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Off the Edge-Part III
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WildFire Offline
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Post: #31
 

On my word document, its already over 50 pages. Even in this default font and size.

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09-15-2006 12:24 PM
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Rebelnerd Offline
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Post: #32
 

is that all three parts? or just this one?

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-15-2006 12:35 PM
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Post: #33
 

all three parts, but i forgot to indent and that crap, so itll be longer when i indent it by oh maybe a couple pages.

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09-15-2006 12:39 PM
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Post: #34
 

in the text files i saved, part 1 is 64kb, part 2 is 102kb and part 3 is 82kb so far.

that's 246kb of text. that's a lot Biggrin

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09-15-2006 10:07 PM
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Post: #35
 

yeah it is. Thats what makes it good. i like reaidng long books and series. Im on the ninth book of redwall series. I dont know why i like that series, but i just do because its soooo long.

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09-16-2006 07:44 AM
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Post: #36
 

As the endless lines of soldiers paraded around the square, moving in perfect step and rounding the corners like some swarm of hellish black caterpillars, Chief Ward paced around the Ops center, a windowless office buried deep in the bowels of the police station. The room was buzzing with activity, as every piece of equipment was being manned, every map being filled with red tacks, and every folding card table surrounded by small crowds of either young, enthusiastic officers or silent, moody National Guard commanders. Every once in a while the heavy oak door with the tiny, wire-reinforced window would swing open into the room, occasionally smacking a trooper in the face, as someone rushed in with field reports or new developments. To Ward, it seemed like some sort of strange beehive; all the talking and shouted orders gradually morphed into a sort of muddled buzz that faded to the background, and after several minutes of attempting valiantly to keep track of everything going on he eventually just tuned it out.

He stopped by a Hi-Res monitor on a table, wedging the bulk of his gut in between two anxious-looking rookies to get a clear view. The camera that the monitor was connected to was currently in a socket fixed to the underbelly of one of the many helicopters circling the town overhead like great, fantastic wasps. It showed a bird's eye image of downtown Sycamore, with the same rivers of light running through the streets like a flood of military strength. But aside from that, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No explosions, no terrorist army charging over the hillside, and no crowds of people dying of disease in the streets. Ward sighed, rubbing the fatigue out of his eyes and squeezing out from between the rookies. He turned towards the large table that had been dragged out of a dusty closet and folded out at the last minute. There was a map of the town spread out, with bright color-coded tacks stuck into represent roadblocks, command posts, and places likely to be attacked. There were several officers bent over it talking excitedly, and two military officers stood nearby looking like anybody who shook their hand or offered them coffee would have their throat ripped out. Ward nodded slightly in a gesture of greeting, and after they made no response he rolled his eyes and looked over the map.
He lowered his voice, talking more to himself than the group of police. "Damn military, I hate having them in my town."
One of the officers, a Sergeant, looked at him sympathetically. "Yeah, I know how you feel. You're techniquely in command here, but they don't respect you at all."
Ward was about to point out the disturbing level of irony of this statement when an excited yell came from the corner of the room. He turned quickly and saw the young radio operator, wearing almost comically large headphones and turning dials quickly.
"Sir, its them! They're here, at the train station! Our outpost there reports gunfire and everything!"
Ward immediately straightened up and whirled around to face the room. He felt his adrenaline gland shift into high gear; finally he could stop waiting around. It was time to do something.
"Allright everybody, calm down! Now I want all of you to monitor the area as closely as possible. Helicopters, CCTVs, even satellites if possible. You with the radio, call every squad and platoon in the area and tell them to get down to the station as fast as humanly possible. And you two," he turned to the silent Commanders, "Get your men and meet me outside, and call a transport over here now. We're going down there, send everything you've got. But incase it's just a diversion, I want the guys patrolling around the edges to carry on. And I want a two biocontainment units down there as well. Right people, let's MOVE!"
The room erupted with energy. The volume rose dramatically, and the men who seemed to be randomly milling around picked up the pace of whatever it was they were doing. Well, Ward though, here we go. The bees of the hive have spotted an a enemy.

He turned on his heel and swept through the door into the narrow white hallway that led to the stairs. The station was absolutely packed, and he had to constantly dodge other people moving in and out of the room. At one point a long case that presumably held a sniper rifle hit him square in the kneecap, and as he limped up the stairs wincing in pain he could vaguely hear the man's frantic apologies echoing up the concrete shaft leading to the ground floor. After a moment, he shoved the stairway door open and stepped into the main room.
It was full of people, from secretaries incessantly typing on their out of date computers, to SWAT teams painstakingly assembling and loading their weapons. As he walked into their line of sight, the team immediately straightened up and stood at attention.
Ward grabbed a Kevlar vest from a rack that had been rolled out into the room, and began strapping it on.
"Right men, this is it. They're down at the train station and they have the virus. My guess is they're trying to get it out here and on a train, from what I heard downstairs they're out in full force. We have to stop them, but exercise extreme caution. If you see the container with the virus, do not shoot. Do this quickly and by the book. Do you understand? You cannot fail this time. It's not some bank robbery or hijacker demanding money, this is about the fate of the world. I know it sounds melodramatic and corny, but it's the truth. You got that? Do it perfectly."
They all nodded, looking badly sobered. Ward checked the clip of his police-issue Beretta 9mm, then slid it back into his leather shoulder holster. He pushed aside the Kevlar vests hanging from the rack, groping around on the other side until he felt cold metal. Straining under the effort, he slowly pulled at the object until it tipped off the shelf and fell through the vests and into his arms. Bending over backwards, he walked forward into up to an other table set up in the room. Finding a spot not covered with half-finished weapons or ammunition, he slammed the crate down and the bang reverberated through the building. The secretaries jumped and looked around, then resumed typing.
"Thanks for your help with that, guys."
The SWAT team members looked away, their faces reddening, but he ignored them. Snapping open the two clasps, he swung open the lid to reveal a tangle of rubber straps and pieces of dusty glass. He pulled on out, and hanging there from his hand it looked like some sort of black dead jelly fish. He blew on it, and a cloud of just swirled into the air.
"Gas masks. Never thought we'd have to use them in a town like this, but here we are. Everybody take one, and let's get going. We've wasted enough time already."
In less than a minute, the crate was empty and the SWAT team was marching out the door. Ward followed them, clipping the straps of the mask around his belt so that he could grab it at a moment's notice. Once he was outside, the team stopped and assembled on the curb. It was getting colder now, but Ward hardly noticed as he flagged down the giant, rumbling APC that was crawling down the street like some great angry beetle, its .50 caliber antennae waving in the air. It roared its way up to the sidewalk and stopped, a metallic screech splitting the night as the latch was wrenched open and the thick, armored door swung out. The SWAT team jogged in unison up to the back and climbed in, their heads bent over as the collapsed down onto the thin, Spartan benches. One of them reached out a camouflaged arms and grabbed the inner handle of the door, yanking it towards him until it slammed into the doorframe with a booming sound that gave the Chief a momentary headache. Then the engine started rumbling again like a small earthquake and the vehicle started down the street, with several police cars flashing their lights in its wake. Ward waved one over, and quickly pulled open the door and jumped inside before the car had even stopped moving. Slamming the door shut, he felt the vehicle lurch under his feet as the convoy started up again, the bright yellow paint of the biocontainment van filling his rear view mirror.
All over the town, radios and police scanners were buzzing with the news. Soldiers were turning and running through the streets, vehicle doors were being slammed, and the myriad points of light shifting through the streets like fireflies were now swept off in this new direction, like a great migration of insects. In the skies above, the helicopters wheeled around and swept off, buzzing over the heads of the running men below like a flock of deadly birds.
The entire town was mobilized, all of them converging on the train station where Ward knew, after six months of waiting, six months of being scorned and ostracized, six months of waking up at night sweating and screaming, six months of paranoia and misery, it would finally end.

+++++++

Joe slammed up against the cinderblock wall of the train station, the wind knocked out him for a moment. Then the others followed, each hitting the wall with a bang. The air was full of screams, smoke, and gunshots, but he knew that as long as they stayed against the wall they were out of the machinegunner's line of fire. But he also knew that if they stayed there, they would be sitting ducks as soon as reinforcements arrived. He could already heard them, sirens wailing like a thousand banshees as an unseen army descended on the station. If Joe wanted to reach the tunnel before they police did, they had to fight now.
He flinched as another burst of earsplitting pops pulsed out of the tunnel, and he could see the bright tip of the flickering flame of the muzzle flash from just around the corner, spraying fire out into the darkness of the railyard. The bodies of the Alex and the two other boys were lying in red dripping heaps that no longer even remotely resembled human beings, and now two other lumps of flesh and blood were sprawled out over the tracks, two members who had failed to make it to the wall in time. Panic was rising in Joe's chest as he clung to the wall like a baby to its mother. There were only eleven of them left.
The Browning let out another burst, then fell silent. Joe waited for a second, a heavy ringing vibrating inside his skull. Then, faintly, over the panicked, hyperventilating breaths of the survivors up against the wall, he heard an unmistakable sound. The clump of a box hitting the ground, some rattling, like a vengeful spirit shaking its chains in anger. Joe recognized it immediately.
"They're reloading! Lets go!"
But they didn't move. The deaths seemed to have shattered whatever illusion of safety they had maintained since the escape from Blackwood, and nobody did anything. Joe frantically turned back towards the corner, where he could hear men grunting as they shifted ammo boxes and belts. He turned back to them, gazing pleadingly into their eyes.
"Come on we have to do this NOW!"
But still nobody moved. Joe was getting desperate. The gunners seemed unwilling to go around the corner with them all waiting there armed, but any moment now they'd finish reloading the machine gun and it wouldn't matter. Joe heard the sirens that had been in the distance a second ago getting closer, as well as the hum of a helicopter that sent chills down his spine.
"What are you waiting for?"
But still, not one of his crew moved a muscle. Then a sound hit his ears that he recognized, and sent a spurt of panic into his brain. The same sliding clack they had heard before Alex and the others had died, that same cold, mechanical sound of the gun being locked and charged.
Joe reacted before he even had time to think about what he was doing. The only message his brain had time to deliver was that he had come too far and lost too much to sit here against the wall crying, waiting for the police to show up. He punched his hand under the muddy, wet flap of his jacket and grabbed the handle of the Glock in a death grip. Then he whirled around a full 360 degrees, and in one fluid motion drew the gun, snatched another pistol out of the limp, shaking hand of a girl nearby, and spun around the corner.

It seemed to happen in slow-motion for Joe, as his jacket blew out behind him as he swept around the corner of the building and raised both guns into the air. The crew seemed to stand still for a moment, paralyzed more of surprise than fear, and that was all the time Joe needed. The man who seemed to be in charge of feeding ammunition into the smoking hole in the barrel of the machinegun gave one last little "oh" of confusion, then Joe squeezed both triggers at once and everything turned to chaos.
Contrary to what the movies might have implied, double-wielding really had no benefit except sending more bullets in a direction at the same time. It decreases accuracy and control, and wastes and astronomical amount of ammunition. But in this cramped little alley, with the gun crew right in front of him, it was exactly what Joe needed.
The loader's unstrapped helmet was knocked off, landing behind him and bouncing once, with loud clack that could barely be heard. Then the next round hit in roughly the same place, and a circular cloud of bloody mist and puffed out of his forehead. The back of his head was a different story, and a explosive torrent of red slime and sharp bone fragments sprayed out of his skull and hit the man behind him directly in the face. Whatever self-control he had had drilled into his head since basic training went out the window, and as he stood there covered in the blood and brain matter of his former comrade, his eyes lids shot up and he opened his mouth to scream, but never got the chance. Two more bullets caught him simultaneously in both the mouth and the chest, and as his ribcage explodeds splattering blood over everything, including Joe, his lower jaw was ripped off and spun away into the darkness, spraying blood onto the walls as if flew through the air.
Joe tightened his grip on the triggers, then released it. Tighten, release. Tighten, release. Over and over again, barely even knowing where his rounds were going. He was screaming too, not from pain or fear but from pure, berserk rage. The only time he'd felt this way before was back at Blackwood, when he'd single-handedly taken out a whole platoon of guards with a shotgun. His hands jumped and jerked around at every angle as the recoil sent them bouncing in his palms, and he didn't stop even when the burning hot shells that were being ejected from the gun in his left hand flew up into his face again and again, leaving cuts and burns on his cheek.
The main gunner dove for the trigger of the machinegun, but he was too late. Joe leapt forward, until he was beside the steaming hot barrel, safe from its line of fire as he emptied the last few rounds in his clips into the man's torso, until his limp form lay sprawled out on the ground, the grainy white dust from the sandbag wall that had been ruptured by Joe's random shots pouring out onto his arms and legs. Smoke was coming from his chest, and his clothes were peppered with dripping red holes.

Joe hyperventilated for a full seven seconds longer, standing there with his arms still raised, guns still gripped tightly, and the triggers still depressed. Then, once he'd gotten control of himself again, he turned around on his heel and strode back around the corner. The others, especially some of the younger ones, squealed at the sight of him, spattered with blood and sweat, bits of flesh still clinging to his shirt. But he ignored them.
"Thanks for your help."
Several of them looked at the ground, blushing. He wiped some blood off his jacket, then tossed the empty, smoking pistol covered in blood back to the boy.
"Here's your gun back, thanks."

All at once, the sirens seemed incredibly close. Rumbling sounds also vibrated menacingly in the background. He could even hear voices, orders being shouted in harsh voices and boots clapping on the sidewalk. With a surge of panic, he realized that they were just on the other side of the building.
"Come on, we've got to go now!" he turned towards the tunnel and started to run, but stopped. As he turned around, gravel crunching as is shifted under his feet, he saw that once again, nobody had moved.
"COME ON! We can make it if we go fast-"
Clara looked at him nervously. "No Joe, we can't."
Immediately he could see why. The hum had gotten clearer, turning into the thump thump thump he knew so well. In an instant the shimmering semicircle of the rotors slid out from over the building, and a blindingly bright light blazed over the wall shining directly down at them, blazing through his eyelids and making him throw his arm up over his forehead to shield himself. The helicopter tilted and slowed to a stop over the railyard, gravel vibrating and bouncing on the ground as the winds blew down onto them, sending a cloud of dust and fallen leaves spinning into the air like a whirlwind. To Joe, the helicopter looked less like a mechanical vehicle and more like some mystical alien craft, a glimmering, glowing circle blurred by the blazing spotlight on its belly. A shining, flying beast, manifesting all his deepest fears.
But he did not run, he instead gritted his teeth. "Not this time, NOT THIS TIME!" He leapt back into the group and wrenched an AR-15 from the trembling arms of a young boy. Jerking the charging handle back with a white-knuckled fist, he drove it into his shoulder and ran into the middle of the tracks, nearly tripping on the rusty metal rails. Waving his free arm into the air, he screamed at the pilot that he knew couldn't possibly hear him.
"Come on! Over here! I'm OVER HERE!"
The copter slowly turned, until he could see the lighted door of the cockpit open, framed by the dark bulk of the fuselage. There was a silhouette in the doorway, a dark shape highlighted against the shining square of pure light. The deep, blasting roar of the blades seemed to cloud his thoughts and fill his brain with darkness, but he could think clearly enough to aim.
He raised the gun to his shoulder just as the man in the doorway did the same, and for a moment the light shone the other way and they both looked straight into each others eyes. Then, they opened fire.
Another light emanated from the copter, this one the flashing, erratic flame of a muzzle instead of the steady glow of the spotlights, and the gravel around Joe's feet flew up in bursts like tiny volcanoes as the rifle rounds thundered into the Earth.
Joe was firing too, and as he sidestepped across the gravel to avoid the shots, the rifle was shaking and vibrating in his hands. Shells flickered in and out of the light as they flew out of the gun and bounced into the rocks, and the barrel of his gun lit up in bursts. Both he and the helicopter were moving in a circle around each other like a tamer and a lion, and as the gravel shot around his feet there were also rounds hitting the helicopter, and small holes were opening in the sheet metal skin of the fuselage sending shards of steel flying out into the air.
The gunner had a very important weakness: he was in the air while Joe was on the ground. Joe was steady as he walked along the tracks, but the copter was bucking and shifting around in the wind. It was exponentially harder to aim while hanging out the open door of a flying machine caught in the whirlwind of its own rotors, blowing up from the ground a mere twenty feet below. Joe's shots were hitting the helicopter every time, but Joe himself had not been hit once.
And slowly, very slowly but surely, the massive machine began to weaken. Smoke was starting to seep out of holes in its engine, and a harsh scraping was coming from the rotors, like teeth grinding but a hundred times worse.
Suddenly, he felt a feeling that was like having a pickaxe driven into his left shoulder, and an invisible fist knocked him off his feet and sent him falling onto his back, lying into the gravel. He let out a scream, and as he turned his head he saw the unmistakable sight of blood oozing out of a hole in his skin.
He couldn't believe it, but there was no other possible explanation: he had been shot. The part of his brain not throbbing in paroxysms of pain thought this was rather strange, after spending half a year on the run and fighting government agents in countless battles, he had been shot now, right when he was about to do what he'd wanted to do for months.
He was still screaming, and his mind was consuming itself with pain. But he retained enough of his rationality to squeeze the trigger one last time, swaying the rifle around over his head in the general direction of that nightmarish white light. He didn't really expect to accomplish anything, he just wanted to die shooting.
"This is it," he thought. "Here I go."
And then, Joe hit the blades themselves.
It started small, just a zing sound and a piece of black material flying far off into the night. But the damage had been done. The rotors, thrown out their carefully calibrated balance by this sudden loss of weight, began wobbling and spinning out of their set pattern around the fuselage. Bit by bit, the machine tore itself to pieces like a shark in a school of fish.

+++++++

Inside, out of Joe's line of sight, the pilot glanced up suddenly at the many red lights that had suddenly lit up all over the dashboard like a face full of evil red eyes. The room started to shake uncontrollably, and he could barely even see the dials and displays of the control panel. They had combined into a great blur, flying around before his eyes and that sent panic into his chest. He had time to make out the ground coming ever so close to the glass, then there was a bright light and the last thought he had was that he had most certainly arrived in Hell.

+++++++

Joe had his eyes squeezed shut from the pain of the bullet, but it still didn't block out the fireball that blossomed from the ruptured fuel tank like some sort of twisted flower. He moaned as the staggeringly intense wave of heat seared over him like boiling water, and he smelled his hairs singeing. The thumping hum of the rotors had disappeared, replaced now by a dull roar as the remaining fuel burned bright from the holes in the tank like the flame of a gas grill. Joe started breathing in ragged, shaky breaths, until his head was clear enough to open his eyes and register what was going on around him. The entire railyard was lit up now from the flames, the gravel, the tracks, and the building saturated in an flickering orange glow. Black shadows danced on the walls like restless spirits, and Joe saw out of the blur of pain, the outlines of people running towards him. For a wild, terrifying moment he thought they were police, but then he realized that they were his people, coming to see if he was ok.
Clara was leading them, with a look of concern on her face. She knelt down next to him and pulled out a knife, then stuck it into his shirt to cut off a long strip. The ripping sound could barely be heard over the blaze of the helicopter's wreckage, but he could tell that the flames were dying, and the roar was getting quieter.
Or maybe I'm just dying, he thought suddenly. Joe looked back at the wound. The entire area, more than a full square foot, was sopping wet with blood. Another pulse of pain throbbed through his body, and he winced again. He realized he had lost lots of blood, and the flow wasn't going to stop anytime soon.
Clara handed him the improvised bandage, but instead of tying it on he just crumpled it up in his hand, and held it tight against his shoulder. Mere seconds later, it too was soaking and red.
Clara was looking at him miserably. "Joe, I...I'm sorry, I should have helped you...we were all cowards...I don't know-"
Joe raised his fingers as high as he could, and she fell silent. The others were crowded around him now, forming a circle. All of them looked both scared and ashamed.
He smiled weakly, then let out a hoarse cough. "It's alright, it's alright..."
Clara shook her head. "No, we should have shot at them..."
Joe felt the pain again and grit his teeth for a moment. "You couldn't kill them. You don't have what it takes to shoot a person."
A tear rolled down her face. “I’m so sorry..."
He stopped her again, then looked her straight in the eyes. "No. That's nothing...nothing to be ashamed of."
He clutched the bandage tighter, and took another deep breath. Then he turned his eyes skyward, and gazed up into the stars.
"Six months ago I couldn't do it either, maybe that was better, I don't know..." he coughed again, and breathed sharply as another sharp pain coursed through his shoulder. He lowered his eyes back down to the Earth, and looked at a young boy solemnly.
"I'm going to die, too much blood...Jason, it's time..."
The boy looked confused at first, then upset.
"No, Joe come one man-"
"No, give it to me now."
Jason hesitated for a second, then slid the duffle bag off his back. Unzipping it, he reached his hands inside and withdrew the briefcase. The polished metal surface reflected the flames from the helicopter as if to truly convey to them all how deadly it was.
Joe took a groaning breath, then painfully pulled himself into a sitting position. He released his grip on the bandage, and the hole flowed red once more. He dropped the wet cloth, and it left flowerlike red stains on the gravel. Then he grasped both the clasps with his shaking fingers, and with the utmost care lifted the lid off the case.
The test tube too glowed in the menacing light of the fire, and as he gripped it lightly between two bloody fingers and lifted it out of the foam, it felt much heavier than it should.
The weight of the world, he thought. Literally
He looked at them all one last time. "I've got to do this, you must understand."
Clara nodded. "We'll hold them off until you get to the tunnel." This time nobody looked as though they might back out.
Joe smiled sadly, then struggled to stand. Clara and Jason reached down to help him, and seconds later he was balancing uncertainly on his feet, like a building that was about to fall down but hadn't decided which direction to fall it.

A moment later, Joe heard the sound of breaking glass and gunfire from the station, and more orders were being yelled across the street. Joe turned towards the tunnel, and started to run. The others did the same, but in the opposite direction. As he ran, every step sending cruel spears of pain through his body, he heard shouts and screams behind him, but he didn't look back. Then automatic fire began popping from what seemed like every direction due to the echo, and as the final battle that would decide how this ended began to play out, Joe ran ceaselessly towards the end of the world.

TO BE CONCLUDED

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-16-2006 10:32 AM
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Demonic Pyro Offline
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Post: #37
 

All I got to say is....
You got talent.

Yes

:-P
That is all.
09-16-2006 11:01 AM
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SoulRiser Offline
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Post: #38
 

wow...

i can't wait for the next part, but on the other hand, i'm sad to see it end :biggrin:

Yes Cool

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09-17-2006 01:15 AM
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Post: #39
 

u need to write a book

Freya Stark - “There can be no happiness if the things we believe in are different from the things we do.”


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09-17-2006 01:41 AM
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Post: #40
 

well, that's sort of what i'm doing. it's just online instead of paper. Biggrin

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-17-2006 01:56 AM
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Post: #41
 

SoulRiser Wrote:in the text files i saved, part 1 is 64kb, part 2 is 102kb and part 3 is 82kb so far.

that's 246kb of text. that's a lot Biggrin
that is alot but compaired to my friend nicks pron colection its really small

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09-17-2006 01:59 AM
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Post: #42
 

whoa...

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-17-2006 01:59 AM
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Alucard483 Offline
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Post: #43
 

ya hes like the wolds biggest perv boy lol

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09-17-2006 02:37 AM
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WildFire Offline
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Post: #44
 

thats weird Wtf you should be proud rebelnerd Laugh Laugh

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09-17-2006 07:17 AM
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Post: #45
 

thanks, and AWESOME AVATAR!!!!!!!!!!!

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-18-2006 03:34 AM
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Post: #46
 

mine and which avatar was it? i changed it, but i forgot which one it was.

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09-18-2006 03:36 AM
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Post: #47
 

the one you had just now, with pikachu and the gun. classic...

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-18-2006 03:37 AM
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Post: #48
 

oh lol. im changing them, see which ones are working. it's stupid because i have hilarious ones that are like 12k an 13k, that maximum ashopuld be shanged seriously.

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09-18-2006 03:39 AM
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Rebelnerd Offline
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uh...what? Wtf

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-18-2006 03:39 AM
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Post: #50
 

i have other hilarious avatar's that are like 12k and 13k, but the maximum thing (10k) should be changed, i think thats way too low. i have some animated ones that i cant put down because they're 11k.

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09-18-2006 03:41 AM
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Rebelnerd Offline
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oh, ok. it's just there were lots of typos in the last post and i couldn't read it. Biggrin

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-18-2006 03:43 AM
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WildFire Offline
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Post: #52
 

yah i type pretty fast so sometimes i slipa dn type wrong letters. GAHHHHHH NOT AGAIN!!!

Were getting quite off topic here, lol.

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09-18-2006 03:45 AM
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Post: #53
 

lol yeah. don't worry, ill write the last chapter soon. i just can't right now because my sister's having a birthday party and its really loud/annoying.

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-18-2006 03:48 AM
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Post: #54
 

oh, well im surviving really annoying x-files episodes.

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09-18-2006 03:49 AM
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Post: #55
 

the truth is out there...

oh wait, some more kids just got here. bye.

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-18-2006 03:50 AM
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Post: #56
 

bye bye.

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09-18-2006 03:54 AM
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Post: #57
 

Clara took one last look at Joe, slowly receding into the distance towards the tunnel with his back turned, the shimmering bonfire of the helicopter lighting him up orange as he faded away. Then she turned back to the small crowd of boys and girls in front of her, and straightened up, trying to look as confident and authoritative as possible. She dreaded the idea of having to give some kind of pep talk or inspirational speech, but when she stared into the eyes her friends she saw fear, but no doubt about what they were about to do. Cocking her rifle and flipping the switch to full auto, she held it beside her head in one hand and addressed them solemnly.
"Well, there's really no way to put this lightly, so I’m just going to say it plainly. The building is being surrounded by police and military. Once Joe gets to the tunnel it won't matter anymore, so we just need to hold them off to give him enough time to make it."
One young girl looked at her, looking scared. "What about us? What do we do when he releases the virus?"
Clara faltered for a moment, then tried once more to look confident, failing miserably. "We can probably get out here before it reaches the building. Don't worry, we'll be long gone by the time it gets out."
But deep in her heart, she knew she was only fooling herself. That tiny part of her heart gnawed at her for several seconds, until she finally relented.
"Ok, I'm going to be honest. Not all of us are going to make it. You need to understand that." She stared at them with a sad but determined look, expecting them to turn and run for the woods. And she didn't blame them, she had half considered it herself, although of course she would never tell anyone.
But nobody ran. Nobody threw their gun down and surrendered, nobody flipped her off and headed for the trees. They still just stood there, holding their guns, with the same cold, resolute expressions they'd had before.
Jason stepped forward, shoving another clip into his bloody pistol.
"No way. It may sound cheesy to say, but we started this and we are going to end it. Right here."
He turned and stood beside Clara, and together they faced the others. At that moment, there was a shout and a string of loud pops coming from the other side of the station.
She looked at Jason for a minute, until he nodded.
At almost the exact same time, they both raised their guns and started to run towards the station, side by side. Their backs were lit up by the flames, and to some of the others they seemed to look less like humans and more like some sort of angry fire spirits. For a moment nobody moved, and the two were almost at the wall when a boy of about 15 started moving. He jogged at first, his MP5 bouncing up and down in his arms after each crunching step, then sped up until he too was running at a breakneck pace towards the wall.
As if he was the first small rock that starts the avalanche, the others started to run as well. First just a few, then more and more until began to shift in the direction of the wall. The small group of young men and women stretched, extending outward like a single organism, until all of them were at a dead run. They surged across the railyard, tripping on tracks then getting right back up again, waving their weapons in the air as they swept towards the wall like a tidal wave. All the anger that they had been forced to pent up at Blackwood, or even before that in school, all the frustration of being forced into submission like insects for their entire life, all the shame of not helping Joe when he needed them most, and all the sorrow and rage from all the personal suffering that each of them had, the little tragedies that they had never spoken about to anyone before but they all knew about, all the small things that had added up since the day they were born, the arrests, the abuse, the humiliation, the injustices that all came down to the people across the wall came pouring out as the charged as one towards the black bulk of the station. None of them said a word, but each and every one of them were telling more than they ever had before. Jason screamed, then once again his action spread through the running crowd, gathering strength like a snowball rolling down a hill, growing louder and louder until it became less of a yell and more of a mass guttural roar, that echoed through the night until it drowned out even the rumble of the tanks and the shots from the military's rifles.
Families cowering in their basements clutching their children, or huddling in the makeshift prison camp, heard it loud and clear blaring in through their walls and windows and into their ears, to a place in each of them where no police squad or surveillance camera could ever reach. Some were scared by it, and tightened their grip on their families, but others looked up, feeling like for the first time in their life there was someone out there who cared. A few teens stood up, cocking their heads in the direction of the train station to better hear, and were promptly shoved back to the ground by police, who looked both angry and scared. But even when they were lying on the ground, nightstick bruises on their chests and handcuffs tightening on their wrists, they could still hear as it reverberated out into the night.

As the roaring wave of boys and girls reached the low concrete platform at the edge of the railyard, Clara just barely noticed a dark, moving shape in the alley, lit up against the flashing lights of police cars. She raised the rifle, but it was too late. The man screamed, pointing a thick, gloved finger down the dark passage. She clenched the trigger in her hand, and five rounds shot down the alley and pierced the soldier's chest. The bangs were amplified by the cinderblock walls, and her ears screamed with silent pain as she watched the man collapse over backwards onto the ground. His helmet made a hollow thunk when it connected with the pavement, but it was impossible to hear over the shouting and shooting.
Clara waved for Jason. "Get over here! They're coming down the alley!”
He ran over, gripping the Glock with two white-knuckled hands. Jason dashed across the alley, and took up a position on the other corner as Clara ducked behind the wall and swung the barrel of the rifle around the sharp edge and into the dark, tunnel-like path. The National Guard infantry were regrouping on the other side, preparing to charge through and storm the railyard before their enemy had a chance to prepare. The sound of twenty guns being cocked, racked, loaded and charged reached Clara's still ringing ears, and she tightened her grip on the gun. All she could see at the other end was a blur of colored light and movement, with the occasional silhouette of a person running across before she or Jason could take a shot. Even if she could have she wouldn't; she knew they posed no serious threat. The main force was still coming, and she wanted all her remaining ammunition and strength available for holding them back.
And sure enough, they came. At first, it was just another flash of darkness flitting across the hazy pool of light at the end of the street. But then more came, and they didn't move this time. Rounding the corner, slowly and robotically, was the vast dark mass of a crowd of people. For a moment she didn't recognize them, they looked more like tall black squares all moving as one, like some sort of vehicle. But then her brain kicked into gear, and her blood went ice cold as she realized that the front row of men were carrying bulletproof shields.
The methodical, menacing clomp of boots stamping on anything in their way filled the air, and as the helicopter let out another belch of flame that lit up the alley, Clara could see the empty, merciless eyes of gas masks through the glass of the shields. The reflection of the ruined copter gave the shields the appearance of being made of pure flame, and the sinister, identical faces looming behind them sent a surge of paralyzing fear into her heart, and for a moment she subconsciously considered running. How could anybody win against this, this robotic thing coming down the alley?
But then Jason squeezed the trigger, and her reverie of terror was shattered. She let out a scream, more form anger than fear, and gripped the rifle's trigger and held it down with all of her finger's strength.
The AR-15 exploded into action, and fire spouted out of the muzzle and flew through the hellish half-light of the alley like a beacon. The fiery shield vibrated, shaking and bouncing as the bullets knocked them around leaving spiderweb dents in their shining clear surfaces. The sightless, masked eyes flashed like strobelights as the alleyway went from dark to light over and over as Jason and Clara squeezed their weapons and fired again and again at the advancing troops.
But as strong as their adrenaline and anger were, the specialized glass of the shields was stronger. The bullets were not doing anything more than slightly slow down the men being shot at, and they continued marching in step as the pistol and rifle rounds bounced off and ricocheted into the cinderblocks with a sound like a ping, and then a high pitched whine.

All of the sudden, Clara, Jason, and the troops in the alley were almost knocked off their feet as a massive explosion erupted from the wall. A giant hole, at least eight feet across, had just burst out of what had previously been a smooth, flat surface on the side of the train station. It was about thirty feet over from the gap where the shooting was taking place, but Jason still felt pieces of rock sting his face, winced and shielded his eyes and mouth as a thundering wave of heat and sound blasted him backwards, where he extended a foot behind him to steady himself.
Smoke and dust were everywhere, hanging in clouds over the edge of the railyard as other members of Joe's army ran back form the wall where they had been waiting, screaming as they stared at the bodies of two of their comrades who had been taking cover against that particular section of the wall. Their bodies were now everywhere, and on everyone.
Then, Clara saw something that sent the heavy feeling of despair back into her stomach. There were lasers coming from the hole, bright red lines now visible in the thick dust cloud. They waved back and forth through the white, choking mist as if seeking out the unseen enemy with minds of their own. Then bright white lights flowered from the end of the laser lines as the ones holding the guns fired.
Clara screamed into the dust at the boys and girls she couldn't see, but knew were there.
"The alley was a diversion! Group over here now!"
And the last word had barely left her mouth when the angry red lines, alerted by the sound of her voice, swung through the cloud and began waving around her. She threw herself to the ground just as the troops opened fire, and she could feel the tiny shockwave of bullets flitting just over her head. After a moment, they stopped and began firing in a different direction, as though assuming she had moved.
Then she felt something else: a hand on her shoulder. She whipped her hear around, still lying flat on the gravel, and saw Jason. He was bleeding heavily from the stomach, but the expression on his face was something more than pain.
"Go get the rest, hold them back at the hole. I'll take care of the ones in the alley."
She looked at him incredulously, her face smeared with dirt and ash. "Jason, what the fuck-"
He was crying now, his face contorted with emotion. "I can't get out with this hole in my stomach, just them all them all thank you and tell Joe I’m sorry."
She felt her jaw quivering, and a drop that was not blood slid down her cheek. "You can't! Just-"
He pointed the gun at her. "GO! NOW!"
The he rolled out of the way, and in a second he was out of sight, vanished into the cloud. Clara yelled his name one last time and groped around in the dust, coughing and crying at the same time. But he was gone, and she never saw him again.

+++++++

Jason slid on his stomach, yelping in pain as gravel scraped the bullet wound in his gut and sent a feeling like electric shock through his body. He had the gun out in front of him, and was clumsily reloading it with hands shaking in pain. There was blood and sweat on his face, and they mingled together and dripped into his eyes, stinging him. But he had no time to wipe them out, he only had time to get to the alley and do what he knew he had to do. Finally, his grasping hand hit the wall, and he began sliding around on the ground, following the rough, hard surface that he could only feel.
Then, just as he had hoped, his fingers curled around the corner and he knew he'd reached the gap. He slid a hand into his pocket and drew a long utility knife he'd stolen months ago, and grasped it in the hand not holding the gun. He could hear them; boots smashing into the pavement mere inches in front of him, their owners not knowing he was there. But it confirmed what he needed to know: the line of shields had passed him by. Their side were vulnerable, and that was where he would strike.
There was a scream, and gunshots began popping from what seemed like everywhere. It sounded like Clara had started her last stand at the breach point, or, and the though made his heart flutter with panic, the men in front of him had already reached the others. His strength was draining, he could feel the hot pain spreading and sensation of fatigue was slowly consuming him. If he had to attack, he had to do it now.
For a second, he just lay there catching his breath and gathering what little energy he had left. Then, clenching his jaw in pain and gripping the ground with his free fingers, he painstakingly brought himself into a squat. Then he willed his legs to move, and little by little he began to rise.

One of the men marching through the alley, his peripheral vision blinded at first by the lenses of the masks, noticed movement to the left. He turned raising his submachinegun, and saw a young boy standing there. He barely had time to signal the others when he notice the gun. Then everything happened at once.

Jason threw himself onto the soldiers with one last burst of energy coming from sheer rage. He jammed the muzzle of the gun into the man's forehead and pulled the trigger, and the inside of the lenses turned red as a thick spray of blood shot out the back of his helmet and painted the man next to him. All at once, the troops spun around, turning their heads so that they could see properly through the thick lenses of the gas masks. The heavy filter cylinders bounced up and down like perverse elephant trunks as their identical heads whirled around, and twenty arms were raised into the air and twenty lasers threw tiny red dots onto Jason's torso, barely visible in the red splashes of the blood. But Jason did not surrender, instead he spun around, his dying body bouncing of armored men all around him as he slashed with the knife, sometimes hitting air, and other times slicing cloth, skin, or flesh. He was being shot; little eruptions of blood and shreds of cloth flew up on his arms and chest, but still hi focused his mind on waving his arms and twitching his index finger over and over again. He could barely see, pain was taking over his mind. He just stood there, trapped in this dark, hot, bloody hellhole, lashing out at the dark forms looming out of the mist. All his eyes could register were the flashing lights of muzzle flashes and dark blurs of people. He was fueled by the same feeling that had driven Joe to start all this, he had nothing to lose now. His brain was vaguely aware that he was dying, but as his body was torn to dripping pieces his mind still sent the signal pulsing into whatever of his physical being was left. Pull the trigger, pull the trigger, pull, pull, pull...over and over until all he knew was darkness, and finally fell down onto the bodies carpeting the floor of the bloodstained alley, and died.

+++++++

Clara ducked behind the rough, chipped edge of the hole, the glowing ends of red-hot rebar sticking out in front of her. Yet another volley of bullets smashed into the wall, crumbling more of her hiding place into dust. Breathing for a moment, she spun out around the wall and slammed the trigger into the grip, the vibrations rattling her to the core as more of her shots flew out into the murky grey room inside the station. In the mere second that she had before the government agents inside fired back, she could dimly make out the blurry bulk of an ATM machine, and what looked like a row of chairs. There were people moving behind the chairs, armored, black-helmeted men shining their lasers through the hole out into the railyard, their muzzle flashes a muted grey in the thick cloud.
Se coughed again, dust stinging her throat and getting her eyes. Then she fired again, and heard the sound of more shots as the other remaining members of the Red Delta blasted away at anything that moved.
But deep inside, she knew it was hopeless. She knew it, and she was sure Jason knew it. They had never intended to win. She was firing not because she expected it to accomplish anything, but out of anger. Jason had died so that she could be here shooting, and god damn it she would shoot until her fingers bled from holding down the trigger.
Over and over, jump out, fire, retreat. Jump, fire, retreat. She felt a bullet graze her arm, and breathed sharply as the blood squirted into her face. But she kept on shooting, every man she killed replaced by five more.
She glanced towards the tunnel, knowing it was hopeless in the dust cloud, but still strained her bloody eyes to get a glimpse of Joe. She thought it must have been enough time to get to the tunnel by now, but she would not stop.
She turned to the others grouped around her, her teeth clenched in rage and pain.
"Go! Go for the woods, he must have made it."
Some tried to protest, and nobody moved.
She pointed her rifle at them, glaring as if they were the enemy. "I'm not fucking around, GO!"
They still hesitated, but when she punched another magazine into the gun and wrenched back the charging handle, they started to move away. An older girl gave her a pleading look, but she raised the gun to her shoulder and gave her a murderous look. The girl choked back tears, then turned around and ran after the others.
Clara looked one last time at them, this crowd of dirty, scared kids who had given her a reason to live. They had escaped together, traveled together, and fought together, but now at the end they could not die together, just like she and Jason. The unfairness of it made her cry again, tears leaving trails in the white dirt and blood on her face.
Then she turned back to the black crowd of masked soldiers hunched over as they ran across the room towards the hole, and jumped out of her cover for the last time and pulled the trigger. She just held it there, a blank look on her face as the fire, death, and chaos all around her finally disappeared.
As the troops jumped out through the hole and filled the edge of the railyard, occasionally taking shots as the retreating boys and girls heading for the trees, they didn't acknowledge her body lying there, or the expression of peace on her face that she hadn't worn for years.

+++++++

Joe staggered into the mouth of the tunnel, like the maw of some great beast waiting to swallow him whole. The darkness immediately engulfed him, the only light coming from the flames outside, a semicircle of illumination floating in a sea of inky blackness.
Then his eyes slowly began to adjust, and he could faintly make out the twin parallel lines of a railroad track stretching out into the blackness, and the pale grid of mortar between the bricks of the curved wall. There was a faint, constant breeze blowing through like the beast's foul breath, ruffling his hair and giving off a low whistle. Perfect, he thought.
Another spike of pain drove through his body, and he reflexively slapped a hand to his shoulder and felt sickly, warm blood flowing between his fingers and down his arm. His jacket was wet all around the hole, and dull waves of pain pulsed through him with every throb of his heart. He looked down at his free hand. The test tube was still there, clutched firmly but carefully in his fist. It now felt unbelievably heavy.
"So this is how it ends," he thought. "Half a year ago I was throwing a backpack at an annoying teacher, now I'm holding the end of the world in my hand. Funny how time flies."
He raised his arm painfully, so that the tube was in front of his face. It really hadn't been that long, but at that moment, standing there alone in this bubble of darkness and silence, he felt hundreds of years old. Everything in his life had been leading up to this, this was his end, his epiphany, his purpose for being put on the Earth by God or whatever was out there. His life, his decisions, his revolution, all came down to this.
He raised the tube even higher, until it hung in his weakening arm over his head. He took a breath, a prepared to smash it on the hard rock floor. An image of Jesse, smiling at him that night in the woods, then lying there dead on the Blackwood grounds. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out and concentrate on the memories of her still alive, then mustered the strength in his arm
"Hey, hey YOU! Hold it right there!"
He jerked his head around, annoyed at having his only real happy memories interrupted. Still, knowing that he was going to die anyway, he felt completely unafraid.
There was a man standing about fifteen feet from the him, highlighted against the light of the entryway. Joe couldn't see much of him because of the dark, but he could tell the man was slightly taller than he was, and a little fat. There was the floppy webbing of a gas mask hanging from his belt, and he was pointing a gun at Joe.
"Trying to get away, are you? I don't think so. Put your hands on your headm and-oh my god!"
He had noticed the test tube gleaming in Joe's hand. He didn't need an explanation to know what was in it. He stepped back a little, and Joe could tell that his face was turning pale as he realized that he didn't have time to put on his mask. Lowering the gun slightly, he raised a hand in a gesture of caution.
"Please, I know what that is, you don't have to do it..."
Joe gave him an expression that was more sad than angry, and stared straight into his eyes.
"Yes, I do. And even if I didn't, I still would. And if you shoot me, it will break."
The man hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly seemed to understand that it was true. He dropped his arm to his side, and holstered the gun.
He looked at Joe pleadingly. "Why? Why are you doing this? If you're angry at something, there are other ways, we could help you..."
Joe sneered. "I used to think so to. But all you people respect is violence, it's the only thing you know."
The man took a deep breath, then spoke again in a trembling voice. "Look, we don't have to be enemies. My name's Frank, Frank Ward, I'm the Chief of Police here. I have a lot of power, I can make things happen if you want them too..."
Joe interrupted in a harsh voice. "Don't use that negotiator bullshit on me, I've come too far to back out now! Get the hell out of here if you want to survive to see the morning!"
Ward was breathing quickly now. "Please don't do this, I swear I can help, if you have demands I can get you what you want..."
Joe felt the anger rising up inside him like magma in a volcano. "You can get me what I want, huh? Is that true? Well why don't you give me Jesse back huh? I suppose you've heard about her, right? It's somewhere in your stupid casefiles?"
Ward nodded, looking terrified. "Yes, I heard about her, that was really sad, I know how much you cared about her..."
The anger rising in him reached the top, and he exploded. "I loved her, you piece of shit! And I never even got to tell her! We never kissed, we never fucked, we never went to the fucking Prom! She's dead and I never even got a chance to tell her! You can never bring that back, never! Because your people killed her!"
Ward was shaking his head frantically. "Joe, please, I had nothing to do with that, that was all the way in Blackwood, you know that..."
Joe's rage subsided slightly, but he was still panting and gritting his teeth. "It makes no fucking difference. You're all the same, all you fascists with your stupid prison camps and guns and laws, it's all just one big system, and she didn't like that! And she paid the fucking price!"
"No, Joe, her death was an accident, a stray bullet hit her. The men would never have just killed her like that."
Joe fell silent, stunned. How was this possible? How could they not have known? But he could hear the answer creeping up into his brain, and the anger began to rise again.
"IT WASN'T A FUCKING ACCIDENT! THAT FUCKING SCOTT SHOT HER! I SAW IT MYSELF!" his heart was racing now, the idea that the whole world thought her death was an accident, that Mr. Scott was just an innocent bystander, was just too much to bear.
Ward looked at him silently for a moment, as if trying to figure out from Joe's face whether this was true. Then he spoke again, and there was a hint of condescension behind the fear.
"Joe, we all know that's not true, Mr. Scott's a good man who's was just doing what he thought was best, he would never do that. You can't possible believe that's what happened..."
Joe was shaking with rage now, his teeth clenched so hard they hurt. "A good man? Are you fucking kidding me? He shot her without any warning, he just snuck up on her and fucking blew her away!"

Ward was about to reply, when a sound from behind caught his attention. It sounded like a footstep, and he whirled around with his hand on the barrel of his gun. There was a man standing there in the entryway, dressed in black, his hair shining in the eerie light of the flames. The backdrop of fire gave him a subtlety sinister appearance, and Joe recognized him, but it took his brain several seconds to register that fact that he was here.
Ward let go of the gun and glared at him, looking astonished and angry. "Scott, what the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay at the station-"
Mr. Scott stuck a hand under his jacket.
"I'm sorry, Chief."
Then, giving an expression of true regret, he pulled out the Berretta and shot Ward in the head.
Joe stood there in shock as the Chief's body teetered over backwards, then dropped flat onto the rock floor, sending a dull thud down the tunnel that was almost drowned out by the lingering echo of the gunshot.
Joe's brain finally caught up with his eyes, and immediately he lost it. The anger that had been rising since he had first encountered the Chief boiled over in a way like never before. He had no gun, he had left it back at the helicopter after running our of ammunition, and with the tube still clasped in his hand he charged at the dark shape of the man standing against the shimmering wall of flame, screaming words that he wasn't even aware he was screaming.
"YOU! You fucking piece of shit I’ll kill you! I'LL KILL YOU!"
But Mr. Scott did not run away, instead he calmly raised the gun, but this time he did not have the expression of regret and sorrow. This time, his face was cold and mercilious, with the hint of a sneer on his mouth. Lining up the sights with the running shape of Joe, he pulled the trigger twice.
At point-blank range, the two rounds thudded into his chest. The first one knocked his upper body backwards, sending him flying off his feet. The second one punched him just below the other, knocking him backwards. He wobbled around for a moment, a looking shocked and unbelieving, then fell into a sitting position, then finally sprawled out on his back.

+++++++

Mr. Scott glanced over him for a second, then a look of fear came into his face. Quickly, he ran over to Joe and put his gun a few feet from his limp hand. To anyone observing, it looked like Joe and Ward had shot each other. Confident that he had covered his tracks, he looked around for a way to escape. For a moment he considered going back through the train station, but he remembered that he was not supposed to be there. Besides, there was still fighting out there as the last remaining terrorists ere hunted down among the woods and railyard equipment. That left only one other way, which was probably safer. Glancing down the tunnel, into the dark, black oblivion, he gathered his courage and started to run, following the tracks into the dark.
Thank god that was over, he thought. He didn't want to kill the Chief, but he couldn't risk his killing of the Williams girl get out. It could ruin him forever, and the program he loved so much.
He shook his head. This whole thing had been such and ordeal. That Murphy boy had really fucked up everything, he thought to himself. Some people are just bad.

+++++++

Joe lay there, staring through blurred eyes at the dim ceiling of the tunnel. He could feel it getting harder to breath as his lung slowly filled with blood, and dull pain was seeping through his body, sharpened more and more with every pump of his heart.
But what was killing him right now wasn't the bullets, it was despair. Not the kind he had felt in the bathroom, or in the woods, the kind that had given him strength and the euphoria of having nothing to lose. No, this was different. This was the kind he'd felt the morning he'd decided to commit suicide, and one other time. It had been three months ago, at Blackwood, while he'd knelt down beside Jesse's body watching Mr. Scott's car recede into the distance. It was the feeling of losing everything, but being able to do nothing. He didn't feel like had the strength to turn his head, but he didn't want to anyway. He knew that Mr. Scott was escaping, and he didn't need or want to see it.
He started to cry, not from the pain. He had got away. He had killed Jesse, and he not paid for it in any way. And now everyone would think he was some poor inncoent bystander, and nobody would ever know.
He cried harder, his sobs echoing down the tunnel as though he hoped the soft sounds could catch the man running through it. Why? He thought. Why? How did this work? What was this supposed to show? The murderer had got away and Jesse, the girl who had done nothing wrong, was dead. It made no sense, and the injustice, the unfairness, and the agonizing inability to do anything sent waves of pain through him in a way no bullet wound ever could.
He thought of Jesse again, that night in the woods she'd implied that he was the one good thing in her miserable life.
"I'm sorry," he croaked into the darkness. "I'm sorry, I did everything I could..."
He raised his fist a few inches, as far as he could, and let it drop.
Nothing happened. He was too weak, the test tube didn't even crack. All it did was make a high "ting" that barely even echoed.
Joe let out a sob of despair, then closed his tear-filled eyes and prepared to die. And at that moment, something happened that made him stop.

There was another person standing in the entrance to the tunnel, someone shorter and thinner than the previous two. He, like Ward and Scott, looked like merely a human-shaped black mass against a background of fire, but Joe knew immediately who it was.
Andy stepped into the tunnel, the beam of a flashlight sweeping over the scene in front of him. It paused over the body of Ward, then continued down until it rested its gaze on Joe's face, nearly unrecognizable from the blood, dirt, and tears.
There was a series of gunshots in the distance, and Andy involuntarily flinched for a moment. Then he stepped inside, walking forward until he was standing over Joe.
Joe looked up at him, he wasn't surprised at all. He had failed Jesse again, now Andy would make sure that he paid.
Andy knelt down beside him. "Joe?"
Joe choked on blood, then forced the words out of his mouth. "Andy, it's you..."
Andy took a breath, then pulled out a pistol from his pack. Joe recognized it as the one he'd given him the first night they'd met.
"I'm going to kill you now."
Joe managed a slight nod, then coughed and some blood dribbled out the corner of his mouth. "Yes...I know...but, first...you," he hacked up more blood, then willed himself to continue.
"You...need to know...please..."
Andy looked at him with a mixture of suspicion, anger, and sorrow. "What? I don't need to know anything. You got my sister killed, now you shot this poor Chief here. You don't deserve to live!"
Joe's jaw trembled, and more blood dripped out. "You're right...I don't...but you need to...know..."
"What do I need to know? Make it quick!"
Joe mustered his remaining strength, enough to say a few more words. "I didn't kill...Chief...Mr...Scott..."
Andy drew a sharp breath, and his eyes widened. His voice turned stern. "What did you say? What does Scott have to do with this?"
Joe felt his energy fading, and forced himself back to reality. "He shot...Chief...he's here...down the tunnel...I swear."
Andy's head whipped up, and his eyes focused on the blackness before him, as if he could see the man getting farther and farther away. Then he turned back to Joe.
"I'm going to trust you on this, just because I know you can't escape. Now tell me, when did he leave?"
Joe nodded. "Bout...five minutes...ago...running. You...won't catch..."
Andy looked horrified, and started frantically to get to his feet, the gun still in his hand. But Joe shook his head, sending a few drops of blood flying.
"No...he's gone to...far...Andy...they all think...Jesse...was an accident."
Andy's eyes shot back to Joe.
"No, that's impossible! We all saw him, all of us! We saw her die!"
Joe nodded again. "Andy...listen..."
Andy was silent for a moment, the same look Joe knew so well was in his face, the look of him trying to seem tough, but the scared little kid inside was peeking through. Then, suddenly, they could both hear it off in the distance. It was muffled, like it was coming through trees, but it was an unmistakable series of sounds: a shout, the bang of a gunshot, then a high, despairing scream.
Andy looked stunned. "They're killing them! They're killing the kids who went with you! They're just..."
Joe looked at him grimly. "Just like Jesse...yeah..."
Andy knelt there for a moment, a tortured look on his face, his eyes going from the door, to Joe, then to the blackness of the tunnel. Outside, another yell, bang scream.
Then he looked at the shining glass tube in Joe's hand.
"Is that..."
Joe nodded. "Yes...It is...Andy... you know...what to do."
Andy started trembling, and looked back desperately at the entrance. Shout, bang, scream. Then again.
"Andy...they're dying...please..."
Andy trembled for a moment more.
Shout, bang scream.
Then, slowly, a new expression took over his face, one that Joe had never seen before. It wasn't some fake expression of toughness, it wasn't scared. It was hard to describe, a look of sadness, but also of wisdom, of enlightenment. Joe had seen it on some very old people before, but never on Andy.
The young boy grabbed the tube from the Joe's hand, and stood up, looking at the fiery, bloody scene outside, like he was staring at a window to hell. The he looked back at Joe, as another girl or boy met their death. He looked for a moment in the direction of the children being slaughtered by agents of the government, then at the darkness where his sister's killer was getting away free, then back at the dying boy on the ground in front of him.
Giving him one last look of misery and disillusionment, he then turned his eyes to the small object in his hand. Just like Joe had minutes ago, he felt very, very old.
Then he raised the test tube over his head, and smashed it on the ground.

As a small splash of liquid and a puff of gas escaped with a small, low hiss, he sat down beside Joe on the ground and breathed deeply.
Joe gathered his strength one very last time, and turned his head towards Andy. Gagging back blood, he forced out just a few more words that he knew he needed to say. He wanted to tell him so much more, but he knew that these would do.
"Andy...I'm sorry...I'm so sorry..."
Then with one last sigh, like he'd just thrown down some unspeakably heavy weight, he turned his head towards the ceiling, as though trying to look at something more than the bloody chaos and misery of the world around him, he closed his eyes and died.
His last thought was that finally, after six months of running, he had truly escaped.

THE END

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-19-2006 06:49 AM
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Rebelnerd Offline
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Post: #58
Epilogue

It was still mostly dark, a few faint fingers of pale sunlight grasping over the tops of the hills, painting the clouds a dull yellow on the horizon. The town looked like a dense chain of islands floating in a thick grey river of mist. But the town had been foggy before, and it had never been like this. The grey substance flowing through the air between buildings was not mist, and the townspeople knew this.
Men wearing gas masks were running through the streets, officers in armored cars going door to door throughout the neighborhood handing out small air filters to the still-sheltering civilians. All throughout the town, the military still marched through the streets, and the unstoppable behemoths of tanks still rumbled down alleys and lawns, like roaring black mountains moving in the mist.
But despite these precautions and the continuing occupation, a great sense of relief had fallen over the people of Sycamore, New Hampshire. Like some terrifying black cloud that had been swirling over their heads for so long had just blown over to be replaced by sunlight, the fear and panic of the previous night was all but gone. The mist was not water, but dust.

At once, the thin white coating on the flat surface was broken as the door of the high school was cracked open from inside. Cautiously, like a small rodent wary of hawks, Mr. Franklin peered his head out through the crack and scanned the street.
There was a man coming down the sidewalk, looking like a ghost in the clouds. But after a moment, the old teacher could see that it was the captain of the National Guard division in charge of securing his corner of the town.
Franklin waved him down, and slowly pushed the door open and stepped outside. As he walked across the street, his steps muffled by the dust, there was a distinct trail of footprints left behind. He walked over to the captain, looking slightly nervous.
“Is it alright to be out here?”
The captain chuckled. “Of course it is, this is just dust. The virus is gone, we just don’t want civilians breathing this shit in yet.”
Mr. Franklin nodded, and stood next to him on the curb.
“So, what happened?”
The captain turned to him looking proud.
“We blew it up. Got the biocontainment crew to stick enough C-4 in the tunnel to take out a building, and any trace of the virus is buried way down with no nutrients. The heat killed most of it though.”
Franklin began to take a deep breath, then remembered the dust and breathed shallowly again.
“So, it’s all over?”
“Yep, we finished it. Pity about the collateral damage though…”
Mr. Franklin snapped his head around. “What?”
The captain looked taken aback. “Well, yeah. Unfortunately some guys got caught in the blast. There was this one kid in there, bout’ thirteen according to the crews, got a bad breath of the virus. The chief too, only I think he got shot. And a guy, what was his name again? Scott, I think. Yeah, Mr. Scott. A real shame, he was just trying to get away. And the terrorist kid of course, I don’t exactly mourn him.”
Franklin looked down at the ground and spoke softly. “I do.”
The captain wrinkled his forehead. “Why? Oh yeah, right, you were his teacher or something. Sorry about that, must be hard to have known him.”
The teacher nodded solemnly, his hands clasped in front of him.
“Yes, it is. I just wish he could have told us why he did it…”
The captain let out a small laugh. “Why? What do you mean? We know why already, because he was a crazy son of a bitch. Enough said.”
Franklin turned back and looked at him incredulously.
“Don’t you think that maybe there were more reasons than that?”
“No. He was nuts, everybody knows that. Don’t try to justify him-“
“I’m not justifying it, I just think that maybe if we want understand it maybe we should-“
The captain gave him a pitying look. “I don’t want to understand him, I just wanted to stop him. And we did. End of story. Gotta go now, there’s more houses to patrol. Take this though, it may come in handy.”
He handed him one of the air filters, then started down the street towards the downtown area.
Franklin still just stood there, staring at his back. Then something caught his eye.
There was a kid standing on the side walk outside a convenient store, just standing there, like he was watching the scene outside.
The National Guard captain picked up the pace, running up to the kid and grabbing his arm.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing here? Curfew’s still in effect for minors, get inside you little brat, before I haul you ass down the station! Go on, get moving!”
He shoved him in the back, and the kid stumbled and fell to the sidewalk, gripping his knee.
“Come on, get inside! I won’t say it again, now move!”
Slowly, as though trying to maintain as much dignity as he could, the kid got to his feet, giving the captain an teary glare. Then he turned back towards the school, heading towards the row of houses that lay beyond.
He was silent in the dust, and Franklin saw him coming before he could hear him. As the kid passed him, he was wearing a humiliated, angry face that he recognized immediately. The kid walked past, not moving anything but his legs until he reached the old, frail teacher standing outside.
He looked him in the eye, and saw something deep behind the kid’s eyes. In that moment, he saw the emotions that scared him from both their fury and their familiarity. And Mr. Franklin felt himself, almost unintentionally, making a small nod.
Then it was gone, and the kid continued to walk down the street, his shouldered hunched as though carrying a heavy weight, his eyes now fixed on the ground.
The captain shouted from down the street.
“Come on, get your ass moving!” he watched the kid for a few seconds more, as if to make sure he was heading for the houses, then turned away and vanished into the dust.
Mr. Franklin stood there for a moment, feelings of both exasperation and hopelessness filling his heart. He took one last look at the kid who he had never before seen, yet felt that at the moment he understood more than anyone, then back at the captain’s shadow fading in the cloud.
He rolled his eyes and shook his head, then walked out of the shadow of the school and into the magnificent sunrise.

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-19-2006 06:50 AM
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WildFire Offline
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Post: #59
 

wow, what a great ending. it was so great. Total of 70 pages on my word document, including the eiplogue. im sure if i kinds made the pages into smaller 3 inch long and 6 inch tall book pages, then i bet itll be around maybe 130 pages or so.

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09-19-2006 10:05 AM
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Rebelnerd Offline
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Post: #60
 

thanks, it really took me a while.

130 pages, wow...that's like an actual book... Jawdrop

I think Buenaventura Durruti is a pretty cool guy. eh kills fascists and doesnt afraid of ruins.
The quickest way to kill a revolution is to wait for it.
09-19-2006 10:36 AM
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