stalkere
Banned
Duck and Cover – Don’t turn your back on the Wolfpack
Feb 21 1984
https://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/showthread.php?t=210214
1983- The Brink of Apocalypse – Colonel Stanislav Petrov prevents a nuclear war when a Soviet system malfunctions and reports US ICBM launches
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S_VaTeLnGdo&feature=related – you really ought to look at all eight parts for a good look at this time period. A good look at the ABLE ARCHER exercise.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jlPEBROvR9w – First Strike – a film made with an extraordinary amount of cooperation with Strategic Air Command, about a possible attack on the US in the 1980s. If you look at all three parts, it is a thinly disguised commercial for the MX/GLCM missile increases and MIRV targeting funding increases. But there is a lot of good information here, even so.
I recall the world that was in those days – I was a recently divorced single father in college in those days, a Staff Sergeant in the Air Reserve and scared as hell of the world situation. If I’d know what had really happened, I’d have been terrified.
Duck and Cover! is the American View of the events happening in Protect and Survive, the post-nuclear war Time Line started by Mcgraggle. I recommend you check it out here, reading the first couple of posts and some of the Prospero stories will help you get some context of some of the events found in Duck and Cover! Now, without further ado here is Duck and Cover! hope you enjoy.
Land of Flatwater is another story set in this shared universe https://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/showthread.php?t=211130
Which discusses events in Nebraska
So, a fanfic of a fanfic…recursive much? Anyway – this is a tale of a few people in Western New York, in a timeline where WWIII happened in February 1984.
-=-
Feb 21, 1984 Buffalo, New York
The young man sat on the ratty couch, watching the news on the black and white portable. His right leg was propped up on the ottoman, encased in a cast.
A cast covered in scribbles.
A cast that looked like it might have saved his life, if only for a little while. His Reserve unit had been called up and sent to Europe…but he had slipped on an icy ramp during a training mission in January.
In the hell that was Europe, nobody on the local news channels had said anything about the 914 Tactical Airlift Wing. He assumed that the aging C-130 A models probably lasted about as long as the tissue paper dog on a run through Hell.
He struggled to his feet and looked out the window at the swirling snow. It was a nasty day out there, cold and grey and biting. In other words, it was a normal February day in Western New York.
His son was curled up in his favorite bean bag chair. He had dozed off, bored by the news coverage.
The man smiled a sour grin. He remembered a Crisis much like this one, 22 years earlier, with missiles in Cuba. But – somehow – this one seemed worse. He had made preparations, as much as he knew how to make.
He had carried canned goods and dry goods to the basement. He had filled gallon after gallon of milk jugs for water. He had been putting away Sterno fuels and trioxane tabs for years.
Suddenly, the picture on the TV changed. A steady tone came over the audio, and the Emergency Broadcast Announcement told everyone to move to shelter.
“Kevin.” He said, shaking the boy. “Kevin, wake up, it’s time to go downstairs.”
“Waah, dad?” said the sleepy six year old.
“We need to go downstairs. Daddy can’t carry you with his leg.”
“Hokay.” Said the sleepy boy. Tall for his age, he was already dressed for survival.
In the Hunter family, it was an article of wisdom, “scrounge what you can, when you can. You never know when it might come in useful.” Steven Hunter had managed to scarf up an Extra Small Nomex Flight Suit, and a set of extra-small Nomex underwear.
Why some Air Force functionary had decided to have a contractor make a flight suit smaller than the minimum height requirement, why some supply Sergeant had put it on stock at the base was unknown…but Steve had been told to “get rid of it.”
And now, it might make the difference between life and death for his son.
The town house had a basement that doubled as a garage. Steve’s 73 Duster took up most of the room, but he had put a desk at the front of the garage, made of 2x6 planks on top of two filing cabinets. Footlockers of canned goods, water and ammunition, two shotguns.
He was as ready for Armageddon as he knew how to be.
They curled up on the deployment bags, under the desk, and Kevin went back to sleep. There was sirens outside, and noise. It sounded like somebody was pounding at his door, but Steve decided to go back to sleep. No way was he going to stump back upstairs with this leg right now…let alone with inbound missiles.
A little while later, the house bucked and heaved, and the heavens roared. It sounded as if part of the building collapsed. Kevin woke up, scared, but Steve shushed him, and told him to go back to sleep.
-=-
A few hours later, they woke up. It was deathly quiet outside.
Steve checked his watch. 3.30 PM. He stood and stretched. He pulled out his flashlight and shined it around. The garage looked to be in good shape. He pulled out his Geiger counter and checked. It looked as though his taping job was holding – either that, or they didn’t get hit as hard as he had expected.
He went to the tope of the stairway and checked it. The counter started to click faster and the needle swung over. The door was cold to the touch, which told him that the townhouse above was probably broken, maybe gone. He went back down to the base of the stairs.
-=-
A week later, the Steve decided to risk the door. He and Kevin were absolutely stir crazy. The boy was incredibly smart…but he was still, just six years old. Steve had put the Small Mission Orientated Protective Posture Suit on him, carefully taping all the junctures, fitting the extra small M-17 mask. To the boy, it was still a game. He could not yet comprehend the idea of life and death.
“Stay here, Boy” Steve said. “I just want to take a quick look around.” And I’ll be right back.”
“But I want to see, dad.” Whined the boy.
“I know, I know” said his father. “But, it’s not going to be pretty. And it might be dangerous.” He wiped his brow. “Let me check it out. Then we’ll know what to do next”
Steve donned his own mask. Buckled his helmet. and went to the top of the stairs. He took a deep breath and pushed on the door.
It swung open easily, pulling against the duct tape. The first floor was pretty much intact…in the archeological sense. The picture window had blown out, and there was a snowdrift in the living room.
Steve swung the Geiger counter. The alpha count was already pretty low and the beta emitters didn’t look so bad, either. With he and Kevin suited up, it might be worth making a run for it.
He looked outside.
The apartment complex was blasted and scorched. Mercifully, it looked as though snow had covered most of the dead bodies…but spring was going to be nasty.
He walked outside, Geiger counter in his left hand, shotgun in his right. The radiation count looked to be the same. The snow drifts were nasty as hell; it looked as though they may have concentrated the radioactive particles.
He walked to a few blocks in either direction, but saw nothing moving. He looked at the clouds. They looked grey and roiled.
Another snowstorm looked to be brewing. He and the boy had food for several weeks yet, and maybe he could stretch it with some foraging. He had cut the cast off, but his leg was still weak. No way was he ready to walk out of here for some time yet.
Time to go back to ground.
At the top stairway, in what had been the small kitchen, he took off his helmet and dusted it off, then took off his poncho and shook it off, leaving it on the coat hook at the top of the stairs.
He went down into the basement and checked himself over. There was still some residual radiation, but he’d gotten most of it. He sighed. It was going to have to do.
Kevin was still sitting there, right where he’d left him. “how you doing, boy?” he said gruffly.”
Suddenly, the boy ripped off his mask and flung himself into his father’s arms. “Dad, I was scared. What if you didn’t come back?”
“I’m back, boy” said Steve. “And that’s why you gotta pay attention to everything I tell you. Because I’ve never lied to you, boy, and I’m not going to start now.” He held his son by his shoulders. “And the most important thing to me is, you have to stay alive. Got it?”
They were both crying.
“I want you to live, and I want you to grow up to have kids of your own.” Said Steve. “And I want to be there to see them, make no mistake.” He said. “But I for damn sure want you to grow up to have them, with or without me being there, OK?”
He looked at his son. “But right now, I’m cold. Soup?”
“Sounds good.”
Outside, the wind howled like damned souls.
-=-
March 4, 1984
Steve tried another door. He was working his way through the apartment complex, apartment by apartment. So far, he had found a fair amount of usable food, some dead bodies, and no one alive.
There were a few surprises – it looked as though the elderly couple, a few doors down, might have committed suicide. They were both in bed, and appeared to have peaceful expressions.
Steve had said a prayer for them. He found some good pain killers in the medicine cabinet – those might come in handy later, he figured.
-=-
Next door to them, it looked as though the two college students had also committed suicide. In their case, the bodies were sprawled on the floor, beer cans scattered about, and a scatter of multicolored pills across the carpet.
Steve wasn’t too sure about the unlabeled pills, but the bags of weed were quite welcome. That was one natural analgesic that would be useful in this ugly new world. Even better – he found a bagful of seeds.
He carried his loot back to the apartment. There was a fallen roof beam that extended into the hole that had been his front window. It was a bit awkward, but by walking up the beam, he could enter his apartment without making tracks in the snow.
It was obvious that somebody had been walking in the snow, entering these apartments – at least until the next snow, or until the snow melted – but it would take a good searcher to realize that somebody was living in his basement.
He went down into the kitchen, shaking off his outer garments, checking them with the Geiger counter, hanging up the poncho and the helmet, then entering the stairwell.
There he took off the fishtail boots, hanging them on hooks, and finally taking off the charcoal impregnated MOPP pants and over garment, his mask and gloves.
At the bottom of the stairs, Kevin waited. “Hi, Dad.” He smiled. “Find anything good?”
Steve smiled back “Ice Cream sandwiches in Mrs. Dooley’s Freezer.”
“Cool”
Steve smiled as he enjoyed his son’s enjoyment of the treat. Inwardly, he wondered how long it might be, if ever, he saw another ice cream sandwich.
-=-
March 8, 1984
The sky was clear and warm. It was one of those days you get in Western New York where it suddenly goes from 20F to 60F and all the snow starts melting like crazy. Steve looked around and marveled.
There had been a lot of talk about “nuclear winter” – the dust was going to cause the albedo of the planet to change, the climate to go cold, but this looked like pretty much a normal day in Buffalo – at least, weather-wise.
The quiet was unnerving. There was only the wind and the dripping of the melting snow. No cars or planes, no people, no TVs or radios. Not even any dogs or cats or birds.
Nothing.
The radiation count was dropping steadily. Steve was pretty sure Buffalo must have been hit with an air burst, probably a clean one. Maybe a Neutron weapon. But that was in keeping with what he knew of Soviet policy. That wanted to flatten Buffalo as a transportation hub, kill the population – but not damage the infrastructure too much. They might want to use it themselves someday, if they decided to occupy the place.
Dirty weapons were a product of the West. Area Denial – long term denial – was a feature of the Western War Planners, not the Warsaw Pact. Those Planners were a lot more pragmatic. “You cannot loot what you have destroyed” – Subotai Khan was reputed to have said it, and Marshal Zhukov was reported to have said it on the March across Germany.
It was nearing darkness, and Steve was out, looking for signs of life. He figured that people might be like him, hiding out, but if there were other survivors, they might not be as careful of light leaks.
He spent an hour, looking around, and headed back to the apartment. No luck. Either the initial blast, the radiation or the following snow and cold seemed to have doomed just about everyone in this area.
He had found a few bodies that looked as though they might have survived for days or weeks after the attack – but nobody alive. There seemed to be a few animals now – he’d seen a dog or two, even heard some crows…but no people.
He came back to the apartment, took off his gear and entered the basement. As he did, he realized something was wrong. Kevin had a small lamp and a hand crank generator/battery. He usually read while Steve was out foraging.
There was no light on.
As Steve pulled his mask and hood off, he could smell them.
The basement was rank already – but it was the different rankness, a different smell…and somehow, Steve could sense there were at least two of them.
What had happened to Kevin?
He turned, and was looking into the barrel of a 12 gauge.
“Be real careful, son, and unsling that shotgun real easy.” Said the man.
“Sure,” said Steve.
“Me and Don, here” said the man, “we saw you sneakin’ round the complex, breaking into places, and stealing stuff.” He chuckled. “Pretty smart.” His whiskery face curled into a grin.” We just figured to come over and see if you wanted to share.”
“Don’t look like you’re much into sharing, not with a scattergun in my face.” Said Steve.
“Hey, we just figured you might be not so reasonable.” Said the man. “We already had to kill a few folks that didn’t want to share.”
“What’s one more dead guy?” put in the other guy.
“Shaddup, Don.” Said the first one.
“Looks like you got some good loot, here, fellow.” He said, turning his attention back to Steve. “Good military grade protective suits, masks, filter units – you must have raided a surplus store or something.” He grinned mirthlessly. “We’ll take it all.”
It was at that point that the fellow made his mistake.
“Never rush to battle – let your enemies give themselves to you.” – his sensei had repeated that so many times to him. In the dim light of the basement, the men had seen his shotgun – they had not looked at his load bearing equipment harness (LBE).
For Steve, time slowed down.
Now, the bearded man leaned forward and the muzzle of his shotgun was over Steve’s left shoulder. Steve leaned forward and reached up with his right hand, releasing the Sykes-Fairbairn Fighting knife into it. With his left hand, he reached up and grabbed the fore end slide of the shotgun almost ripping it out of the man’s hands. He held onto it, lifting up on his tip toes to maintain his grip on the weapon.
In the meantime, the double-edged fighting knife was rammed into the man’s upper belly, just under the sternum. Steve had lifted him up off his feet with his left hand, now he let him back down as he held the blade steady, letting it rip upward through his lungs and heart. He gasped in shock and exhaled, but the hole in his lungs was too large for him to even scream now. Steve could smell his breath – stale food, halitosis, beer and wine – It is odd, the thoughts that flit across your mind in a fight to the death – Steve realized the man probably had bad dental hygiene before the war.
Don was now behind his friend, screaming, but he held his own weapon, as well as Steve’s, and his friend was between him and Steve. One second, they were in control, and suddenly, it was all going out of control.
As he struggled to comprehend the suddenly changed situation, Steve reversed the shotgun he had captured, shoved it between the man’s eyes, and blew his brains all over the garage door.
Suddenly, it was over. Steve stood in the blood splattered basement, breathing heavily. He was inhaling great whooping draughts of air, trying not to hyperventilate.
It took him two tries to get the words out. “Kevin?” he whispered. “Kevin? Are you OK?”
There was a rustling, and his son crawled out from under the car. “Dad.” He cried. “Dad, I was so scared.”
Steve was relieved to see that his son had the other shotgun. “you OK?”
“Yeah.” He said. “I heard them upstairs, but I didn’t hear you, so I shut off the light and took the gun and hid under the car.”
“You done good, boy.” Said his father, ruffling his hair. “You done good.”
-=-
Feb 21 1984
https://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/showthread.php?t=210214
1983- The Brink of Apocalypse – Colonel Stanislav Petrov prevents a nuclear war when a Soviet system malfunctions and reports US ICBM launches
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S_VaTeLnGdo&feature=related – you really ought to look at all eight parts for a good look at this time period. A good look at the ABLE ARCHER exercise.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jlPEBROvR9w – First Strike – a film made with an extraordinary amount of cooperation with Strategic Air Command, about a possible attack on the US in the 1980s. If you look at all three parts, it is a thinly disguised commercial for the MX/GLCM missile increases and MIRV targeting funding increases. But there is a lot of good information here, even so.
I recall the world that was in those days – I was a recently divorced single father in college in those days, a Staff Sergeant in the Air Reserve and scared as hell of the world situation. If I’d know what had really happened, I’d have been terrified.
Duck and Cover! is the American View of the events happening in Protect and Survive, the post-nuclear war Time Line started by Mcgraggle. I recommend you check it out here, reading the first couple of posts and some of the Prospero stories will help you get some context of some of the events found in Duck and Cover! Now, without further ado here is Duck and Cover! hope you enjoy.
Land of Flatwater is another story set in this shared universe https://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/showthread.php?t=211130
Which discusses events in Nebraska
So, a fanfic of a fanfic…recursive much? Anyway – this is a tale of a few people in Western New York, in a timeline where WWIII happened in February 1984.
-=-
Feb 21, 1984 Buffalo, New York
The young man sat on the ratty couch, watching the news on the black and white portable. His right leg was propped up on the ottoman, encased in a cast.
A cast covered in scribbles.
A cast that looked like it might have saved his life, if only for a little while. His Reserve unit had been called up and sent to Europe…but he had slipped on an icy ramp during a training mission in January.
In the hell that was Europe, nobody on the local news channels had said anything about the 914 Tactical Airlift Wing. He assumed that the aging C-130 A models probably lasted about as long as the tissue paper dog on a run through Hell.
He struggled to his feet and looked out the window at the swirling snow. It was a nasty day out there, cold and grey and biting. In other words, it was a normal February day in Western New York.
His son was curled up in his favorite bean bag chair. He had dozed off, bored by the news coverage.
The man smiled a sour grin. He remembered a Crisis much like this one, 22 years earlier, with missiles in Cuba. But – somehow – this one seemed worse. He had made preparations, as much as he knew how to make.
He had carried canned goods and dry goods to the basement. He had filled gallon after gallon of milk jugs for water. He had been putting away Sterno fuels and trioxane tabs for years.
Suddenly, the picture on the TV changed. A steady tone came over the audio, and the Emergency Broadcast Announcement told everyone to move to shelter.
“Kevin.” He said, shaking the boy. “Kevin, wake up, it’s time to go downstairs.”
“Waah, dad?” said the sleepy six year old.
“We need to go downstairs. Daddy can’t carry you with his leg.”
“Hokay.” Said the sleepy boy. Tall for his age, he was already dressed for survival.
In the Hunter family, it was an article of wisdom, “scrounge what you can, when you can. You never know when it might come in useful.” Steven Hunter had managed to scarf up an Extra Small Nomex Flight Suit, and a set of extra-small Nomex underwear.
Why some Air Force functionary had decided to have a contractor make a flight suit smaller than the minimum height requirement, why some supply Sergeant had put it on stock at the base was unknown…but Steve had been told to “get rid of it.”
And now, it might make the difference between life and death for his son.
The town house had a basement that doubled as a garage. Steve’s 73 Duster took up most of the room, but he had put a desk at the front of the garage, made of 2x6 planks on top of two filing cabinets. Footlockers of canned goods, water and ammunition, two shotguns.
He was as ready for Armageddon as he knew how to be.
They curled up on the deployment bags, under the desk, and Kevin went back to sleep. There was sirens outside, and noise. It sounded like somebody was pounding at his door, but Steve decided to go back to sleep. No way was he going to stump back upstairs with this leg right now…let alone with inbound missiles.
A little while later, the house bucked and heaved, and the heavens roared. It sounded as if part of the building collapsed. Kevin woke up, scared, but Steve shushed him, and told him to go back to sleep.
-=-
A few hours later, they woke up. It was deathly quiet outside.
Steve checked his watch. 3.30 PM. He stood and stretched. He pulled out his flashlight and shined it around. The garage looked to be in good shape. He pulled out his Geiger counter and checked. It looked as though his taping job was holding – either that, or they didn’t get hit as hard as he had expected.
He went to the tope of the stairway and checked it. The counter started to click faster and the needle swung over. The door was cold to the touch, which told him that the townhouse above was probably broken, maybe gone. He went back down to the base of the stairs.
-=-
A week later, the Steve decided to risk the door. He and Kevin were absolutely stir crazy. The boy was incredibly smart…but he was still, just six years old. Steve had put the Small Mission Orientated Protective Posture Suit on him, carefully taping all the junctures, fitting the extra small M-17 mask. To the boy, it was still a game. He could not yet comprehend the idea of life and death.
“Stay here, Boy” Steve said. “I just want to take a quick look around.” And I’ll be right back.”
“But I want to see, dad.” Whined the boy.
“I know, I know” said his father. “But, it’s not going to be pretty. And it might be dangerous.” He wiped his brow. “Let me check it out. Then we’ll know what to do next”
Steve donned his own mask. Buckled his helmet. and went to the top of the stairs. He took a deep breath and pushed on the door.
It swung open easily, pulling against the duct tape. The first floor was pretty much intact…in the archeological sense. The picture window had blown out, and there was a snowdrift in the living room.
Steve swung the Geiger counter. The alpha count was already pretty low and the beta emitters didn’t look so bad, either. With he and Kevin suited up, it might be worth making a run for it.
He looked outside.
The apartment complex was blasted and scorched. Mercifully, it looked as though snow had covered most of the dead bodies…but spring was going to be nasty.
He walked outside, Geiger counter in his left hand, shotgun in his right. The radiation count looked to be the same. The snow drifts were nasty as hell; it looked as though they may have concentrated the radioactive particles.
He walked to a few blocks in either direction, but saw nothing moving. He looked at the clouds. They looked grey and roiled.
Another snowstorm looked to be brewing. He and the boy had food for several weeks yet, and maybe he could stretch it with some foraging. He had cut the cast off, but his leg was still weak. No way was he ready to walk out of here for some time yet.
Time to go back to ground.
At the top stairway, in what had been the small kitchen, he took off his helmet and dusted it off, then took off his poncho and shook it off, leaving it on the coat hook at the top of the stairs.
He went down into the basement and checked himself over. There was still some residual radiation, but he’d gotten most of it. He sighed. It was going to have to do.
Kevin was still sitting there, right where he’d left him. “how you doing, boy?” he said gruffly.”
Suddenly, the boy ripped off his mask and flung himself into his father’s arms. “Dad, I was scared. What if you didn’t come back?”
“I’m back, boy” said Steve. “And that’s why you gotta pay attention to everything I tell you. Because I’ve never lied to you, boy, and I’m not going to start now.” He held his son by his shoulders. “And the most important thing to me is, you have to stay alive. Got it?”
They were both crying.
“I want you to live, and I want you to grow up to have kids of your own.” Said Steve. “And I want to be there to see them, make no mistake.” He said. “But I for damn sure want you to grow up to have them, with or without me being there, OK?”
He looked at his son. “But right now, I’m cold. Soup?”
“Sounds good.”
Outside, the wind howled like damned souls.
-=-
March 4, 1984
Steve tried another door. He was working his way through the apartment complex, apartment by apartment. So far, he had found a fair amount of usable food, some dead bodies, and no one alive.
There were a few surprises – it looked as though the elderly couple, a few doors down, might have committed suicide. They were both in bed, and appeared to have peaceful expressions.
Steve had said a prayer for them. He found some good pain killers in the medicine cabinet – those might come in handy later, he figured.
-=-
Next door to them, it looked as though the two college students had also committed suicide. In their case, the bodies were sprawled on the floor, beer cans scattered about, and a scatter of multicolored pills across the carpet.
Steve wasn’t too sure about the unlabeled pills, but the bags of weed were quite welcome. That was one natural analgesic that would be useful in this ugly new world. Even better – he found a bagful of seeds.
He carried his loot back to the apartment. There was a fallen roof beam that extended into the hole that had been his front window. It was a bit awkward, but by walking up the beam, he could enter his apartment without making tracks in the snow.
It was obvious that somebody had been walking in the snow, entering these apartments – at least until the next snow, or until the snow melted – but it would take a good searcher to realize that somebody was living in his basement.
He went down into the kitchen, shaking off his outer garments, checking them with the Geiger counter, hanging up the poncho and the helmet, then entering the stairwell.
There he took off the fishtail boots, hanging them on hooks, and finally taking off the charcoal impregnated MOPP pants and over garment, his mask and gloves.
At the bottom of the stairs, Kevin waited. “Hi, Dad.” He smiled. “Find anything good?”
Steve smiled back “Ice Cream sandwiches in Mrs. Dooley’s Freezer.”
“Cool”
Steve smiled as he enjoyed his son’s enjoyment of the treat. Inwardly, he wondered how long it might be, if ever, he saw another ice cream sandwich.
-=-
March 8, 1984
The sky was clear and warm. It was one of those days you get in Western New York where it suddenly goes from 20F to 60F and all the snow starts melting like crazy. Steve looked around and marveled.
There had been a lot of talk about “nuclear winter” – the dust was going to cause the albedo of the planet to change, the climate to go cold, but this looked like pretty much a normal day in Buffalo – at least, weather-wise.
The quiet was unnerving. There was only the wind and the dripping of the melting snow. No cars or planes, no people, no TVs or radios. Not even any dogs or cats or birds.
Nothing.
The radiation count was dropping steadily. Steve was pretty sure Buffalo must have been hit with an air burst, probably a clean one. Maybe a Neutron weapon. But that was in keeping with what he knew of Soviet policy. That wanted to flatten Buffalo as a transportation hub, kill the population – but not damage the infrastructure too much. They might want to use it themselves someday, if they decided to occupy the place.
Dirty weapons were a product of the West. Area Denial – long term denial – was a feature of the Western War Planners, not the Warsaw Pact. Those Planners were a lot more pragmatic. “You cannot loot what you have destroyed” – Subotai Khan was reputed to have said it, and Marshal Zhukov was reported to have said it on the March across Germany.
It was nearing darkness, and Steve was out, looking for signs of life. He figured that people might be like him, hiding out, but if there were other survivors, they might not be as careful of light leaks.
He spent an hour, looking around, and headed back to the apartment. No luck. Either the initial blast, the radiation or the following snow and cold seemed to have doomed just about everyone in this area.
He had found a few bodies that looked as though they might have survived for days or weeks after the attack – but nobody alive. There seemed to be a few animals now – he’d seen a dog or two, even heard some crows…but no people.
He came back to the apartment, took off his gear and entered the basement. As he did, he realized something was wrong. Kevin had a small lamp and a hand crank generator/battery. He usually read while Steve was out foraging.
There was no light on.
As Steve pulled his mask and hood off, he could smell them.
The basement was rank already – but it was the different rankness, a different smell…and somehow, Steve could sense there were at least two of them.
What had happened to Kevin?
He turned, and was looking into the barrel of a 12 gauge.
“Be real careful, son, and unsling that shotgun real easy.” Said the man.
“Sure,” said Steve.
“Me and Don, here” said the man, “we saw you sneakin’ round the complex, breaking into places, and stealing stuff.” He chuckled. “Pretty smart.” His whiskery face curled into a grin.” We just figured to come over and see if you wanted to share.”
“Don’t look like you’re much into sharing, not with a scattergun in my face.” Said Steve.
“Hey, we just figured you might be not so reasonable.” Said the man. “We already had to kill a few folks that didn’t want to share.”
“What’s one more dead guy?” put in the other guy.
“Shaddup, Don.” Said the first one.
“Looks like you got some good loot, here, fellow.” He said, turning his attention back to Steve. “Good military grade protective suits, masks, filter units – you must have raided a surplus store or something.” He grinned mirthlessly. “We’ll take it all.”
It was at that point that the fellow made his mistake.
“Never rush to battle – let your enemies give themselves to you.” – his sensei had repeated that so many times to him. In the dim light of the basement, the men had seen his shotgun – they had not looked at his load bearing equipment harness (LBE).
For Steve, time slowed down.
Now, the bearded man leaned forward and the muzzle of his shotgun was over Steve’s left shoulder. Steve leaned forward and reached up with his right hand, releasing the Sykes-Fairbairn Fighting knife into it. With his left hand, he reached up and grabbed the fore end slide of the shotgun almost ripping it out of the man’s hands. He held onto it, lifting up on his tip toes to maintain his grip on the weapon.
In the meantime, the double-edged fighting knife was rammed into the man’s upper belly, just under the sternum. Steve had lifted him up off his feet with his left hand, now he let him back down as he held the blade steady, letting it rip upward through his lungs and heart. He gasped in shock and exhaled, but the hole in his lungs was too large for him to even scream now. Steve could smell his breath – stale food, halitosis, beer and wine – It is odd, the thoughts that flit across your mind in a fight to the death – Steve realized the man probably had bad dental hygiene before the war.
Don was now behind his friend, screaming, but he held his own weapon, as well as Steve’s, and his friend was between him and Steve. One second, they were in control, and suddenly, it was all going out of control.
As he struggled to comprehend the suddenly changed situation, Steve reversed the shotgun he had captured, shoved it between the man’s eyes, and blew his brains all over the garage door.
Suddenly, it was over. Steve stood in the blood splattered basement, breathing heavily. He was inhaling great whooping draughts of air, trying not to hyperventilate.
It took him two tries to get the words out. “Kevin?” he whispered. “Kevin? Are you OK?”
There was a rustling, and his son crawled out from under the car. “Dad.” He cried. “Dad, I was so scared.”
Steve was relieved to see that his son had the other shotgun. “you OK?”
“Yeah.” He said. “I heard them upstairs, but I didn’t hear you, so I shut off the light and took the gun and hid under the car.”
“You done good, boy.” Said his father, ruffling his hair. “You done good.”
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