NationStates Jolt Archive


Burn.

The Salamander States
10-08-2004, 23:37
"A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it."

It was drizzling lightly that morning, the dark green clouds looming over the ruins. Had it only been six weeks since the War had started? Over twenty million dead already, but it didn't matter if you were drafted into service -- it was always the other man who died. Never you. People have committed suicide, been hit by cars, and have drowned -- but how many people do you know have actually perished in war?

Fractured. The war had fractured the nation and no one except perhaps a few cognizant politicians (and the Book People, maybe. But they're just anti-social bums, no one will pay attention to those slobs.) The west, the east, the midwest. All separate entities operating on their own. Communications had been impaired so badly that it was almost impossible to make a call from Chicago to someone St. Louis. But no one cared; they had their 'families' to comfort them and their Seashells to them what to think. The cities were still in their power, afterall. Their being fire. Clean-burning fire.

Rivers of blood flowed gently down the Mississippi and jet bombers boomed overhead. The war had only just started and there was plenty more bloodshed to be sugarcoated. Plenty of more anti-social lunatics to be doused in kerosene and then lit in a great orange flame along with the white feathers they had surrounded themselves with to keep the public entertained late at night. Lunatics, every single one of them. Insane, obviously. Elitists. Who were they to flaunt their intellect as if it was superior? As if everyone else was nothing?

****

"BURN! BURN! BURN!"

One, two, three adventures.

"BURN! BURN! BURN!"

Four, five, six tragedies.

"BURN! BURN! BURN!"

Seven, eight, nine romances.

"BURN! BURN! BURN!"

Ten, eleven, twelve comedies.

Asimov. Stowe. Dickens.

Fiction. Nonfiction.

All engulfed in the pretty flames for them to gawk at. The flames crackled and the smell of kerosene floated through the sky; a perfume to some and a poison to others.

"You're under arrest."

****

"They can't be more than two miles from here. There's no where to run. We might as well turn ourselves in, Warner."

"Shut up you, fool. They're going to torch us anyway. They crave instant pleasure. We keep this race going on for long enough and they'll find patsies. Now. Run."

"You are under arrest. Turn yourselves in while you're ahead. You are under arrest," the monotone voice boomed.

They kept running.

"You are under arrest. There is no escape. Turn yourselves in immediately."

Run. Run. Run.

"If you do not surrender yourselves immediately, we will open fire. This is your last warning. You cannot escape the Hound nor can you escape us. There is no alternative. Surrender. Spare your lives. Now. One, two, three."

A burst of machine gun fire from above.

"Duck!"

Another burst came barreling down from the sky. Left and right. Right and left. The bullets pelted the ground in every direction. Scrambling, Warner stumbled. He hesistated as he fell to the ground.

"Get up!" cried his friend. "Now!" he pleaded.

One, two, three, four bullets. Five, six, seven bullets. Blood splattered across the street.

"Damnit," he said as he ran across the street, dodging the hundreds of bullets raining from the sky.

The Hound. Where is it? They said it was here.

There it was, barreling down the street towards him, its four-inch needle protruding from its muzzle carrying a deadly dose of procaine.

"Shit!" was all he could say.

The woods. Forty yards ahead. I can get away.

A mad dash. Bullets flying and a metallic canine from hell after him. Heaven, paradise, just forty yards away. A sharp piercing pain. His leg, two bullets. Cold blood trickling down.

Thirty yards.

Faster, faster, faster. The Hound did not feel fatigue, but he did. The needle stuck out of its muzzle, dripping with death. Its green-blue neon eyes flickered as it growled now. A mere ten feet behind him and not stopping.

Ten yards. If I reach the woods, maybe the Hound'll lose my scent among nature. Unlikely, but still, it's worth a shot. Besides, if they can't film me, the audience can't watch. That would be bad for them. Christ, he's nearly on top of me!

He jumped, hurling himself into the woods, rolling down a hill, and flying into the forest floor. Rolling, rolling, rolling. The Hound lept into the woods, its ravenous eyes flickering. He got up. How is leg hurt! There was a river somewhere nearby. It would provide ready means of quick transportation. But before he could run, the Hound tackled him.

PIERCING. PIERCING. The needle dug into his skin and into his veins. Its teeth tore and ripped. A deep scream. Its claws ripping his chest to shreds.

This is it. What's that?

Groping around with his one free hand, he felt a smooth, hard object. He picked it up and smashed it against the Hound's cranium. Sparks fluttered and the Hound fell limp. All he could hear was garbled segments of code repeating itself.

"Variable index002345 undefined. Return invalid."

The neon lights that were once glowing so bright were now dim. The procaine needle was still stuck in his shoulder. He pulled it out, wincing. His shoulder was numb. It had inject enough to numb him, but not enough to kill him.

Thank God. What was it?

He looked at the object he clenched in the palm of his hand. It was brown, smooth, hard, irregularly shaped.

What is it? I have its name on the tip of my tongue! R. Rock. That's it!

He was dizzy still so he sat down for a bit on a gnarled root. He took a good look at his surroundings. Trees, everywhere and a new smell he had never experienced. Several large rocks dotted the environment and orange and red leaves covered the ground like a large blanket. There was a bubbling brook directly behind with cool water running down it. He got up and took a little stroll towards the brook and dipped his hands (which were cupped) into the cool water. He splashed it on his face a few times.

Now. There's a river somewhere. I know it. I visited it here with Warner once. Oh, poor Warner!

Suddenly, he realized that there was something in his jeans pocket. He reached deep and pulled it out. A book! He had taken one with him before the chase. Subconsciously, of course, but he still had a book.

Tacitus it read. The Annals. The letters were in giant gold print on the black cover. He shoved the book back into his pants pocket. Later, he thought, later, I'll read it.

And then he suddenly realized that he had forgotten his own name.
Bereza
10-08-2004, 23:46
tag
The Salamander States
11-08-2004, 01:01
How could I forget my name? How? I remember everything else about me so vividly. I was born on May 3rd, 1978 in Houston, Texas at Narcissus Hospital to... to... damn, I can't remember who my parents are either. Wait, my mother. Her name. Mary. My father's first name. Joseph. But what was their last name? No birth certificates -- those had been burned. No death certificates -- burned. People entered this world as an insignificant spec of sand on a giant beach and left it just as unnoticed. And they told us that we were happy.

Questions were drumming him now. Who was he? Why was he? What was his purpose? Where is he to go? Why is he to go? Why did he dissent? When? How?

The answers were not responding. They were there alright, but they sheathed in a murky mist so he couldn't see them. Everything was very confusing right now, perhaps it was the result of the procaine dosage. But all he knew was that he had to get to the river. Maybe it would guide him through the mist.

He got up. Still sore. He had taken another rest on a flat rock for fifteen minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. He had been walking for only two hours, but it felt like an eternity. Time was passing slowly, slower than he moved. Than he thought.

The leaves rustled as he walked. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. It seemed endless.

Is there even a river here? Or was it a figment of my imagination? Something I created to give myself hope? No, I'm certain that there's a river here. Somewhere. Nearby. The. Great. Sloping. Boulder. By. The. Moss. NORTH! That's where I got to go to get to the river. NORTH! But where am I traveling now? I have no compass. Damnit, another dead end. Wait. No. Wait a minute, moss. Moss grows on the north side of a tree. There's a tree. There's the moss. Follow the moss and you go NORTH!

He had crouched down to see the green moss growing on the old, barren tree. Birds chirped. Something he had never heard. The chirping of birds. He waited there for ten minutes, absorbing nature like a sponge.

Get going you fool. We can't stay here all day. But I want to. No, we must get to the river.

He pulled himself up once again, and stretched out his leg ahead of him. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Always the same pattern. Never different.

It may be hours before I reach the river, I've been wandering aimlessly for days it seems.

He checked his wrist watch.

Hours.
Automagfreek
11-08-2004, 01:34
OOC: Good job, keep it up.

{TAG}
The Island of Rose
11-08-2004, 01:58
OOC: I see... I see... I see great things in your future (TAG)
The Salamander States
11-08-2004, 02:37
Water. Running water. Alas, there it was! The river. The glorious, glorious river! But why? He couldn't even remember why he had wanted to come to this river.

Wait, why did I come here in the first place? I escaped the Hound. I killed it. Why am I here? Why? What the hell am I doing?

As he pondered, he was collecting pieces wood -- branches mostly -- and piling them near the riverbank. He looked down at his hands. Again, his subconscious had acted without his permission. He was already building a raft to ride the river.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp jolt of pain stinging his chest. He looked down at his bare chest. His shirt was torn, cuts spanning the length of his torso and breasts. Blood was dripping from these gashes.

Damn Hound.

His shoulder was still pretty numb and now he the pain from the Hound's vicious bite was emerging. At first the pain was an annoyance. A gentle stinging. Then it felt as if the Hound was still ripping his flesh to shreds. The pain increased. The stinging sharpened. He couldn't tolerate anymore.

"YARRGGGHHHH!!" he shouted

The pain numbed. Going from intolerable pain, it receded back to a gentle stinging. Slowly and gradually it wore away as the bleeding began to come to a halt.

He was still collecting wood, tossing it into a large pile. Subconsciously, he realized when he had enough to make the raft he wanted. How to tie the wooden planks together? Vines. He needed to find vines. He ventured out back into the woods, searching, searching. The leaves crunched. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. He scoured the landscape. Boulder, moss, boulder, moss, tree, leaves, boulder, moss, tree, leaves, tree, vines. Hugging the tree, there they were, sucking the life out of the bark. Parasites. He ripped the greens from the bark, peeling some of the bark off in the process. Once he had collected enough, he mindlessly turned back to the river like a robot given commands. Back to the riverbank where the bark and branches were piled on top of one another. Sort, sort, sort. Breaking branches to even out the length, tossing out unneeded wood, tying the vines around it. Tightly. Subconsciously. Tediously.

Where am I going? Down the river, of course. Why? I cannot answer that question. The question will answer itself when it so sees fit. Patience, patience.

****

"CAW!"

He sprung up, drenched in sweat even though it was quite cool outside. No longer on the river. No longer on his raft.

I must've drifted off. But where am I?

"Hello, there, mate."

His senses became catlike. He twirled around. There, standing above him, was a man. He clothes were ragged, his face wrinkled, and his beard rough.

"To answer your first question, I'm Great Expectations, birthname Thomas. That's right, you've stumbled upon our little camp here downstream. Your raft sorta docked itself here last night and we heard you talking in your sleep. You woke up Uncle Tom over there and he pulled you back to civlization. You probably would have drowned, I reckon."

"Thanks.."

"Now that I've introduced myself, mind if I ask who you are? I'm not trying to be rude, of course."

"I... I... I don't know. Yet. It's all quite blurry right now. Are you Book People?"

Thomas looked startled. "Why? What do you want? We have no books here. You have no reason to arrest anyone here."

"Oh no, I... I... I think I was looking for you. That's why I came to the river. The chase? Did you see it on TV?"

"Don't have one here. There's one down the highway, in another camp, 'bout fifty or so miles from here. East."

"Well, erm, here," he said, pulling out Tacitus from his pocket.

"What's that there? Ahh, I see. Tacitus. We got an Agricola and Germania at this camp. You ever read it?"

"Oh no, never read a thing in my life. At least. I don't think I have. I can't even remember my own name. Everything's a blur."

"Yes, you've already mentioned that," said Thomas, winking. "Hey, seeing as you can't remember your own name, mind if I just call you Tacitus until you can remember? The People at the camp east have a television, like I said, and the television covering your chase probably have your name on file."

"No, no, I don't mind at all," said Tacitus.

"Well, might as well discuss this over breakfast. You like bacon and eggs?"
The Salamander States
11-08-2004, 20:43
"So," said Tacitus, chewing on a piece of bacon, "the war. Do you know why we're at war?"

Thomas cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "we don't know much more than you do, but we do have our 'outside' sources. Supposedly tensions with the Soviets have hit an all-time high. Six weeks ago -- nuclear ICBM's were launched, obliterating both sides' cities. Then came a carpet bombing campaign from both sides. Only now has the ground war begun, somewhere in and around Alaska, I believe. That's all I know."

Tacitus sighed. His shoulder was still sore, but at least it wasn't numb. He looked around the camp. There were several tents here and there; several fires burning brightly. No more than fifteen people were here -- it was one of the smaller camps.

Maybe, I'll read The Annals today.

Suddenly there was a large pop and the sound echoed throughout the camp. Four jet bombers darted overhead.

Tacitus watched the jet bombers. He looked to his right; six fighter jets were darting to intercept the bombers.

Burn.

One missile.

Burn.

Two missiles.

Burn.

Machine gunfire.

BURN.

Burning wings.

BURN!

Meteors hurtling.

BURN! BURN! BURN!

Explosion.

The war had only just begun. Fire was burning.
Cyberutopia
11-08-2004, 22:03
((Well, I'm impressed. Keep it up, I enjoy a good story like this.))
The Salamander States
12-08-2004, 03:30
(((OOC: telegram me if you want to create a character.. either a fireman or book person.. I'll give you some basic info on the world situation so you can rp accordingly)))
Celack
12-08-2004, 03:49
your the first rper to use farenheight 451!i salute you!!!