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Whippersnapper
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Discussion Starter · #1 · (Edited)
I found this on my hard dirive, having written it years ago as an exersise in descriptive wrighting- so its not great, but i thought i'd share it anyway. Its a bit depressing, but some of you may enjoy it;

Vision of an end.

He looked down from his vantage point and watched the seething masses in the road below him. He was thankful for the thick black mask that shielded his face from view, for the tears that streamed down his cheeks could not be seen, though he had to fight hard to stop the sobbing. He looked down the line to his left and right at the ranks of his men, he could see that many were making no effort to conceal their grief.
They stood on a high wall that sealed their refuge from the rest of the world, a little back from the edge, providing enough room for the padre to walk around the edge pouring a little water from his canteen at a time and sprinkling it onto the chaos below.
The padre stopped at the end of the line and called out through his mask for everyone to join him in prayer.
All the while the main doors continued to groan heralding the fact that the incessant pounding over the weeks on the steel had taken its toll; they would not stand firm much longer.
The view from here was extraordinary. On one side he could look out to sea and feel the enormity of the world, he could see that it was still beautiful, regardless of the pestilence and decay; he could see that it didn’t matter- that the world would continue with or without them. Though he could also look inland, where in the distance the columns of dust from the blasts in the cities were silhouetted against the shocking blaze of the rising sun, like gargantuan, grotesque yet beautiful grey oak trees. The low light cast by the sun caught on the underside of the nuclear dust that formed dense wondering clouds. It lit them up, striking gold and pink, against the bruised sky of grey, black, blue and purple. Though no birds flew, no sheep grazed the fields before him, not even crows picked at the corpses at the base of the palisade, leaving them to the maggots and worms.
The screams bought him back. Back to see the malformed gate swing inwards, back to see the rank raging rabble run right through, back to see what he knew to be the final beginning of the final end.
They were only slowed by the temporary barrier constructed out of parked vehicles, boxes and crates. A shudder ran through the soldiers. The diseased were now close enough to see their eyes and hands, if they had them. Their flesh no longer felt the lead bight, their eyes no longer feared the prospect, their minds no longer flinched at the cries, their hearts no longer felt sorrow or love, their thoughts no longer considered the atrocities they were intent on committing.
With his shaking voice he called out orders that they all knew and hated and raised his own weapon. Every man knew their fate. The diseased poured over the barrier and began attacking those on the ground. The command was given, the air filled with spiting fire and shouting steel, the orchestra of brass raining down and ringing on the boards beneath their feet. They knew that they could not stop them, only that they could slow their fate, and die in a manner in which they saw fit. They fell, but more came rolling forward. They began climbing the stairs to the rampart. The padre began anointing the men with the water, as they continued to fire on the aggressors.
The first man fell, and others quickly followed. Magazines ran dry and bayonets fixed.
 

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Reply to Gent

Gent - I used to say I have no use for fiction, but being new to survival preparations and there being no modern day historical accounts of prep and collapse, well that leaves fiction. I have read Patriots, Lights Out, One Second After and would certainly read anything you write or publish, after reading how well you write.
I am following a series of short stories on a guy named Jim on http:/www.urbansurvivalskills.com written by urbanman, I found urban man on facebook and asked him if this was a story. He replied that the Jim chapters were a true life account of a guy coming to understand the need to prep, and his steps from being afraid of guns to having guns and a plan. That's were I was about a year ago. Working two jobs, head down in the grind and no idea of the survival prep community and rising need to prepare. Wish I had more time to get on the net and learn from all the sites out here.
please consider writing as these fictional accounts of survival are all we have.
regards,
Wade
P.S. Found out on http://www.ar15.com that Halffast, the Lights Out author is publishing that book.
 
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