and parked behind the store. There was infrequent traffic in the town, and most of the buildings - even the business signs - were peculiarly dark. There were no signs that the power was out, just that everyone had turned their lights out.
The three men stiffly crawled from the van, walking around a bit before resuming their travel. Mitch pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Bruce, and the two of them lit up.
Frank leaned against the van and started to stretch. He was still somewhat sluggish - mentally and physically - and sore from the nap.
"Did I miss anything when I was asleep?" he asked. He felt himself going weak in the knees. I'm probably light-headed from the nap still, he thought.
A moment later he found himself kneeling on the ground and leaning against the side of the car, sobs racking his body. The day's events raced through his mind as phantoms, never remaining long enough for him to grasp, bashing themselves against the preconceptions and beliefs he'd established over the years. The societal rule of law? Justice? Innocent until proven guilty? Right to a trial? Truth? Frank didn't understand himself. How could such foundational beliefs be torn down so quickly?
Bruce and Mitch came over to Frank and helped him up, with one supporting him underneath each shoulder.
Mitch fished in his pocket for his cigarettes, took one out, and stuck it in Frank's lips, lighting it in one smooth motion.
"You know I don't smoke," Frank mumbled. But he realized it wasn't true as soon as he said it - at least for the moment - as he'd already started to puff and inhale the cloying smoke.
"They might kill you from cancer eventually, but this one will help for the time being," Bruce said.
The two sat silently with Frank for a moment longer, until Bruce spoke again.
"Mitch, I need a moment alone with Frank." Mitch nodded and walked over towards the corner of the building, careful to remain in the shadows.
Bruce grabbed Frank's shoulder firmly - firmly enough to capture Frank's attention, but not so firm as to convey anger or hostility.
"Frank, we need you to pull yourself together." Frank's eyes wandered slightly from Bruce. "Look at me. There are only 5 of us here, and from what we've already seen today, things are - shall we say - unstable. It surprised me almost as much as I'm sure it does you, but right now you've got - we've got - a responsibility, and we need your head screwed on straight."
Bruce gestured up towards the open sliding door of the van. No words were needed to convey the significance of the movement, and Frank's expression changed to that of stern determination. He nodded his head, took a deep breath, and forced himself up from the ground.
Frank realized he was still wearing his suit and dress shoes, and he'd just been sitting on the dirty back alley of a gas station. Thoughts of quickly changing into something more comfortable and practical were interrupted by Mitch running up to the van with a look of excitement on his face.
Mitch leaned into the horn with frustration, letting out a long blast. "Son of a bitch! What the hell? Rush-hour already?"
Frank just leaned forward and put his head into his hands, pressing firmly against his eyes. Were people evacuating the city? Or just trying to get home?
Bruce barked an order. "Put this hog in reverse and find us another route." He need not have worried; Mitch was already punching buttons on a dashboard-mounted GPS unit while glancing back and forth between it and the side mirrors.
Susan opined from the back seat. "Turn on the radio, maybe the news can tell us something."
"Do it yourself!" Mitch snapped, as he spun the van around to head down the other way of the road. Michelle strained against her seat belt and pressed what looked like the radio's power button.
Static erupted from the speakers. Mitch quickly reached down and slapped Michelle's hand away, quickly hitting the power button again, and switching on another one of the many devices hanging from the dash. Michelle quietly leaned back into the seat as Mitch picked up one of several remotes and thrust it at Bruce.
Mitch spoke quickly, but with cold, unexcited calculation - despite his earlier outburst. "Bruce, CB. Scan through for a local channel and see if you can't raise someone who knows what's going on and where we might find a way out of this ****hole."
Bruce started scanning the channels, but the airwaves either didn't offer a response to his queries or they were greeted with a staccato of responses and deafening crosstalk.
Mitch flicked the power on the CB off and pulled up the door on the front console, reached into the console, pulled out a headset, and pugged it into an idle jack. With his attention divided, he swerved into the oncoming lane of traffic, narrowly missing a large sedan.
Ignoring his near collision and the ensuing angry honking of horns, Mitch spoke to Bruce. He said, "You know how to use this?"
Bruce deftly took the headset and started to scan for specific frequencies, intermittently sending out a verbal response request.
In the back seat, Frank's heart beat was starting to idle, and he was starting to get the shakes. His mind went to what was most familiar to him - the criminal justice system - and he couldn't help but think about how many criminally minded people Minneapolis had underneath the surface. No, it wasn't politically correct to think of criminals as being innately criminal, but as a prosecutor that was his job. And based on his experiences with calloused repeat offenders, he felt it was the more correct assumption.
Michelle nudged Frank, pulling him out of his thoughts. "What kind of radio is that? Your friend has a lot of stuff in here." She spoke quietly, so as to not distract the two in the front from their tasks.
"Uh, it's shortwave." He thought back to his childhood for a moment, and the radio his father kept in the closet over the gun safe. "It's like a CB, but you need a license to use it, so there aren't as many people on it. Mostly just hobbyists. And it has a much longer range than CB. We should be able to get some useful information on it."
Mitch continued to barrel through side streets, closely following the map on the dashboard GPS. The residential roads were mostly clear, but there was the occasional vehicle on the curb or backed into a yard, with people hurriedly loading possessions. Every person Mitch saw was moving quickly with something in their arms.
"We've got to get out of town soon," Mitch yelled over his shoulder into the back. "I think we should be able to get out before the worst of it. These roads are going to be clogged like a public toilet when people start getting back from work."
Bruce pulled the headset off and turned in his seat slightly to face the other passengers. "OK, we've got some more information. We've got a couple choices. If we take 494 to 94 north out of the city, we should be able to avoid heavy traffic. It seems almost everyone is going in the other direction."
"Can't we get out on 55 going west? It's mostly just residential out that way." Susan asked from the back.
"No, that's even worse than the southern route," Bruce said, shaking his head. "And there's rioting over in that direction, too, apparently," Bruce added as an afterthought.
"North it is, then," Mitch said with a sigh, as he took a sharp turn away from the setting sun onto an empty one-way street and gunned the engine.
Susan raised her voice over the roar of the racing engine. "Wait, you said there's rioting out by Loretto? My boss lives out that way. It's all nice suburban neighborhoods. Who would be rioting?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. Probably urban dwellers looking for highly discounted electronics and jewelry," Bruce said glibly.
As Susan sat back in her seat with a pensive look on her face, Frank tried to avoid any eye contact. He didn't want to open the can of worms that explaining it further would surely bring. The way things were progressing, there wouldn't be any need to do so anyway. It would become self-evident.
__________________________________________
The group traveled on through the evening urban landscape. Traffic remained intermittent, with occasional congestion. Almost everyone was trying to drive South. They passed occasional looters in the streets. Mitch would accelerate rapidly when he saw them, dodging in and out of traffic, not wanting them to get any ideas about his overloaded vehicle and what it might contain.
They'd been on the road for several hours by the time they had managed to reach the outer limits of the Minneapolis congestion. The traffic was only slightly worse than normal now, and most of the traffic, though heavy, was moving in the same direction they were at a reasonable speed - out of the city. They passed by the smaller outskirt towns and suburbs without incident.
Michelle, Frank, and Susan had, one by one, started to fall asleep, sprawling against each other's shoulders and laps. Mitch drove on mechanically, with Bruce keeping silent watch in the front seat. The GPS unit on the dash occasionally lectured Mitch, and Bruce had one ear glued to the shortwave radio's headset.
"Anything new on the airwaves?" Mitch asked as he shifted in his seat to get more comfortable.
Bruce pulled off the headset. "There are a couple communities without power in the area. Apparently Minneapolis has rolling brown-outs, and there are riots in the commercial areas. Not all that much chatter tonight for the area, but everyone who's speaking is just reporting local events." He took in a deep breath and let out a sigh. "There were a couple broadcasts from the Chicago area I was able to pick up, and the situation there is mostly the same, it appears. ****ing bad. Chicago's police headquarters was bombed around 6 this evening, and apparently the cops are having a hard time organizing."
It was the top of the hour, and there should be something in terms of news on the radio, Mitch thought. He reached down, flicked on the radio, and started scanning through the AM and FM channels. Oldies, classic rock, hardcore, country... finally he found NPR on a low-frequency AM channel after scanning the entire AM range with no success. It barely came in, but it was clear enough to understand, with the volume turned up.
"...the French Premiere spoke frankly today in response to this week's riots, stating there would be no more tolerance for the riotous acts perpetrated, and that any organized violence will be met quote, fiercely and decisively with prejudicial force.
"In national news, the President will be meeting with top aids this evening in an attempt to determine a solution to the chaos and violence which has suddenly struck across the nation today. Minority leaders have been quick to speak out in response, claiming economic frustrations and racist oppression by the majority as being at the root of the civil unrest.
Earlier today, the President met in teleconference with the Vice President and the governors of several affected states in an attempt to coordinate an effective response.
"Preliminary reports indicate that the Vice President is to be moved to a secure location, and Congress is to declare an emergency recess in light of these current events.
"With National Public Radio, this is Melissa Harding."
The radio then went into advertisements for the United Negro Fund, and Mitch, figuring he'd already gotten all he was going to get from the channel for the time being, turned off the radio.
Mitch rubbed his eyes. "We've got to stop for a while and at least change drivers. I'm starting to get road daze."
"There's an exit coming up in three miles. Despite my ex living in that town, it should be a safe place to stop. Lots of middle class yuppie types." Bruce stretched his arms and arched his back, trying to limber himself up for anything that might happen at the stop. "But just in case..." Habitually, he pulled the bolt back slightly to check that a round was chambered, verified the magazine was properly seated, and again placed the rifle across his lap.
Frank felt the van starting to slow, the change in momentum pushing him towards wakefulness. His tried to move his right arm to wipe away the sleep from his face, but it was unresponsive.
He fluttered his eyes open, hoping to get his tear ducts working so his sleepy vision would clear. The muscles in his neck burned from his head hanging over the back of the bench as he'd slept, and his mouth was tacky and dry - likely from his mouth having hung open.
Looking down, he noticed he'd become an improvised pillow. Both Susan and Michelle were propped up against him, with Michelle laying on him, and Susan laying on Michelle. Michelle was curled up towards the front, nearly laying all the way down, with Frank's arm serving as the pillow.
He tried to gently lift her head to reacquire his arm, hoping she wouldn't wake. He placed her head back on his thigh. She stirred slightly, but did not fully wake. There was a serene look on her face; Frank took a moment to appreciate it, but it threw up dissonance against the day's events. Better to not dwell on such things, he mused.
Frank leaned forward between the seats, stretching his lower back and neck as he did so. "Why are we slowing? What time is it?" he said groggily.
Bruce responded. "We're about 230 miles from Minneapolis now and need to make a driver change. Mitch is getting weary."
With a lopsided grin, Mitch looked back at Frank and said, "Guess who's turn it is?"
Mitch found a a daytime-only gas station several blocks from the exit and parked behind the store. There was infrequent traffic in the town, and most of the buildings - even the business signs - were peculiarly dark. There were no signs that the power was out, just that everyone had turned their lights out.
The three men stiffly crawled from the van, walking around a bit before resuming their travel. Mitch pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to Bruce, and the two of them lit up.
Frank leaned against the van and started to stretch. He was still somewhat sluggish - mentally and physically - and sore from the nap.
"Did I miss anything when I was asleep?" he asked. He felt himself going weak in the knees. I'm probably light-headed from the nap still, he thought.
A moment later he found himself kneeling on the ground and leaning against the side of the car, sobs racking his body. The day's events raced through his mind as phantoms, never remaining long enough for him to grasp, bashing themselves against the preconceptions and beliefs he'd established over the years. The societal rule of law? Justice? Innocent until proven guilty? Right to a trial? Truth? Frank didn't understand himself. How could such foundational beliefs be torn down so quickly?
Bruce and Mitch came over to Frank and helped him up, with one supporting him underneath each shoulder.
Mitch fished in his pocket for his cigarettes, took one out, and stuck it in Frank's lips, lighting it in one smooth motion.
"You know I don't smoke," Frank mumbled. But he realized it wasn't true as soon as he said it - at least for the moment - as he'd already started to puff and inhale the cloying smoke.
"They might kill you from cancer eventually, but this one will help for the time being," Bruce said.
The two sat silently with Frank for a moment longer, until Bruce spoke again.
"Mitch, I need a moment alone with Frank." Mitch nodded and walked over towards the corner of the building, careful to remain in the shadows.
Bruce grabbed Frank's shoulder firmly - firmly enough to capture Frank's attention, but not so firm as to convey anger or hostility.
"Frank, we need you to pull yourself together." Frank's eyes wandered slightly from Bruce. "Look at me. There are only 5 of us here, and from what we've already seen today, things are - shall we say - unstable. It surprised me almost as much as I'm sure it does you, but right now you've got - we've got - a responsibility, and we need your head screwed on straight."
Bruce gestured up towards the open sliding door of the van. No words were needed to convey the significance of the movement, and Frank's expression changed to that of stern determination. He nodded his head, took a deep breath, and forced himself up from the ground.
Frank realized he was still wearing his suit and dress shoes, and he'd just been sitting on the dirty back alley of a gas station. Thoughts of quickly changing into something more comfortable and practical were interrupted by Mitch running up to the van with a look of excitement on his face.
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enfield303
Member
Moar please?
LJ-MosinFreak-Buck
Member
yes please! Amazing
GrizzlyGraves
Member
The story is great. I'm enjoying it.
Did you notice that you called the Frank character Jason several times during the journey in the van? Not a huge deal but I thought you might like to know.
Keep it coming, please.
Did you notice that you called the Frank character Jason several times during the journey in the van? Not a huge deal but I thought you might like to know.
Keep it coming, please.
justin 561
Member
nicely done. cant wait to read more.
wtchdr4011
Member
- Joined
- Sep 3, 2007
- Messages
- 4
tagged for later
wtchdr4011
Member
- Joined
- Sep 3, 2007
- Messages
- 4
Great story. Need more.
I'm enjoying the story, and I didn't have a hard time, at all, getting into it. The stark difference between cultures of chapter 1 and 2, plus the shooting of the brother was enough to create questions and suspense. I'm eagerly awaiting more...come on, it's the weekend!!! Write, write, write!!!
justin 561
Member
When you write your book and get it published, be sure to send a copy to my home. 
Triphammer
Member
OK. I'm in.
I'd like some more, please.
I'd like some more, please.
Robby
Member
Excellent work! I did notice some how Jason got in the van somehow in this last section??
Here's the next chapter; I should note that I've gone back and revised the first chapter substantially, because it sucked. It's entirely different, so you might want to go read it again: there's an additional character who is important to the development of the Jason character in Chapter 11.
This chapter (9) is a bit slow, but it's important setup. (Or so I think.)
ETA: That first chapter I rewrote? I can't find the damn thing; it's gone missing. So forget about that; I think I'll have to add it elsewhere.
Edit #2, because I'm an idiot: hey, guess what grep and I found? Part of that chapter 1 I was looking for, that's what. But I think it'll fit better at a later point anyway, so I'm going to leave it out for now.
--------------
Chapter 9: Long Overdue
Jason awoke to the sounds of diesel hydraulics and a chainsaw. He stretched, noticing the sun's position in the sky through his window; he'd slept in, and the sun's early morning coolness was taking on the harsh pallor of afternoon.
Making his way down the hall towards the kitchen, he noticed he was still wearing the clothes he'd put on the morning before, and he had in fact slept in them. He was still too groggy to really care.
Having heard Jason awake, Mary Anne stood in the kitchen holding a plate of eggs and toast and a cup of coffee.
"Good morning sleepy," she crooned. Jason mumbled a "morning" and sat at the table to eat. The coffee quickly brought him to alertness.
"Mom, what's going on out there in the yard with all the noise?"
"Oh, your dad has gotten it into his head to get some of his neglected projects done." There was a weary look on her face which Jason could not quite place - he'd only seen it on her once before, when he'd fallen out of a tree while bow hunting.
"What's he doing?"
"Oh, you know him. He's always got something in mind, but never shares it completely. He heard something on the radio early this morning and took off without much of an explanation." Mary Anne stepped to the window and pulled back the drapes. "Something to do with clearing trees and digging ditches, it looks like." A slight grin graced her face.
Jason quickly scarfed down what remained of his eggs as he pulled on his boots.
"What are you all up in a huff about?" Mary Anne said. "His emergency isn't your's. Have some more eggs." She shoveled another couple eggs onto his plate.
"No thanks, Mom. I've got stuff to do today, too." Jason grabbed one of the many hats always hanging next to the door - a beaten western cowboy hat - and ran out to survey his father's work.
Dan Hutches was motoring around the property on a Bobcat. He waved to Jason as he came from the house, the noise of the engine masking any verbal greetings which accompanied the movement of his lips.
There was already evidence of tree stumps having been pulled out or dug up. There was a large pile of stones and a freshly disturbed area of soil next to the small garden kept by Mary Anne.
Jason started walking towards his dad, who was on the edge of the clearing the house sat on. Marcus held a chainsaw and was intently cutting down pines from the edge of the forest. Dozens of felled trees lay on the ground, their pinnacles pointing towards the house.
The noise of the chainsaw covered Jason's approach. "Dad!" Jason yelled as he stood a distance off in Marcus's peripheral vision. Marcus looked up and killed the chainsaw.
"What's going on here, Dad?"
"Oh, I'm cutting trees," Marcus deadpanned. Seeing Jason's confusion, he continued with a grin. "Forest Service reported over the radio this morning. A fire started north of here yesterday afternoon. It's a big one, and they can't get any federal help due to everything going on.
"So, just in case it blows this way, I'm clearing out the stuff that burns. Dan said he'd come out sometime soon to make Mom's garden bigger, so I figured now was as good a time as any. He's going to scrape the brush with that thing." Marcus gestured towards Dan's Bobcat, steadily moving around the property like an ant, pulling and pushing.
"Any other news on the radio this morning?" Jason asked.
"Not a thing. We're not picking up the nationally syndicated stuff anymore for some reason, but the local channels that host them are still up and broadcasting. They reported twice this morning about the weather and local events, but they don't seem to have any extra information about this mess."
Marcus's voice trailed off as he stared off into the distance for a moment. Again, he spoke.
"If you wouldn't mind helping, the tractor is in the barn and the other chainsaw is in the utility building. I want to at least clear up the small stuff today. We can leave the tree trunks in a pile to season, and chop them into firewood later."
The three men worked until mid-afternoon clearing the underbrush from around the property's perimeter. The small branches and bushes were put into slash piles and burned, with anything big enough to be used for winter heating was cut into logs and stacked behind the house. Jason used the tractor to pull the trimmed tree trunks into a pile.
As the sun began to set around the southwestern lip of the gulch, Mary Anne came from the house with three cold bottles of beer. The men stopped their work and took seats on the piles of wood.
"Dinner will be ready in about an hour, boys," Mary Anne said as she returned to the house.
"Dad, I was hoping we could get the raised floor done in my dome this weekend, if you've got the time," Jason said after a long drought from his beer.
"We should be able to get to that tomorrow," Marcus said. "Dan, thanks for coming out and helping today. You're welcome to stay for dinner, obviously."
"That'd be great, thanks much." Dan sat silently for a moment, looking up at the ridge of the gulch. "Looks like the fire is getting closer. The sun is a bit hazy, and you can almost see the smoke."
"Dan, we can drive over to your place tomorrow and help clear some brush instead of working on the flooring," Jason said. Dan's ranch was about 10 miles to the east of the Kreign farm, and would likely be in the path of the fire as well.
"I don't know if that's necessary. Mike's done all of that at our place already. He did it at the start of the summer, on account of the drought and all. But thanks anyway."
"Just let us know if you need help with anything," Marcus added.
Mary Anne returned to the door of the house and yelled across the yard. "Jason, your phone rang about an hour ago, and has been beeping since. I forgot to tell you."
"Thanks, Mom; I'll get it in a minute," Jason returned.
The two older men exchanged glances.
"What?" said Jason, having noticed the expressions.
"Dan, didn't you tell me this morning your cellular service wasn't working?" Marcus said.
"Yep, it went out a little while after I got off the phone with you last night. Maybe 20 minutes after." Dan pulled his cell phone from his shirt breast pocket. "Nope, still no signal."
"I should check mine, haven't even looked since yesterday," Marcus said as he got up from the log he was sitting on. The other two men followed him into the house.
Jason was surprised to see that not only did his phone have signal - about as much as he normally had in this area - but he had a new voice mail.
Maybe the government has gotten things under control, Jason thought as his phone rang in his ear.
"Jason, it's Amy. I've had a really scary night and I don't know what's going on right now. I'm a little drunk but I promise not to come on to you if you'll come and keep me company. Please call." The message ended with Amy's voice wavering.
This chapter (9) is a bit slow, but it's important setup. (Or so I think.
)ETA: That first chapter I rewrote? I can't find the damn thing; it's gone missing. So forget about that; I think I'll have to add it elsewhere.
Edit #2, because I'm an idiot: hey, guess what grep and I found? Part of that chapter 1 I was looking for, that's what. But I think it'll fit better at a later point anyway, so I'm going to leave it out for now.
--------------
Chapter 9: Long Overdue
Jason awoke to the sounds of diesel hydraulics and a chainsaw. He stretched, noticing the sun's position in the sky through his window; he'd slept in, and the sun's early morning coolness was taking on the harsh pallor of afternoon.
Making his way down the hall towards the kitchen, he noticed he was still wearing the clothes he'd put on the morning before, and he had in fact slept in them. He was still too groggy to really care.
Having heard Jason awake, Mary Anne stood in the kitchen holding a plate of eggs and toast and a cup of coffee.
"Good morning sleepy," she crooned. Jason mumbled a "morning" and sat at the table to eat. The coffee quickly brought him to alertness.
"Mom, what's going on out there in the yard with all the noise?"
"Oh, your dad has gotten it into his head to get some of his neglected projects done." There was a weary look on her face which Jason could not quite place - he'd only seen it on her once before, when he'd fallen out of a tree while bow hunting.
"What's he doing?"
"Oh, you know him. He's always got something in mind, but never shares it completely. He heard something on the radio early this morning and took off without much of an explanation." Mary Anne stepped to the window and pulled back the drapes. "Something to do with clearing trees and digging ditches, it looks like." A slight grin graced her face.
Jason quickly scarfed down what remained of his eggs as he pulled on his boots.
"What are you all up in a huff about?" Mary Anne said. "His emergency isn't your's. Have some more eggs." She shoveled another couple eggs onto his plate.
"No thanks, Mom. I've got stuff to do today, too." Jason grabbed one of the many hats always hanging next to the door - a beaten western cowboy hat - and ran out to survey his father's work.
Dan Hutches was motoring around the property on a Bobcat. He waved to Jason as he came from the house, the noise of the engine masking any verbal greetings which accompanied the movement of his lips.
There was already evidence of tree stumps having been pulled out or dug up. There was a large pile of stones and a freshly disturbed area of soil next to the small garden kept by Mary Anne.
Jason started walking towards his dad, who was on the edge of the clearing the house sat on. Marcus held a chainsaw and was intently cutting down pines from the edge of the forest. Dozens of felled trees lay on the ground, their pinnacles pointing towards the house.
The noise of the chainsaw covered Jason's approach. "Dad!" Jason yelled as he stood a distance off in Marcus's peripheral vision. Marcus looked up and killed the chainsaw.
"What's going on here, Dad?"
"Oh, I'm cutting trees," Marcus deadpanned. Seeing Jason's confusion, he continued with a grin. "Forest Service reported over the radio this morning. A fire started north of here yesterday afternoon. It's a big one, and they can't get any federal help due to everything going on.
"So, just in case it blows this way, I'm clearing out the stuff that burns. Dan said he'd come out sometime soon to make Mom's garden bigger, so I figured now was as good a time as any. He's going to scrape the brush with that thing." Marcus gestured towards Dan's Bobcat, steadily moving around the property like an ant, pulling and pushing.
"Any other news on the radio this morning?" Jason asked.
"Not a thing. We're not picking up the nationally syndicated stuff anymore for some reason, but the local channels that host them are still up and broadcasting. They reported twice this morning about the weather and local events, but they don't seem to have any extra information about this mess."
Marcus's voice trailed off as he stared off into the distance for a moment. Again, he spoke.
"If you wouldn't mind helping, the tractor is in the barn and the other chainsaw is in the utility building. I want to at least clear up the small stuff today. We can leave the tree trunks in a pile to season, and chop them into firewood later."
The three men worked until mid-afternoon clearing the underbrush from around the property's perimeter. The small branches and bushes were put into slash piles and burned, with anything big enough to be used for winter heating was cut into logs and stacked behind the house. Jason used the tractor to pull the trimmed tree trunks into a pile.
As the sun began to set around the southwestern lip of the gulch, Mary Anne came from the house with three cold bottles of beer. The men stopped their work and took seats on the piles of wood.
"Dinner will be ready in about an hour, boys," Mary Anne said as she returned to the house.
"Dad, I was hoping we could get the raised floor done in my dome this weekend, if you've got the time," Jason said after a long drought from his beer.
"We should be able to get to that tomorrow," Marcus said. "Dan, thanks for coming out and helping today. You're welcome to stay for dinner, obviously."
"That'd be great, thanks much." Dan sat silently for a moment, looking up at the ridge of the gulch. "Looks like the fire is getting closer. The sun is a bit hazy, and you can almost see the smoke."
"Dan, we can drive over to your place tomorrow and help clear some brush instead of working on the flooring," Jason said. Dan's ranch was about 10 miles to the east of the Kreign farm, and would likely be in the path of the fire as well.
"I don't know if that's necessary. Mike's done all of that at our place already. He did it at the start of the summer, on account of the drought and all. But thanks anyway."
"Just let us know if you need help with anything," Marcus added.
Mary Anne returned to the door of the house and yelled across the yard. "Jason, your phone rang about an hour ago, and has been beeping since. I forgot to tell you."
"Thanks, Mom; I'll get it in a minute," Jason returned.
The two older men exchanged glances.
"What?" said Jason, having noticed the expressions.
"Dan, didn't you tell me this morning your cellular service wasn't working?" Marcus said.
"Yep, it went out a little while after I got off the phone with you last night. Maybe 20 minutes after." Dan pulled his cell phone from his shirt breast pocket. "Nope, still no signal."
"I should check mine, haven't even looked since yesterday," Marcus said as he got up from the log he was sitting on. The other two men followed him into the house.
Jason was surprised to see that not only did his phone have signal - about as much as he normally had in this area - but he had a new voice mail.
Maybe the government has gotten things under control, Jason thought as his phone rang in his ear.
"Jason, it's Amy. I've had a really scary night and I don't know what's going on right now. I'm a little drunk but I promise not to come on to you if you'll come and keep me company. Please call." The message ended with Amy's voice wavering.
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LJ-MosinFreak-Buck
Member
Very good, Caimlas.
I'm really looking forward to more. This turning out awesome.
I'm really looking forward to more. This turning out awesome.
OK, here's another chapter - Chapter 10. Happy Father's Day! As we fathers are likely aware, Father's Day isn't for fathers, its for the kids. I didn't get a chance to write/finish another chapter today, but might tonight, but here's another chapter anyway...
------------
Chapter 10: Hit and Run
Mitch spoke in a hushed voice, not quite a whisper. "Quietly get back into the van, I think we're going to have to leave in a hurry." The sound of an approaching vehicle's engine grew from around the corner of the gas station store.
"Frank is driving," Bruce said as he grabbed his rifle up again.
"You sure?" Mitch said, looking intently at Frank's face.
"Good to go," Frank said with a thumbs up, as he rounded the front of the van to the driver's side door. Mitch climbed in the back seat and slowly slid the door shut. The noise was still enough to rouse Susan and Michelle from their sleep, who groggily sat up and immediately started to ask what was going on.
The three men leaned in towards the center of the van and started telling the girls what was happening. Mitch spoke quickly.
"We made a quick stop to change drivers, and I think I just alerted a group of brigands of our presence." He looked inwardly for a second, and then violently swore. "Frank, don't go yet, I don't know for sure that they saw me, and they don't know we're in the van.”
The five of them huddled low in their seats, Frank and Bruce sitting in front and peering over the dash towards the corner of the building.
An old Chevy pickup with a raised suspension, off-road tires and a roll bar slowly came into view. The nearby street lamp illuminated three large black men with gold jewelry standing in the back. The glint of a pistol and the silhouette of an AK were visible, with deep shadows obscuring the truck's cab.
Frank tried to make his body dissolve into his seat, hoping they didn't drive by and look in his window. He was unable to crouch in the footwell area as Bruce was doing beside him.
The truck gunned its engine and accelerated into a turn, coming right at the van. It turned sharply, passing the van, and came to a halt just behind the van on the driver's side.
As soon as the truck had passed, Mitch hopped up and started digging underneath the bench in the back, being careful to not make any noise. Excited talking was audible outside the van, as was the shift in tone of he truck's engine as it shifted into park. A vehicle door slam was audible.
Frank took the moment of obscured vision to edge off the seat and crouch, facing the door, between the two bucket seats. It was a tight fit, and he had difficulty trying to reach his pistol. He felt someone tapping his left shoulder.
In the low light, it looked like Mitch was handing him a pistol. Frank reached for it, and upon receipt, realized it was something else entirely: a Brugger and Thomet MP-9 submachine gun, with . It was the direct, modernized descendant of the Styr TMP design: polymerized and lightweight, with accessory options and a forward pistol grip. Frank had recently tried a case involving one such autopistol which had been used during a gas station hold-up: that pistol had belonged to a European police force, and through an odd chain of events had landed up in his court room.
Frank looked at Mitch questioningly. Where did you get this?
Mitch read the intent in Frank's gaze. “It's set to 'giggle' so watch your followup shots,” he whispered with a smirk on his face. Mitch held an identical pistol in his hand.
“Full automatic?” Frank said. He couldn't believe his good friend would so blatantly disrespect the law. You simply couldn't get these weapons in the US.
He was pulled out of his thoughts again by footsteps approaching his door. In their excitement, they had forgotten to lock the doors to the van!
A silhouette moved in front of the door and pulled open the door. Frank noticed the glint of a pistol in the thug's right hand.
“Hah! These idiots left...”
Before the thug could finish his sentence, a percussive clap erupted from the van, stitching several shots from his breastbone to his larynx. He made one last sound – a wet gurgle, as the air escaped his lungs – before his carcass spilled to the ground.
Time slowed down as Frank became keenly aware of his pulse, breathing, and other bodily functions. Despite this, realization was yet to sink in what had just happened; he barely realized that he'd been the one to pull the trigger.
Frank was barely aware of the sliding door of the van slamming open, with Mitch tumbling out. His ears were ringing, but he could still hear the popping sound of rounds being rapidly fired and of people yelling.
Frank tried to climb out from between the seats, but his limbs felt like brutish clubs. He stepped up onto the driver's seat while holding onto the steering wheel. His left foot caught on the seatbelt as he tried to jump to the ground, throwing him forward to the ground.
The wind was knocked from Frank's lungs from the fall, blurring his vision in the momentary shock. He looked up to see a hazy figure, and a flash accompanied by the familiar ka-chunk sound of a Kalashnikov rifle. The figure hopped – limped? - around to the rear of the pickup and jumped in, barely getting over the tailgate before the pickup sped off.
Mitch rounded the back of the van, following the truck with a final, short volley of fire.
“Are you alright?” Mitch said, the words sounding as if said through a pillow.
Frank stood slowly, still somewhat dazed from the fall. His head hurt, and he felt dizzy.
Bruce came around the front of the van while holstering his pistol and helped Frank stand. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shined it in Frank's eyes.
“You hit your head in that fall. Get in the back, you can't drive. It's not a bad concussion, but you're in no shape to drive this thing,” Bruce said.
Bruce passed Frank over to Mitch, who put Frank's arm over his own shoulders.
“I'll drive,” Bruce said as he gently pried the MP-9 from Frank's sweaty grasp.
As Mitch and Frank came into view of the open sliding door, Mitch quickly jumped backwards. Susan was sitting, crouched on the floor, holding Mitch's AK, pointing it right at Mitch's face.
Susan screamed and Mitch yelled. There was a tense moment of silence before Susan raised the rifle to point in a safe direction.
Susan clamored from the van, muttering “oh my god” and “I'm sorry” under her breath repeatedly. She stopped for a second to ask, “Frank, are you OK?”
Frank tried to respond, but all that came out was a groggy mumble. He felt more alert, but his head was absolutely splitting. He climbed into the back middle as Bruce started up the engine, closing his eyes to try and dull the pain.
How could he be such an idiot? He thought. He felt more like a burden to their efforts than an assistance, and wished desperately that he wouldn't make another stupid mistake like that again as he drifted silently into unconsciousness.
----
It's a lot harder to find excuses for gun fights in a non-zombie story.
------------
Chapter 10: Hit and Run
Mitch spoke in a hushed voice, not quite a whisper. "Quietly get back into the van, I think we're going to have to leave in a hurry." The sound of an approaching vehicle's engine grew from around the corner of the gas station store.
"Frank is driving," Bruce said as he grabbed his rifle up again.
"You sure?" Mitch said, looking intently at Frank's face.
"Good to go," Frank said with a thumbs up, as he rounded the front of the van to the driver's side door. Mitch climbed in the back seat and slowly slid the door shut. The noise was still enough to rouse Susan and Michelle from their sleep, who groggily sat up and immediately started to ask what was going on.
The three men leaned in towards the center of the van and started telling the girls what was happening. Mitch spoke quickly.
"We made a quick stop to change drivers, and I think I just alerted a group of brigands of our presence." He looked inwardly for a second, and then violently swore. "Frank, don't go yet, I don't know for sure that they saw me, and they don't know we're in the van.”
The five of them huddled low in their seats, Frank and Bruce sitting in front and peering over the dash towards the corner of the building.
An old Chevy pickup with a raised suspension, off-road tires and a roll bar slowly came into view. The nearby street lamp illuminated three large black men with gold jewelry standing in the back. The glint of a pistol and the silhouette of an AK were visible, with deep shadows obscuring the truck's cab.
Frank tried to make his body dissolve into his seat, hoping they didn't drive by and look in his window. He was unable to crouch in the footwell area as Bruce was doing beside him.
The truck gunned its engine and accelerated into a turn, coming right at the van. It turned sharply, passing the van, and came to a halt just behind the van on the driver's side.
As soon as the truck had passed, Mitch hopped up and started digging underneath the bench in the back, being careful to not make any noise. Excited talking was audible outside the van, as was the shift in tone of he truck's engine as it shifted into park. A vehicle door slam was audible.
Frank took the moment of obscured vision to edge off the seat and crouch, facing the door, between the two bucket seats. It was a tight fit, and he had difficulty trying to reach his pistol. He felt someone tapping his left shoulder.
In the low light, it looked like Mitch was handing him a pistol. Frank reached for it, and upon receipt, realized it was something else entirely: a Brugger and Thomet MP-9 submachine gun, with . It was the direct, modernized descendant of the Styr TMP design: polymerized and lightweight, with accessory options and a forward pistol grip. Frank had recently tried a case involving one such autopistol which had been used during a gas station hold-up: that pistol had belonged to a European police force, and through an odd chain of events had landed up in his court room.
Frank looked at Mitch questioningly. Where did you get this?
Mitch read the intent in Frank's gaze. “It's set to 'giggle' so watch your followup shots,” he whispered with a smirk on his face. Mitch held an identical pistol in his hand.
“Full automatic?” Frank said. He couldn't believe his good friend would so blatantly disrespect the law. You simply couldn't get these weapons in the US.
He was pulled out of his thoughts again by footsteps approaching his door. In their excitement, they had forgotten to lock the doors to the van!
A silhouette moved in front of the door and pulled open the door. Frank noticed the glint of a pistol in the thug's right hand.
“Hah! These idiots left...”
Before the thug could finish his sentence, a percussive clap erupted from the van, stitching several shots from his breastbone to his larynx. He made one last sound – a wet gurgle, as the air escaped his lungs – before his carcass spilled to the ground.
Time slowed down as Frank became keenly aware of his pulse, breathing, and other bodily functions. Despite this, realization was yet to sink in what had just happened; he barely realized that he'd been the one to pull the trigger.
Frank was barely aware of the sliding door of the van slamming open, with Mitch tumbling out. His ears were ringing, but he could still hear the popping sound of rounds being rapidly fired and of people yelling.
Frank tried to climb out from between the seats, but his limbs felt like brutish clubs. He stepped up onto the driver's seat while holding onto the steering wheel. His left foot caught on the seatbelt as he tried to jump to the ground, throwing him forward to the ground.
The wind was knocked from Frank's lungs from the fall, blurring his vision in the momentary shock. He looked up to see a hazy figure, and a flash accompanied by the familiar ka-chunk sound of a Kalashnikov rifle. The figure hopped – limped? - around to the rear of the pickup and jumped in, barely getting over the tailgate before the pickup sped off.
Mitch rounded the back of the van, following the truck with a final, short volley of fire.
“Are you alright?” Mitch said, the words sounding as if said through a pillow.
Frank stood slowly, still somewhat dazed from the fall. His head hurt, and he felt dizzy.
Bruce came around the front of the van while holstering his pistol and helped Frank stand. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shined it in Frank's eyes.
“You hit your head in that fall. Get in the back, you can't drive. It's not a bad concussion, but you're in no shape to drive this thing,” Bruce said.
Bruce passed Frank over to Mitch, who put Frank's arm over his own shoulders.
“I'll drive,” Bruce said as he gently pried the MP-9 from Frank's sweaty grasp.
As Mitch and Frank came into view of the open sliding door, Mitch quickly jumped backwards. Susan was sitting, crouched on the floor, holding Mitch's AK, pointing it right at Mitch's face.
Susan screamed and Mitch yelled. There was a tense moment of silence before Susan raised the rifle to point in a safe direction.
Susan clamored from the van, muttering “oh my god” and “I'm sorry” under her breath repeatedly. She stopped for a second to ask, “Frank, are you OK?”
Frank tried to respond, but all that came out was a groggy mumble. He felt more alert, but his head was absolutely splitting. He climbed into the back middle as Bruce started up the engine, closing his eyes to try and dull the pain.
How could he be such an idiot? He thought. He felt more like a burden to their efforts than an assistance, and wished desperately that he wouldn't make another stupid mistake like that again as he drifted silently into unconsciousness.
----
It's a lot harder to find excuses for gun fights in a non-zombie story.
LJ-MosinFreak-Buck
Member
I was glued. Very good and sounds realisitic. Keep at it.
357fan
Member
Awesome. Keep it coming.
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