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Old 09-11-2007
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Act 2 - The Message

He sat in the toolshed surrounded by antiquated firearms and
gear. Remnants from the Eastern Bloc. Guns, receivers, tools,
well organized yet a bit cluttered. This small toolshed
resembled somewhat of an arsenal/armory. To the untrained eye
it would seem to be a forgotten outpost left over from the Cold
War. To those in the know, this was a safehouse for priceless
relics. Mosin Nagants (more than he could count) Russian,
Hungarian, Romanian. SKS rifles, Yugoslavian, Chinese. Cetmes,
Shotguns, an array of pistols, the finest examples of Soviet
engineering. Remnants of a pure time, a time of balance. Now a
last line of defense for humanity.

The somber tones of Arvo Part's "Music of the Kanon" echoes
from the ipod stationed on the small work bench surrounded by
gunsmithing tools and 7.62 ammunition. The message had come
late last night before the internet had finally died.
'Neo Sparta: Haven if you can make it. Bring beer.'
His heart raced, he tried to reply..then the browser
refreshed..."Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage..
Please hit the refresh button or adjust your settings"
And that was that, it was time to move. He packed the trunk
with the most important tools. One sporterized Nagant, an SKS,
a Cetme, a shotgun, every pistol in his collection was on his
person. All of his military gear, food and water would go to.
The laptop on the passenger seat. He had fun on the trips to
the car. The occasional deadhead would come staggering only to
be met by the hiss of a silencer before hitting the ground with
a thud. It was fall now and the chilling wind from Lake Erie
had set in. His mind would get the best of him. He never quite
knew if it was just the rustle of the fallen leaves blowing
about, or another deadhead sneaking up on him. He was on high
alert.

The solitude had gotten the best of him. This neighborhood was
a ghost town. Something from the Twilight Zone. As if Satan
were laughing and saying "Happy Halloween fucker". He had
plenty of "candy" for the trick or treaters. He even left the
door to the shed open while he worked. A deadhead would come
knocking only to be casually dispatched by the .22. Sometimes
he did it out of his peripheral vision without even setting
down his cigarette or interupting his work. It had become that
mundane.

The car was loaded, now he just cleaned up his shop and
prepared to lock it down before he left. He may not be back for
years (or ever). He left a surprise for looters. An old double
barrel shotgun wired to the door. Thieves would be met with
both barrels. He had worked very hard, and spent most of his
adult life collecting this stuff. It wouldn't be given up
without a fight, and he couldn't possibly take all of it with
him.

It was time. He said goodbye to his former home. He even sat at his computer
desk for a while. A place where he had spent so many hours in his previous life.
He pondered a more simple time. The nights of playing computer games,
downloading music, talking hardware on Securityarms. It now seemed like
a million years ago. He climbed into the car and slowly backed out of the
driveway, a dull crunch as he ran over a corpse.

"Here goes nothing" he said aloud.
__________________
You who inherit the heavy privilege to serve in freedom's name, must brace for the battle surely to come.

-- Charlton Heston, 1923-2008

Last edited by D Yankee (The Zionist) : 09-12-2007 at 01:32 AM.
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