Post by Michael7123 on Oct 2, 2014 3:47:34 GMT
Be warned, this is pretty depressing. And some things here are deliberately vague. You'll see what I mean soon enough. Italics represent internal thought.
Oh, and last thing, this takes place in Southern Arizona, pretty close to the border, and in the year 2021
The Sleeping Wolves
Book 1 of the Chronicles of the Grey Plague (All titles are WIP)
Prologue, Alpha Draft.
Vidal:
How long had he been lying flat on his stomach among the sand and trees? It had definitely been at least five hours, he knew that much. He didn't dare to check his watch, he couldn't afford to miss this shot. None of us can afford me missing this shot.
He knew the surroundings around this area like the back of his hands. He’d spent a good chunk of his life up north around the Davis-Monthan Air force Base. This place was like a second home to him. It was his only home now, ever since the Grey Plague came.
After what he saw back in his hometown, after seeing what the plague had turned his family into, he never wanted to go back there again. He’d seen them all. His younger brother and sister, his parents, and his grandfather, only their in body. Their minds were long gone at that point. His grandfather must have been the first to show symptoms, seeing as he’d been tucked nicely into bed.
Even back then, just a week into the damn thing, he had heard stories of folks who had put their entire families down. To be honest, those were some the last reports he’d heard. He’d been in those shoes himself, the barrel of his pistol had been resting against his grandfather’s temple. He had hated the old bastard. He’d stopped working at 55, expecting his daughter, to take care of him. She loved her old man for whatever reason. There had been plenty of times when he’d mutter into his pillow that he’d kill the son of a bitch whenever he got his chance to.
He had entered his house with ten bullets in his pistol. He came out with the same number. One by one, he went around the house, placing the business end of his pistol against the head of each member of his family. He wasn't able to pull the trigger even once. Knowing how the plague worked, they’d probably died of dehydration before the fever knocked them out.
I couldn't do it then. How can I do it now? He had no choice. Besides, his group had taken him back in when he had already deserted them once. They even gave him his old room back. Can’t really say there was much competition though.
It was nighttime, but that didn't change anything other than the temperature. Most people would consider this nice weather, but it’s cold for this time of year. The rifle he was using had an infrared scope that could be switched on at will, so the darkness wouldn't have affected his shot, even if his target wouldn't be in the only place with electricity for miles around. The base – or rather, what was left of it- was like a beacon in the desert. Some would call it a beacon of hope in an otherwise hopeless world. Others would probably call it the world’s biggest “raiders welcome” sign.
A series of seven gunshots faintly rang out behind him. Too many shots for a suicide. Well, at least for an individual suicide. Someone might have taken his family along with him. Maybe a short lived firefight between two people. Three of them at the most. Gunshots were all too common these days.
The wind started picking up, and a small speck of sand flew into his eye. He brushed it away as silently as he could manage. He’d lived with the stuff all his life, but he’d never fully gotten used to it. His movement was concealed by the trees around him, and he didn't think anyone was looking for him. His patrol was still on a supply run, and people went AWOL every day. There couldn't be more than 125 of them left at this point. They were losing more people to desertion than to raiders or the plague at this point.
The Grey Plague had picked most of them off. The actual outbreak began- at least, according to the last semi-credible sources who broadcasted- two weeks before anyone’s skin started going grey. The bacteria was stealthy to an insane degree, and to make matters worse, people were contagious a week before the first symptoms showed. People felt perfectly healthy one week, and would be grey skinned and blank eyed the next. That was what was so horrifying about the plague. Those same news sources said that some people were naturally immune to the thing, and he was fairly sure that he was one of them. But for all he knew, he’d wake up tomorrow with grey skin.
He saw a light flash next to him, and quickly glanced over towards his radio, which had a small light on it that did… something to do with the battery level. Probably. She’d told him that it was some knew technology, almost completely undetectable. How had she put it? “The stealth bomber of radios.” He doubted that anyone was searching for any sort of radio chatter, but they couldn't be too careful. If anyone down their found out about what he was doing, they’d all be dead. We’d rip ourselves to pieces.
He looked down his scope with his eye. His rifle was mounted on a bipod in the sand helping him with stability. The gun was some sort of Chinese prototype that used some sort of magnetic system to fire a 50 caliber round without gunpowder. Minimal sound, recoil, and absolutely no muzzle flash. She’d told him that all he would have to do is aim at the corporal, and fire. How she’d managed to get a hold of the thing, he never asked. His guess was that they’d shared a couple of models with the Mexican government, considering how close the two nations were after the Treaty of 2019, two years back.
A vaguely familiar voice came through over the radio, speaking in Spanish. “Hola. Lapis. Adios.”
That was the code for the go ahead. It couldn't be from anyone else but from the group. On top of his certainty that nobody other than the five of them could even reach this radio, what had come through would be gibberish to anyone, regardless of if they spoke Spanish or not.
He focused on the concrete slab where his target would be any moment. The butstock of the rifle was resting against his shoulder, his right index finger resting against the trigger.
You have to do this. You don’t have a choice. She already tried reasoning with him.
The door to the building opened, and a woman walked through his scope. She was wearing an airforce uniform –minus her hat- with a Major’s silver leaf on her shoulder. Her skin was white and her hair was fiery red, and she was walking away from him at an angle, shaking her head.
The grey haired Corporal was following right in her footsteps, just a couple of feet away.
He led his target by a small fraction, making sure his bullet would reach the target. I don’t have a choice.
He fired, and watched as the Corporal’s throat exploded in a flash of red. He jerked his head away from horrid sight, but that didn’t prevent the scene from replaying itself in his mind.
In the two weeks he had left his group, he’d seen his share of horror, and even been shot at a few times, but he’d never killed before.
He stood up, picking up his rifle as a feeling of utter disgust entered him, and he proceeded to empty his stomach.
He knew it would be bad. But he hadn’t quite expected it to feel this bad. What have I done? I was a fucking pilot before all this. Why did I have to draw the short straw? One of the other’s must have done this before?
A twig snapped behind him, and he whipped around, accidentally firing a round in that general direction. Unfortunately for him, someone cried out in pain, and the courtesy was returned as he felt a bullet enter his right shoulder. He motioned to lift up the gun, but his shoulder exploded in pain.
Something threw itself at him, and he felt himself falling back into his own vomit. His left hand must have accidentally brushed against his head in the tumble, as the small flashlight mounted on his helmet came to life.
There was a Hispanic woman standing over him now, with one foot resting on his chest. She was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black jacket of some description, and a pair of hiking boots. A knife was in her hand, and all he could do was claw at her boot with his left hand and watch as it plummeted towards his chest.
Oh, and last thing, this takes place in Southern Arizona, pretty close to the border, and in the year 2021
The Sleeping Wolves
Book 1 of the Chronicles of the Grey Plague (All titles are WIP)
Prologue, Alpha Draft.
Vidal:
How long had he been lying flat on his stomach among the sand and trees? It had definitely been at least five hours, he knew that much. He didn't dare to check his watch, he couldn't afford to miss this shot. None of us can afford me missing this shot.
He knew the surroundings around this area like the back of his hands. He’d spent a good chunk of his life up north around the Davis-Monthan Air force Base. This place was like a second home to him. It was his only home now, ever since the Grey Plague came.
After what he saw back in his hometown, after seeing what the plague had turned his family into, he never wanted to go back there again. He’d seen them all. His younger brother and sister, his parents, and his grandfather, only their in body. Their minds were long gone at that point. His grandfather must have been the first to show symptoms, seeing as he’d been tucked nicely into bed.
Even back then, just a week into the damn thing, he had heard stories of folks who had put their entire families down. To be honest, those were some the last reports he’d heard. He’d been in those shoes himself, the barrel of his pistol had been resting against his grandfather’s temple. He had hated the old bastard. He’d stopped working at 55, expecting his daughter, to take care of him. She loved her old man for whatever reason. There had been plenty of times when he’d mutter into his pillow that he’d kill the son of a bitch whenever he got his chance to.
He had entered his house with ten bullets in his pistol. He came out with the same number. One by one, he went around the house, placing the business end of his pistol against the head of each member of his family. He wasn't able to pull the trigger even once. Knowing how the plague worked, they’d probably died of dehydration before the fever knocked them out.
I couldn't do it then. How can I do it now? He had no choice. Besides, his group had taken him back in when he had already deserted them once. They even gave him his old room back. Can’t really say there was much competition though.
It was nighttime, but that didn't change anything other than the temperature. Most people would consider this nice weather, but it’s cold for this time of year. The rifle he was using had an infrared scope that could be switched on at will, so the darkness wouldn't have affected his shot, even if his target wouldn't be in the only place with electricity for miles around. The base – or rather, what was left of it- was like a beacon in the desert. Some would call it a beacon of hope in an otherwise hopeless world. Others would probably call it the world’s biggest “raiders welcome” sign.
A series of seven gunshots faintly rang out behind him. Too many shots for a suicide. Well, at least for an individual suicide. Someone might have taken his family along with him. Maybe a short lived firefight between two people. Three of them at the most. Gunshots were all too common these days.
The wind started picking up, and a small speck of sand flew into his eye. He brushed it away as silently as he could manage. He’d lived with the stuff all his life, but he’d never fully gotten used to it. His movement was concealed by the trees around him, and he didn't think anyone was looking for him. His patrol was still on a supply run, and people went AWOL every day. There couldn't be more than 125 of them left at this point. They were losing more people to desertion than to raiders or the plague at this point.
The Grey Plague had picked most of them off. The actual outbreak began- at least, according to the last semi-credible sources who broadcasted- two weeks before anyone’s skin started going grey. The bacteria was stealthy to an insane degree, and to make matters worse, people were contagious a week before the first symptoms showed. People felt perfectly healthy one week, and would be grey skinned and blank eyed the next. That was what was so horrifying about the plague. Those same news sources said that some people were naturally immune to the thing, and he was fairly sure that he was one of them. But for all he knew, he’d wake up tomorrow with grey skin.
He saw a light flash next to him, and quickly glanced over towards his radio, which had a small light on it that did… something to do with the battery level. Probably. She’d told him that it was some knew technology, almost completely undetectable. How had she put it? “The stealth bomber of radios.” He doubted that anyone was searching for any sort of radio chatter, but they couldn't be too careful. If anyone down their found out about what he was doing, they’d all be dead. We’d rip ourselves to pieces.
He looked down his scope with his eye. His rifle was mounted on a bipod in the sand helping him with stability. The gun was some sort of Chinese prototype that used some sort of magnetic system to fire a 50 caliber round without gunpowder. Minimal sound, recoil, and absolutely no muzzle flash. She’d told him that all he would have to do is aim at the corporal, and fire. How she’d managed to get a hold of the thing, he never asked. His guess was that they’d shared a couple of models with the Mexican government, considering how close the two nations were after the Treaty of 2019, two years back.
A vaguely familiar voice came through over the radio, speaking in Spanish. “Hola. Lapis. Adios.”
That was the code for the go ahead. It couldn't be from anyone else but from the group. On top of his certainty that nobody other than the five of them could even reach this radio, what had come through would be gibberish to anyone, regardless of if they spoke Spanish or not.
He focused on the concrete slab where his target would be any moment. The butstock of the rifle was resting against his shoulder, his right index finger resting against the trigger.
You have to do this. You don’t have a choice. She already tried reasoning with him.
The door to the building opened, and a woman walked through his scope. She was wearing an airforce uniform –minus her hat- with a Major’s silver leaf on her shoulder. Her skin was white and her hair was fiery red, and she was walking away from him at an angle, shaking her head.
The grey haired Corporal was following right in her footsteps, just a couple of feet away.
He led his target by a small fraction, making sure his bullet would reach the target. I don’t have a choice.
He fired, and watched as the Corporal’s throat exploded in a flash of red. He jerked his head away from horrid sight, but that didn’t prevent the scene from replaying itself in his mind.
In the two weeks he had left his group, he’d seen his share of horror, and even been shot at a few times, but he’d never killed before.
He stood up, picking up his rifle as a feeling of utter disgust entered him, and he proceeded to empty his stomach.
He knew it would be bad. But he hadn’t quite expected it to feel this bad. What have I done? I was a fucking pilot before all this. Why did I have to draw the short straw? One of the other’s must have done this before?
A twig snapped behind him, and he whipped around, accidentally firing a round in that general direction. Unfortunately for him, someone cried out in pain, and the courtesy was returned as he felt a bullet enter his right shoulder. He motioned to lift up the gun, but his shoulder exploded in pain.
Something threw itself at him, and he felt himself falling back into his own vomit. His left hand must have accidentally brushed against his head in the tumble, as the small flashlight mounted on his helmet came to life.
There was a Hispanic woman standing over him now, with one foot resting on his chest. She was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black jacket of some description, and a pair of hiking boots. A knife was in her hand, and all he could do was claw at her boot with his left hand and watch as it plummeted towards his chest.