Short Story - Wrong Place, wrong time...
Sept 24, 2012 12:32:54 GMT -6
texican, gipsy, and 1 more like this
Post by hh54r on Sept 24, 2012 12:32:54 GMT -6
A Short Story by HH54r
Wrong place, wrong time…
The first thing he could sense was sound. Odd thing was it was a familiar sound. The long burst of a mini-gun. It was unmistakable. He had heard it too many times.
He was stiff, sore and his eyes were swollen. His arms were pulled up over his head and his feet barely touched the floor. Where was he at? Then the light bulb clicked on. He was still in the sandbox. Still being tortured. The mini-gun, this was his salvation. YEAH, my guys are close and I am outta here. Tears rolled down his face as darkness consumed him again.
Upon waking again he had two senses working. Sound, it was very quiet and the air was very still. Sight, he could see shapes and light but not clearly. The tears had done their job of helping his eyes to open. He was still in the same position as before. Hanging and in a great deal of pain. His mouth felt nasty and whenever he tried to speak it just came out as a croak. He slung his head around several times to try and clear his eyes and loosen his neck. It worked a bit and his eyes cleared. He looked up at his hands and saw that they were bound by a huge white rope. As he turned his head to try and observe the knot better. His body kind of followed. As he continued to look at the knot he noticed his feet were more firmly on the floor than before.
He smiled, and as he turned more in the same direction he stopped. His knees were now bent slightly forward and he knew that he would not yet be able to support his own weight. He started to move his legs to get some life back into them. He did this for a long time until he was standing there, own his own. He turned a couple of more times and the knots on his hands loosened up. He wiggled his wrist and soon his hands were free.
There was a chair setting at a desk near by and he went over and sat down. As he looked around he came to the stark realization that he was not in the sandbox as that had been a while ago. He knew this place; it was not far from where he grew up on the southeast side of Atlanta. It was a drug warehouse. He assumed he had been hallucinating his time in capture based on the sound of the mini-gun. Since he had come around the second time he had not heard the gun nor was this place anywhere near either the sandbox or anywhere downrange. He now remembered he had been here for his MAG to obtain drugs that would be needed since the collapse. Why was he alone? Who had beaten him as well as when in the crap did they sneak up on him and put him in such a compromising position. He was wearing only his boxers. He was covered with filth, sweat, blood and who knows what else.
He got up and started walking around. He found his clothes and shoes in a pile on the floor not far away. His game cart was there and so were his weapons. His favorite Saiga AK and a field jacket he had stuffed with items for the trip. He picked up all of his stuff and continued to walk around. He found the bathrooms and went in to clean up.
As he looked in the mirror he knew it looked worse than it was. Swollen face and eyes and bruises beyond belief on his chest and arms. He turned on the cold water and splashed himself many times until he shook so bad he almost fell down. He rolled off a double handful of paper towel and started the long slow process of drying his torn, tender and well bruised skin. His face was the worst, but at least he could see fairly well now and since drinking some water felt that he could speak if needed. He got dressed and went back into the large open area he had just left and started gathering up the drugs he came for. He thought it odd that nothing seemed missing. Why would someone beat him and not take anything?
He had no watch and had no idea how long he had been here and knew he had missed his rendezvous and would have been left for dead. He also knew that this is how it was. The worst part was going to be making the trip back to the MAG on foot. Many miles to walk through very tough country. He shrink wrapped the items to the game cart. He liked this idea so much he stuck another one of the wrap handles under what he was doing and would take it back as well. He dropped the cart at the bathroom door and went inside and drank more water and splashed his face again. Back outside he picked up the cart and rolled it to the exit door he would use to leave. To bad there were no windows in here. He would like to have a look around before he opened the door. He pulled the safety down on the AK and slid the bolt carrier back enough to see the round that was chambered. Squared his jaw and put his hand on the door knob.
As he tried to push the door open he heard another familiar sound. The sound of a lot of brass, gun brass being pushed. There was a lot of it. When he finally got the door open he looked down to see thousands of 7.62 shells on the ground around the door. The mini had been real. He looked out over the parking lot and saw several bodies on the ground in shreds. He took two steps and recognized the first man. He was the one who had done most of the beating inside. From the way of what was left of his clothes told him they were common thugs or drug dealers. None the less. They were dead. He smiled and took two more steps.
The bright light hit him first at his feet then went quickly to his face. Just as he started to lift his rifle he though he heard a voice in the air.
From the building the chopper was sitting on the mini-gun barrel started to spin a fraction of a second before the first round was fired. The door gunner on the black chopper destroyed the stuff on the cart and obliterated the man behind it. The gunner ceased fire and looked over at the pilot; “How much longer before the replacements arrive?” He lit up a cigarette took a long drag and wondered what the rest of the night would bring.
~End~
Copyright 2012
HH54r
Wrong place, wrong time…
The first thing he could sense was sound. Odd thing was it was a familiar sound. The long burst of a mini-gun. It was unmistakable. He had heard it too many times.
He was stiff, sore and his eyes were swollen. His arms were pulled up over his head and his feet barely touched the floor. Where was he at? Then the light bulb clicked on. He was still in the sandbox. Still being tortured. The mini-gun, this was his salvation. YEAH, my guys are close and I am outta here. Tears rolled down his face as darkness consumed him again.
Upon waking again he had two senses working. Sound, it was very quiet and the air was very still. Sight, he could see shapes and light but not clearly. The tears had done their job of helping his eyes to open. He was still in the same position as before. Hanging and in a great deal of pain. His mouth felt nasty and whenever he tried to speak it just came out as a croak. He slung his head around several times to try and clear his eyes and loosen his neck. It worked a bit and his eyes cleared. He looked up at his hands and saw that they were bound by a huge white rope. As he turned his head to try and observe the knot better. His body kind of followed. As he continued to look at the knot he noticed his feet were more firmly on the floor than before.
He smiled, and as he turned more in the same direction he stopped. His knees were now bent slightly forward and he knew that he would not yet be able to support his own weight. He started to move his legs to get some life back into them. He did this for a long time until he was standing there, own his own. He turned a couple of more times and the knots on his hands loosened up. He wiggled his wrist and soon his hands were free.
There was a chair setting at a desk near by and he went over and sat down. As he looked around he came to the stark realization that he was not in the sandbox as that had been a while ago. He knew this place; it was not far from where he grew up on the southeast side of Atlanta. It was a drug warehouse. He assumed he had been hallucinating his time in capture based on the sound of the mini-gun. Since he had come around the second time he had not heard the gun nor was this place anywhere near either the sandbox or anywhere downrange. He now remembered he had been here for his MAG to obtain drugs that would be needed since the collapse. Why was he alone? Who had beaten him as well as when in the crap did they sneak up on him and put him in such a compromising position. He was wearing only his boxers. He was covered with filth, sweat, blood and who knows what else.
He got up and started walking around. He found his clothes and shoes in a pile on the floor not far away. His game cart was there and so were his weapons. His favorite Saiga AK and a field jacket he had stuffed with items for the trip. He picked up all of his stuff and continued to walk around. He found the bathrooms and went in to clean up.
As he looked in the mirror he knew it looked worse than it was. Swollen face and eyes and bruises beyond belief on his chest and arms. He turned on the cold water and splashed himself many times until he shook so bad he almost fell down. He rolled off a double handful of paper towel and started the long slow process of drying his torn, tender and well bruised skin. His face was the worst, but at least he could see fairly well now and since drinking some water felt that he could speak if needed. He got dressed and went back into the large open area he had just left and started gathering up the drugs he came for. He thought it odd that nothing seemed missing. Why would someone beat him and not take anything?
He had no watch and had no idea how long he had been here and knew he had missed his rendezvous and would have been left for dead. He also knew that this is how it was. The worst part was going to be making the trip back to the MAG on foot. Many miles to walk through very tough country. He shrink wrapped the items to the game cart. He liked this idea so much he stuck another one of the wrap handles under what he was doing and would take it back as well. He dropped the cart at the bathroom door and went inside and drank more water and splashed his face again. Back outside he picked up the cart and rolled it to the exit door he would use to leave. To bad there were no windows in here. He would like to have a look around before he opened the door. He pulled the safety down on the AK and slid the bolt carrier back enough to see the round that was chambered. Squared his jaw and put his hand on the door knob.
As he tried to push the door open he heard another familiar sound. The sound of a lot of brass, gun brass being pushed. There was a lot of it. When he finally got the door open he looked down to see thousands of 7.62 shells on the ground around the door. The mini had been real. He looked out over the parking lot and saw several bodies on the ground in shreds. He took two steps and recognized the first man. He was the one who had done most of the beating inside. From the way of what was left of his clothes told him they were common thugs or drug dealers. None the less. They were dead. He smiled and took two more steps.
The bright light hit him first at his feet then went quickly to his face. Just as he started to lift his rifle he though he heard a voice in the air.
From the building the chopper was sitting on the mini-gun barrel started to spin a fraction of a second before the first round was fired. The door gunner on the black chopper destroyed the stuff on the cart and obliterated the man behind it. The gunner ceased fire and looked over at the pilot; “How much longer before the replacements arrive?” He lit up a cigarette took a long drag and wondered what the rest of the night would bring.
~End~
Copyright 2012
HH54r
