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Old 09-17-2019, 11:24 PM
Jim from 28DaysLater's Avatar
Jim from 28DaysLater Jim from 28DaysLater is offline
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Cool Fiction - SHTF Chronicles No. 1

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I want to write some short stories, bouncing around to different characters at different places and different times, before, during, and after SHTF or TEOW. This is the first edition-- I just finally ended up feeling like and being able to write, but I can't say it's necessarily going to happen again, or when. Apologies in advance if anyone thinks something wasn't realistic enough / wasn't done right-- I'm still just learning, and not that expert at all in anything that concerns us. Also I didn't plan this story a lot, but wrote it kind of off the top of my head this evening.


Thanks to everyone for reading!! -Jim


SHTF Chronicles No. 1 - Wild West Elements

I opened my Smirnoff vodka limited edition New Jersey bottle to pour for myself and the stranger from many miles away, a somewhat older man.

“All my life, I’ve been a believing Christian, and before all this, I never would have thought I ever was going to touch a drop…”

“At this point, God himself probably drinks,” I said.

We had just joined forces with them to wipe out a Muslim pocket. Since their own area had calmed down some time ago, the men from far away had decided they were able to head towards us on a sort of Star Trek exploratory mission. Scouting had discovered the Muslims along the route, however. We had been vaguely aware of their location for a while, but until now, it had been wiser to not risk ourselves fighting them.

The strangers needed to get them out of the way to travel here, and we needed additional forces to work on them with, so there wouldn’t be as much danger to ourselves. It finally made sense to go fight, and that had just finished this afternoon.

The man looked serious and perhaps still a little upset, and I was on the same wavelength. Even though our area was a lot tougher than the out of staters’, I had not been in combat in a while.

The two of us looked at each other as we began drinking our straight-up vodka shots from plain shot glasses. The kitchen was unlit, and the table had nothing else on it. The face across from me had clearly visible wrinkles, large, shiny metal glasses, and a dark gray ol school haircut. So far, he was more or less the type that I had expected to survive, although I knew almost nothing about him, having only discussed the minimum necessary with him in combat.

For the third or fourth time since beginning this conversation with this man, I interrupted my own thoughts to consider my own personal safety. There was nothing about him that was more threatening than any other man, now, on average-- but he was new. Was I really doing everything alright? Should I really be talking to him like this? Once again, I didn’t notice anything else I had to consider or do, and I swatted away the distracting thoughts.

For his part, the guy wasn’t thinking up anything else to tell me about the battle with the Muslims, beyond his chatter from when we’d still been outside this building.

I started to look over an NVID as I drank. Once again, I didn’t find anything too wrong with the condition or the functioning, and I started to think about who I had to give it to, or what else I had to do with it. An important concern. I already owned several.

Then my mind dutifully flitted back to the person across from me, and I asked myself what the out of staters, for their part, might have souvenired and not revealed to us.

“Was it difficult travelling here?”

“Not hard.”

“What about gas? How could there be enough to travel here?”

“There was enough gas!” he said, choking on his vodka. He paused. “Stopping along the way, you find it. You know, there are a lot of people out there who didn’t have to drive anymore.”

I could hear men, mostly my men, murmuring outside, handling whatever needed to be sorted out from the aftermath of the battle. If I had ever been a control freak before all this, then the end of the world, and commanding my own irregular soldiers and other people, only made me be one at least a bit more than that.

You can’t stop thinking about things that might be handled wrong, mentally checking for things that might need your attention, or that could even run into total mischief without you.

“Well, we did great today. Interesting day,” I said, as I stood up and poured him another half shot of vodka. “I have to quickly check in on some things, and then we defintely have to talk some more.”

“Yes, interesting. Definitely,” and so forth, said the stranger, giving his attention to his shot glass.

Outside, on the streets of our home base, sentries were on regular duty, besides the other fighting men who had just come in from the combat. A friend raised a handheld optic towards me, to check my expressions and gestures. I opened my mouth and my eyes wide, flashing him the “blep” facial expression, and he started to drop the optic before he could even get it up to his eyes, and started smiling. Then I kept walking.

That had become an in-joke with all of us. Once, when were in a battle, we spotted through our optics a badguy who just stepped out onto the street, and didn’t see us. He thought that things had turned in favor of his side (they had not), and flashed the “blep.” We shot him no more than two or three seconds after that. Since then, we adopted the blep as our own signal meaning victory.

I crossed the street and headed towards another building where the room was where souvenirs, loot, and other necessary things ordinarily were accounted for, tallied, or straightened out. Towards there, the security got a little heavier, and the strangers got a little thinner.

It was an overcast day, and there was silver, gray light all over the place. Despite all the usual discomforts and gravitas, events so far had made things a bit cheery.

As I headed to the front door, two or three of our men were flashing “blep” to each other.

Another bare table, another unlit room. “How’s it going?” said Mike, grinning.

“No knives pulled.”

“You like that guy?”

“He’s ok. We fought the Muslims together. Doesn’t seem like he wants to pull any tricks on me so far.”

Just the facts: who died, what was found, what else needed to be resolved. I told them what they needed from me, and they told me what I needed to hear from them. Notes put in our documents.

After that, I couldn’t leave the visitors up in the air any longer, and I picked up a bodyguard, and headed to start to get things sorted with them.

Not far away, I found a couple more of the leading men of the out of staters, and told them about what they needed to do and not do, and where they could be housed.


“Any screaming, wild, crazy stuff happen out there?”

“Just shooting bullets through people.”

It was amazing who I was living with now, who had survived shtf, and who hadn’t.

Besides the exceptions, there was pretty much a divide between younger men who often had a special, crazy, tough boldness, and older men who were more like the leader of the strangers who drank with me--- men who survived because of cleverness, perhaps the wisdom of age. At some times, women didn’t appear on the streets at all, still thoroughly protected after all this time after shtf, like some anachronistic medieval society. Every person I knew now was white.

There were also a lot of wild west sort of elements to my life now, I was noticing from time to time. As one of my usual bodyguards and I walked along the street, we passed along the Warmongers graveyard. One of our more recent battles had been with the Warmongers outlaw motorcycle gang, and we had killed every last one. The Warmongers graveyard was the spot right around here where we buried them.

Naturally since we’d just hooked up with another big, well-equipped, serious prepper group we’d never met irl before, we had to go to a secure location and talk about them. With my bodyguard by my side, I and the other appropriate people sat down and said all the realpolitik stuff and theorizing we needed to... the most efficient and serious initial attempt we could possibly make of it, given some allowances.


During the rest of the late afternoon and evening, I pretty much accomplished everything else I needed to with regard to the strangers, but a lot more hapazardly than I wanted to.

I was the most responsible guy in our group, but since shtf, I had more been impressed with how people could be only as obedient to you as they needed to be, instead of with things really clicking all the time so much. Other guys who were below me had it, but I didn’t. Still, things got basically put into place and made secure with the new people, and everything that was going to happen the next day got set up.

None of them knifed us, and vice versa. And we established, to our provisional satisfaction, that they weren’t here to destroy us, or to commit other crimes. Our talks with them were friendly, and there were no substantial disputes.

However, after leaving our most secure foreign policy discussion was when I finally had my first big lull of alertness following the battle, and when the most screwy thing of the day happened-- involving no Muslims or out-of-state preppers.

Immediately after the meet-up, my guard and I found a nearby place for me to have my next food or thing to drink since the vodka with the out of state guy. I had been sitting down, starting to get things straight mentally on my own, and was by an open door and an open window.

I always have my weapons with me, but my guard had temporarily gone to do something. A strong-looking, short, more or less young man with facial hair and short hair appeared and questioned me. After I started to get alarmed, I was puzzled, and after he got physical, I realized who he was.

The last group we had fought before that day’s Muslims was an all-Albanian or almost all Albanian group, and they were another group we had wiped out. This guy was a survivor from that and was blaming me for killing his brother.

This guy had the drop on me with his knife, and I didn’t think it was worth it going for my rifle on the chair. I wanted to keep my head turned totally towards him and keep my hands more over in his direction. The guy let me get up, more or less, though. I called out to other people, though without getting too distracted with it.

I had begun the day with gunfights against Muslims who, bizarrely, somehow, in their own way, had managed to survive for months on their own after shtf. Now, at the end of the day, I was knife fighting a guy from a totally different group, for totally different reasons. I don’t know if Iraq or Afghanistan were like this, but it was just the kind of weird crap that totally made sense in post-shtf America, although it’s true that every day wasn’t quite as special as this.

I still had enough of the ol good stuff left to be fielding what this guy was throwing at me well. It was more my kind of thing, and he was more wooden, despite his fitness club appearance. I hadn’t frozen, and had gotten my knife out. In a space between a wall and the table, he made stabbing attacks at me. I wove to the left, and dodged one attack, and wove to the right, and dodged the second. In short order, I had his knife arm tucked under my arm, and I was stabbing this guy to death on the ground.

I was immediately treated for small lacerations. After having fought dozens of Muslims on their turf, this was the closest I came to death that day. In my own group’s base area, in one of our own buildings. Versus a person I had never met before, a danger I hadn’t been aware of. And he attacked completely by surprise. Weird.
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