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Old 09-23-2007
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At 5:15 he hit the generator again, the sun bringing a class two commercial satellite-- Crawford's. Steve Irwin was sorely missing out on the fun. By 6:15, he read Mk23's message.
His signal had held for just a while longer in the dark the previous night, the dawn brought him a smile. Today would be a good day.

"A-ok, S-Ga. Set to roll-- need to decrypt coordinates and GTFOD: get the fuck outta Dodge. Headin Northwest and running to the neutral strip. Possible hook up with UZI in Tx. You needin backup or delivery, no msg?"

He hit send with a smirk and went to check the perimeter. Porch and cage were solid as ever, the light blue light streaming over the pine ridge casting everything into a soft velvet. A low, thick rolled across the ground and he stepped off the porch to inspect the haybarn across the yard.

A soft chuffing noise behind a pair of grease drum dropped into a low hum. A pale hand crept over the edge of a steel rim, bracing, the hum curling in a confused tone. With a dry chuckle, a tow headed man stood up on shaky, uncertain legs. milky white eyes locked on the narrow man striding towards the white metal building beside the living corpse. A thick 70's porno style mustache, crusted with god knows what, twitched as the chuckle turned into a growl.

There was the creak of leather as the man approached, the retort of the shot echoing against sheet metal. The Springfield's normally bassoon voice sounded tinny, capped by a shrill whine. Temporarily blinded by the sun over the deadhead's shoulder, he raised his left hand to his brow to see the sun stream through a perfect round hole in the man's silhouette. The body dropped from view, comically, literally like the proverbial sack of potatoes.

He swapped hands with the pistol rather than reholster, barely turning to fire a second shot into the head of another deader than tried to crawl on its belly out from underneath a nearby John Deere.

He pulled the padlock and opened the barn door, hitting the switch before shutting the door. Pale fluerescents flickered twenty-five feet above, setting the room into limelight. The converted machine shop stood open like a highschool classroom. On bench for mechanics. Another long row covered in weapons frames, receivers, castings, and stacks of pin and screw sets. What had once been a seeder was now mounted up on a forklift. Five Lee turret loaders were stacked at each of the no-till's hoppers, the fly wheel at the end rigged to a 12-volt engine by a bicycle chain. Bins of .45, .223, .300win mag and .308 below the deck, old grain tubes dipping into the rubbermaid containers.

The rig had been too complicated and he'd only managed so many rounds of each. Only one set of hands, and there were the raids, and the machining, he'd gotten out of hand. One sad crate of 5.7X28 sat on a back wall next to an immense RCBS press. Bronze .338 Lapua bullets sat on the counter next to the old New Haven lathe. Slightly slmaller .300 Whisper rounds sat waiting to be loaded, the powder already measured.

He needed to pack, but not before another couple hours reloading-- he doubted he'd have time to beat the traffic to BassPro Shop incase he ran out before he reached Shreveport.
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