NationStates Jolt Archive

or down to the dregs...here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=516199) Please keep all OOC comments to that thread.

Late Dusk…


Jonni Lea and Nathan looked over the figures for the third time, trying to find any more cuts that would stretch out the falling fuel reserves further. Both looked at the other with matching frowns as yet again they could find nothing more than in any good conscience they could cut. Electricity was an absolute must for too many things, and while horses and mules had never vanished from the county, some vehicles were as much an absolute must as electricity. And they could only hope that the teams they had sent out would return safely.

“ I hope the Outlaws get back soon with some good news.” Jonni Lea sighed, as she leaned back in her chair, stretching, trying to ease cramped muscles. Worry knotted them too strongly though, and the attempt failed.

The weather was unseasonably cold - it was barely the middle of September - and though the ancient walls of the county courthouse were solid native granite, she could hear the occasional rumble of thunder, letting her know that the vicious storm that had rolled in just before dawn was still pounding the Smokey Mountains that surrounded the small town of Mountain City.

Mountain City, pre LD 50 population of barely 2,000, - with a population of just over 10,000 for the entirety of Johnson County - was the county seat and like most of the county had come though with most of it’s population intact. However there was no heavy industry in the county – in fact little technological industry at all - the primary employers being the quarry and the Tri State Growers Coop. No, the locals engaged in small scale farming, small scale cattle raising, small scale logging, small scale moonshine brewing, but mostly being again' the Federal Government and laws they didn't hold to. That was large scale.

Cold air from the hall way swirled through the room, once the city councils private conference room, as David slid in with a thermos of coffee tucked under one arm and a roll of maps under the other. He dropped a light kiss on Jonni’s forehead then set the thermos and maps down. “Coffee to chases the chill, and some good news to boot. The bridge over South Houston Lake is now completely blown.”

Nathan and Jonni Lea both nodded. They hated having to blow the massive bridge where Highway 421 crossed the lake, but in the few months since the advent of LD50, it had been too large a gap for their small force to patrol. They had used up a sizeable portion of the explosives available to them to destroy the bridge but necessity was a mother. They could only hope to find and acquire more explosives soon.

‘We need too many things’ Jonni brushed the thought aside as she smiled at David. His strong presence never failed to ease her worries. They’d been through a lot together and they’d get all of them through this.

“ Also Wild Will and company are back. I told her to get a meal under her belt and some sack time before coming on up. She was exhausted. I have her preliminary report here.” David pulled out a thin sheaf of notebook paper from one of the map rolls and handed it tossed it on the table. “She thinks it’s doable, but …” He mimicked the Outlaws premier pilots usual cocdil. “…I’m just the fly girl, what do I know?”

“Jonni, why don’t you and David go grab some dinner, while I start trying to decipher her hen scratch” Nathan offered as he pulled the report to him. He knew the couple hadn’t had much time together of late.

David spent most of his waking hours being the field commander of the Outlaws - overseeing the various patrols and roadblocks that kept refugees, and those that preyed on them, out of the county. Another hard and necessary decision, but one made with swift surety. The land could only support a limited number of those fleeing the chaos and destruction caused by LD50 and the equally destructive aftermath. And they damn well weren’t going to allow the vultures in either. The US government- what remained of it that is - was fragmented and ineffective, mostly, and the Pettimores had moved decisively when the first signs of anarchy appeared. It had been the best thing they could have done, and they intended to keep right on doing it.

Nathan knew that Boar’s Hole, the unofficial head quarters of the Pettimore family, was cooking up a huge kettle of venison chili. “Just bring me back some when you’re done. This fresh coffee will hold me until then.”

Jonni Lea didn’t ask if Nathan wanted to accompany them. Nathan had survived the Troll attack that killed Three, but he’d not come through unscathed. His right leg, the femur shattered in several places and muscles so badly lacerated they feared at first they would have to amputate, still wasn’t recovered. Going up and down the stairs wouldn’t be easy on him, not that he’d ever ask for anything to be easy. ‘This’ll give Belinda a chance to come up by and pester him into taking better care of himself.’ Jonni nodded and stood “ Extra crackers, right?” She queried with a grin, though she didn’t really need to ask, every one knew that Nathan put more crackers in his chili than could be believed.

She stood and pulled her heavy rain slicker on. “David, I need to talk to Belinda for a moment.” Belinda Marlow, the senior surviving school teacher and now default school principle for the county, and Nathan’s long time lover, should be through with classes for the day by now. To save electricity, school had been moved to the courthouse, and classes were being taught in what had once been the two courtrooms that took up the largest portion of the ground floor. Davey and Robby, their twin sons, would be just about finished with their homework as well. Most of the surviving children stayed in the warmth of the old courtrooms to do their days after-school assignments or to just visit. The ceilings may have been high but the fire places were very efficient. “We can have dinner as a family.”

“ Sounds good! I’ll get the car warmed up. “ He agreed. Normally they have walked the less than two miles to the Boars Hole, every drop of gasoline was precious now, but ice was already forming. He didn’t want her risking a fall, or getting overly chilled. ‘And maybe I can foist the boys off on Annie and Four for a few hours’ He mused to himself with a wicked grin. He could definitely use to alone time with Jonni.

Jonni followed David slowly down the stairs. She had not escaped uninjured in that first encounter with the Trolls – many hadn’t survived, and she counted herself one of the lucky ones. The badly broken collarbone she’d suffered was all but healed, but when the barometer dropped it ached fiercely when she first got up and started moving.

As she stepped into the small judges chamber that now served Belinda as a Principals office, she heard David going out the back door.

The zombie, and I knew it was a zombie, but you'd better not ask how...because all you'd get would be a blank stare and a quirked eyebrow, and more than likely a laugh and statement of "Hah! That's above your paygrade," anyways. The zombie was standing in the middle of the road, which wasn't the most blatantly brilliant thing to be doing, but...what do you expect, eh?

I smile...and don't hit it. No, I brake on approach, a little, then gradually increase braking force...while rolling down the window with one hand. I steer with my knees. It's a talent, learned for just exactly such a situation.

My right hand drops from the stick to the Mossberg 590 Military sticking up from the center console on the passenger's side, and I pull it from its holster.

Then I shove the 12 gauge's muzzle out the window. The zombie's head goes 'splurt' where the muzzle of the shottie impacts it. I pull the trigger. The zombie's head...explodes.

I smile and withdraw the shotgun into the Plymouth, while accelerating. I've got three quarters of a tank left and a ways to go before I can call for re-supply. I'm not entirely sure where Da scared up the crewers for that goddamn tanker of his, but he did it. I'm even less sure of where he got the Chinooks...but he did that too. My Da has a reputation for being able to do anything he set his mind to, and a well-deserved one at that.

He also had a reputation for taking care of his own, and I guess he did that pretty well, too. I could hardly ask for better support than I was getting, that was for sure. Not in this fucked up world.

I pump the Mossberg one-handed, then drop it back into its holster. Then I check the GPS unit currently mounted onto the dash -- good thing the gribblies couldn't touch orbit, no? About thirty minutes to Mountain City.

My thoughts drift through the briefing -- this place had finally made my father crack. I wonder what it would do to me? Probably nothing -- I know that my cause is just, because it is my cause, not my government's cause. I also know that we Yorens...we don't get hurt physically. All of our damage is inside. Family trait.

I grin wider and turn up the music. Syntax's Meccano Mind CD, fifth track. Good stuff. Like Scotch for the ears. Or something.

He knew he'd be starved in about an hour -- breakfast had been some nuts and a coke, and he'd driven through lunch....but...he'd make it. Then he'd see about food. If that meant shooting something and eating it, well, he'd done that before. He'd been hungry enough to eat -people,- before, though he'd never done it...hopefully never would. That thought was just a little screwed up.

But, then, the whole world was just a little screwed up. Which was why he had a shotgun riding shotgun and a friccin' claymore along the back of his seat. Oo-rah!

Robert Fortier School of Special Warfare
Ft. Oliver
Black River, Imitora

The deep, thumping bass of the rap song, which could best described as the "angry white boy" variety, blared clearly through the wieght room. The angry sounding lyrics had always been a favorite of weight lifters in the room, not for the content, but for the simple, constant beat it provided. And when one was attempting to press out more than their own body wieght in steel plates, the simple beats made it easier to time breaths, to count the reps being pushed out.

The bar held a number of plates, and the combined wieght was two hundred and fifty three pounds. While that itself isn't exactly a heavy wieght for most lifters, when the lifter weighed a hair over 210 when soaking wet, it was a bit on an accomplishment. As the music pounded on, he pushed, inhaling as he let the bar fall, then exhaling with the occasional grunt as he pushed through his chest to his arms, the bar exploding upwards. After the fifteenth rep, he set the bar against the rest, and sat up.

"The last few, you were starting to slow down there."

"Well, I'm getting up there in years. It happens. You know this as much as me old man."

Hoot chuckled. "I can still whup your ass in the ring."

Ryan laughed. "Yeah man, yeah, you keep telling yourself that if helps your leatherneck ass sleep at night."

Shit talking is a fine art, one that takes many years to perfect. It is also the prefered communication of males. Its a pride thing, one that no matter how tried, could never be explained. The men in this room were all masters of the art. They were also masters of their own respective art: war. Each of them had survived the intense selection training just to try out for IMSPECWAR, and then the respective selection courses for their own units. Following that, they completed some of the hardest training regiments known. And they constantly trained. There was no such thing as down time for them, and that is what made them as deadly as they were.

"I gotta go get cleaned up," Hoot said, using a towel to wipe sweat from his face. "My flight leaves in a coupla hours."

"Where you going again?"

"Some hell hole in the US, Mountain City or something. The US government is getting its collective ass kicked by a bunch of mountian red necks. In one of their few succesful raids, they pulled up a coupla IMI toys. And not the kind they sell on the open market."

"MBRs?"

"Try CAR-68s."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. So they call our guys, tell them they need some help or something, I dunno. They got that posse comitatus shit, can't use military to settle their own problems, so I get to become an official BATFE agent and shoot up some red necks. Show them how the game is really played. What you up to for the weekend?"

Ryan nodded as he followed the other man to the locker room. Ryan opened his locker, pulling out a pair of fatigue pants and his Blackhawk Serpa holster. He also grabed a shower kit, and pushed aside his own CAR-68 Mod 2, grabbing a larger shower towel. "I gotta go out to the IMI plant. I got selected to represent my unit for the new pistol trials. So I get an extra paycheck this month to go spend a couple hours at the range, which I'dve done anyways."

Hoot nodded, grabbing his own gear. He'd shower and change at home, where he had a suit and over the shoulder holster. They wanted him showing up in a nice set of clothes, not fatigues ready to run and gun. US law enforcement handled problems like this differently. "Alright kid, I'll see ya later," he told the son of his long time best friend. "Ya know, if your dad saw this, and me not trying to convince you to go Recon, letting you stay in the RIA, he'd kick my ass."
_

Mountain City, Tennesee
USA

That had been three months back. Hoot could still remeber the day clearly, watching on the news from an FBI Suburban as videos of Washington D.C., London, and other world capitols burned. Imitora itself had been hit decently, but the last communication he had informed him that his home land was fine, the government having prepared for such events in the past. A paranormal task force, known as Live Wire, had quickly contained the outbreak, and was specially armed to take on the monsters that had come from the outbreak. Still, he had yet to see the MV-22I Super Osprey that was supposed to come pick him up.

His orders had been simple: hold fast, wait for us to come get you. He remembered talking to Ryan on the phone to see what was happening, hearing the gunshots and explosions in the background. He wanted to be back home, to take out some of these monsters himself, but it wasn't going to happen anytime soon. So now, camping out of a motel room in Mountain City, he did what he could to survive.

The action's against the Pettimore's had just begun when the outbreak took hold. Hoot had done a few operations, raids mostly, which always ended up shooting matches between the Feds and the outlaws. The FBI's HRT team was decent enough, but the BATFE and DEA shooters weren't, and Hoot's help had been an equalizing force, raining death down on the outlaws from his heavily modified DMR, kicking down a few doors every now and then with the the MP5/10I. But now, he made sure to keep those guns tucked nicely away in his rented Nissan Frontier, only keeping his Nighthawk 1911 on him.

He was parked behind the old court house. He had made the decsion earlier in the day to try and get in with the outlaws. One thing that Force Recon TRACT Marines did was survive and intigrate, it was part of their training. And at this point, survival meant getting in with the bad guys, for the time being. He heard the rear door open, and saw David, at least thats what the file identified him as, exiting. He'd have to move carefully to not set off the other Marine's warning buttons, which, if the file on him was right, were already set off. The US FR boys may not have been as hard as the Imitoran ones, but Force Recon was Force Recon, and he had made selection for the US version.

He unclipped the thumb strap on the high riding holster on his waist, covered by his jacket, and approached from under the building's corner light. The light would be in David's face, keeping him just disoriented enough so that Hoot could move fast if he needed to. He hoped that he generally wouldnt have to.

He stepped out from around the corner, hand ready to move to the .45, and called out in his best non threatining tone.

"Hey, David, David Kelly right? I need to talk to you."

Willow was exhausted, but ravenous. She knew herself well enough to know that if she didn't eat she wouldn't sleep. It was either the bare bones canned food at home- Home being a tidy cabin that, since she hadn't been home in two weeks, would be as cold as the storm pounding the small town - or the warmth and company of the Boars Hole.

It was a no brainer...

Every thing changes over time. At the tail end of the 90's the DINKy's had discovered that the picturesque, and real estate cheap, Mountain City was less than an hour drive from some of the least known - and therefore also very much less expensive- but best skiing on the east coast. The population of Mountain City had grown by nearly a thousand in less than three years. Granted that additional thousand were there only in the winter, leaving their pricey second homes to sit empty the rest of the year. Well-built houses that the Pettimores planned to put to good purpose within the next month, since owners dead elsewhere certainly had no use for them.

Some things never change.

The Boars Hole had been the local nightspot since it was first built back at the end of Prohibition. It still was the way it had always been. A roadhouse where the local outlaws tossed back moonshine, make their deals and play pool.

Though some times change is inevitable, and the mountain comes to the man, or in case the woman. When the lady of the mountain spoke even Three listened.

When LD 50 began scouring the planet, Jonni Lea had foreseen what would happen to the fragile web humans proudly call civilization. When the nukes flew and the cities burned that just confirmed it. Fortunately, unlike Cassandra, Jonni Lea had been believed.

Even as the death toll rose the Pettimores were turning the Boars Hole into a command center, adding on a large annex and full-scale kitchen. The second floor was equipped with the most state of the art communications set up and other needs that could be … acquired… from the US military, even if it did leave one very lucrative contract unfilled. Three didn’t sweat the buyers disappointment – he was in Afghanistan, and unlikely to be able to come calling anytime soon, given the non-existent state of international travel.

The pulsing beat of rock & roll, and mouth watering scent of hot venison chili, almost made Willow's head swim as she pushed through the door and into the roadhouse’s bar. Heads turned and welcomes were shouted through the haze of cigarette and pipe smoke - more weed than tobacco, more pipes than cigarettes given the state of things- as she made her way to one of the booths kept ‘reserved’ for the Outlaws.

Willow returned waves and greetings, but ignored the friendly catcalls and invitations. She knew she looked dammed good for a woman in her late thirties, turning men’s heads even in the fairly shapeless flight suits that were her usual attire. Finding a man who really interested her? Not likely. That man would have to live up to the standards that Cargo had set, and that was nearly impossible, even among the Outlaws.

Sookie Stackhouse bustled over with Willow’s usual, hot tea, almost before she got sat down. “We’ve got chili or chicken and dumplings tonight.”

“Chili, and keep the tea coming, it’s going slushy out there.” Willow returned the older woman’s smile, as she warmed her hands on the heavy ceramic stein, the colorful Team Kadena emblem marking it as her personal mug.

“The 91 took down a dozen deaders while you were gone.” Kid Antrim, one of her fellow Outlaws, commented as he waited for his turn at the near by pool table. “And they blew 421 bridge earlier today. Coulda’ hear it from here, if the storm hadn’t been booming so badly.” South Holston Lake was scarcely a dozen miles to the west and now with the bridge over Lake Wautga to the south having been blown a month ago, which made two more natural barriers. Less routes for the stretched thin Outlaws to handle.

“Well, we’ve already figured out that for some reason they like to follow paved surfaces, and Damascus isn’t all that far away. Damn Zombies.” Willow growled, as she pushed a long lock of black hair behind one ear, her stormy gray eyes darkening further. She hated the Zombies most of all. No one had been able to figure out how the essentially mindless, destructive, animated corpses even managed to walk, though truly it was more of a stumbling shamble, much less the why of their penchant for following roadways.

The nearest town to the north - some eleven miles away - was Damascus Virginia, just over the state line, a mile or so to the west of where Highway 91 dead-ended into Highway 58. It had had only half the population of Mountain City, but as far as scouting parties could ascertain, every single resident had fallen to LD 50 and Changed. It was inevitable that some of the Zombies would reach the 91 roadblock, which was set up just north of the quarry, some two miles south of where the two highways met. They had had Troll incursions from that direction since the beginning.

The Pettimore’ crew, the Outlaws and the other surviving locals manned the roadblocks and made continuous patrols, but the mountains made for terrain too rugged to close off completely. The best they could do would be to keep the number of monster manageable, and as many panicked refugees out as possible. All the highways into and through Mountain City had been barricaded with manned road blocks, or blown bridges..

Where 421 came through on the east, the highway climbing through the Mountain City Gap, was the only pass through the Smokies for many miles. It was their most heavily guarded entry point. One of the four Strykers, acquired by the Pettimores in their usual fashion from the US Army in 2006, was stationed there. That was another contract that had been left unfilled.

The storm darkened dusk revealed a rash of pot holes to Rafe's black '69 Plymouth Road Runner's head lights as Highway 91 ran south down the narrow valley.

Though when one stopped to think about it the holes looked too deep and deliberate to be merely a back road's lack of maintence. Then again the heavy concrete barriers that lay at the far end of the makeshift, but well designed obstacle course, were not to be dismissed either.

Nor were the flood lights that activated when the Road Runner approached and made the well armed figures manning it visable. Sentry posts on the mountain side had already warned the road block of the approach the lone but unknown vehicle. And noted it's driver's effecient disposition of the Zombie

Like the law like to say "You might be able to out run a bullet, but you can't out run Motorola." The Pettimores believed that proper commication solved many problems.

David spun on his heel, his hand going for the Beretta strapped to his hip. The outlaws had some new toys, some very nice toys indeed, but there was something about the 92FS that just stuck with him.

"Yeah, who wants ta know?"

Hoot stepped out from the light, his hands resting at his side, the worn leather jacket hiding the 1911 perfectly. "Name's Hoot, need to ask ya some questions."

David paused. The name and voice sounded familiar, hitting a memory deep in the back of his head. Hoot. Hoot? Where does that sound familiar, why do I know it? Suddenly, it hit him. He remembered the moment clearly when a small scout convoy he had been leading had been ambushed. The FBI HRT and BATFE tactical team had hit them hard, all but using anti tank weapons. The front truck had been blown clean off the road, and David had dived out of his own pick up, grabbing the M249 that Three had gotten him. He was laying down a supressive fire when a man armed with an M14 varient had nailed the driver of the truck next to his. He was in the process of reloading when he heard the FBI shooter call out "Nice shot Hoot!"

His hand moved with blinding speed to his hip, and he snapped out the Beretta, letting the 92FS, with its new custom Crimson Trace grip and adjustable tritium night sights fall on Hoot's chest. "Stay right there bud."

Hoot moved his hands away from his own weapon, bringing his hands up to shoulder level, palms open to show he was unarmed. "Listen man, I don't want any trouble. All I know is ya'll got some good food and protection, and I think I can help your little group."

"Fuck that," David said, straigtening his grip, the red dot dancing over Hoot's chest. The Imitoran was moving forward slowly, every step closing the reaction distance that David needed. He wouldn't shoot yet, not with the chance of Jonni and the kids comming out. "Stop fucking moving man."

Hoot was already close, just outside an arm's reach. "Listen man, I ain't gonna fuck with you or anything, I just wanna help ya out."

"You can help me out by stoping where you are and not making me blow your fucking head off."

Hoot was close enough now, and with lightning fast moves disguising his age, he leapt forward, driving his hand hard forward. David's grip was good, but it left the magazine release open, and Hoot wrapped his hand over the top of the gun, jamming his thumb against the release button. The magazine dropped out of the weapon as Hoot pushed back, racking the slid backwards, ejecting the round from the chamber. He twisted down and away from his body, rolling to the side of David, pulling the gun away from his hand. He finished by driving his shin into the back of Kelly's leg, slamming his outstretched arm into the Marine's chest. David hit the ground with a hard, hollow thud.

However, he wasn't out of the fight yet, and David rolled into Hoot, bringing them both to the ground. He worked his way on top of Hoot, getting one good punch in. It wasn't enough. Hoot moved fast, sitting up and wrapping his arms around David. He rolled back fast, planting his feet on the ground and pushing off, rolling back and over on top of David. He went to his pocket, pulling out the SOG Trident, the assisted opener clicking as the blade flashed out, and plunging it into David's side, just below the armpit.

The entire fight had taken seconds at most, Hoot never fully aware of his use of the knife, moving purely on reflex. He stood up and pocketed the knife, kicking the two parts of the disasembled Beretta away from David's groaning body, drawng his own 1911, and moving slowly towards the back door to make sure that David didn't have any other shooters with him.

I'm not used to well-maintained highways. That'd be a disadvantage, most times...but these days, not so much. I brake to a stop before I reach the pot-holes...because I know potholes, and those don't look like pot-holes to me. They looked like holes that I wasn't in any terrible hurry to be driving over.

The flood-lights sprung and I start feeling sheepish and a little bit annoyed. Like a kid caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar...or something to that effect. I kill the Road Runner's engine and note the gas gauge -- call it two thirds of a tank left, or close enough. I've got maybe five gallons spare in jerry cans in the back, and that had meant leaving out pieces of kit...but being without a full-scale cypher-machine was probably less likely to get me called than running out of gas in the middle of the Army of Darkness...especially considering that chainsaws tended to run on gas...not that I had a chainsaw.

Though maybe I wish that I did.

I open the door, grinning, and step out, my hands on either side of my head, palms forward. I'm not unarmed, of course, but nothing that I've got concealed on me would be enough of a force equalizer, considering the range to the roadblock and the number of people manning it, to give me a chance at taking them out while still staying alive.

Of course, if I'd been planning on killing people, I wouldn't have been blatantly driving down a highway, now would I?

The T95 in its shoulder holster was concealed well enough by the jacket I was wearing, but I'm not terribly worried. The people at the roadblock should be expecting me to be carrying, and if they aren't, well, maybe I'll be heading home sooner than I thought I would be.

I think I'll let the guys with the big guns trained on me make the first move. I don't much like situations like this, because there isn't much I can do but hope that nobody gets an itchy trigger-finger...but. But the alternative was maybe worse. I don't relish the idea of heading in on foot -- yeah, I coulda done it. I learned fieldcraft and tracking in a place a whole helluva lot less forgiving than backwater Tennesse...but...meh.

I smile a little wider and hope that the people at the roadblock don't plan on letting me freeze my ass off out here all night. That'd be, ah, unpleasant.

Jonni Lea arched her eyebrows to see her two rapscallions sitting before Belinda's desk with obstinate looks on their faces. Despite the fact that they were honor roll students they were also hell raisers, much to her 'official' dismay, and as often in trouble as not. 'But it's in the blood' She acknowledged with a mental grin hidden behind a stern look.

Belinda knew what her friend was thinking, and eased Jonni'ss fears with a laugh. "No, they aren't in trouble this time. I was just making a proposal."

"Mom, she wants us to join the Boy Scouts, form a troop after the people from Fort Stewart arrive." Davey spoke up, scowling.

"It's just a waste of time, and they can't teach us anything we don't already know." Robby added with a matching frown.

"No, it's not a waste of time, and there is alot you can learn from scouting." Belinda responded. She held high hopes of life going on as normally as possible. And despite her long term relationship with Nathan, she constantly hoped that some Pettimore or other would turn out different.

Jonni held up a hand, forestalling any more from her sons and gave Belinda a look. She knew her sons well, and those muleish expressions meant that they weren't going to be willing to listen to any adult reasonableness.

"We'll discuss it later and get back with you on that. Nathan could use some of his pain meds."

That diverted Belinda instantly, and she busied herself pulling said medications out of her copious carpet style hand bag as the boys stood. Patton, their constant canine companion - a great grandson of Bobby Lee - stood from where he lay on their pile of coats and shook his pelt into order as he came over to nuzzel Jonni Lea's hand.

Once the boys had their coats on they waited for Jonni to unlock the janitors closet that had become a make shift armory and handed them their pistols. She and David had taught them to shoot and hunt at a very young age. Hunting and range time were family activities. They had gun safety drilled in to thewm relentlessly and were very careful to check their 45's before holstering them.

As they headed towards the back door, just a few steps from the janitors closet, Belinda tugged on Jonni's arm, holding her back for a second as the boys pulled the door open. "Jonni, Please talk to them. I do think they would enjoy scouting."

I'll talk to them" Jonnie began as cold wet air flooded into the hallway, sweeping a handful of leaves in from the stoop.

Patton always took point and tonight was no exception. The massive Shiloh Shepherd, fully a hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle, sneezed as the dank air hit his face and he bounded out. His thick fur made weather such as this nights no problem. Davey and Robbey crowded after him, intent on getting to the car and out of the cold rain as quickly as possible.

The light from the hall threw a bright square, in harsh relief to the dark shadows that congregated under the deep eaves over the door. Just the sort of thing that ruins ones night vision. The corner security light gave dim orangey illumination to the nearest part of the small parking lot, but did not penetrate the depths of the overhang.

Less a full body length,barely a yard from the door, Patton's nose brought him David's scent, but it was over laid with that of a stranger, blood and violence. He paused half swinging about to track the scent. However Davey and Robby were already out the doorway and in range of the semi hidden stranger.

"Patton?" Davey first out the door, half a step ahead of his but five minutes brother, nearly ran into on Patton, not expecting the dog to have stopped so suddenly. Robby bumped against his brother, then nearly fell as Davey yelped.

From seemingly out of no where a hard, strong hand had grasped his upper arm and pulled the thriteen year old off balance.

Rafe had not long to wait before a figure walked out of the light, stopping within speaking distance but decidedly out of arms reach. A heavy basket hung over one arm.

The person, it was impossible to tell if it was male or female, as they were wearing what looked to be a weird mish mash of a fire man’s bunker coat and fire helmet – lettering spelling out MCVFD was clearly visible – over some sort of heavy white robe that reached nearly to the wet pavement. Heavy water proof boots peeked out from underneath the robes.

“A terrible night for traveling” The speaker's voice was definitely female. Older and well educated, it carried well with out being raised. “I am Sister Mary Paul. Please don’t take offense at blunt speaking, but Mountain City is closed. You will need to turn around and leave if you are not family to a current resident or have urgent business here.”

Sister Mary Paul did not like having to turn people in need of help away, none of the Little Sisters of the Poor did, but the locals had been determined. The best they had been able to manage was to have a Sister at each of the road blocks and to be allowed to give one of their traditional baskets to the weary, and now days almost always hopeless, travelers that approached.

The basket contained carefully hoarded supplies, well packed against the rain - a bottle of water, a loaf of fresh bread from the convent's capacious ovens, a small tinned ham, a jar of peanut butter, a tiny travelers first aid kit and some hard candies. Sister Mary Paul had taken out the diapers and formula when the outer perimeter reported that the car held only a single person. She was glad of that, families were harder to rebuff.

Before Willow could dig into the steaming chili that Sookie plunked down in front of her three of the four other Outlaws that had made the scouting trip with her crowded in through the Boars Hole front door shaking off the cold and rain to more calls of welcome. They waved but didn’t stop as they headed over to the booth, calling for beer and chili for themselves.

“Thought you’d be with the head honchos, Will, or dead asleep” Sam ‘Deacon’ Mason shook his head with a grin as he slid into next to her.

Rose and Henry just rolled their eyes and took the other side of the booth. They’d known Willow longer, though they were surprised to see her here rather than checking over her pride and joy, the Sikorsky HH60 Pave Hawk that had been one of the first things acquired by Outlaws after Washington was nuked.

Willow caught their shared look and snorted “ I checked with Jeff already “ Jefferson Randolph Smith was her co pilot, and chief mechanic for the Pave Hawk, and doted on the bird just as much as Willow did. “So it’s food first, then some shut eye and then play twenty questions,..”

“It’s not even three hundred to the dock, the roads are clear enough for the rigs to make it and we need those turbines. It should be cakewalk. We go in, we’ve got enough firepower, load up the rigs, take any gas we need from the ports tanks and vamoose. What’s not to like?” Deacon shrugged. He was one of the few non ex military Outlaws and one of the youngest too boot.

“Zombies and Fed’s and Trolls oh my!” Rose sing- songed under her breath with another discrete eye roll.

The five man scouting party hadn’t made the recon with out encounters with all three groups. Fortunately no Vamps had been seen, though some believed the theory that Vamps could control Zombies.

“We crispy critter the deaders, the Fed’s ‘ll fold, and if the convoy keeps rolling the Trolls aren’t nothing.” Deacon replied dismissively.

Hoot moved fast, wrapping his arm around the cehst of the first youngster, pinning Davey's arms to his sides. He snapped the weapon up and trained it on the dog.

Hoot liked dogs. He had a German Shepherd of his own, one that he used for hunting, home security, and general compainionship. When he first enlisted in the IMC, he had wanted to be a dog handler with the EOD teams. His shooting ability had gotten him, instead, into the DMR programs. As the big Shiloh Shepherd turned, teeth bared, bounding towards Hoot. He didn't want to do it, but at this point, survival had become the key.

Robby stepped out of the building behind Davey, turning just in time to see the shooting.

"Sorry boy," Hoot whispered under his breath. He only fired once, his goal not to kill the dog, but to take it down to the ground and suck the fight out of it. The Federal Ammunition .45 ACP Hydrashok round grazed right along the top of the Shiloh's skull. The grazing shot delivered all it's energy as planned, leaving a small trail of blood as it pulled a small level of skin with it, kocking the big dog out cold. Patton whimpered as he dropped to the ground, skidding a few inches, tumbling once over himself. By the time the round had left the gun, Hoot dropped his shooting hand, yanking Davey's 1911 from the holster, tossing it off to the side. He trained the Nighthawk GRP on Robby, who had his 1911 out, focusing it on Hoot.

Hoot had focused his weapon on children before. In Aubania, he had engaged an entire fire team of children soldiers, using his specially modifed rifle to take out each one of them, the oldest possibly no more than fifteen. He hoped to avoid shooting again anytime soon. However, if he had to he would. The younster looked scared, and Hoot, if he were showing his own emotions, would look just as afraid.

"Put the gun down kid," he said, slowly, emphasizing each word.

The door had all but swung closed behind the twins, and the granite walls of the courthouse were thick, but the sound that could not be mistaken for thunder sounded clearly to every one with in the old building.

Upstairs Nathan came out of his chair in an instant, ignoring the pain that tore thropugh his leg. Belinda screamed and jumped, her movement ending up with her huddled against the hallway wall. Elsewhere in the building, word went out over the airwaves that shots had been fired at the Courthouse.

Jonni had been reaching to keep the door from swinging closed and at Davey's yelp had yanked it completely open. She couldn't seek the speaker, but she could hear him and see Robby.

"Put the gun down kid,"

She kept her voice as controlled and disctinct as the unseen assailant had. "Do what he says Robby."

"He's got Davey and he shot Patton, He killed him." Robby worked hard to keep the shake out of his voice, and almost managed.

"I understand Robby. But right now put the gun down." Jonni would save retribution till later. What mattered now was defusing the situation.

Robby shot his mother an anguished look and she nodded once firmly, to reenforce her order.

He looked away from Jonni, rebellious, and angry at the trembling in his hand and voice. He caught his brother's eyes. Twins have ways of communicating that no others have and in that instant each knew what the other was about to do.

"Okay mister" Moving slowly, as he'd been taught, Robby squatted to begin to lay the gun down with his right hand. As the gun hit the ground...

Simulatneously...

Robby threw himself to the left, away from his brother's abductor's gun hand and into the relative darkness of the parking lot.

Davey, with no more warning than his brother had given, threw himself in the opposite direction, into the man who'd grabbed him's gun arm, hoping to knock the man of ballance, and free himself.

The woman's message wasn't terribly surprising, but it was more than just a little bit amusing. Imagine, Mountain City, Tennessee, a gated community. I almost laughed.

"Ah. Well. You can keep your little gift basket, doll, I don't need it. You just go on ahead and tell whoever the current Pettimore is that a Mr. Yoren came a-callin', and I'll be headed on my merry way, then. Suppose that anything I could bring to the table is a little, ahh, superfluous, considering all of that..."

I gesture in a manner that indicates the roadblock...

"On the other hand, just to be on the safe side, I suppose I should leave my number..."

I took a slip of paper from the pocket of my jacket -- yeah, so maybe I had been expecting something like this...point? Then I hand it to lady. It was a satellite-phone number, a calculated risk, yeah, but I figured it was a fair bet that they'd have access to the necessary equipment. Far better odds on the capability than on the call actually going through.

"That done, I suppose I'll be turning around then."

I bow my head slightly, then slip back into the Road Runner and throw the car into reverse, then make a simple turn and take off back down the highway. Don't really have anywhere else to go, so I figure I'll just keep on driving...the gas I've got should take me far enough out of the way that I could call for re-supply without issue.

But I doubt I'll head that far out. I drive for a few minutes, then pull off the side of the road and kill the engine. I take the time to fiddle with the Mossberg -- replace the shell I'd fired and etc. I wouldn't need sleep for another twelve or so hours, which was a good thing, as I don't know that I'd survive being asleep and out in the open. If I was on foot, I could conceal myself so well that even the best hunting dogs hadn't a chance of finding me...but the car made that impossible.

Ah well.

There was also the chance that the name I'd dropped -- my father's name, and my own, but the only 'Yoren' that would be known around these parts was my father -- would be utterly unknown by the present denizens of Mountain City, and that would be just as well...it'd mean I wouldn't have to bother messing around in the wasteland that had been America while everything that mattered in the world fought for its very existence in the middle of an even worse hell-hole.

I smile, and I wait, and I watch. Give it, say, three hours.

Hoot dodged the charge easily enough, pivoting on his left heel, moving out of the way of the charging kid. He allowed himself to fall backwards, his shoulders hitting the outside wall first. Before the pivot, he had slipped his right foot back and on top of the forty five he had removed from the first child, dragging it along the ground with him, pinning it to the wall behind him. He wasn't going to let anyone get to that gun, and the gun that had been dropped a few feet away, well, he would have to risk it.

As the two children scattered away, he put an end to the single grip he had been using, bringing his left hand up to grasp teh gun in a traditional issocolesse stance. His eyes darted around, quickly, knowing that it would only be seconds before someone went for the 1911 still sitting out in the open, and he had to move fast.

"Listen, who ever the hell y'all are, home boy down by the car is hurt something nasty, his intestines are gonna be all tore up, and the dog ain't dead, I just grazed it. He's ko'd. Now, I've already shot off one round, that gives me eight more, and I will use all eight if I have to against you guys, and that means eight of you will die. I'm just trying to get an in to your little operation, and your boy over there attacked me."

It was an obvious lie, David had been acting in self defense the entire time. A preemtptive self defense, yes, but self defense none the less. However, that was a debate for a different time.

"Now, listen, my truck is just around the side of the building, and I got a good medical kit in it. Now, I'm gonna holster my gun, and kick the kid's forty five out, and just walk around the corner and get the medical kit, OK?" He didn't wait for a full response. He wouldn't move without the go ahead to get the medical kit, but a close listener would be able to hear the Nighthawk 1911 slipping in, and clicking into place, into the Fobus holster on Hoot's hip.

Davey damn well wasn't charging the man who'd grabbed him from behind - he was trying to get free of him, Determined not to be a hostagbe -with him off to the right and Robby to the left- that would have both of them out of the strangers sight and him out of the man's hands.

He scattered right into his mother's arms - Jonni coming out the door with an explosive "NO!" as she reacted to her son's actions. She whirled Davey around behind her, pushing him back into the courthouse hallway. The stranger's first words were completely ignored as she took a split second to look Davey up and down - a mothers searching look, half frantic to find any sign of injury.

", I've already shot off one round, that gives me eight more, and I will use all eight if I have to against you guys, and that means eight of you will die. I'm just trying to get an in to your little operation, and your boy over there attacked me..."

However Robby hadn't missed the first part. Listen, who ever the hell y'all are, home boy down by the car is hurt something nasty, his intestines are gonna be all tore up"...

"Dad?" Robby gasped, and scrambled to his feet looking around wildly. "Dad!?" His voice raised in a yell that cracked as he saw the dark lump of a body a dozen yards away. He flew to his father's side, slipping on a patch of slick ice slush. His fathers hand's, large, strong and comfortingly familiar, caught Robby, kept him from falling onto his semi prone body. One went to cover Robby's mouth as David caught his eyes and shook his head minimally. Letting Robby know to stay quiet.

"Now, listen, my truck is just around the side of the building, and I got a good medical kit in it. Now, I'm gonna holster my gun, and kick the kid's forty five out, and just walk around the corner and get the medical kit, OK?"


Once David had steadied his son, and seen understanding in the boy's eyes, he let go and eased, painfully into a semi sitting position. His right side, where the knife had gone in was a lance of firey pain, but it didn't feel like it was bleeding too heavily.. or so he thought. The man who'd attacked him...'Hoot, a Fed of some sort' he thought in disgust, though something about the Fibbie's accent was not american, not one he could easily place. David's thoughts were as sluggish as his movements as he carefully brought a hand around to the small of his back. His smile was grim over the mistake that Hoot had made.

Hoot hadn't searched him, and thus didn't realise that David carried a second pistol. A compact 9 mil rode tucked in the small of his back and now David eased it out, stiffling a groan, as he targeted what he could see of the other man. From behind, the Fed obviously believeing that David was more out of it the picture than he actually was. 'Though I know I'm worse off than I feel. Isn't shock wonderful' David growled silently as more pain washed through him.

"I wouldn't be moving if I were you." David rasped out as he heard the sound of the mans 45 being holstered. He raised his voice as much as he could "Jonni, I'm alive and so is Robby."

Jonni's heart had stopped as some of Hoot's words, and Robby's cry, registered with her. It restarted with a painful thump when she heard David's voice. She drew a sharp juddering breath, still holding tight to Davey. "Okay lets all be calm. I don't have a weapon drawn." She made sure her voice carried as she stepped completely out of the courthouse, Davey in tow, and could see the stranger for the first time.

She took in the stance and attitude of the stranger, noting his poise. Nodding she held up one hand, the other still holding Davey, never taking her eyes off Hoot. "David, How bad are you hurt?" Her firm tone left no opening for any sort of machismo denial.

"Pretty bad, just above the waist, a knife. He's a Fed, gave his name as Hoot." Came David's pained reply from where he and Davey crouched.

Something dangerous flared for just a second deep in Jonni's eyes, then it stilled and the calm of her voice never wavered. "Okay Federal Agent Hoot. Your gun is holstered, mine was never drawn, Robby and Davey" Her voice promised dire things for her son's terrorifying actions - but that would be much later and in private - "are disarmed. And if David tells me he's hurt bad, your medical kit won't suffice."

"Once we get him out of the cold, I'll radio down..." She moved slowly and carefully, to the side, not getting too close to Hoot. "and have them spool the chopper up to get him down to Med center trauma room. You are going to help me get him inside, so he gets the least amount of jostling." It was definitely not a request, and she knew she didn't need to say for him not to do anything foolish. As she moved toward David she could see that he had a gun trained on his assailant, and she let out the breath she had been holding and grinned inwardly, her heart easing slightly. 'Goddess how I love that man.'

David had motioned Robby aside, telling hims softly to go check on Patton, getting him out of the immediate area should violence resume. Davey had also bee urged to go check on the big Shepherd by his mother, and both twins had been quick to obey.

"That done, I suppose I'll be turning around then."


Sister Mary Paul stood for a second holding the piece of paper the young man, had given her. Then briskly she shook herself and as she turned about she pulled the small radio out of the heavy fireman's turnout coat. She fumbled with it for a moment, as she negotiated around the potholes, unused to such equipment...

Less than an half hour later... the sat phone rang.

"Mr. Yoren? Sorry to be so long in getting back to you. My father knew your father.” It was a guess on Four’s part, but the man Sister Mary Paul described was too young to be the man his father had hunted with. “Spoke well of him, " The voice was wary, but not unwelcoming, with undertones of tiredness. “If you’ll come back the way you came in, the guide lights will be on, the gate ready to open…”

Four paused...Other voices in the back ground, words indistinct, but the tones urgent.

"And you might not think it over too long. I’ve just got word that a large pack of Trolls has just swept past one of our far sensors, heading towards that section. Care to join in the fun?"”

This is the post that puts every one in time sync with each other.

Sookie had just brought over the additional orders of chili, moving quietly so as to not disturb...

My littlest sister - Rowan barely topped five foot four and just turned twenty five - was laying down the refrain of Desperado

Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy, she'll beat you if she's able. You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet

Linda Ronstadt's cover of the Eagle's lament has nothing on Rowan. Ro's voice is molten honey, dark and rich. Smoke and whiskey to make any man come to his senses and come in from the cold. The song is pure blues when she pours it forth.

Now it seems to me, some fine things, have been laid upon your table. But you only want the ones that you can't get.

Sookie wasn't the only one being quiet. When Ro sings everyone stops, listens and stares. Men, and no few women, can't take their eyes off of her. I may be good looking but Rowan shines. Mere words fail.

My eyes were closed. I'd never envied Rowan her movie star good looks - I knew the price she paid for such beauty. A woman as spectacular as she wasn't expected to have a brain or a personality.

My throat was closed too as I drifted down memory lane. Cargo's and mine song... I could feel his warmth next to me, a strong arm offering love and comfort ... a strong hug, words in my heart and the presence was gone. He'd been coming back less and less over the years, weaing me from him, his words telling me that I had to start living, really living again. What do ghosts know?

The chili needed to cool a bit from the amount of steam rising from the bowls that Sookie laid in front of the others...

It's be cold before we got back to it...

The interior lights of the Boars Hole flashed three time and from the com center upstairs came the announcement...

"We have gunshots at the courthouse, and the north central sensors report a Troll pack, count of thirty odd, headed down 91. Four and Stryker Two enroute. We need extra bodies at the road block and Med One preping..."

Outlaws scattered like leaves in a brisk wind. I headed for the locker room, my flightsuit and the Pave Hawk out back.

Hoot stepped forward into the light, moving towards David. He had his hands up and out to the side, showing he had no intent of going for his gun. He moved foward, slowly as to not startle any one. Once far enough from the wall, he moved with a faster pace, dropping down beside David. He ignored Jonni for a few seconds, giving the Marine a once over. He didn't look to bad, but he knew the shock was keeping the calm look on his face. He had dismissed the secondary handgun, it didn't bother him to have it pointed at his chest, and if he had felt that David was indeed a threat, then he would have done the double tap: from behind, once up into the lungs between the ribs, once across the throat, then disapear back into the forest.

He shucked off his jacket, revealing the Fobus holstered 1911, as well as a krydex sheath holding the black on black Ka-Bar. He would have rather had another SOG, a Bowie perhaps, or maybe the Seal 2000 that was so popular with the Army IMSPECWAR units, but he could live with the Ka-Bar. He grabbed David by his legs to lift him, and looked up at Jonni. "It ain't Federal Agent anything. More like Captain, as in a commisioned military officer captain, not police captain."

He lifted David, and helped carry the wounded man inside.

I smile as the sat-phone built into the dash -- I have a briefcase-sized unit in the trunk that also includes various computer functions, which this one doesn't, but it serves well enough for commo -- and pick up.

I listen wordlessly, then answer in a sort of short, clipped speech.

"Ja. I'll be there. Appreciate it if your people refrain from blowing me up on my approach, too, I think I'll be coming in a little fast. Grin clear."

'Grin.' I'd gotten the nickname, originally, for my incredibly fast motions...once I got committed myself to violence. From 'Peregrine,' like the falcon. I've never met my equal in a knife-fight or a quick-draw contest, and I've met the best...

Still, the name meant other things, now. I'd gotten a tattoo to suggest one of those things. Other thing suggested themselves.

I bring the Road Runner to life and throw the car into gear, then more-or-less floor the accelerator and tear off down the highway towards the roadblock. I didn't terribly relish the idea of being stuck in my car with a couple trolls coming my way -- I wanted to be elevated, but in a stable position, with my Arctic Warfare Super Magnum -- the .338 Lapua Magnum round was a magnificent thing. More accurate than any of the .50 cal sniper rifles, with a very, very similar damage profile.

The fighting long-arm I'd brought with me, the Sig 551, wouldn't drop a troll reliably, not without me pumping an excessive amount of lead into the damn thing -- the 556 round just didn't pack enough punch. What I should have tried to do was get my hands on one of the shorty FAL jobs that we've got floating around, or maybe one of the EBR prototypes...but...meh. The SIG was available...

The shotgun was close-in only, and my T95 was little better.

'n if it came real close, I had the claymore. Not the mine, mind, though I had two of those in the trunk, along with the rest of the demo. It was something of a whim that had made me bring the carbon-steel two-hander, but...meh. It might prove useful.

Then again, the spetsnaz-style shovel that was -also- in the trunk was probably a more effective weapon at the sort of brutal close-in combat that I specialized in. It was an axe by another name, to be frank...and I could throw it, too...and split a head from quite a distance.

Then I giggle. I really need to stop doing that -- it annoys me, and it scares the shit out of people.

I cover the distance back to the roadblock in half the time it'd taken me to put that distance between me and the roadblock before. As I approach the roadblock, I brake and downshift, as well as throwing the car side-ways to kill further speed. I've got my low-beams on, but I'll kill them as soon as I can -- I've got good natural night vision, and some NODs hanging from the rear-view mirror, if I need 'em.

I recover from my swerve rapidly, and I'm going a lot, lot, lot slower. I most assuredly do -not- run over the potholed area...

I'm already planning the way I'll kill engine, grab the NODs, two-steps to the trunk, then gather up my kit...maybe a second, maybe two. Once I'm armed, I'll see about coordinating with the locals.

I smile.

A half a dozen figures, bulky in heavy winter gear but still moving agilely, came out of the semi dark -scattered coleman lanterns cast dim puddles of light here and there on the far side of the blockade.

A heavy duty wrecker, it's engine growling as it maneuvered to replace the concrete barrier piece that it had swung aside to allow Rafe's car to slide in closed the gap in a quick but practised action. The massive light tree on the '96 Salisbgury Rescue Pumper - giving out enough light to fill a foot ball stadium - had been killed to let night vision return even before Rafe was in sight, the hidden snipers reporting the vehicle's return.

One approached the car, but not crowding close, waitiing patiently for Rafe to exit. The others moved about purposefully, one already on an ATV to take Sister Mary Paul to the safety of the convent. Others were moving to tree mounted hides or other preassigned locations. The site for the road block had been chosen in great part due to the two spurs of mountain, sharp stone ridgelines ran down into the valley from either side, makeing it a natural choke point, a natural funnel. The ridgelines had been further worked to make them even less hospitable. Those additions weren't discernable even during the day from any distance

Once Rafe turned his attention from the contents of the Road Runner's trunk, the man spoke, his voice low, carrying an accent from western parts of the US not local.

"I'm Dillon. Four said to be expecting you, but we didn't figure that quick. Nice driving. Which do you answer too? Grin or Yoren? If we have to yell a warning don't want it fatally not responded to."

Dillon was used to working with scratch teams and wanted as little uncertaintly as possible. He also had IFF patches - small infra red emmiting transponders used by the SWAT teams of many major cities to make sure that team members ( bulky possibly fast moving, anonymous figures ) moving in the dark didn't get mistaken for targets - waiting to be slapped on the new comers outer gear. And NV gear if it was needed as well.

"The Stryker will be here in five, and the Trolls have just past West Three, they've slowed but still estimate contact in six, count shows minimum of thirty" A voice reported from somewhere in the dark.

"You dealt with Trolls before?" Dillion querried Damn, a pack that big is going to have full human smarts going for it."

To the west, maybe half a mile off, man made thunder rolled as a high calibur rifle fired. An inhuman wail sounded as a lung shot Troll became the first victim of the night. The other Trolls did not stop to feast, it would have been too dangerous the pack knew.

Dillon nodded sharply. "Got to love elephant guns" Satisfaction strong in his voice. "Unfortunately the trees and under brush are too heavy to give our outposts more than a couple of shots, and they've learned to avoid cleared areas."

"It ain't Federal Agent anything. More like Captain, as in a commisioned military officer captain, not police captain."

Jonni nodded at the stranger words as she took the gun from David and stuffed in her left hand pocket, then lifted David under the arms. Together they got him inside, where she directed him into Belinda's office.

Sitting David on the edge, as with a sweep of her arm, she cleared the expanse of maple that had once been the judges desk.

"Jonni?" Nathans voice was hard as he came around the corner, his carry piece out. His eyes locked on Hoot as Jonni spoke, the old but perfectly maintained 1911 never wavering from the stranger.

"This is "not a Fed, not a police captain, a military captain" name of Hoot. Claims he stabbed David in self defense, scared the hell out of Davey by grabbing him as a body shield, shot Patton not fatally he says." Her voice was a deadly serious feminie growl but Jonni did not look up from tearing off David's coat and shirt. Then laying him back, the grayness of his face and stillness worring her, she began inspecting his wound.

"You get his explainations, I'm busy."

Nathan nodded minimally at Hoot and cocked an eyebrow. The explaination had better be a good one or Jonni...well Nathan'd just kill the man if it came to that, but Jonni had a evil streak in her when it came to any who messed with her family.

I'm not bothering with the SIG, just uncasing the AWSM and checking the big rifle over. After a few seconds, a slam in a magazine and but don't rack in a round. Leave that for later. I've got a small backpack with spare mags that I grab and sling over my shoulder. I grabbed the shotgun before I left, and it is hanging off my left shoulder by a sling. There are the nine rounds of buckshot in the gun, and eight more in loops on the stock. I grab a handful of shells and drop them into a pocket of my jacket -- I keep quite a bit of ammo in secure cases in the trunk...

My NODs (Night Observation Device) are up on my forehead, but...I don't suppose I'll need them. My eyes have already adjusted to the night, and there's just enough light...

Almost as an afterthought, I grab the cased shovel and clip it to my belt. Lucky charm, maybe. Maybe not, too.

Preparations complete -- there's not much point kitting out further -- I shut the trunk and turn to face the guy who'd been waiting so patiently to talk to me.

"Rafe. I'll respond to Rafe..."

I smile, savoring a choice memory.

"Dealt with trolls? Yeah. I got jumped on my way here by a singleton...back quite a ways, mind. Thought he was being sneaky, he did...so I left the car as bait and circled around behind him, nicked up on him, and put a tomahawk into the back of his neck -- split his spine, y'know? Two slugs finished the job..."

I spoke matter-of-factly, because I wasn't lying. The way I moved my arm indicated that I meant slugs from the Mossberg hanging off my left shoulder...

"Anyways, you just find me a nice spot to shoot from, and I'll see what I can do..."

As I spoke, I dutifully accepted the IFF Tag, or tags, or whatever they were. I'd have worn reflectors if it'd keep me from getting shot in the back -- set-piece defense like this, I wouldn't be trying to sneak about much.

My hand strokes the big rifle's receiver...not long now.

Hoot never turned to face Nathan. He would be too tempted to act, and the last thing they needed right now was a shoot out in a small room with an already scared wife and injured husband. "I'm only here to help ya'll out."

He let the words set in a second, waited till everyone cleared their heads, and started again. "I came into the states after some Feds found some of your boys using our guns. Now, IMI doesn't have any problem selling its weapons to anyone who wants to buy them, on two conditions. One, they are purchased, and two, they aren't the military grade ones. Neither condition was met. There was no bill of sale, and they weren't the civi mil issues. They were the types of rifles they give to our spec ops units."

"So," Hoot said, unclipping the Fobus holster from his belt, placing on a window sill, and turned to face Nathen, "the US Feds called me in. Now I dunno what you have against your government, or what your government has against you, but thats not my business. What is mine is you boys having some of our toys and not paying for them. IMI didn't have that much of a problem with it, else wise they woulda just called in Reflex and dropped a group of mercs on this litte red neck heaven and burn it to the ground. However, your government requested help, and I'm here."

"So, me and the FBI HRT boys shot back when you started shooting at us, went on for a few weeks, and then all hell broke loose. Nukes were flying, cities burning, all that good stuff. My government called me, told me to hold fast, that as soon as they had a chance, they'd come and exfill. That was maybe two, three months back, no biggy, I've been under a lot longer. However, I was also equiped. I'm running out of cheep ramen noodles, and I think eventually the owner of the inn is gonna realize my credit card is US Government backed, and, well, except for the Fed hold outs, that doesn't really mean much anymore. Therefore, I decided to approach your boy David, ask him an in. I figure I got enough fire power and tactical fun stuff to earn my keep, and hell, who knows, assisting an Imitoran Marine might earn ya some extra cash, the government loves it when people help out BEL shooters."

"David here, doesn't give me a chance to talk, and pulls on me. I try to explain myself, he says no, steps forward, and I take his gun. He returns attack, and I, uh, disabled him. Then your kids come out, I disarm one, graze the dog's skull to knock him out, and then helped the girl here bring in David."

"So, I now stand before you. Captain Thomas "Hoot" Gibson. Imitora Marine Corp, Force Recon TRACT. That work for ya?"

Something made Willow remember and half laugh as she bailed out of the locker room and into the cold wet night, headed for Med One. The others of her flight crew were hard on her heels, Ro was right beside her.

"What are you laughing at? And aren't you too tired to be up safely." Ro was scheduled as the 'on duty' flight nurse for the next three nights. She just gotten her certification in December of last year. She'd gotten more air hours in in the last few months than most trauma flight nurses get in a couple of years.

"I'll be fine, I need to grab some air. Ten days is too long without... and just remembering."

Rowan shook her head, but said nothing more. Willow was happiest flying and, further, if she said she was flight worthy then she was.

Cold night, raining, LD 50 was raging, but the nukes hadn't flown yet...

'The same sort of stormy night sky' Willow murmured to herself as she found the connection between the memory and the moment...

The night most of the US watched in stunned horror as Cheney ate Hillary, sans cooking. The White House had never let the public know that the Vice President had come down with LD 50. His Secret Service team had been too shocked to shoot him when he Changed, in front of the unblinking eyes of national TV. In an instant the Troll had rounded on her, as she and the others on the stage with them, tried to flee. She'd been the slowest one.

The screams as the Troll ravaged out the abdomen of the senator from New York finally made them shoot.

The long hesitation before reacting to the screams had brought one of the shooters to us, and the information - the subject that had, despite the chaos of LD 50, brought all of the power brokers together - he brought with him was vital to what would soon play out.

A Troll wasn't a human any longer, even if he had been the Vice President of the US...and the North American Union was treason, no matter what political stripe you were.

Washington may have been nuked, but too many of the political cockroaches had already scuttled to safety. It got much of the bureaucracy, but not enough, the Federal Government thought it was still standing. It thought it was going to ride roughshod over what remained after the virus, the nukes and the rest of the still occuring aftermath and go forth with plan.

That was going to be debated - not in a civilized manner, but in a civil one.

The she ducked under the blades, just now starting to spin and scrambled to slid in the pilots seat, helmet on, then snapping her harness as her eyes swept over the cockpit. All lights shown green and Jeff done with prelaunch.

The ground crew signalling all ready, Ro and the door gunner adding their readies too. The blades whipping into a blurr, the optical illusion of a solid halo above them and the Pave Hawk springing cloudward...

"So, I now stand before you. Captain Thomas "Hoot" Gibson. Imitora Marine Corp, Force Recon TRACT. That work for ya?"

David started to sit up with a feeble laugh "The IMI rifles? Hell, We stole those beauties from the nut jobs that originally stole them."

"I told Three not to deal with the militia wanna be idiots." Jonni groused as she forced David to lay back down, her fingers going to the inside of his wrist to take his pulse. "David don't laugh."

Nathan slid his 1911 into it's holster as Hoot laid his on the sill, and came further into the room. He wanted a good look at the Imitoran's face, espcially his eyes. "We don't want any payment from your government, even if you did come here at the behest of the Feds. And thanks, but we are well more than modestly well stocked with equipment." He considered the outsider for a long moment. Nathan was an excellent judge of character and could see that the Imitoran had spoken straight. He gave Jonni and David a look.

Both nodded in agreement, though Jonni shot Hoot a look that said she had not entirely forgiven him for attempting to use her sons as body shields.

"Trained operators are welcome and if you'll aid and abett us untill your government can extricate you, we can provide more than just a motel roon, all the ammo you can shoot,..."

Davey and Robby, with Patton- though he was still wobbley he pushed ahead of the twins, putting himself betwen them and the stranger - listened from the door way

"...and Ramen? That calls for desperate measures in and of itself." He grinned, then sobered. "We don't hurt innocents, we're as professional as any in that reguard. And we don't spend time reenacting scenes from Deliverance. We booze, and some smoke more than a bit of weed, but I would not call this a 'head neck heaven' to too many around here."

*Med One is airborn* the radio at Nathan belt announced.

"Nathan tell them to head here, and tp call ahead to the Med Center, have them fire up the generators, readying for x ray and possibly a Cat scan." Jonni ordered when she heard the radio.

"And while all this was going down, The north picked up Trolls headed in. Four and Stryker Two are enroute." Nathan let them know.

"I see. Belinda..." Jonni called out to the school priniciple " Lock the doors and take every one down to the basement." The basement had been built as the county fall out shelter and had always been maintained. She didn't really need to remind Belinda of what had become standard operating proceedure over the last few months, the prinicple was already heading into the courtroom turned class room and rounding up the handfull of late staying students. "Davey, Robbey you and Patton too. No grief tonight"

The boys were still too shaken for any sort of rebellion and followed hard on Belinda's heels.

"It's not likely that any will get through, but best to be prepared" Nathan looked at the Imtoran " You up for doing some shooting Hoot? Can I call you Hoot, or would you prefer to be more formal?"

"Anyways, you just find me a nice spot to shoot from, and I'll see what I can do..."

"Okay Rafe. But instead of upclose and personal at first, how about you take the high ground. The light rig on the pumper has a platform. Mount up, we'll raise it and you'll have a three sixty view. Good to have some one up there in case any of them slip past and circle in from behind. Just don't shoot any one flashing infra red, that'll be our crew." Dillon suggested, as he gestured to the pumper with it's currently lowered light bar. They wouldn't be useing the lights, but the platform when raised reached fifty feet in the air, giving a good over view. The dual controls meant that Rafe could lower the rig and join in hand to hand if it came to that.

Quickly Dillon introduced the six figures currently taking their prefered positions, and offered Rafe one of their spare commo units. It was current military 'state of the art' having just been released over the last year, and supposedly not available to the public. "Easy as hell to use" Dillon showed him the system, "and comfortable to wear..."

He started to say more but rolling booms, as more large calibur rifles sounded from hides less than half a mile up the road, cut him off.

"That was the road scouts. Mount up!" He waved a hand at the light rigs platform and as the pumpers ground level hander began to work the controls.

...find freedom and joy in the running...

I run with my other selves, the hunger driving us, the scents leading us. The cold wet is unnoticed, if not unfelt. A bright heat flares and dies as a tiny, indiscinct part of the us is suddenly gone. Gone to the bright heat that reaches out from no where and takes a part of the us, if we are heedless. But as large and strong as the usw is that one loss does not noticibly deminish the us.

The ground, loam, leaves, and other things pass beneath our tireless paws. Branches brush our flanks, collecting tuffs of wiry harsh hair now and then, but like the rain and cold is ignored. The brambles are not strong enough to damage our toughened skin, to slow the momentum of iron thewed thighs.

We are a strong us, growing stronger steadily as our numbers grow. We have learned much, we are an old us, having been us for long long, months?... Such as the bright heat that comes if we linger in open spaces. We have learned to safety of underbrush, rock out croppings, and speed. Safety and danger in numbers, and groupings, safety and danger in splitting off, aloneness...Night is our safe time, though day is not without it's advantages. The flat hard ground that runs straight has it's dangers, but makes for faster movement. Danger does not frighten us. We are invincible, the hunger won't let us be anything else.

Some of us move though the trees, in the branches, some of us below.

Hunger and hunt, hot blood and meat down eager throats...

But the us consierst the dangers, some will advance at speed, obvious targets, others slower and more cunningly....

The burly Trolls - averaging thirteen feet in height when standing erect - flow like an unleashed tidal flood, movements agile despite their muscular bulk, closing on the greatest concenhtration of humans, making use of what cover there is. They can out run a race horse if they chose, or spring in leaping bounds that cover thirty feet in a low long leap. Those muscled thighs can also propell them nearly the same vertically. Some move on all fours, others erect, still others leap from tree to tree. Trolls can climb as easily as a cat does, if the tree is capable of supporting their weight. Their claws, nearly eight inches long, have been seen to rend through kevlar vests.

They make it past the out lying hides, losing only two more of their number to the human's far reaching bright heat before the terrain, the night and the woods work to their advantage. They are spread out, working together to in the pack gestalt and they will sacrfice some to feed the whole.

It's not likely that any will get through, but best to be prepared. You up for doing some shooting Hoot? Can I call you Hoot, or would you prefer to be more formal?

"Nah," Hot replied. "Hoot works just fine. Only other person I know calls me Captain anything is my CO." He clipped the Fobus holster back on his belt, and turned towards the door. "I can shoot if ya need me to, but it looks like you might need some support here. I gotta go kit in my truck. I'll just grab it, suit up here, let one of ya'll make the call, but I think I should stay back. Not doubting your own abilities or anything, but it doesn't look like you have to much of an army here. Anyways, I'll be right back."

Hoot left the way he came in, returning to his rented out Nissan. He popped open the rear door on the four door cab, and started digging around in the back seat. He searched for a few seconds, and then pulled out his first piece of equipment, the IMI LBV designed for the DMR rifle. It was more of a field piece than a tactical assault vest, holding fifteen magazines of the match grade 7.62 NATO ammunition for the rifle. He slung his arm through the vest, he'd put it on once he got back inside, and went back to his search. Next came out a coyote brown Pro Tec helmet, which he slipped onto the vest, stringing it through the side straps.

Finally came the weapon. He pulled the modified M14 from the truck, checking to make sure the Aimpoint was mounted on its extended rail properly, and that the magazine sitting in the weapon now was fully loaded. He headed back inside to the room where Nathan, David, and Jonni waited. He tugged the vest on, making sure each of the five chest pouches held the two magazines, and the two single pouches on either side had their magazines. The vest already was loaded with the usual pouches filled with extra goodies: radio, medkit, weapon cleaning kit, the Aimpoint 3x magnifier, and other needed equipment. On a rear mounted lower back pouch, he kept a pair of NVGs, and the Pro Tec mounted through the side loops. He wanted the lower belt and drop leg pouches that came with the gear, but it was all sitting back at the RFSWS.

"So," he said, racking the bolt on the M14 and chammbering a round, "where do ya want me?"

The Vamp sniffed the air again, savoring the scent of hot, fresh blood that the gusting storm brought to him. Some canine, mostly human though, not not much of either really. However a Vamp's nose was as sensitive to the presence of blood as a sharks was. And this vamp had fancied himself a human shark long before the LD 50 had changed him.

He'd taken some of his many ill gotten gaines and headed for the boonies shortly after the virus had Changed him, seeking ground less densely populated, old survival instincts coming to play. The tiny villages - often little more than a handful of buildings at a traffic light, or cross roads and helpless with most of their already slim populations dead - that he had been useing as his feeding grounds had no allure other than the easy pickings.

He was hungry for more. A nice bit of sexual assault, cash pulled from a store till, and clean clothes would make his evening. And he had known from the moment his stolen Caddy had been denied further travel along Highway 421, that past said barricade he was sure to find just that.

It had taken him days to find a isolated farm house that still had residents, and hours to torture from the elderly couple a back way over the mountain. He'd wrecked the four wheeler that was the only way up, if not over other than by foot, and his carelessness had him swearing, sweating, and working blisters on his improperly shod feet. But he'd made it over, and down the western slopes of the be-damned mountain uncaught and unsuspected. He'd actually managed to find numerous small caves and abandoned buildings to hide from the suns searing rays. He didn't really miss the sun, he'd always prefered the night.

He was lucky as well as cautious- too many of the backwoods locals kept dogs, dogs whose temperments and terroritality maded them perfect alarm systems - and avoided in place that even seemed to have living residents. The wildness of the country side helped, and he'd made it into what had to be the center of town but now his hunger was pulling him towards lights and people.

He'd have to move with guile and care, though the old story of injured wayfarer had worked before...

"So," where do ya want me?"

Nathan nodded approvingly at Hoots rig as the whomp of the helo passed over head, hovered a second and the Pave Hawk began to settle on to the parking lot.

"We can go up to the roof. Hightest spot in the city other than the water tower and thats too far south." The five story court house would give a good vfiew, as none of the other down town buildings stood more than two stories.

A pair of medics, in dark navy flight suits with numerous search and rescue patches running down the sleeves, briskly rolled a collapseable stretcher in, the top laden with assorted trauma gear. With nods to Nathan and Hoot they began confering with Jonni as they packaged David for transport.

"I'm riding with them, and let you know how David is as soon as possible." Jonni advised Nathan as once ready they began to wheel him out. The Pave Hawk would take less than fiften minutes to fly them to the medical Center some thirty six miles distant as the crow flew. Once it dropped them off it would race back to Mountain City to attent to any casualties of the Troll attack.

"Okay. I'll watch the boys until you come for them." Nathan nodded then began to lead Hoot slowly up the stairs. His still healing leg would not allow him to climb with any speed. The throaty growl of a Stryker LAV sounded as it rolled rapidly passed the courthouse, as it headed up 91 toward the north road block some four miles distant. Other vehicles were hard on it's tires.

The third floor had become a communications center, and as Nathan started passed, the older women who was currently manning the phones called out to him. "Nathan, Joy and her three girls got caught at the laundomat, and the safety shutter won't close. They are heading here, some one needs to let them in, and I can't raise Belinda, I thhink she's already down in the shelter." The thick metal walls of the air raid shelter played hob with radio signals.

Nathan looked back at Hoot as he turned about. " Can you go meet them, escort them here? The laundromat is only two blocks away." He pulled out his radio and handed it to Hoot as they clattered back down the stairs " In case of need. I'll be watching to let you all in."

I mounted the light rig platform at a low-sprint, holding my rifle in one hand and using the other as a balance. Little jump, and I was ready. There was just enough space to go prone and stick my rifle through the guard-rails. I drop the bipod down and set up. I'm going to have to angle the gun down slightly, because of the elevation, which means that I'm going to take punishment to my shoulder...but, meh. I've shot from the branches of trees -- had said branches -break- while I was shooting from them. This is nothing.

My left hand moves to braces the stock while my right operates the bolt, then drifts down gently to wrap around pseudo-pistol grip formed by the thumbhole stock. Then my left hand drifts smoothly to flip the Leupold long-scope's covers up, and I begin to steady my breathing.

I tilt my head back, then forward, rapidly, causing my NODs to flip down into place. They're 4th generation goggles, and hellaciously expensive, but the results are worthwhile. Conveniently, the Leupold scope mounted on my rifle works well enough in conjunction with goggles...

I've got a hellaciously nice scope -- max magnification is x25...and with the .338 round, that is more useful than one would think. Still, I'm working sans spotter -- that wouldn't matter once things got in close, but I'd be feeling the absence of a second pair of eyes...

But I could handle that, too...

I don't have a target, but I'm hunting for one. I can do that one handed, so as I scan for a target, my left hand contorts and pulls two spare magazines from my backpack, laying them out on the right side of the gun for easy access.

Then I get my first target. I'm not checking the highway itself, except for fleetingly. Instead, I'm spending most of my time searching the brush and trees for obvious movement. Good idea, but the trees must have been hindering the advance of the packs' flankers, because my first target is coming up the road...

I'd guess that they were still out of sight for the others, but my elevation, combined with the NODs and the rifle scope gave me a really, really nice advantage as far as shooting-distance went. I kept the magnification at the bare minimum in order to keep the picture clear...and lined up my shot.

The range is near enough to maximum -- which is roughly a klick and a half, though the rounds I prefered tended to travel a little further...still. I got my breathing good and steady, then took a deep breath and held. I've been timing heartbeats, and my pulse is nice and steady...give it a second, then my the very pad of my finger begins to gently put pressure on the trigger. The rifle is dead still.

The rifle booms, kicks, and I'm already settling it back into position. Normally I'd be hunting for other targets, but you can't tell with these trolls, so I don't move the rifle with my left hand as my right slides up to operate the bolt. Instead, I watch the shot hit. The big, high-velocity slug -- slightly less powerful than a .50 BMG round, but with a flatter trajectory...

The bullet hits the troll in the throat. I won't say he's dead until I've got his head on a stick, but I'd be surprised if he was going anywhere...and the casing is ejected from the rifle, missing the platform and falling fifty yards to the ground...

My right hand returns to the rifle's grip and I begin to hunt for my second shot. I had three more rounds in the magazine, plus one in the chamber. Then I'd have to swap magazines.

I haven't decided at what range I'll drop the platform and get in on the close-in, and I don't think I will, this time. If the trolls get close enough actually endanger the local shooters, then I'd get down from my perch.

Of course, the shotgun was loaded with buckshot, not the slugs that I prefer for dealing with trolls...but I'd survive. Close-in, the T95 will hand a troll it's ass easily enough -- the 10mm Norma Auto round that my father and I both prefer outperforms most .357 magnum loads...which will drop a bull walrus, a far, far more resilient target than a troll...

Of course, the round kicks like hell, and it is always fun to watch someone used to the relatively low-impulse .45 ACP round to shoot 10mm...but, my mind is wandering.

I blink my right eye once and get back to work.

The land just before where the road block had been positions had been rough cleared, a defensive dead zone, to deny Trolls and others approach cover, however the nature of the terrain made the zone smaller than was optimum, and soon the Troll pack was with in range of those on the ground.

All of the defenders were presently armed with rifles or shot guns and the blast of sound made one long for ear protection. They were all crack shot with their weapons, but not every shot was fatal.

Trolls regenerate unless the head is removed / the brain destroyed .

Damage/destroy the neck thoroughly so blood can't reach the brain and that will lay them out for a time, or destroy the heart so that it can't pump blood to the vein for the same... but to make them truely dead...take the head off.

The Vamp sniffed disappointedly at the fading scent of blood. The wounded had been moved inside. He darted around the corner of the courthouse just in time to avoid being seen by those in the helicopter that droned in from the west. Then a powerful light lanced down from the chopper and he ducked back further into the night as it begins to land. He curses softly, he'd not be feasting on some one weak and wounded this night.

Except...some sort of military vehicle races past, heading north and followed by a handful of off road bikes and a jeep or two. He wonders what they are headed for - at the speeds they were moving it might mean opportunities. The storm had died if not the rain, but he was almost certain that the distant drum rolls he was hearing was not thunder and he had no interest in joining any sort of heavily armed altercation. He had always been an ambush predator.

"Trolls?" He muttered fretfully. Trolls wouldn't attack a Vamp, mostly, but their manner of feeding left little for a Vamp to feed on. "No, better find something closer." He kept to the shadows and headed west from the Courthouse building along west Main Street.

What little downtown there was lay along where 418 spurred off of Highway 421 - 418 becoming North Church Street as it crossed Main Street - later it would become Highway 91 going on north to cross the state line. He had laughed aloud at the name of the place. Only the old courthouse stood taller than two stories, and none of the "downtown" resembled anything he's call a city.

Even though it was scarcely seven in the evening most of the business were closed tight, heavy steel grates - newly installed security shutters - covering the glass of the storefronts and doorways. The whole area was dim, the street lights just small puddles of amber glow here and there. Most of the businesses did not even have exterior signs that were lit at night.

However as he crossed to the north side of the street he could see one storefront was still lit though. It was a couple of blocks away and he couldn't read the sign from the angle he was at. But he could see movement - customers leaving. Headed his direction. The figures looked small, children perhaps, he couldn't quite tell, but hunger was enough to keep him heading that way, slinking along close to the buildings.

http://www.atddm.com/mc01.gif Looking west on Main, The laundromat is the last building on the right hand (north) side of the road.

As the trolls got closer, I started making trick shots...or, well, they would've been trick shots on a human, but trolls were just so damnably big, and my gun was just so damnably accurate....

So I started putting rounds right between the eyes, or through the top of the head. A headshot with a .338 Lapua...isn't a pretty thing to watch, if you're squeamish. I drop the mag clear and slap in a new one, my right hand flies up operate the bolt, then I'm lining up my next shot. I'm going mechanical -- getting into a rhythm.

'Hunt, hunt, hunt, find, aim, aim, breath, aim, hold, aim, BANG!, bolt, hunt, hunt, hun, find...' and so on...

I've already swapped mags once, and now I need to do it again. Luckily, I can multi-task, so as I ram the mag into place, my other hand darts towards my left-front jeans pocket and fishes out my ear plugs. I actually carry them for sleeping -- I can't stand noise when I'm trying to get to sleep, the plugs help, but they work well enough for shooting, too.

My hearing is just too much of an asset to risk -- likely, I wouldn't be bothered -- my father's hearing is as sharp as mine, and he's been shooting a lot longer than I have, and in places where it wasn't practical to use hearing protection -- but like I said...why risk it? I don't need to hear everything, right now. I couldn't hear something sneaking up on me anyways -- as they'd be fifty yards below me.

I squeeze back into the rifle and line up another shot, then blow the troll's brains out the back of his head -- literally. The .338 Lapua will defeat better-than-mil-standard body armor at a thousand meters -- Trolls are tough, but they aren't -that- tough.

Still, I suppose I should have brought a .50 cal...the .50 has some truly nasty specialist ammunition that'd simply pulp a troll's head. 'n light 'em on fire, too.

But, the .338 was good enough. 'n I had twelve spare mags still in the bag. Which oughta be enough, you'd think. You'd hope. I expect I'd run out of range or targets before I run out of ammo. I'm shooting as fast as I can pick targets and hitting every shot I make -- albeit not perfectly, but still, shot placement shifted to the head because it was easier, given my angle, and because, like I said, I was feeling mean...and maybe showing off, just a little.

Still, I can only kill so fast, and the others -- even accurate as they are, and hunters tended to be fairly accurate...those trolls weren't playing nice.

I wonder how Ronnie Barrett and friends made out down in Murfreesboro. Might be worth checking out. Anyways...

BANG!

Hoot pocketed the radio, turning it up enough to hear it from his radio pouch. He made his way out from the court house and on to the front street, looking down the road towards his final destination.

He shouldered the rifle, taking a quick sweep of the area through the Aimpoint, waiting for the red dot to find a target, but it found none. He took the first few steps slowly, followed by another. He couldn't help but feel he was being watched, a feeling that was usually one hundred percent right. But he didn't have time to hunt down a feeling.

He started off in a light jog, the special forces trot that he could hold for as long as he needed to. Not to fast, not to tiring, it was a nice gait that would get him to the end of the quickly without needing him to take a breather. He took off in the run, and stopped just outside the laundromat. He gave a stiff, single knock on the door, and stuck his head inside. "Someone call for a taxi?"

Even those who hadn't had military training were experienced hunters. One had to be, living in one of the poorest parts of the nation. Hunting was not only a way of life, it was all too often the only way that meat came to the table. More of the trolls fell but they were inhumanly quick, easily covering one hundred meters in less than seven seconds.

Trolls fell, some oh so very thoroughly dead, but others were only temporarily incapacitated.

those trolls weren't playing nice...

Others launched a completely unexpected ranged attack - rocks the size of bowling balls were thrown at the barricade's defenders, propelled by muscles strong enough to toss small cars. More hit than not and three of the defenders fell as they took devastating head injuries.

Trolls began pouring over the roadblock, covering as much as thirty feet a leap - leaps that carried them easily over the concrete barricade despite the topping of barbed wire. Three did not make it, their jumps not high enough to clear the razor wire. Seconds later the wire superstructure toppled over as the trio of shrieking trolls struggled furiously, heedless of any damage caused by visciously sharp barbs. Then they were free.

The highway was undivided, two lanes either way as it wound south, and while the pumper truck took up the middle of the four lanes, there was enough space left for the Stryker to come nose in. It's 50 cal was firing controlled bursts, the night streaked with the red of tracer rounds, targeting the last of the trolls as they cleared the barricade.

Now men shrieked as troll claws ripped at them, the nearly ten inch claws rending easily through the layers of the heavy coats, kevlar vests and the flesh beneath. The Stryker was brakeing hard, the rear door flying open before it came to a complete stop. Reinforcements began leaping out, leaving their rifles with in and drawing range weapons - sawed off shotguns, or revolvers chambered for the massive Casull 454 round.

Their leader was tall man, standing well over six foot and dressed as heavily as the others, but moving as if unencumbered. He carried a custom cut down Franchi SPAS-12 and had emptied the first four of it's eight slugs before the last man cleared the Stryker. The first four slugs were all head shots.

Sidereal note...215 North Church Street is an address the Pettimores knew well, and Ronnie and Three had known each other for years....Last Christmas Three had given Four a not yet available to the public barrett M82A1/M107 semi auto chambered for the new extra long range accurate .416 rounds. And a small truckload of ammo. He'd gotten a Barrett M81A1/ M107 in 50 cal the year before...


Sidereal note 2 - The recon variant is fitted with the Raytheon Long-Range Advanced Scout Surveillance System (LRAS3). The system includes a second-generation Horizontal Technology Initiative (HTI) thermal imager, day TV and eyesafe laser rangefinder. The system is enhanced by lengthening the sensor mast to 10m, increasing the range to 10km.

In spite of my best efforts -- I'd guess I'd dropped close to fifteen of them with headshots before they breached the barricade, and floored five more with rounds to the heart and sternum...still, I rather wish I had my baby...

But Mark Serbu's semi-automatic masterpiece -- not even in production yet, but.. well, there was production, and then there was -production,- wasn't tested enough, not really, for field ops...

At any rate, in spite of my best efforts, the trolls had made it over the barricade, and even though the Stryker APC -- I didn't even WANT to know how they'd gotten one of those. Then again, we had our own toys...we had a number of vehicles that were effectively heavily modified M1117 Guardian ASVs -- the 40mm autoGLs were very, very useful.

At any rate, I rise up from my prone position and hit the lift controls, bringing the light rig down as fast as it can go. As I'm doing this, I'm getting my shotgun off its sling and laying it down next to the rifle. As the rig touches down, I spring off of it and roll, my right hand freeing my T95 from its shoulder holster and thumbing the ambi-safety off. I rise up into a kneel, my left hand hand coming up to wrap around my right in a perfect shooting position, and the gun snaps up, lightning fast. I get my sight picture, and double-tap a troll through the side of the head...while the troll was in mid-leap.

I work over a total of five trolls, double-tapping each one, then drop my left hand down to my belt while my right fires my last round into the last troll I'd shot at -- just to be sure. My left hand pulls a magazine from the pair of pouches I have there and rises up. My right thumb hits the mag release, and by the time I slam the fresh mag home, the other one is well clear.

As I'm reloading, I'm moving. My movements look like something you'd expect to see at an IPSC championship -- I have that kind of speed and accuracy. Firing two rounds and four targets and three at the fifth, then reloading, has taken me maybe eight seconds. I'm stiff from the road, I suppose...

I'm sprinting, now, seeking to get in amongst the men at the firing line and clear the trolls off of them. I'm also point-shooting now, simply looking at a target and letting my hand rise naturally to 'point' at it. And hit it. Every time. It is less accurate than proper aimed fire, but it is a lot faster, and I can still put two rounds in a target the size of a troll's head with ease.

I drop under a flying boulder, sheer reflex saving my life. If I'd been a split second slower, my head would have been red mush, and it would've been twenty or so feet behind my body. If I hadn't been -me,- I'd have been dead.

I double-tap a troll currently engaged in an odd sort of dance with one of the defenders -- circling around, having disarmed the defender -- and the troll's head literally explodes. Now, 10mm rounds are incredibly powerful, and that is what would have happened had it been a human's head, but trolls were made of significantly tougher stuff. Then I realize what I'd done.

The magazine I'd loaded contained ten rounds of 10mm Glazer safety slugs. Frangible ammunition. They had little to no penetration, but the effect upon an organic target was generally instant death as they were hit with the equivalent of a round of buckshot at point-blank range. Or, that's what I'd been told. I wasn't convinced that was actually how it worked, but...it seemed to aptly explain the results I saw before me.

I laugh, only a little bit madly, and line up my next shot.

The vamps hearing, with superb alteration that LD50 had gifted him, alerts him to the presence of some one behind, further back to the east coming from the court house. The new comer's first steps are tenative, then more assured and had the vamp ducking around the same corner the three figures that had exited the lit business earlier had taken. However he dared not keep moving, he had to hide more thoroughly ,and so slid into the even deeper shadows of the nearest door nitch. Still as only a true predator can be.

The stranger is moving more quickly, a light jog that while nearly soundless to heedless humans, is audible to the vamp. The vamp closes his eyes, he had quickly learned that his eyes reflected light much as a cats did, and he did not want even the faintest gleam to give him away to the jogger. He stifles a growl as his hearing also lets him know that the three he'd seen had moved from the side walk to a building, a door opening and closing behind them several buildings away.

The stranger pases with out suspecting, and the Vamp, now watching as the man has passed, notes that he is fit and seems comfortable with the weapons he carries. The vamp don't know the specific makes of those weapons, he'd never been an afficinado of such, just a user. When he has too.

He was angry though, his having to stop and hide let them make it to safety. It would gbe highly doubtful that now of days they left doors unsecured. He'd have to find sustenance elsewhere. He waited though, to see if the armed man too would put himself beyond reach.

"Someone call for a taxi?"

The woman at the east end of the store front jerked with a gasp and whipped around from where she had been fighting with the security shutters roll down mechanism.

As she did so a young teen looked out from the back room, a small radio in her hand "Mom, they're...oh, this must be him. You're Hoot, right?" Claire reassured her mother Joy that Hoot was to be their escort as Hoot nodded agreement.

Joy stopped fighting with the shutters and came over to Hoot with a relieved, welcoming smile on her care worn face. "Thanks for coming to get us." She called for the other two girls to grab their things and come join them. Briskly Joy shooed them out ahead of her "I'm not going to bother with the shutter. If they want to tear up these old washing machines they're welcome to, or they can take baths in them for all I care."

Joy half laughed at that as she stumped determinedly after the theree girls "Don't get too far ahead." She called to the teens as she looked up at Hoot and introduced herself. "I'm Joy and these are my granddaughters May, June and Augusta. All named after months they were born in. Their dad and my daughter didn't use much imagination but the girls never seemed to have minded. Haven't I seen you useing the laundromat every once in a while, you're living at the motel aren't you?" She was a shrewd old woman who sledom missed anything going on around her, despite being some what hard of hearing and needeing thick glasses.

Rafe's next shot was unneeded as the last troll standing was hit nearly simultaneously by several other shooters, and slumped to the roadway. One of those instants of near complete silence fell over the body littered battle ground, only to be croken by an anonymous voice wheezing "Damn I Hate trolls".

The moment passed as the night came alive with the sounds of the injured moaning, and the scuff of foot wear as those un , or simply less, injured moved to help the worst wounded.

"Make sure the trolls are completely dead, then drag the bodies back past the barricade. We'll burn them there." The leader of the reinforcements orders, his voice low but carrying.

After exchanging a few words with the one who'd greeted Rafe earlier, turned and moved to Rafe, pausing to toss the shot gun into the back of the Stryker. "Rafe Yoren? I'm Johnny Lee, call me Four though. Welcome and thanks for pitching in. Did you take any injury?" He gave Rafe a sharp look over, seeming to not miss a thing despite the rakish leather eye patch that covered his left eye and part of the left side of his face. It did not fully hide the four savage claw scars that scoured his face from hair line to jaw. They were healed but still shiny in the lights, obviously only a few months old.

The big light tree had been extened and activated as those not tending to wounded moved though the troll corpses and made sure they were dead. Four moved away from the carnage and into the Styker, motioning Rafe with him. The big vehicle did not have the most comfortable interior but it blocked the hard crack of the heavy rounds being used to dispatch the remaining trolls. Four waved Rafe into one of the seats and pulled out a large thermos. "Care for some coffee while we talk a bit, tell me why the son of the ghost man has come to call?"

I wordlessly follow Four to the Stryker, and accept the offered coffee. I'm not a huge fan of the stuff -- tea is more my style -- but I'll take what I can get for the moment. After a quick drink, I look over at Four, my eyes distant but my face wearing a grin.

"Mmm...long story short -- debt. You lot were the last straw, as it were, and my Da wasn't going to leave you hanging in the wind without at least checking up on you. Of course, he couldn't come himself...but I could. So, here I am. For the meantime, I'm stuck here, too..."

I manage to put just the right amount of wistfulness into that statement. It wasn't exactly true -- I wasn't stuck here...but, otherwise, well...I made the rest up. I didn't know why I was here, not really, but my guess was...exactly what I'd said.

Mom, they're...oh, this must be him. You're Hoot, right?

Hoot nodded. "In the flesh. I hear ya'll need an escort down to the court house, streets have been pretty quiet though."

He ran a quick eye over the four girls, making sure none of them were exhibiting any of the signs common that he had seen among the infected.

Don't get too far ahead. I'm Joy and these are my granddaughters May, June and Augusta. All named after months they were born in. Their dad and my daughter didn't use much imagination but the girls never seemed to have minded. Haven't I seen you useing the laundromat every once in a while, you're living at the motel aren't you?

"She's right girls," Hoot called ahead. "I can't protect ya when your that far out. Everyone stay close. Its not to far, but I might need to shoot fast, and I can shoot faster knowing everyone I'm supposed to protect is close or behind me."

Hoot turned back to the grandmother. He had seen her the few times he had come to the laundromat, and she seemed like a tough character, one that, despite age, could definately hold her own when protection of her grandchildren came to the case.

"Well, living is a relative term nowadays, but yeah, I've been holed up there for a few months. Ever since the world went to hell and back." He exited the laundromat last, following everyone out, and tensed up. Before, he had been in speed mode, just trying to get to the laundromat quickly. Now, he was in protection mode, his eyes darting from window to window and alley to alley, looking for targets to engage.

So, here I am. For the meantime, I'm stuck here, too..."

Fours look was solemn as he listened to Rafe's words, his eye never leaving the younger mans face. "My da felt he owed your's, and he felt he was never able to repay him. Starke vanished off the face of the earth." Four didn't bother to hide his anger and disgust. His father and Jonni had spent a lot of money and time trying to find the bastard, but he'd gone into the wind. He shook his head, putting personal feelings aside. Three had also spent a lot of money on stories, info and rumors about the equally vanishing man called Wes Yoren - but his son didn't need to know that now.

"You are welcome here. Mountain knows we can use more good men, we're stretched thin as it is and it's going to be worse in a month. Have you eaten? They've got venison chili at the Boars Hole tonight I've been told. We have room to put you up for as long as you'd like to stay."

He paused a second as one of the Outlaws spoke through the Strykers hatch. "Four, we're about ready to 'que the trash, and Wild Will says that she'll be here to pick up the wounded in twenty minutes. She had to take David to the Med, he got stabbed by the courthouse, just fore the trolls hit."

Four frowned, shook his head, and stood. Picking up his shotgun, he looked back at Rafe. "Well better get the burning started. The smell'll draw others if they're out there."

They'd learned the hard way that trolls found the scent of burning meat irresistable and would travel great distances to scavenge. Now all such disposals were done with alert and well armed guards.

Well, living is a relative term nowadays, but yeah, I've been holed up there for a few months. Ever since the world went to hell and back."

Joy nodded, as she tucked a hand into the deep pocket of the wool coat she wore, making sure that the old but well kept revolver she carried was firmly in her grasp. The three girls held up until Joy and Hoot caught up with them, their chatter silenced as they looked nervously along the deserted street.

They were almost to the corner, under the gray awning that sheltered the doorway of the last business before the bank, when with no warning save the scrabble of claws, trouble arrived.

Not all the ways into the valley had sensors, nor were all guarded...

Five trolls landed lightly on the wide sidewalk, their reflective eyes gleaming in the dim glow of the streetlight across the way.

I nod my head in passing, letting Four get to his thing while I retrieve my rifle and shotgun from where I'd left them, then walk to my car and set about a spot of work. I clear the rifle's chamber and drop the magazine, then fold the bipod and give the barrel a few swipes with the cleaner. Then I case up the rifle and drop the ammo-sack into the trunk. Then I walk around and open the driver's door, drop the shotgun into its holster, then close the door, return to the trunk, and grab the SIG, sling it over my shoulder, slip two spare clips into my pocket, and refill the magazine of 10mm ammo that I'd spent.

I adjust the position of the NODs on my forehead and make my way over to where Four was sorting out the troll corpses for burning. My eyes wander over the troll corpses -- grotesque things. They weren't as apt to hunt in packs back home, which made them considerably less dangerous, all things considered...otherwise, we'd have had to maintain a much more...visible...presence than we preferred.

I don't say anything more, just look around -- I'm not convinced we've got them all. Not yet. But...I'm rarely convinced of such things. It helps me stay alive, I guess.

The trolls - the corpse count numbering closer to fifty rather than thirty - were piled on the far side of the barricade in the closest 'pot hole', nearly two hundred feet way. While some of the crew had made sure that the bodies were liberally doused with a mixture of gasoline and other accelerants, others had worked to repair the razor wire that had been toppled.

The wounded had been moved back, but the bodies of the two men who had died in the fighting were placed atop the pyre. All bodies were burned these days, even if they had never been affected by LD 50.

Four nodded at three men still outside the barricade. They lit their torches and tossed them onto the pile, then ran to pass through the gap in the barricade. The gasoline mix flashed with a dull crump and flames licked high towards the lowering clouds. The Fifty atop the Stryker was manned and had a clean field of fire, as it moved up to fully block the man sized gap.

Minutes passed, the intermittent gusts barely blowing the stench of the burning bodies away, but no trolls presented themselves, nor were there any calls from those monitoring the spread thin sensor net. No one relaxed their guard however.

The Pave Hawk arrived and the medic team scrambled out, ducking low under the spinning rotors, heading for where the wounded waited.

Hoot walked softly in front of his charge, keeping an open eye for any sudden targets. He had the feeling far back in his mind that they were being watched, stalked almost, and he kept the rifle held at a ready position, waiting to shoot at a moment's notice. They had been walking only a short time when he saw them across the street, landing in front of the grey awning.

He snapped up his rifle, sighting in the one closest to him. The red dot through the aimpoint settled in on the beast's face, and he waited for them to move. He had no idea what the standard physiology of the trolls was, if they saw movement or if you could stand still and hope they ignored you.

"Stay still and quiet," he told the others with him, waiting for the trolls to move towards him before opening fire.

"Stay still and quiet,"

Hoots words went unheard, the trolls reacting as the Imitoran snapped his rifle up. With nearly eye blurring speed the trolls bounded forward, closing the distance between them.

The three girls, just steps behind Joy and Hoot, began screaming in terror at the sight of the trolls. Before Joy could stop them they turned and ran back the way they had come. Joy shrieked once herself and struggled to pull the gun from her coat pocket.

Nathan, who had been standing atthe courthouse door saw the trolls drop down from the bank roof. He yelled trying to distract the trolls, or attract their attention, as he drew the heavy Smith & Wesson X frame, chambered for .500 S&W. It wasn't been his usual carry piece, but the advent of trolls mandated the heaviest rounds available.

The revolver bucked once in Nathan's hands as he fired, a bare heartbeat after his yell. The yell apparently had no effect on the trolls - they were fixated on the closer prey - but the heavy slug tore into the spine of the rearmost one, and while it did not kill it outright, the massive damage the .500round did dropped it to the street - at least temporarily.

Snarling, their large fangs easily visable even in the poor light, the other four trolls did not even slow their charge.

While the others ran, Hoot stood, the world going into slow motion. When the girls turned to ran, he calmly moved, timing his heart beats in match with his assumed shots. With little over reaction or pomp, he let the red dot settle on the lead troll, and the rifle barked twice, sending two 7.62 NATO boat tail hollow point rounds into the beast's skull, flinging it back as blood and bone sprayed out. He didn't hesitate, insstead, moving on to the next target. Another double tap. Another one down.

He didn't turn, but he started falling back, giving him room to target each troll. They were closing in fast, and his continual backwards motion was making the shots harder. A missed double tap, and an adjustment, as he emptied five more rounds into the chest of the troll, slowing him down enough to get an acurate shot into its face, dropping it.

There was one left, and it was getting close. He turned, hoping that for a heart beat, he would have enough time. He saw Joy's gun out, the revolver shaking as she tried to aim. "No!" he shouted, trying to get through to her. "No!" he said, a second time reacing out and snapping at her. "Go get the girls."

He wasn't fast enough, and by the time he turned, the troll was already on him. He fell back to the ground, absorbing the full impact. He grunted hard, his hand went to his knife, and he yanked the Ka-bar out of its kydex sheath on his belt. He struggled, keeping the mouth of the deformed monster from his face. He worked, struggling, pushing upwards against its throat, looking for a moment to strike. He tried to roll the monster on to its back, but it wasn't happening.

The first wound came fast, Hoot ignoring the pain as long claws tore across his chest. The wound was superficial, the LBV loaded with magazines for the M14 stopping most of the power. The second shot wasn't as lucky, and Hoot grimaced as the claws dug deep into his arm. The shot was to his left arm, tearing at the muscles above his elbow. It wasn't his shooting arm, and he fought the pain back, focusing on his knife. The troll pulled back, preparing to gouge itself on Hoot's face.

Hoot snapped the knife up, using his left hand against the base, and as the troll came forward, he pushed up with every bit of strength he could get out of his body. The knife dug into the troll deep, the combined force of the troll's forward motion and Hoot's thrust forcing the knife through the hard, thick skin of the monster. He could feel the resistance from it's hide, but he had enough to dig the knife into the troll's kidney.

It reared back in pain, screaming and wailing in an ear piercing shriek. The modified M14 was too far away, and Hoot scrambled to pull the 1911 from his thigh holster. As the troll came back, looking to finish off the Imitoran, it found itself not chewing on soft flesh and tissue, but cold steel. Hoot pulled the trigger fast, dumping all eight rounds into the troll, the back of its skull exploding in bone, brain, and blood. It collapsed forward on him, and he grunted.

"Hey," he shouted, placing his hands against the near nine hundred pound troll, trying to push it up and off him, "a little help?"

"a little help?"

The troll stank, and the fresher odors of blood and other bodily fluids just added to the appaling stench. It's body was limp in death, and almost impossible for Hoot to wrestle off of him, with his left arm weak with deep claw wounds and bleeding profusely.

The boom of Nathan's S&W sounded as he passed the troll he had downed - he made sure all of them were thoroughly dead...

Then Nathan was there, helping roll the corpse off of the Imitoran. "Sorry to be so slow getting here" He grunted as he hauled Hoot to his feet.

Joy had managed to round up her granddaughters and firmly herded the shaking girls back to where the two men stood. "You're bleeding like a stuck pig" She frowned and shook her head as she saw Hoots left arm and the blood soaking his clothes "Thats going to need more tending than I'm capable of. Nathan, get that whirly bird back here."

"Already called for. And for some one to come and take care of the bodies." He nodded as he hustled all of them back to the dry warmth of the courthouse.

The Pave Hawk has just lifting off, and would be back at the courhouse in less than fifteen minutes. More Outlaws, coming from the Boars Hole would be there much sooner, and they would remove the bodies for burning.

"Thank you Hoot for saving my damn fool granddaughters" Joy said as she helped Hoot get his coat off so she could do what first aid she could to his lacerated arm.

Hoot pushed himself upright, and then struggled to his feet. He mashed the thumb button on his Nighthawk, dropping out the magazine, and replacing it with another. He reholstered the forty five, and nodded a thanks at Nathan. "Apriciate it."

His mouth had been dry for only a few moments, and soon it was back to normal. He spat at the troll he had just dispatched, and swore, bending forward to remove the knife from it. He looked at the blade, nodded an approval, and wiped the blood from the Ka-bar on his pants. He sheathed it, and looked back to his marks.

You're bleeding like a stuck pig. Thats going to need more tending than I'm capable of. Nathan, get that whirly bird back here.

Hoot made a sound that resmbled a 'pfft', and chuckled. "I've had worse. When I die they'll give my next of kin the medals to prove it. Besides, I doub't most of the blood is mine." He looked down, realizing that it wasn't the case. Most of the blood was indeed his, and he would definately need stitches on his arm. He shook it off, and looked back at the girls. "Ya'll doing ok?"

Thank you Hoot for saving my damn fool granddaughters.

"Was my pleasure, Ma'am," he said, shucking off the torn LBV. He looked around, and picked up the M14. The Aimpoint had cracked from the impact of the charging troll, and the iron sights were visably damaged. He could only imagine that being hit by a damn near half ton animal moving at speed had hurt other parts of the weapon.

He looked around for a moment, then back towards the court house. "Lets get inside. We'll be better protected in case we have more guests."

As he slung the load vest over his shoulder, holding his arm up to slow the bleeding, he looked at Nathan, and then to the first troll that the man had taken with the S&W 500. "Thanks, I owe ya one."

"Thanks, I owe ya one."

"Nope" Nathan smile was grim but unreserved as he pulled open the massive front doors of the old building." you shed blood for us. Makes you one of us. No thanks necessary." The roar of the Stryker carrying the reenforcements could be heard before it wasw seen, then it rounded the far end of Main Street. "You sit down and let Joy wrap that arm." Nathan ordered as he turned to oversee the collection of the trolls.

Joy chivvied Hoot into the courtroom turned class room and had him sit at the teachers desk. As the girls thanked the Imitoran profusely, embarrased by their earlier flight and star struck by his heroic actions, she briskly directed them to go fetch the first aid kit and some coffe for her and Hoot. They scampered away and soon returned with the coffee and the kit.

"I'll just clean it, 'n wrap it. From the way those things stink I have a feeling their claws are right rank with filth. Probably worse'n a cat bite for turnin
g 'fected." Joy mutterede as she carefully cleaned the wounds. "Sorry iff'n it hurts."

About the time Hoot had finished his coffee the whump of the Pave Hawk's rotors could be heard and moments later Jonni and the flight team were coming in from the rear parking lot.

"Captain Gibson, I heard you tangled with some trolls." Jonni saw his left arm, bulky in the bandaged Joy had wrapped about the deep wounds and winced in sympathy. Her stern eyes softened as Joy quickly told her how Hoot had protected herself and her granddaughters. "Lets get you to the chopper and once we pick up wounded from the north barricade we'll head to the Medical Center." She stepped away to let the paramedics move in and take over.

"Stitches and antibiotics definitely..."Rowan eased back the wrappings as her partner quickly took an over- all assessment of Hoots condition. The blood flow had slowed to a trickle, clotting well despite the depth of the claw wounds, and there was no visible compromise to the blood flow of his hand. "No veins torn open, it looks to be all skin and muscle damage."

He nodded as Hoots blood pressure and other vitals came in strong "The troll may have landed on him but he's stable."

They helped the Imitoran stand and led him out to the Pave Hawk, getting him settled in one of the jump seats. Jonni joined them after confering briefly with Nathan, and offered Hoot a headset as the rotors spooled up.

"Your rifle and aimpoint took a beating. We'll replace it...and David's going to be all right. The CAT scans weren't ready of course but Doc Tremblay says he doesn't expect to find anything on them. Thank you for your restraint."

The Pave Hawk lifted off under the guidance of expert hands and headed north to pick up the other casualties of the night.

Hoot greatfully accepted the medical treatment and coffee, but kept quiet for the most part. For one, he was not one to be used to praise. Ninety percent of his operations went by with no knowledge whatsoever by the outside world, only being acknowledged by his direct COs. So instead of bragging his kills up, talking them like it was anything special, he simply nodded, replying with an almost preset smile and "It's no biggy," and "no worries, it's my job."

with little pomp, he made his way upstairs with the help, and onto the helicopter. It was hard for him to accept the help, but he did so anyways. He smiled a thanks, and sat back into the jump seat on the chopper. He was quiet while the medics did their job, watching for the most part.

Your rifle and aimpoint took a beating. We'll replace it...and David's going to be all right. The CAT scans weren't ready of course but Doc Tremblay says he doesn't expect to find anything on them. Thank you for your restraint.

"Its no big deal, just anything thats accurate will work. And sorry about David, went to work on instinct, hard to shut down once it gets going. It's good to hear he'll be ok."

"Its no big deal, just anything thats accurate will work. And sorry about David, went to work on instinct, hard to shut down once it gets going. It's good to hear he'll be ok."

Jonni chuckled "Anything accurate? We have a wide selection of accurate. Including some of the best gunsmiths around to make sure it all gets and stays accurate."

The light from the pyre at the north barricade could be seen as the Pave Hawk neared. Once at the designated landing site it turned in place, it's FLIR sensor suite could scan the full three hundred and sixty degrees. The door gunners, wearing NVO's kept careful watch as well, even though they were on the 'in side' of the barricade.

Then the chopper touched down lightly and the paramedic team jumped out quickly, ducking under the rotor wash, pulling their gear behind them.

The most seriously wounded man was placed on a stretcher and loaded last after the two walking wounded had taken their places in the chopper.

Four turned to Rafe as the Pave Hawk alit. "I'm going with the wounded, care to come with me? My aunt would like to meet you..." He looked over to where Rafe's car sat and added "Or you can meet us in town in about an hour. At the Boars Hole. It's not hard to find"

Anything accurate? We have a wide selection of accurate. Including some of the best gunsmiths around to make sure it all gets and stays accurate.

"Man, ya'll sound like my kind of people," Hoot chuckled, and then winced. While both of the wounds were nothing serious to worry about, now that he was being shot up with antibiotics and bandaged up, they still hurt. It was a pain he appriciated, though. He kept him awake, told him he was alive, told him he had won.

He leaned his head back against the bulkhead of the Pave Hawk, and simply watched as the rest of the world flew by.

I thought about that for a while, but the decision wasn't all that hard. My support gear was still loaded into the Road Runner, and losing said gear would...ahh...sting.

"As much as I'm sure I'd like to meet your Aunt...it'd probably be a thing better done under...calmer...circumstances. Take care of people who need taking care of, worry about niceties afterwards. I'll drive myself, I think. Boar's Hole, one hour. I'll be there."

Then I rather casually returned to the Road Runner and opened the trunk, returned the SIG to its locker, closed the trunk, walked around to the driver's side door, opened said door, got in, fished out my keys...well, you get the idea.

I relax a bit and let my mind wander while my body drove, though it didn't wander very far -- I'm not paranoid...because the large number of fantastic things seeking to do me harm are, rather annoyingly, real.

Nathan arrived ahead of the others, his limp made more pronounced. His still healing leg ached fiercely from the cold, but the heavy, hand carved cane he used was the only concession he would make, and he moved briskly despite the pain.

He'd obviously been informed of Rafe's presence by Four, for when he'd entered he'd surveyed the few people sitting at the various tables and booths then headed directly over to the new comer. "You look like your father." He said by way of introduction. "I'm Nathan Green and welcome to Mountain City, such as it is." as he sat across from the younger man.

Sookie Stackhouse bustled over with a bowl of chilli and a sleeve of crackers almost before he'd finished sitting down. She'd taken Rafe's order when he arrived and now asked if he wanted seconds befrore leaving to get Nathan some milk.

It was more like an hour and a half before the heavy thump of the Pave Hawks rotors were heard above the juke boxes music. MInutes later a stream of people filed in wearily through the back door, calling for food and coffee as they shook off the icy sleet that had started to fall some short time earlier.

...The doctor at the medical center had had Jonni stitch Hoot up- he'd been too busy with the others flown in, the more seriously wounded needing him more. "Jonni's as skilled as I am at stitching people up" He'd briefly reassured the Imitoran once he'd checked and found no vascular or nerve damage to the mauled arm. "and you were lucky, got off light from the troll falling on you. No ribs broken, but they'll be sore for a bit." He's pumped Hoot full of antibiotics, checked on the date of his last tetnus shot and headed off. Here, as had happened elsewhere, medical personell had been hit the hardest by the virus as they struggled to save those dying from the virulent dissease.

He'd taken a moment to inform Jonni that David's CAT scan had shown no injury to the gastro tract, the liver or the kidneys, but that David would be staying over night just in case. Her shoulders eased and she turned her hand to sewing up Hoot's arm in a much more relaxed state. "When it comes to clothes I can't sew a stitch" She joked lightly as she prepped his arm. "but don't worry Doc Tremblay is right I am good at stitching up people."

Once it was done she wrapped his arm in water proof bandages and handed him a sling. Calling over an orderly she directed him to assist Hoot in getting showered. "I'll have him rustle up clean jeans, shirt and a coat. Hope you don't mind if it's army surplus. Your shirt is too shredded to save, and those pants are stiff with dried blood as well." She turned back "Don't get that arm wet for a few days. I'll have some oral antibiotisc waiting for you - a full ten day treatment. Troll bites and claws are all but guaranteed to go septic. I want to see your arm every day."...

Jonni, David, and Four along with Hoot seperated from the others and headed for Nathan and Rafe

Hoot thanked those at the hospital, showering and dressing quickly. He followed the others away from the hospital and back into the Pave Hawk, sitting back and relaxing for the most part quick flight. He felt somewhat naked without his rifle, but he had kept the .45 with him. He would need to procure at least one new rifle, and if these outlaws were as stacked as they led one to believe, he might pick up more than just one.

He followed the others into the bar, and made his way towards the back booth that seemed to be the main gathering point of the out laws. He took a few off stares from those that weren't used to his face or name, but getting off stares was something he had become acustomed to. When he had done unofficial ops in Larkina, he had gotten used to odd looks from locals, but it was something that you just had to deal with in his line of work.

A bar tender looked at him with a quizical look. It wasn't a look questioning his motives but his desires. Hoot knew the look all to well, and nodded. "I'll take some iced tea or water."

"I'll take some iced tea or water."

Sookie Stackhouse gave Hoot a smile as she noted his request. "Care for some vennison chili with that? It's not too spicy hot."

Rafe and Hoot had been given curious, reserved but non hostile looks as they had entered. Nathan had sought out Rafe right off and others had brought word of his superb shooting at the north barricade - as had word of Hoots actions protecting Joy and her granddaughters. Hoot's arrival with Jonni and Four settled the matter. The Outlaws and locals were a rough and tumble bunch, but were mostly willing to give respect and acceptance.

One large man his face a study in disatisfaction started up from the table he had been lounging at with three others. His age was roughly that of Nathan, and he was dressed more like a local rather than the Outlaws who generally favored well broken in military - with the Pettimore flash on the shoulder.

As the burly man wove through the tables Jonni looked up and her shoulderswent set, her face remote and very cool. She caught the mans eyes and held them as he slowed to a stop while still several tables away. His dry swallow was obvious to any one paying attention and he turned away in an attempt to have watcdhers believing that he was heading to an entirely different set of people.

"Nathan, Four, I thought we had decided..." She gave the two men speaking looks but changed the subject with a round of invitations.

""Rafe Yoren? Pleased to meet you." Jonni gave the younger man a warm smile that lit her eyes. She was still trim and youthfull looking, despite being in her mid forties and mother to rambunctious twins Thanks for the assist at the barricade tonight. How is your father?" Her interest in his answer not just polite formality.

She nodded to Hoot. "This is Hoot Gibson, from Imitora. Hoot, Rafe." She watched the two men size each other up.

"Hoot this is my nephew Johnny Lee Pettimore IV, mostly known as Four." She gave her nephew a sparkling grin.

Four, his dark blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail that hid nothing of the massive scars that ran down the right side of his face, gave Hoot a welcoming smile and held out strongly muscled hand. "I've heard a little about Imitoran special forces. They have quite a reputation."

I'd smiled and nodded when Nathan introduced himself -- I knew of him, in the same way that I knew of most of the people my father had encountered in his short time in these parts. Well, that and the rather...extensive...dossiers compiled by various agencies, government and otherwise...and we didn't even have to use illegal means to get those dossiers, in most cases, either.

I made quiet conversation when probed, but didn't do anything, accept eat the chili offered, and provide the necessary praise that said chili entailed. Good food was a rare thing these days, and if the chili was fairly simple fare, that didn't necessarily equate to its inferiority. I'd eagerly asked for seconds, though...well...'eagerly' was more in the phrasing than the manner.

It's pretty obvious that something isn't right about me, right now. Luckily, the symptoms of my ailment were identical to, well, fatigue. I looked tired. Which I was, but not exactly in the way that most people would presume.

During the fight at the barricade, I'd skirted, but not entered, what I call the 'battle-high.' Which is both alike and different from the common psychological effects of combat -- slow-motion time, auditory exclusion, etc. The 'battle-high' was, well, it was an adrenaline rush of the highest order. It was the sweet spot, where a fighter became something more than human...I don't know if everybody is capable of attaining it, but...well, coming down from it, even when I didn't fully attain it...isn't fun.

By the time Jonni Lea shows up with the Imitoran in tow, I'm more-or-less recovered. Its really all in my head, anyways -- were a threat to arise, I would be able to respond to it as swiftly and ably as ever. But, for various reasons, right after a fight...I take a little time to catch my breath. That's just how I deal with it.

I nod my head when Jonni Lea greets me and produce my usual off-beat smile.

"Not a problem, it was nothing. Just easy trigger-work, and I didn't waste any bullets. Shame about the casualties, though. My Dad's as fine as he ever is, far as I know. Busy maintaining a little island of sanity in Hell."

I grin a little. That was, quite literally, true. When LD50 hit, human civilization in Africa more-or-less ended. There were some hold-outs, sure, but by and large...well...sheer Hell.

When Jonni introduces the Imitoran, I dutifully study the other man. Military SF, regulars. Which didn't mean what it sounded like it meant -- 'regular SF' was open SF. The kind of SF with a unit patch and a fancy name.

There was a nack to spotting Marines, and it was, generally, a universal nack. It was almost impossible to explain, but there was a...something...shared by every individual who had ever belonged to a force of Marines, and that didn't necessarily mean that the organization they were part of had to have that title. It was...well...meh.

Whatever it was, Hoot had it. I took a good look into his eyes, and I grinned. No doubt he had the strength of ten men because his heart was pure -- I had no such delusions. As far as I am formally trained, it's as a black ops operator. Sure, I can play the military game...but when it comes down to the line, I'm a killer, not a soldier.

I hide it pretty damned well, though, and I do it without thinking about it. I'm doing it now. For all my skill and ability, I look like a fairly normal guy. Which is the idea, of course.

My study complete, I smile a little wider and nod my head again, as if accepting the Imitoran for being...whatever. Didn't matter. Judgement had been passed.

"Pleased to meetcha, Hoot."

Pleasantries completed, I do a spot of mental debriefing concerning the firefight at the barricade. Sure, they'd managed to hold the trolls off, and even if I'd not been there, the reinforcements would have stopped the trolls cold. But, had I not been there...I think the casualties would have been pretty heavy before those reinforcements had arrived, and that didn't sit well with me.

The answer was pretty easy -- command detonated mines fixed to the front of the barricade, claymores would be ideal, and fixed heavy weapons. Rifles were great, but there was absolutely no excuse for relying on rifles when fighting from a prepared fortification.

If I was gonna be around this area for any amount of time, well...I'd just have to do something about that. If it came down to it, I could call home with the sat-phone and get some heavy stuff flown in -- it'd be a couple of months, though. We were pretty well tied in to what remained of the arms trade, and there was still plenty of ex-soviet stuff going around. But that'd take time, and it'd probably be just as easy to, ah, appropriate the stuff locally.

Finally, I drag myself back to the real world, feeling quite a bit more like myself than I had been a few moments before. My smile is quite genuine.

My Dad's as fine as he ever is, far as I know. Busy maintaining a little island of sanity in Hell."


Jonni's lips quirked, but it in no way could be called a smile, at that. She knew far more than most Americans just how much of a hell Africa had become. With the exception of South Africa, the rest of the world had written the 'dark continent' off as much as they had written off India and the whole of the third world.

Hell didn't quite describe it. Ninety percent of the population had died, or Changed, and those that remained were busy dieing from the other diseases that had already been threats. Threats held barely at bay by the efforts of the more advanced nations- nations that now barely had the man power to keep themselves afloat.


Her gray green eyes were thoughtfull as she looked Rafe over assessing him with what some might consider and unnerving thoroughness. She'd had access to every bit of information Johnny Lee had ever been able to dig up on Wes Yoren, and his activities both before and after the Starke incident.

When Rafe's smile turned genuine, so did Jonni's, and Four's shoulders shed the last of their hidden tension. He'd liked what he'd seen of the young man so far - they weren't that far apart in age, just six years or so - but Jonni had the final say so. Not many realized that while his father had head of the Pettimore organization, Jonni was the power.

There were more than a few bodies burried in the rolling mountains the Pettimore's called home, and most of them had been put there by Jonni, not Johnny Lee. Kipling had had the right of it, when it came to the Pettimore clan, and Jonni Lea embodied it blood, bone and soul. You didn't threaten what the Pettimores had decided was 'theirs' and live to tell... the one exception to that was still an out standing debt in Jonni Leas books, and she always paid debts in full.


Rafe had no way of knowing how soon that the green hills of the eastern continental divide were going to become a little bastion of sanity themselves. The remaining PTB had decided to impliment a course that was going to sunder what remained of the United States. And she and others had decided that they were going to dispute that course. But they had much to do and little remaining time to do it.

Jonnie let the converstation flow, or not, around the table as the various natures of those sitting there dictated. She was not one who needed small talk to feel comfortable. But then again neither was Nathan or Four.

That left it pretty much up to the two new comers, Hoot and Rafe...and Rafe seemed to be as unneeding of light conversation as the trio that made up the ruling council of Mountain City.

"Four, if you would arrange for Hardin to cover for David." She asked quietly as Four finished his chilie and began preperations to finish out his shift as field commander for the valley's security.

He nodded as he stood. "No problem Jonni." He looked over at Rafeand Hoot[/color] "Good meeting both of you, and welcome to the mountain."

"See you at ten hundred then" Nathan said as he too stood to leave "Jonni, I'll take the twins home with me if you'd like."

Jonni nodded. "I feel the need to run the roads a bit." She had never put the time in to become a nationally known race driver that David had but she was the legendary at the Tail of the Dragon, and the newer Cherohala Skyway.

"I'll let the boys know that you'll be coming."

Jonni half laughed "Yeah I'd have to take fire comming into the gap. I'll keep the radio on too." She promised.

As Nathan and Four went their seperate ways Jonni looked at Hoot. "Don't worry about your motel room. It'll be covered. Or if you are tired of living in a single and admittedly shabby room we can put you in visiting officers quarters - much nicer with cable, a computer up link, better bed and such. Also you can contact your people in Imitora if you'd like at our comm center."

While he thought about it she turned to Rafe "The same offer for you Rafe. We took over Red Tail Mountain Country Club - it's just this side of the Mountain City Gap, the pass through the mountains that Highway 421 takes. It's where we have our strongest fortification, sealing off the Gap to the best of our avilability. It's just a mile or so outside of town, and we have very serious security in place."

The toney country club had been developed only two years earlier, and the condo's that had been built in the picturesque hollow on the mountain side were seriously upscale. Developed to attract the wealthy who flocked to the excellent skiing to be found across the state line in North Carolina they sat empty most of the year, and after LD 50 carried off their owners, the whole complex had been taken over by the Pettimore's to house the Outlaws and others they had in gathered.

I nod my head slowly in response to Jonni Lea's offer.

"Sounds nice. Good to let other people worry about shooting what needs to be shot, once in a while, I guess. On that note, I need to make a phone call, then I'll go check out that country club thing. You've got my number if you need me..."

I stand up and leave the...tavern...whatever, then find my way to the Road Runner, unlock the door, and slip inside. Reporting in is a matter of a few seemingly nonsensical words, the only response was a mechanical 'click,' indicating that the message was received, then a rapid double-click, indicating confirmation.

I take my time heading towards the country club, though. I want a better feel for the local terrain, y'know?

Midnight Blue was a 1971 Dodge Challenger RT with a 426 hemi that had long been Jonni's pride and joy, maintained lovingly in top condition. It waited now in the Boars Hole parking lot.

Jonni stood, and looked at Hoot. "Don't forget to take every one of that course of antibiotics. You'd hate to have to have your arm amputated."

She pulled Midnight Blue's key's from the pocket of her heavy army surplus jacket and smiled in anticipation.

Hoot stayed with the gruop for a short period before feeling the pangs of sleep calling for him. He wasn't the same young buck he used to be, and in his advancing age, sleep had become something short of a nessescity for him to operate at full speed one hundred percent of the time. He took one last long pull on his iced tea, and stood to leave.

Don't worry about your motel room. It'll be covered. Or if you are tired of living in a single and admittedly shabby room we can put you in visiting officers quarters - much nicer with cable, a computer up link, better bed and such. Also you can contact your people in Imitora if you'd like at our comm center. Don't forget to take every one of that course of antibiotics. You'd hate to have to have your arm amputated.

"Sounds great," Hoot started, "but most of my people are working out their own problems. I've been in contact with them, and I'm under the impression they'll find me when its time to evac. They seem to be good at stuff like that."

He stretched out. "I think I'll just head back to the motel, grab a bit of shut eye. Ten hundred tommorow, right?"

Ten hundred tommorow, right?"

"Yes. Sound sleep to you" Jonni replied as she too stood and briskly strode out of the Boars Hole.

Minutes later the sound of a powerful engine could be faintly heard as she drove Midnight Blue westward....

Eight hundred hours the next morning...

Rafehad recieved a call requesting that he meet Jonni and others at the Courthouse, second floor confrence room...

Ten Hundred Hours Courthouse Confreence Room, second floor

Jonni, Nathan, Four, Wild Wil, and a just released from the hospital David, were already present.

Large and small scale maps hung from the walls, as did a number of somewhat grainy eight by ten photographs of an unlabeled port complex.

Folders, thick with papers were stacked in the middle of the conference table. Four, Jonni, Nathan, and David were already looking at the papers pulled from the folders they had before them. Wil was trying to wake up via a large mug of coffee, she;d ended up staying up to compile her report.

"There's too much blood in my caffeine system" The leggy brunette pilot muttered as she poured herself a second cup from the large caraffe on a side table.

"But your report is invaluable" Jonni said appreciatively to her cousin.

"Hey I'm just the fly girl. You devise, I decide if it can be flown, and then fly that evolution it picture perfect. If the rest doesn't execute, it's not my execution." She joked before taking a deep sip of the French Roast.

Hoot slept a quiet, uninterupted sleep, and awoke fairly refreshed and ready to go. He made his way to the court house, and up to the second floor to the confrence room. He poured himself a cup of coffee, and then pushed open the main door to the conference room. He took a quick glance around, seeing the stacks of folders and photos teamed with maps, and took a long pull of the coffee.

"Well," he started, taking another long pull of the coffee, "looks like we have big plans? Whats the deal?"

Whats the deal?"

"Well, I could say that it's on par with the efforts of Irish monks to save civilization during the Dark Ages." Jonni grinned sourly as she refered to the heroic efforts of the Irish monks and scribes. She was no great fan of Christianity.

It was widely believed that without Ireland, that Europe might never have evolved from the classical age of Rome to the medieval era. Not only had Irish monks and scribes maintained the very record of Western civilization; copying manuscripts of Greek and Latin writers, both pagan and Christian, while libraries and learning on the continent were forever lost, they brought their uniquely Irish world-view to the task.

Wil groaned and took another long sip of coffee.

"Lets hope it doesn't get that bad." Nathan shuddered.

"Once Rafe gets here, I'll give you both the over view background" Four said as he laid the paper he had just finished reading aside. "But I can say that it's not going to be as easy to pull off as one might think, given that we have very limited personell to send out." The Outlaws numbered scarcely two hundred . And though their numbers were bolstered by locals the Pettimores trusted, the locals had no military training, and had to see to the safety of their families among many other concerns.

"The basic evolution is to get ten eighteen wheelers safe and sound from the Port of Baltimore to here." Jonni said.

And any one who had kept abreast of things and had the slightest sense of geography knew that to get to Baltimore, and it's port meant they'd have to swing wide around the radioactive mess that was Washington DC.

I didn't oversleep. I don't think that I'm capable of oversleeping any more. Shame, in its own way, but...also quite useful. No, my lateness was for other reasons entirely. Significantly more important reasons. Like a call from home. Which could have been anything, but wouldn't have existed if it hadn't been important.

It had been, but it wasn't anything I had to worry about. Just an advisement that any request for relief would be delayed even longer than normal, due to weather patterns and a bunch of annoying Arabs interfering with certain assets who had to be smacked down, hard. Typical stuff.

But it'd set me back about fifteen minutes. I'd made up about eight of those fifteen by driving a tad faster than I normally did, but didn't run to get their any quicker. In fact, I simply let myself stop standing out. 's an acquired skill...

I figure I might as well have a bit of fun, y'know?

Getting in was hard. Hard, hard, hard. I'm very, very good at not being noticed when I don't want to be, and when I stop standing out...well, it takes something special to see me. Still, if I hadn't been actively evading detection once I got into the conference room, I would've been spotted. No question about it. Hicks they may be, but they were quite a bit more, too...

Still. They weren't Rafe Yoren. The running joke was that I could hide on a pool table. The story behind the joke starts out with me being drunk, continues on to a stupid bet, and ends with me being up twenty bucks...and a legend forming. What the legend doesn't mention is that the person I was hiding from was even more drunk than I was....

Still, I stop sneaking and clear my throat when I'm a few feet away from the table.

"Sorry I'm late. Family called. What did I miss?"

Well, I could say that it's on par with the efforts of Irish monks to save civilization during the Dark Ages.

"I'm more of a fan of the Aussies myself," Hoot chuckled. "Country started by prisoners, full of poisionous frogs the size of footballs, about nine zillion miles give or take between major cities, a hole in the O zone, and Mel Gibson. Can't really ask for more than that."

He took another long pull of his coffee, and eyed the charts.

The basic evolution is to get ten eighteen wheelers safe and sound from the Port of Baltimore to here.

"Port of Baltimore? I've always wanted to see what the set of Sum of All Fears looks like. Of course, I'd like to see it without the radiation. Ya'll shoulda stuck with Regan's plans. Those defence systems worked wonders back home. On more than one account." He took another long pull on the coffee. "Still," he trailed off, looking at the maps, "train robberies are always fun."

"Sorry I'm late. Family called. What did I miss?"

Jonni looked up at Rafe and her lips twitched in a little cats grin. "Nothing much yet. There's coffee, tea and pastries on the side table."

"train robberies are always fun."

"If this were a train robbery it'd be a lot more fun. Moving targets always are." Wil set her coffee aside and shook her head.

"Let me give you and Rafe here a little background." Nathan said as he too set his mug aside.

"Back a few years ago some people who though they were important got together to discuss mashing the U.S., Canada and Mexico, into the sort of economic union that Europe has." He paused and let Jonni continue with the brief.

"But they didn't stop there. They liked the idea so much that they began, in utter secrecy as one might guess, developing the idea to merge Mexico, Canada and the US into one entity. They did it in utter secrecy because they were fully aware that a sizeable percentage of each of the three nations would go ape shit if they found out before the plan could be spun right."

"And while we have no proof that these people had anything to do with LD 50, they are planning to take advantage of it." Her voice went hard.

"Come Thanksgiving the Bush, along with the Canadian Prime Minister Harper, and Fox, the President of Mexico, plan to broadcast this merger as fait accompli." Jonni could not keep a sick look off her face.

"In six weeks we have company coming, and we have to be ready to give them most of the comforts of home.We are going to be a safe haven to over three thousand dependants - mostly women and children- of groups that intend to dispute this North American Union. And we need, and badly, what we are about to steal."

She didn't bother to mention that those seeking sanctuary could be used as hostages by hostiles, or that thye Pettimores weren't about to stand for that. They might not have had the resources to fight the civil war that was coming, but they would do what they could to contribute. And no mountain man, woman, or child, would ever agree to the proposed North American Union. The eastern contintental divide - the mountains ranges that ran up from the pine forests of southern Georgia to the nameless peak in northern Pennsylvania - were going to be neutral ground. If at all possible.

"Now that said - our greatest need is energy - electricity, and that which is used to generate it. Five of those eighteen wheelers contain the final section of a power plant that had been bound for South Africa. In all the confusion with LD 50 it never got on loaded. And given the...sensitive nature of this cargo, they couldn't just leave it on the docks. Except that some bright boy decided that hiding the core assembly of a PBR in all but plain sight was the safest thing to do."

Jonni grinned like a wolf.

Hoot listened to the plan with interest, sipping his coffee.

"Well, that sounds like fun. Shame about the South Africans though. I swear, those guys get screwed at every turn. 'Course, the First Speaker made a deal not to long ago to purchase about five or six hundred Roolivak's, so I doubt that they are gonna have any problems financially."

Hoot looked back at the images presented.

Except that some bright boy decided that hiding the core assembly of a PBR in all but plain sight was the safest thing to do.

"Honestly, thats the last place I'd look for anything. Easiest place to hide anything is in plain sight, everyone else is to damned busy looking under the carpet to notice the cieling fan is right above them. I'm assuming you guys have people to drive some eighteen wheelers, because I damn sure don't know how."

I whistle appreciatively. We'd done something fairly similar, 'cept it'd been considerably riskier...probably. One of the first times that my father's gang of killers had gone into action together, and the results...well...nuclear reactors shouldn't just vanish, y'know? This one had.

"Sounds like a fair enough plan...classic, really."

My grin goes suddenly mischievous...

"Who gets to be the Bandit?"

Who gets to be the Bandit?

Hoot chuckled to himself. The roads and highways of Imitora were famous, or infamous depending on what side of the law you were on, for the brave, and sometimes insane, feets pulled off by street racers. Hoot had even been part of that crowd, and still was at times. More often than not, he had fell even some of the fastest cars and bikes in country, and had gone traveling at times to other nation looking for a decent challenge. Fortier had been the best, but there was still a power vacume in the catagory of "the stupid fastest" since his death. Hoot could have easily filled the void if he choose, but it just wasn't what he wanted. The younger Ryan Fortier had the knowledge and the ability, but he was more interested in door kicking. Still, Hoot was ready to help him out when the time came.

"I'll leave that up to one of ya'll. I don't have any of my cars here with me, and if I did, well, none of ya'll would be able to keep up. I'll take over watch and counter sniper. 'Course, I'm gonna need some new toys, but knowing you boys and gals, I'm sure you can come through there."

because I damn sure don't know how."

"We have six drivers that are Transportation Safeguards Division trained and certified to handle the heavy rigs. THe other drivers are all haz mat certified for the various tanker cabs." Jonni answered, a little surprized that neither man had a problem with stealing fissionables, or that a second civil war was in the works for the United States.

"I'll leave that up to one of ya'll. I don't have any of my cars here with me, and if I did, well, none of ya'll would be able to keep up

Jonni gave Hoot a raised eyebrow at that piece of braggadocio, as did David, but both kept quiet, there were more important things afoot.

I'll take over watch and counter sniper. 'Course, I'm gonna need some new toys, but knowing you boys and gals, I'm sure you can come through there

"The you'll be with me, as overwatch is part of my department." Wil gave the Imitoran an assesing look. "Me and the P'hawk are eyes in the sky."

"And don't worry about nice toys, I'll take you down to the armory in a bit and let you chose what you like best from among our stock." Nathan added.

"Who gets to be the Bandit?"

Jonni looked downcast "Sadly not I. It's been impressed on me that I have greater duties here." She shot a mock glare David and Nathans way.

David's return look made her sigh as Four answered " Rafe, Your car looked rigged to handle just about any eventuality, but how well do you know the back roads? Could you handle being a diversion if necessary? We have people we can use to be the diversion if you'd rather handle another role."

"Though there might not be any overt federal reaction at all." Wil said. "When we scouted the docks, they were mostly inactive, but we found lots of evidence that Trolls may be useing some of the warehouses as dens."

Like all modern ports the Port of Baltimore was nearly another world -from vast miles long stretches of concrete to claustrophobic back alleys, massive echoingly empty warehouses to tangles of gantries and heavy machinery. But LD 501 had swepts the ports and other entry points harder than anywhere in the US other than hopsitals, and like most, the once bustling Port of Baltimore was currently too under manned to deal with most unloading or unloading, much less keep track of the thousands of containers that had piled up as they waited for transit.

The maps available were highly detailed and as up todate as the computers and satellite maping could make them. Every thing from road work -stopped or on-going, depending on the availability of workers and equipment - to those gasoline stations that had not only made purchases but actually had had them delivered. Weather forecasts and markers for safe houses for rest and food. Police jurisdictions, state trooper offices, as notations added by hand for Wil's teams findings of high concentrations of zombies, trolls and other factors that could be problematical.

The Pettimores believed that thorough planning meant that the infamous Mr. Mrphy has less chance to ride along.

They weren't short of weapondry or other equipment, but the number of people that could pull off an operation like this weren't exactly thick on the ground and time was growing far too short. They'd have to send out a far smaller team than they could wish for, and trust in the skills of those they sent.

Before Rafe could answer Four's question...

Jonni's lips curved in a sly grin as she registered a faint rhythmic sound growing louder.

"Me and the P'hawk are eyes in the sky."


Four answered " Rafe, Your car looked rigged to handle just about any eventuality, but how well do you know the back roads? Could you handle being a diversion if necessary? We have people we can use to be the diversion if you'd rather handle another role."

"Though there might not be any overt federal reaction at all." Wil said. "When we scouted the docks, they were mostly inactive, but we found lots of evidence that Trolls may be useing some of the warehouses as dens."


"Actually Wil, you won't be in the Pave Hawk"

Will frowned at her cousin, and cocked a knowledgeable ear at the noise, her eyebrows going up as the pitch changed.

Outside, in the old courthouses rear parking lot the Pettimore's latest aquisition set down, the rotors slowing as the pilots did the post flight shut down.

Will had jumped from her seat and peaked through the blinds at the prettiest thing she'd seen in a long time. "Jonni Lea, is that an early birthday present for me?"

Jonni Lea chuckled as she rose and walked over to stand by Willow. "No, it's the buy in for our two newest Outlaws. Now you and Jeff have back up. And it's not just any UH 60- it's the new UH 60M that Sikorsky just finished rolling out." She looked at Willow and just swhook her head, amused at her cousins glazed eyes. "Oh go on out and get your hands on it, you aren't good for anything else until you do."

Will didn't respond to the friendly jibe, but headed straight out the door as Jonni returned to the table still grinning. "Sorry Rafe, didn't mean to cut you off, but Wil and anything that flies..." David, Nathan and Four shared amused glances and then turned to Rafe to await his reply.

I shrug my shoulders, though my eyes are focused somewhere beyond the wall I'm staring at.

"Not a problem. I know the type. Now, about my car isn't half bad, as old as she is...but like you said, I don't know the area...and even if I did, well...my own talents lean more towards evading pursuit then encouraging it."

I shrug again, blinking and shaking my head as I re-focus my eyes, "I'd be as like to run myself off some convenient cliff, given half the chance, so in the interest of preserving my own life...I'd rather you found somebody else for that particular job. On the other hand..."

My strange, distant sorta grin -- looked kinda like I was high on something -- suddenly turned wolfish.

"On the other hand, have any of you ever actually stolen a nuclear device before? Reactor or otherwise?"

Without really thinking about it, my left hand has moved over towards my right, so that my right index finger can trace the scar between the first and second knuckles of my left index finger. Just a little thing, but a fairly nasty scar...not terribly deep, but the object that caused it hadn't been very sharp.

"I have. Twice. I can also look, talk, and act like just about anything. Which was a good bit of the reason that during the course of both of those, ah, heists...a total of two shots were fired, and both of those were at dogs."

I'm not smiling anymore, and my eyes have gone distant again.

"If my father, myself, and a few of ours friends can get a nuclear warhead from Russia to the middle of Africa, by -truck,- without having to shoot more than a pair of dogs...mind, that trip takes you through some very unpleasant territory, I'd think we could manage to get a nuclear reactor back here the same way..."

Then I laugh a little, "Of course, if there are Trolls, like you said, well...you can't bullshit a dog, same with a troll. That's why they're so damnably dangerous."

Then I sigh gently, "Way I see it, you go in there with force, you'll have whats left of the United States Army coming down on you like flies on a dead-man, and down they may be, but they're a long way from out...and unless you've got a few batteries of Patriot missiles and a few high-altitude interceptors sitting around...you're dead. Go in there sneaky like, like nothing's wrong...and simply -move- the derned thing, and maybe we buy some time."

Then my face seems to change -- grows a bit longer, my smiles vanishes, my eyes sink down a bit, like I haven't had enough sleep for ten years...but I haven't let that stop me yet. Like I haven't got time for games...and plague or no plague, I get my job done. G-man to the core.

"And maybe Special Agent John Webster, NRC, arrives to transport the material to a secure holding site. With armed escort. And so what if you didn't get the memo -- that's part of the new security policy. You see this badge, son? This badge means that if it glows and emits radiation, it belongs to me. Now get out of my way so that I can do my job."

I'd taken on a bit of a north-eastern accent, People's Republic of Massachusetts or similar. High-class. Connected. Kind of guy who had a degree from an Ivy League school, maybe played a bit of college ball, then started climbing the government ladder. The kind of guy who could probably call up Uncle Frank and have you penniless, jobless, and homeless...if he felt like it. Now I dropped the whole act and laughed.

"'n if it doesn't work, well...then we can start shooting. Likely enough, we'd just have to bluff past a couple of guards. Still, words are cheaper than bullets, y'know?"

Plus...I really didn't like killing. Didn't mean I couldn't do it -- when it comes down to it, I rarely even think about it. But before-hand...well...I like to be able to look at myself in the mirror in the morning.

Of course, I like to breathe even more.

Still, words are cheaper than bullets, y'know?"


Nathan nodded approvingly, and Jonni's look was too bland by half as Rafe laughed.

Four sighed at her look. "Your way" He shrugged philosophically. He'd been in favor of a more ramboesque plan, but Jonni had been acquiring things for longer than he'd been alive.

"That is the favored plan, and it looks like you'll be a far better 'face man' than our original choice." Jonni had watched and listened to his change of aspect and accent carefully. "You mind being Mr. White? Webster died two years ago, can't use that name." We've got the 'proper authentication and documentation'... It will stand the standard DOT, AEC, DOD and NSTA verifications for such materiels ." Jonni lifted a slim titanium briefcase from where it had lain under the guarding head of the massive gray shadow that lay at her feet beneath the confrence table. The papers and ID's just needed photos and finger prints, and that was something the Pettimore's had skilled people to handle.

The nearly two hundred pound Caucasian Ovcharka just lifted his massive head, barely stirring more than he had when Hoot and then Rafe entered. Though in no way had Varg missed the entry of either of the two he hadn't been introduced to yet. Strangers were no Caucasian's cup of tea but he'd wait until either acted hostile or Jonni released him.

The radio set off on the side table squawked softly, and David slid on the headset to answer it.

He looked over at Hoot.

"Willow wants you to ride with her. She says she'll take you by the armory so you can rearm, then practise some overwatch from the Black Hawk."

He grinned nastily. If Hoot couldn't shoot, Wil would boot his rear out of the bird at height. Then he snorted softly to himself. He knew the lanky Imitoran could shoot -he'd witnessed the man's skills. He just hoped they could trust him. 'Well if'n we can't he'll just be another to feed the mountain.' He thought.

Hoot nodded. It had been a while since he had shot from a 'chopper, and that had always been something of an interesting set up. Helicopters, even in a hover, were not exactly stable and easy platforms, and shooting from rough platforms was always a fun set up. He would have to find something hard hitting and heavy for the targets, if he was shooting from a moving platform, he would need to take the risk out of a miss. Something north of a four hundred would work nice.

"I can take that," Hoot said, looking at some of the maps. "As long as you have some decent rifles and good glass in the armory, I'll be fine from shooting up top. Tell her I'll be on the pad in two shakes," he said, and made his way out the room and up to the pad.

I snort and wave my hand dismissively, "The name doesn't matter. I didn't actually know that there -was- an Agent Webster...that is kinda disturbing, really. I've used the name before, though never in the States. 's actually from a George Carlin joke..."

I cut my sentence short -- I have a tendency to let my tongue fill in with babble while my mind is off in places that other people shouldn't go. Usually ends up making me sound like an idiot, and tends to reinforce the general feeling of isolation. After all, here I am, surrounded by people that I'm going to risk my life to help...but can't ever tell the whole truth. Bit of a shame, really. Understatement of the year.

Can't let my guard down, either, though that was really more of a matter-of-principle thing -- you're frosty or you're dead kinda thing.

"Anyways, you certainly seem to take the hard point out of the whole thing...just give me the background and I'll work up a face and a character. I can do the prints myself -- make them, not take them -- but if you've got people who do that, it'd save time. Some very good friends of mine went to a lot of trouble to make me vanish, and it'd be rather inconsiderate of me to go messing around with their fine work..."

Which translated to 'I'm not using my own prints. Deal.' As far as the United States are concerned, there is no Rafe Yoren. I like it that way. Makes things easier, all around.

All that, and I'm still smiling...

"Some very good friends of mine went to a lot of trouble to make me vanish, and it'd be rather inconsiderate of me to go messing around with their fine work..."


Nathan grinned at Rafe's last comment. "Wouldn't want good craftsmanshift to go to waste."

"I'll take you to meet Vera and her crew. Let you discuss the finer details with her." Jonni slid the titanium brief case over to Rafe as she stood.

Varg flowed to his feet, standing over thirty eight inches at his shoulders, and shook his shimmering shadowed gray fur in to order, his glacier eyes never leaving Rafe, the only stranger still in the room. Then he cocked his head, stepped over to Rafe's chair, sat and offered one immense paw to Rafe. This was a completely uncharacteristic action for the Caucasian - the rare breeds distrust of strangers was beyond legendary - and just as strong as their killer instinct. The Caucasian Ovcharka was no shepherd, no herder despite how the words might translate, but a slayer of predators.

Jonni had intended to order Varg back to her side but refrained. She watched, intent grey green eyes alite with curosity, her hands moving in almost imperceptable signals to David and the others. The Pettimores had long had their own handsign language.

"Tell her I'll be on the pad in two shakes"

The renegade air crew of the Black Hawk (http://www.air-attack.com/MIL/uh60/uh60_header.jpg) had their families, and their small amount of possessions, unloaded from the chopper and were meeting with a small welcoming committie as Will familiarized herself with the Outlaws newest aquisition. It was close enough to a Pave Hawk and she knew she'd gain a feel for the bird quickly. That was her gift. If it caught air, she could fly it.

When Hoot came out the courthouse's back door he could see the huge grin that Wil wore as she waved him over. Once he was in she gestured towards the co pilots seat. "More comfortable up here" Her voice projected over the noise that even a stealthed helicopter makes.

She slid a pair of shades from the breast pocket of her well tailored, and definitely not military issue, olive drab flight suit. " Mornings are only good when you've had enough sleep. And sun is better several hundred feet up."

Hoot slipped in to the bird through the side door. He was about to strap himself in when Will spoke up.

More comfortable up here.

Hoot looked up, and nodded, moving through te cabin and slipping into the helicopter's version of 'Shot Gun.'

Mornings are only good when you've had enough sleep. And sun is better several hundred feet up.

"I feel ya there. I was always trained to not like day light. Theres something nice about night, staying in the dark." He gave Will a good look over, taking her all in, before settling his eyes forward, watching the ground slowly start to fall away. Most of the women in the Imitoran military were those of the so said 'handsome' type. Some of them more man the woman.

"So where to first?"

Theres something nice about night, staying in the dark."

"Agreed. Stars and moonlight, takes a clearer sort of vision, more truthful, more seeking."

"So where to first?"

"The air patterns are more forgiving on this side of the mountain so lets buzz around here for about ten minutes while I finalize my 'settle in' on this new baby. Wouldn't want to splatter us all over the mountain, too much of a mess to ask others to clean up." Wil grinned wickedly at the Imitoran as she pivoted the bird around and sent it darting south, rising into the mid morning air.

The previous nights storm had washed the sky clean, leaving it a perfect, if unusually cold, very early fall morning. The mountain foliage was already turned - a spectacular blaze of autumnal reds, golds, and rich earthy yellows, pierced here and there by darkly verdant everegreens. The Great Smoky Mountains spread out below them, picture perfect and serene, as the Black Hawk rose.

"Ahhh, now I can look down an' keep watch, I'm home." Wil apparently didn't realize that she had spoken sighed aloud but the helmets lip mike caught it and broadcast it flawlessly. She didn't blush, but snorted at herself under her breath and gave a small shrug, unembarrassed.

It took far less than ten minutes for her to feel thoroughly at home behind the stick of the Black Hawk and shortly she was setting them down at a small, well concealed apparently improvised landing pad on the south west flank of the mountain. So small and so well concealed that it was hard not to be white knuckled at the dangers of the approach- and appreciative of the skill she demonstrated in her flawless, seemingly effortless handling of the landing.

"The armory entrance is just a minutes jog or so up the mountain." She informed Hoot as she shut down the helicopter. Once the blades stopped spinning she hopped out and chocked the wheels, then headed up what seemed to be little more than a wandering animal trail. "I needed to stop in anyway. I lost my favorite piece while doing the scouting." She shook her head ruefully.

" You'll never persuade me to ride a motorcycle again" Stated the woman who'd flown choppers under fire and airplanes though Beaufort scale 12 tropical cyclones.

You'll never persuade me to ride a motorcycle again.

"You should come to Imitora some time. You'd be suprised how fast some people who think they know what thrills are get swept up. I know some people with some super sports that'll make even the most harrowing chopper ride look like a stroll in the park."

He had to admit to her skill. He had been with some good pilots in his day, but few would have been able to pull off that landing. He slipped out of the bird and stretched out.

The armory entrance is just a minutes jog or so up the mountain.

"Well, up it is. Lead the way?"

Big dog. Real big dog. Caucasian Shepherd Dog. I've been to Georgia (the country, not the state) more than once, and I know a bit about this breed...and I honestly didn't know that they got this big. Which meant that the large critter probably wasn't terrifically like the shepherd dogs I'd met before.

Dogs are trouble. It is almost impossible to fool a dog because where humans can be fast-talked, a dog doesn't care what you're saying. Only what your doing. 'n your body can give away all kinds of things without you even realizing it. I know this, and my body is as close to controlled as I can get it.

I look down at the dog, let my face appear thoughtful for a while, then let my hand snake out to take the dog's paw and give it a light shake. It's a bit uncomfortable. I suppose I've gotten used to appearing one way and thinking another, but I'm not going to risk being anything but open around this dog. I'm fast, but my knife is in its sheath...and I'm sitting. If the dog gets annoyed, barring some fancy hand-to-hand gamble actually working -- I'm a dead man. Very unsettling, that.

Still, I suppose I'm lucky that I really am here to help these people out. Yeah. I do believe that I'm very, very lucky about that little fact.

Varg gave Rafe what had to be the evilest canine grin the earthly side of a hell hounds and his tail thumped twice against the floor. Then, once again evidencing a feline like grace seemingly at odds with his mass, he stood and strode back to Jonni's side, apparently satified in his own right of Rafe's fitness to be there. Tense muscles relaxed all around the room.

Jonni cocked an eyebrow at Rafe as she and Varg headed for the door, clearly assumeing that he would follow "So how long have you handled the war dogs?" Her Russian was fluid but had clearly been learned from a native of the region, not a Moscovite or professional language teacher.

"Well, up it is. Lead the way?"

Willow did just that, strding up the twisting trail with the long legged ease of a fit athlete. Birds soundedin the thickets around them and the squirrel population obviously had had a good year. The trail was damp in most places still and hoof prints left by the mountain's deer population was still readily visable.

"And you're cool about helping us steal a foreign goverments nuclear power plant?" She didn't mention that the US government had had a severe problem with the innards of said pebble bed reactor being manufactured and assembled in the US, or what the general popuilation might have said about such if they had ever found out. Most of the US had some very silly notions about nuclear technology in her considered opinion.

Hoot followed Willow up the trail, glancing around, trying to make out exactly how many cammo'd tents he had seen thus far. He knew the mountain would be guarded, but not this well. It would have been interesting to land on it with a team and have to fight up.

The climb was easy, and the nature air was refreshing to Hoot. He had spent most of his non combat time in Northampton or the other major cities in Imitora. He never had spent much time in nature, so the walk was a good change of pace. He pushed himself up the hill easily, little strain bearing down on him.

And you're cool about helping us steal a foreign goverments nuclear power plant?

"I've kidnapped and assasinated heads of state, violated numerous international laws, spied on friendly governments, and other lovely little acts of war. Stealing a nuke plant isn't going to be any different than I've done in the past. I think I'll be able to sleep just fine."

"I've kidnapped and assasinated heads of state, violated numerous international laws, spied on friendly governments, and other lovely little acts of war. Stealing a nuke plant isn't going to be any different than I've done in the past. I think I'll be able to sleep just fine."

Willow chuckled, stopped, and turned towards Hoot extending her hand. "I don't think we were ever properly introduced. I'm Willow Hickok, daredevil chopper pilot and general of the Outlaw's Air Force" Her cheeky grin let him know she put no weight behind her status as a "general" of an air force consisting of two choppers and over a dozen assorted planes. Never mind that one of them was a recently mislaid AC-130U.

"Sounds like you Imitoran bad boys really do live up to all the rumors. And oh, Jonni is telling the truth. The Imitoran play toys we have, we stole them from a gang of hopped up russian mafia, crazy bandity..." Her tone put accents on the russian slang term for the independant gangs of criminals not working under the direction of the fearsome organized crime world that had formed in the aftermath of the fall of the Soviet Union. "...wanna be's, not directly from Imitora. Jonni may not know much about y'all but she's smart enough that when told by sources she trusts that y'all are rougher to tangle with than your average clueless government she listens." Blue gray eyes looked levelly into his, her gaze as frank as her words.

I don't think we were ever properly introduced. I'm Willow Hickok, daredevil chopper pilot and general of the Outlaw's Air Force

Hoot accepted the extended hand. "Tohmas Gibbson. Everyone just calls me Hoot, though. Shooter for the IMC Force Recon TRACT. Which is really just alphabet soup for someone who shoots well," he laughed.

Sounds like you Imitoran bad boys really do live up to all the rumors. And oh, Jonni is telling the truth. The Imitoran play toys we have, we stole them from a gang of hopped up russian mafia, crazy bandity.

"Well, we tend to back up our talk. Don't leave us very well liked by the rest of the world, but hey, those who talk and those who don't, ya know? And no worries on the guns. I belive Jonni. And rifles like CAR-68s don't exactly just disapear. It takes some smart cats to get them outa Imitora without being noticed."

He smiled back at her, and returned to following her up the side of the mountain. The hike was nice, and he would need to remeber the area should this mess ever clean itself up. He could bring some teams into the area, it would make for good force on force work.

Assumptions being correct, yes, as I do follow, in my own unique manner.

I raise an eyebrow, then shrug. I'm a fair judge of accents, but I don't generally make any conclusions based on them. I'm very good at mimicing accents, and well over half of an accent isn't an accent at all, so much as it's colloquialisms...which meant you couldn't just change the way you talk. Didn't work that way. Anyways. Still...very games and multiple participants.

I chuckle lightly and reply -- in Russian, because that's what I'd been asked in. I'd consider replying in a proper Caucasian language - Georgian, etc, but...meh. I'm a bit of a freak, even amongst polyglots. Languages are a little too easy for me.

"War Dogs? Either you're referring to your large friend there, or you're speaking in riddles. If the former, you give me too much credit. If the later, you've lost me."

It takes some smart cats to get them outa Imitora without being noticed."


"Wouldn't know who did, just who we stole them from, and didn't leave alive behind us to return and question. They tried to double cross us and paid in full." Pettimores never had a problem with removing scum like that from life. It was mere garbage disposal work.

The walk wassn't much longer before Willow stopped a rock out cropping and slid aside a concealed panel, then entered a long code on the key board nestled with in the rectangular hole carved into the rock. A dozen long paces away more concealed doors - massively heavy blast double air lock style doors that slid silently aside revealing a tunnel that disappeared into the depths of the mountain.

It was well lit, and the floors and walls were covered with a sprayed on epoxy coating designed to handle hard wear. The tunnel was wide enough to drive a semi into - if you were both careful and skillfull. It ran for nearly a foot ball field's length before opening out into a wide, naturally formed cavern that had been altered by the Pettimores into a more useful state. Nearly the size of several aircraft hangers set side by side it was lit, like the tunnel, by flourescent light panels that had the appearance of professional instalation. Ceiling height looked to be over fifty feet and there were stacks of crates, boxes, and shipping containers - Amid the lights was a ceiling mounted rail lift system for moving containerised cargos. Warning signs abounded cautioning that heavy duty forklifts were in used and to exercise all due precautionss.

The ;asrgenumber of people dilligently going about their various buisnesses gave Hoot and Willow glances and friendly greetings but didn't stop for conversations. Willow returned them waving at those too distant to hear her and kept on going herself.

"Every thing from several field hospital units, to school books, computers to pet food, prefab home kits and MRE's" She explained as she led the way to a unobrusive door set in a far wall. Once there she again entered a code and the pair passed through another tunnel, a shorter one this time.

The lassst door opened into a vast room filled with weapons racks, and every rack filled. "Here ya go, the Pettimore down home one stop weapons shop. You want it we got it, or can get it. Take your choices, we keep the ammo seperate, just follow the signs. You can test fire at the range ." She indicated the door leading to the ammo dump and another leading to a range. "If you want it custom tuned, just hang a few one of our armorers will find you and turn it into your dream weapon. Or so I'm told. Guns are nice but I'm not a true gun bunny." She smiled at Hoot.

If the former, you give me too much credit. If the later, you've lost me."

"Varg doesn't take to a majority, say oh ninety nine point ninety nine percent of the people on the planet, and the point oh one percent that he tolerates, well he's never offered his paw to a stranger like this before."

Jonni gave him a look. "But he is excellent at recognising others like him." She didn't elucidate further, but the "killers like himself" was definitely what she meant.

Hoot followed closely behind Will through the halls and warehouses. The size of the operations was amazing, something that many governments would have problems with. And they had done it all underground, right under the noses of Feds. Hell, even he, when working with the BATF and FBI shooters, hadn't expected this much complexity.

"Damn," he said under his breath as they exited the first warehouse. The second was Hoot's heaven. "I think I'm dead," he chuckled. He walked along the racks for a few moments, and then found a familiarly marked crate. "Let me show ya something," he said, waving Willow over.

He popped open the crate, and dug around for a few seconds. It was exactly what he was looking for. He removed two rifles, both Armalite varients, but different. One had a short, solid stock with a full rail forend and a 12.5' barrel topped off with a Phantom flashhider. The other was much shorter, with a Crane stock and a Noveske KX flashhider sitting flush with the front sight and rails.

"These are both CAR-68s. Look different because they are. There isn't any one specific model of CAR-68 out there, each one is custom ordered by the operator. An IMI armorer comes out, and sits down and talks with the shooter for what they want. Stock style, barrel length and material, style, sights, scopes, rail mounts, trigger pull, you name it. The weapon is designed around the shooter for what will fit him best and allow to do his job best. The only thing they all have in common is they shoot 6.8 SPC. Thats why it takes some serious cats to get these out of Imitora, because they aren't mass produced."

He placed both of them back in the crate gently. "Thats why the government got ripped at the rifles going AWOL. Its not the cost, no. While I've had my complaints in the past, our government has always done whatever it takes, no cost to large, to make sure those in the service get the best of the best. No, they were pissed because a full team of shooters was sans rifles, right before a deployment."

He sighed. "The shooters got the rifles eventually, but it was a mess. And if someone was able to get some of these out, which are damned more rare and confidential than some of our aircraft and attack subs, what else could they get out."

He paused, and began eyeing the weapons on the racks. He noticed a few of the more popular big caliber guns, a CheyTac .408 and a few AI rifles. Even Ronnie Barrett's selection was represeted. Hoot toyed with the idea of taking one of the big fifties, or maybe a .416. But went against it.

"The CheyTac is far to much of a weapons system, I'd need a spotter and all the goodies to get the best out of it. A fifty of a .416, over kill. I'm not taking these bad boys on at a mile plus, and they are too much to use easily up close. I wouldn't mind picking one of your 700s and letting a smith get at it, but we don't really have the time. How fast can one of your smiths work?"

Willow appreciated the fine workmanship of the Imitoran weapons and could understand a man's fury - though not really a goverment's, as that attitude was sadly lacking in the United States - at the loss of something so personalized.

How fast can one of your smiths work?"

"Ronnie'll take fo'ever but it'd be a unique master piece. Ah can do just about anything quicker than two shakes of a bunnie's tail." Came a weathered voice from behind them. "And I just about drooled myself dry when Jonni brought in those lovely one off CAR-68's."

The man was elderly, in his early seventies, but sharp eyed and hale looking despite the electric power chair he was ensconsed in. He held out a broad callused hand. "Ah'm Joshua and Ah'm a pretty fair smith, if ah do say so m'self."

Hoot turned, nodding at the man. "Work fast, eh? As long as its good work, then its work I'll appriciate."

He pulled a Remmington 700 off one of the racks, and turned it over a few times, before replacing it. He shook Joshua's hand, noting that despite his age, the grasp was firm, and nodded. "Joshua, its a pleasure. You think you can get me one of the 700s in three hundred Win Mag? If you have the time, and one laying around just handy, maybe a nice McMillian stock, and some good glass. A good floating barrel wouldn't be bad either, but if we are pressed for time, I understand. And tell Ronnie that I'd love one of his rifles as well, and that if we survive this, I'd like to see what he can do."

After relaying the request, he grabbed another rifle off the weapons rack. It was an Armalite based rifle, chambered in 7.62 NATO. The Noveske Leonidas rifle felt good in his hands, and shouldered nicely. "I'll take this one for the shoot fast work," he said, bringing the rifle up and looking down the Schmidt and Bender Short Dot. He slung the rifle, and looked back at Willow.

"Ya got any of the high speed low drag gear around?"

I grin and shrug again.

"I spent the first seven years of my life on a farm...but that doesn't mean that I know much about animals. Really? Dogs are more perceptive than people. In my line of work, that is generally a liability. You learn real fast that trying to bullshit a dog is pointless. It wastes your time and annoys the dog."

Definite pause in my speech as I carefully contemplate my next few words.

"Why did he react the way he did? Because I didn't give him any reason to doubt me, I think. I'm not so very different from my father, you see. Not so very different at all. We're both Rough Men."

Then I laugh.

"I say that, expecting most people to understand what it means. 's Orwell. 'People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to violence on their behalf.' We fight so that others don't have to. Of course, this latest incident kinda threw that out of whack...but, still. I've been sacrifice to the security of the 'innocent' since I was seven years old. I've had plenty of time to come to terms with what that means for me. Kindred spirit, indeed."

Now-a-days, there isn't much point in hiding the past. Even in self-imposed exile, my father's purpose never changed. My purpose never changed. My life has been devoted to violent and actively aggressive pursuits so that others can devote their lives to the furtherment of humanity. 's a good life, in the end.

Jonni's eyes were calmly accepting, as she nodded in understanding. She well understood, as every one in the room did,- Orwell's 'Rough Men' and most there counted themselves among those so hallowed.

I've been sacrifice to the security of the 'innocent' since I was seven years old. I've had plenty of time to come to terms with what that means for me

"Three would'a wanted to remind your dad that even the roughest men need time outs an' a peaceful place" Nathan's voice was reflective.

"Well, it's past time for this warrior to go keep the barbarians from the gates just a little bit longer" Four stood and ran hand across his forhead to lift an escaped lock of hair off of his eye patch. Then he shrugged on his heavy army jacket. 'Welcome to the mountain Rafe, and thanks for bein' willing to help."

David nodded in agreement, and sighed when Jonni caught his eye. "Yes wife I'll be good and not go wrestle bears. Sheesh, one little knife in the back..."

Jonni glared at him for half a second then stepped over and wrapped him in a hug. "You wild man you." She scolded in a whisper and kissed the top of his head. "I'm leaving you the boreing work of double checking the maps and gasoline allotments. We need the recovery team ready to go within seventy two hours."

David slid an arm about Jonni's waist, returning the hug then let her go with a sigh. " You would stick me with that! I'll see you at dinner then."

"It's a date" Jonni smiled warmly down at him, then led Rafe out of the courthouse, and through several blocks of the small hamlet. Varg moving quietly at her side.

"Vera's kinda wierd," Jonni warned Rafe "but she is tops with finerprints and such. Also she may act like she doesn't understand a word you're saying but her actual grasp is excellent."

"Ya got any of the high speed low drag gear around?"

"Most likely" Wil replied. "Name your hearts desire and I can go check the inventory."

"While she's doing that would you care to put a few rounds down range? Watching you shoot'll give me ideas about how your particular body works." Joshua offered.

Hoot thought for a minute. He looked down at himself, and nodded. The polo and jeans would be fine from a bird, but that was it. "Top down? Any ball cap will work fine, any home town teams you want me to represent works," he chuckled. "Vest wise? Well, I'd prefere an Eagle CIRAS, I can work with a BlackHawk Chest rig as well. Need plenty of 7.62 pouches, some grenade pouches, pistol pouches, stuff like that."

He tugged the NightHawk 1911 out from the Fobus IWB holster. "I'll need a BH Serpa for this, maybe some thigh rig pistol ammo pouches." He then looked back down at his Nikes. "And some good boots. I know you mountain types will have a good pair, so I'll take your word on it."

While she's doing that would you care to put a few rounds down range? Watching you shoot'll give me ideas about how your particular body works.

He slung the Leonidas rifle over his shoulder, and grabbed a Remmington bolt action from the rack. He shook himself out, and glanced off for a moment. The gaze quickly turned back to Joshua. "Alright, lets head to the range, see what kind of damage I can do."

I'd laughed when Nathan had spoken, and my response had been "If you find one, tell me." It was a bit of a joke, but not much of one. Not these days. Sad to say it, but true enough. Shrugging off the thanks as being nothing was easy enough, too. Just doing my job and whatnot.

I'd followed Jonni without issue or an attempt to start conversation. I'm actually kinda tight-lipped, naturally. I talk when I need to, even if it doesn't seem that way. Helps. Sometimes.

Pretty little town, as they went, I guess. Whatever. Jonni's warning got a nod from me, though.

"I'm sure that that'll make sense when I meet the girl. Provided she gets the job done, she can be as wierd as she likes. I'm not exactly what you'd call normal myself, y'know?"

""And some good boots. I know you mountain types will have a good pair, so I'll take your word on it."

Wil looked Hoot up and down, estimating the sizes he'd need, and realising something she hadn't in a long time... He was a fine looking man, with an incredibly fit body for his age. He had to be at least her age, with that network of fine lines that were as much laugh lines as they were age around his eyes and mouth. And his candid attitude about murder and mayhem didn't hurt at all. She headed out of the armory post haste, hoping that nothing showed on her face.

'Damn those eyes could see right through what ever interested them' Willow nearly stumbled as she realized that for the first time since Cargo's death all those years ago she was suddenly aware of a man as a man. 'Don't you go getting interested girl.'She scolded herself [/i]'He's from elsewhere and will be in the wind sooner more likely than later. Make a damn fool o' yo self...Not on my watch![/i]

"Alright, lets head to the range, see what kind of damage I can do."

The range was housed in another modified cave, very long and narrow but well lit, with seperate areas for both hand gun and long arms. There was only ten pistol and five rifle benches.

"Getting the ventelation worked out was a nightmare, and we mostly use this only for test firing." Joshua commented as he readied targets to send down range. "How far out do you want?"

He'd grabbed up blocks of ammo for both the Leonidas and the Remmington.

Hoot smiled as Willow walked off, taking a good look at her clasically feminen form. He looked back towards Joshua, and followed him out to the 'range' as it were.

How far out do you want?

Hoot took pause, and looked down range. His movements were subconcious as he thumb loaded the seven point six two rounds into the mag for the Leonidas. He was silent as blue grey eyes bore down the range, looking for phantom targets. The Noveske would shoot well at long ranges with its heavy round, but the shorter barrel would affect acuracy to some extent. Without thinking, he locked the magazine into the rifle, tugged back on the charging handle, and placed it down on the range bench.

The Schmidt and Bender short dot was a magnificent piece of glass, and damned good for its purpose, but it was not a long range scope. He made his decsion, still looking down range.

"Give me fifty yards with the Noveske, and full range with the bolt action."

"I'm sure that that'll make sense when I meet the girl. Provided she gets the job done, she can be as wierd as she likes. I'm not exactly what you'd call normal myself, y'know?"

"You're in like company around here Rafe." Jonni replied as she led him up a path of amber hued bricks that led to what looked for all the world like a quintensential English Garden cottage.

Before they even reached the front stoop the front door was thrown open and a medium sized whirlwind in hand painted cotton kimonos engulfed Jonni in an exuberant hug. The beauty's skin was rich bronze, her face that of a living Nefertiti, her eyes were dark and mesmerizing.

"JoLee, you brought me a present" Vera whooped in husky tones as exuberant as her hug had been "And yo, yo grea, grey monster!" She laughed down at Varg who had stepped aside to keep from getting trampled and now looked merely resigned. "Yo no raise yo lip to me no more since I put the eye on yo, no?"

Then she spun and gave Rafe a perfect Japanese bow. "Konichi wa" she started out in Japanese then continued in Mandarin 'if the young lord would care for some tea' while his humble servant worked her small majick. She ushered them both into the cottage, warning Varg that she would tolerate 'no monster hair in her fine house thank you' in Armenian.

Jonni Lea bit her lip to keep from giggling " Vera this is Rafe. , Rafe, Vera the merely difficult. Careful Vera, I think he may speak more languages than you do. He's going to be our Mister White." She made herself at home on one end of the comfortable couch that along with several matching arm chirs filled the small living room.

"So you are a travelling man." Vera motioned for Rafe to sit where ever he wished. "Your face can look narrow an' down east enough to work." She observed in Somali.

Well, that was interesting. Still, like Uncle Earl used to say, 'take it as it comes, and when it comes too fast, kick it in the face 'till it slows the fuck down.'

"Pleased to meet you, I think." I start with Tagalog.

"Tea would be wonderful, unless you meant the dog," Continue with Maltese.

"I think I'll stand." Deliver the knock-out with Xiri.

Back to English, "Do you know how many endangered languages there are in Africa? A lot. I speak most of them. Care to play again?"

Joshua watched approvingly as Hoot moved throught the set up of the Leonidas without conscious thought. Not mechanical or mindless but with the competent assurance of thousands of hours of familiarity. The wires took one set of framed targets out fifty and another set rustled softly as they went out fully six hundred yards.

"I can go another two fifty if you'd like" Joshua said as the distant targets halted " "But thats the max here in the caves."

"Do you know how many endangered languages there are in Africa? A lot. I speak most of them. Care to play again?"

Vera looked absolutely delighted. "Love to old bones" She chortled in Hindu, then switched to English. "But you did lose me with the last one. And No I was speaking to you, not that demon in canine rainment . Despite the tan and weathering you can do Nor'east white bread WASP at least in the face but do you have the mannerisms and accent capability?"

I raise an eyebrow and let my face my face go slack, let the humor drain right out. I start to look like I just stepped out of Cape Cod.

"Say what, now?"

If it wasn't impossible to see me inside of a church, you could swear that my last name was Kennedy.

So Rafe is an overwieght, mildly retarded lying sneak thief hypocritical murdering ass who not even is mother loves? Wicked Pissa. I'm not a fan of the Kennedies, as you can tell, and its ok because I'm half Bostonian.

Hoot nodded. "Yeah, go ahead and kick one of 'em out to full range. Been a while since I've shot with a bolt, see if I still have what it takes here."

He placed the Remmington off to the side, and hefted up the Leonidas. He snapped the rifle up to a shooting pose, and looked straight down the Short Dot. His first shot would be keeping the scope on its 'CQB' setting, with no magnification. The red dot floated in space in the glass, hovering between the cross hairs.

He let the world slow around him, concentrating on the forward target in front of him, blacking out the rest of the world. He exhaled, letting out a slow, long breath, concentrating on the piece of paper fifty yards out. He squeezed, and the rifle cracked loudly, the round slamming into the paper target just below the bulls eye. Another, this one slightly left. Then a double tap, the first round hitting dead center, the second just above.

He kept his focus on the target, and he switched to the magnified view. The first squeeze sent the round right into the bulls eye. The second round hit the same spot, and the third, again just above, expanding the bulls eye hole.

"Not to bad for a first shot," he said, safetying the rifle and placing it down on his rest. He went to the bolt action, and selected a round from the brick. He slipped it into the chamber, and slowly closed the bolt in on it. He sat in front of his bench rest, and pulled the rifle into his shoulder, moving the rifle to him, not moving towards the rifle. He flicked off the safety, and again, allowed his world to slow. He settled the scope on the far off target, two hundred and fifty yards out.

A deep breath, and the rifle cracked loudly. He kept watch through the scoped and watched as the round slammed home dead center. He held it for just a few moments, and then with lightning fast movements wracked the bolt up and back, ejecting the round. The empty brass cassing clanked around the floor. He took another round from the brick, working perfectly by feel, never taking the scope off the target. He slipped the round into the chamber, and repeated his previous actions. The round entered, and exited, through the same hole.

"That good?" he asked, keeping his eye on the target through the scope.

OOC: Hoot - that's at 850 yards not 250 yards for the Remmington.

"That good?"

Joshua snorted "Ya thunk?" as he toggled the chair back from where he'd been watching Hoot, and looked at the targets. "You'll make Wil very happy, she won't have to boot your'n rear outta the bird."

He continued "You had good habits grounded into you from the start and you've never let yourself get sloppy. You've got your share of personal tweaks and such, but every really good shooter does. The human body is a piss poor design and you've over come yourn's failings." Joshua might speak mountain but he had degrees in mechanical engineering, biology and more - making him a specialist in human ergonmics, and again, more - he was a Fellow of the American Board for Certification in Orthotics and Prosthetics.

"I have something available now that I think you'll fall in luuurve with." Without further adieu he spun the power chair around and headed to a gun safe built into a nitch in the cave's rear wall. He rapidly punched in a code and pulled out a lovely example of the custom riflesmith's work (http://www.snipercountry.com/InReviews/McMillan_A5.asp) "I didn't do this but I think you'll find her pleasing."

"Say what, now?"

Vera didn't bother to hide a shiver. "Yo a face man fo' sure. So we'll have to start with a light dermal peel, lighten that tan a little and make you look like weekly facials are part of the life style. The teeth are just fine, maybe a night of teeth trays for the slightly over whitened look." She looked over at Jonni Lee "JoLee he's going to need proper clothes tailored just for him. I can't do those."

"I can have something drawn from stocks and tailored after a fitting.

"Send them over here for that."

She looked back at Rafe. "How do you want the prints. Are yours cold or do you want overlays? I've got disposables that last for about three months if you don't go to hard on them.""

I nod slowly, "I doubt I'll need anything for that long. I'll take the overlays -- mine aren't in any database that isn't controlled by my people...and I'd rather they stay that way. I'll be wearing gloves for most of the time, so make sure that the adhesive can handle that. Other than that...whatever works is fine with me, though I'd suggest we go light on the 'pale.' I've -been- to Cape Cod, they have some real nice beaches there. It isn't -that- hard to pick up a tan, though mine could use a little lightening. Haven't recovered from being Sheikh Mohammed Rekar al-Rashid yet. Or whatever his name was."

Just positively full of stories...

"Or whatever his name was"

"Oh not too light Rafe." Vera agreed. "So lets get started. JoLee just send the suit and such on over. I know you have more to do than watch Mister White unfold."

Jonni Lea sighed. "Never ends" She stood, pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and offered it to Rafe. "I'm Star One if you have any ideas, suggestions, or questions."

With that she and Varg found their own way out.

Vera was already leading Rafe into one of the back rooms. "Here get showered, and shampooed." She indicated a spacious bathroom as she handed him a pile of clothing -a pair of navy blue fleece sweatsuite and thick cotton towels. "Leave your hair wet, it will need a professional work over." She semi shuddered at its ragged condition.

"Mackey will do that and give you a barbershop shave before we do the facial." She pointed to a door that opened off of the bath room. "After you've done, just go through there. Mackey will be here shortly to take care of that."

Hoot held up the rifle, and gave it one good long look over. It felt nice in his hands, not to heavy, not to light. Just enough to know it was there, and what it was. A slow, easy motion opened the bolt, and the piece slid perfectly, with no snag. The adjustable cheek piece was a nice touch. He closed the bolt, and walked back over to the range rest.

He took out a single round, and opened the bolt, slipping it into the chamber, closing the bolt down on it. He tugged the rifle into his shoulder, and began to sight in. The Premier Reticles modified Schmidt and Bender scope was damned near perfect for the shot, and with a minor adjustment to the elevation, Hoot was positive he was sighted in.

He let out a final breath, and started to let his heart beat come down a notch, slowing till he was fully calm. It wasn't nessacery to do this, he could also shoot damned well fast, but that was more of his skill, and not a test of the rifle. He wanted to make sure that his actions would cause as little interference to the rifle shooting as possible, to make sure it was dead on.

The trigger broke crisply, and the rifle barked out the .300 Winchester Magnum round clean to the target. The round hit half in the hole for the bulls eye from his previous shot, and just half below. "That was me," he admited. "I tugged in when I squeezed. This has gotta be one of the best rifles I've fired."

He stood away from the rifle, and gave it a good look. "I'm gonna stay in here a few, get the cheek piece where I need it and play with the scope a bit. That work ok?"

Glad you like it, take her as yourn." He offered

"I'm gonna stay in here a few, get the cheek piece where I need it and play with the scope a bit. That work ok?"

"No problem, take as long as you'd like Hoot." Joshua gave a half wave as he rolled away to deal with other responsibilities.

Some time later Hoot became aware of some one else moving quietly around the range. Wil had brought in a rolling cart laden with the requested Eagle CIRAS vest along with a large bin filled with the various pouches he's requested, the BH Serpa rig for his pistol, a black ball cap. Beside the bin were several boxes with boots - Danner Desert Eagle GTX's, Black Hawk Warrior Wear Light Assaults, Converse Tacticals, and 5.11 Tactical Advances.

She smiled at him when he noticed her. Take your pick of the boots and if the sizing isn't right, we've got a good stock, so don't hesitate to sing out." She went back to thumbing ammo in to a clip for a compact Baretta.

I grin a bit, "I cut it like this for a reason. I look like some kind of British aristocrat if I keep it tailored 'normally.' People expect different things from Snake Plissken than they do from Lord Fontleroy."

Then I nod Vera off -- body modesty isn't something I have a whole lot of, comes with the job, but I figure the comments can wait for later. I don't really care if she leaves or not, the action was sufficient.

Getting naked was a bit of a chore, so it takes me a couple of minutes before everything is neatly folded, with my shoulder rig and knives set off to one side. My body is about what one would expect. Which is to say that it is a finely honed instrument, which is to say 'pretty good.'

A take a little longer in the shower than I absolutely needed to work the last of the dye out of my hair. My hair is naturally a dark brown color, but it needed to be black for my last op...and it had been black. It was mostly out, but there was still a bit left. Blessing on an op, since you didn't have to constantly worry about the stuff, but annoying after.

I dry off in an efficient manner, then dress in my undershorts and the lower half of the sweat-suit. I've never been a terrific fan of 'sweat' material on my upper body. Irrational, probably, but simply the way I am. Maybe there's a bit of vanity in there...either way, I've never been huge on covering my upper torso when I'm not getting 'fully dressed.'


That done, I stretch and head into the prior-indicated room.

Hoot worked the bolt with an almost artistic flair, ejecting a spent cassing, reloading, and locking the bolt down. He fired again, tearing a new hole in a new target, straight dead center. The cheek peice was right where he wanted it, and the scope was perfect. He saftied the rifle, and was made aware of foot steps behind him.

He turned to see Willow, and returned the smile. "I see Santa's helper has brought us Christmas early," he chuckled, moving over to the cart.

Take your pick of the boots and if the sizing isn't right, we've got a good stock, so don't hesitate to sing out.

"These Converse look good, yeah, they'll fit," he said, pulling out the box. Next, he grabbed the CIRAS, and began hooking the 7.62, pistol mag, and grenade pouches onto the MOLLE webbing, and filling them with magazines and other assorted goods. The Serpa hooked on to his thight nicely, and he tossed the Fobus holster aside as he slipped the 1911 into the molded thigh rig.

He picked up the Leonidas first, slinging it over his shoulder, and then cleared the chamber on the Remmington. One of the CIRAS pouches was a general issue pouch, and he tore the tops of three boxes of .300 WinMag match rounds, and stacked them in the side pouch. He took another butt pouch, and would use that for discarded Leonidas mags. He picked the Remmington up in his right hand, and used his left to pull on the black ball cap.

"So, we ready to rock?"

By the time Hoot had finished gearing up Wil had put a magazine of the nine mil through her own target, and was satisfied that the Beretta 92F was as comfortable as she remembered it being. Holstering it she turned to watch Hoot pull on the ball cap last of all.

"So, we ready to rock?"

"Abso flying lootly" Smiling Willow shook her head at the warrior image he presented. "Some how I think you'll want explosive bits to fill those pouches there" She waved toward the grenade pouches. "Though you won't need them till the op goes off, and hopefully not even then, but better to be prepared, right?." The question was purely rehetorical, and she twitched her eye brows at him with a cheeky grin as she headed back into the armory proper towing the cart behind her.

"Meet you out in the main cavern in a few. The things that go boom are in the ammo room." She indicated the heavy door that Joshua had gone through when he'd gotten ammo earlier. "Once I return this cart we can go wheels up and let you prove to me that I don't have to kick ya out of the bird at height." Her light, teasing tone said she was sure she'd have to do no such thing, but she enjoyed chaffering with him.

People expect different things from Snake Plissken than they do from Lord Fontleroy."

"That they do" Vera agreed as she left when he waved her off. Body modesty was something she dealt with as needed - what made the client comfortable was fine by her.

When Rafe stepped thought the door he found himself in a well but not overly lit room that had been turned into a not so make shift barber shop. Steam rose from a pile of towles and an old fashioned barber chair sat before a large mirror with a wide counter beneath it. The faint scent of glycerine soap rose from a stone bowl being vigerously whisked by a rotund man of uncertain years.

"Please be seated Mister White." He spoke with a pronounced New Jersey accent as he sat the bowl aside and grabbed a thick white towel. "While I trim your hair, we'll let your face soak up some of this wonderful steam and then I'll shave you. Once thats done we'll do a light microdermabrasion, a very minimal one that will just removed the dead cells on the surface and take about one shade off of your skin tone."

Hoot nodded, and proceded to the side room to grab a handfull of fragmentation grenades. Loaded up to his satisfaction, he moved towards the exit.

As he moved towards the pad, walking through the weapons storage center, a glint of sliver caught his eye. He turned to see what it was, his eyes falling on a stainless Colt Anaconda with a ported and ventilated barrel. An aftermarket set of night sights had been installed, and the rubber grip was a Houge. He lifted it off the shelf, and snapped the cylinder open, gauging the condition of the weapon. Deciding it met his standards, he made his way back to the ammo room, and grabbed a box of .44 CorBon DPX ammunition. Heading to the gear room, he picked up another MOLLE dump pouch, attached it to the web belt, and seated the box of ammo inside the pouch after loading up the Anaconda. He then grabbed a second Serpa, and attached it to his vest on his chest, and slid the magnum into the holster.

Fully content with his loadout, he made his way back out to the pad, and slid into the helicopter's co pilot seat. He carefully laid the Remmington down next to him, situating it so that he didn't risk loosing the rifle out the bird durring flight. He laid the Leonidas across his lap, and fished out a small mini disk from his pocket. As Williow approached, he held the disk up.

"This thing have audio?"

"This thing have audio?"

"Full mil rig, and more..." Wil looked around the cockpit and quickly located what he wanted. "So, whats your flavor in music?" She inquired as she started the preflight, then when everything was spinning smoothly she lifted off, dancing the heavy chopper throught the dense trees that mostly hid the small landing pad as if it were as weightless and agile as a dragonfly.

"They also said that there were shooter safety slings available for both sides. Which side do you prefer to shoot from?"

Hoot handed Willow the mini disk, and watched as the bird lifted off. He watched as the world slid by, and the system read the disk.

So, whats your flavor in music?

"Its sorta a do it yourself best of play list," he said.

Moments later, the all to familiar riffs of Angus Young began to permate the helicopter over the sound of rotors and engines.

Hoot smiled as Bon Scott's lyrics followed, describing life on the road. The song itself was also a favorite among the IMC Force Recon TRACT teams, many of them feeling they were on that same road, the one that would take them from this world.

Living easy, living free, Season ticket on a one-way ride...

"What can I say, Angus Young just does it for me," he smiled. "And from a bird, I shoot left hip."

"And from a bird, I shoot left hip."

Wil just nodded lost in the joy of flying to great music as the rest of Highway to Hell poured fourth from her headphones. In seconds she had the Black Hawk at altitude and screaming west at full military power.

Minutes later..

"There you go." she interupted the music as she hovered about one hundred feet above the tree tops and toggled open the gun bay doors.

South Lake Houghton gleamed in the noon day light, it's waters silver grey with a moderate chop.. It was obvious that the small island just off shore had been used before as an impromptu gun range. Dozens of now heavily bullet riddled orange safety barrels were tossed here and there. Some were partially buried in piles of downed limbs, or mounds of dirt, some were barely visable within tangled growths of Kudzu vine, while still others had been lashed up in trees. More had been tied to floam flotation collars and were drifting out in the water off the lakeward side of the island, bobbing and rolling in the current. Over all the island covered maybe thirty acres, running longer north to south than wide.

Hoot moved towards the open door, Grabbing hold of parts of the bird to ballance himself. He tugged out the restriant strap, and hooked in, dropping into a sitting position. He grabbed the Leonidas first, switching the Short Dot to the 4x magnification, and shouldered the weapon.

The rifle cracked quickly as Hoot sent out the lead death rapidly, double tapping the targets. From altitude, the shots were slightly more difficult, needing to adjust for the movement of the bird, but all rounds hit kill zones. He smiled with satisfaction, and tugged out the empty magazine, slamming a new home, and chambering a round. Saftying the rifle, he pushed it back to the main cockpit, and grabbed the bolt action.

He loaded the full internal five round magazine, and slipped another round directly into the chamber. He shoulder the Remmington base, and scoped in. Allowing himself to slow, he let the rifle settle on one of the farther out targets. Safety flicked off, he squeezed slowly, and the heavy rifle cracked out, the round slamming broadside into the target barrel. A quick up back in and down, and a new round was in. Another crack, and the next barrel took the round.

Satisfied, he stood, disconnected the strap, and moved back to the main cockpit. "Still got it," he said with a smirk, placing the rifle next to him inbetween the seats.

I nod once, then settle into the chair. It isn't like I haven't done this before...though I won't lie and say that I'm not uncomfortable. I am. Letting anybody near me, especially somebody that I don't actually know, with a sharp object isn't exactly high on my list of things I enjoy doing.

Of course, it goes without saying that I'm not showing any of that. In fact, I look perfectly serene. Well, as serene as somebody like me can look...

Mackey worked fast, with the smooth speed born of years of experience. He spoke almost not at all as she deftly wrapped Rafe's face in the pleasantly steaming towels, then set to work trimming his thick hair.

"I'll be leaving a conditioner in while I shave you, your hair has been abused a little more than should be." He stated absently as he removed the towels and began lathering up Rafe's face and neck. With deft movements he gave 'Mr. White' a professional shave then wrapped another towel, lightly steaming and scented with something crisply herbal.

Back to Rafe's hair which was blown dry and styled. Then creams, faintly smelling of chemicals -for the microbrasion peel, and more towels to soothe the skin after. It had taken nearly an hour, but when Rafe emerged from the towles and treatment he loked very much less weathered and three shades lighter in skin tone - stilled tanned but more sea tanned rather than desert tanned.

"Mr. White, if you are going to use hair color in the future, use some of this on your hair first. " Mackey handed Rafe a heavy, unmarked tube. "It won't make the dye come out any sooner, but it will protect your hair. You have good hair, you shouldn't let it get ruined. All you need it a tiny bit, about the size of a large pea. And steam your face well in a shower at least once a week, that will help keep your skin healthy." The plump man suggested as he stepped back so that Rafe could get out of the salon chair.

"Vera's through that door on the right, and a manicurist is waiting as well. Hands will give you away if they don't match the persona. Best of luck and it was a pleasure working with you." Mackey nodded, smiled warmly at Rafe, then turned away to begin packing up his equipment.

"Still got it,"

Wil matched his smirk with one of her own. "Oh, you think you do do you? I was flying nice and easy, all but hovering. Think you can do it while I'm earning my call sign?" She challenged Hoot, the smirk turning into a downright evil grin. She was already reaching into the breast pocket of her flight suit and pulling out a mini disk of her own.

Oh, you think you do do you? I was flying nice and easy, all but hovering. Think you can do it while I'm earning my call sign?

Hoot chuckled. "Its been a while, didn't do to much airial shooting, except with mounted guns. Still, I could always use some of the practice." He unlatched the main restraint, and returned to his post at the open door. He had selected the Leonidas for this task, and flicked off the safety.

Credence Clearwater Revival's rowdy Travellin' Band thundered through the speakers as once again the Black Hawk resembled a dragon fly - a very drunk dragon fly. Wil let out a whoop of sheer joy and pivoted the chopper in a three sixty about it's rotors.

Then she sent it plumeting towards the lake, halting to hover for a split second as the rotors fierce down draft threw up spumes of water that glistened sliver grey in the sun. Hauling back on the collective she sent the chopper clawing for altitude as fast as the bird was rated. Apparently nonchalant, her eyes were constantly moving over the myriad gauges and read outs. She'd push it to the limits but she needed to find out what those limits were...

Force of nature, swear to god.

I nod and mutter some variant of 'thank you,' then make my way towards the indicated door. It's suddenly become a bit a chore to maintain my usual level of detachment. Yikes.

So it is that I would emerge looking a little bit punch-drunk, but only a little. I usually craft my personas to include a little bit of 'rough living' to explain my...edge. Interesting to...remove the edge...for once. Veeery interesting.

Vera took in Rafe's body language and expression with one astute glance and hid a snicker. Mackey had probably run over him like a mack truck.

"Looking a lot smoother Mr. White, so come have a seat over here and let April get started on your hands." Vera introduced a pleasant face woman in her early twenties who nodded shyly before blushing and busying herself with her rolling car of manicurest equipment.

"Pleased to meetcha" April's accent was pure old south as her light brown eyes met Rafes then darted away.

Behind April's back Vera just rolled her eyes. April was too shy for her own good, but maybe not in this instance. Mr. White was a handsome man, but the shell he wore around himself was part of what put people off, even if they never consciously figured out why. Also he was a damned dangerous man, and while that didn't make him a bad man it scared most people on an instinctive level.

Vera had been dealing with such men all her life, having been raised by her god father who was highly placed in the Yakuza. However April wasn't - Vera had found her on the outskirts of Greenville trying to get away from zombies and rescued her. Or rather she'd had the Outlaws escorting her up from Miami do so.

Hoot braced himself against the frame at the first three sixty. He didn't shoot yet, the manuver had taken him to the opposite side of his target, and then back on.

When the bird nose dived, he snapped up the rifle for his first shot. A well aimed double tap, peading perfectly based on the chopper's speed, took the life of one barrel. Another single shot took out another target. As the bird snapped back up, he selected another target, squeezed, and kill.

He felt the chopper start to lean over, and he aimed, taking one more target. The ride wasn't the worst part, he had been in bumpier sitting in the back of Imitoran made MC-130Is and MH-60Is. However, he was more concerned about the real targets later on down the line.

He turned and looked out at Willow. "Yeah, I'm still good," he smirked. "Think we've wasted enough ammo, we should probably head out, get ready for the raid."

Think we've wasted enough ammo, we should probably head out, get ready for the raid."

"Impatient are we? Fore.." Wil realized what she was about to say and blushed for a split second before continueing "For what it's worth, the operation isn't scheduled to start for nearly forty eight hours. Some of our troops are being temporarily by allies, and they need the time to get here."

Minutes later she was setting the Black Hawk down in front of the hanger that had been built behind the Boars Hole. "Hey some of us are getting together to make home made pizzas, play a few hands of poker. You're welcome to show up, meet the rest of my crew, have some fun and good food."

"Charmed. Just don't crowd my gun-hand and we'll get along fine."

About a two second pause...then a blink.

"That was a joke, mind. A joke."

I grin a little, and I'm telling the truth, too. Reference to a James Garner movie, in fact. Brilliant stuff.

That was a joke, mind. A joke."

April didn't seem taken aback at all. Her eyes met Rafe's for a moment and her smile, brief though it was, was genuine and made her some what plain features glow with life. "That's from Support Your local Gunfighter isn't it? My dad loved all of Mister Garner's movies, and had them all on DVD."

She faltered just the slightest on the last but went on setting up to do Rafe's hands. She set his hands to soaking in a deep bowl filled with an warm, orange scented liquid. "It's just water with orange oil to soften your cuticles and such. I know you'll want to keep your calluses, right? You do a lot of shooting but some of them...Do you do a lot of bare handed fighting?" She asked, as her fingers gently touched the calluses on his palms.

I shrug, "Only when somebody catches me by surprise, which isn't very often. I usually wear gloves, shooting or hand-to-hand. Reinforced along the knuckles -- I hate hitting people bare-handed, because you can only do it a few times before you wreck your hand for a while. Much better to use an elbow, or a hold."

I look at my hands, really take a look at them. Long fingers, powerful, but not thick. Good hands. A killer's hands. But also a working man's hands, because I do a lot more than kill with them. I spent most of last summer building huts around the main Enclave compound for various refugees that we'd taken in. That was, more than likely, where the calluses had come from.

Probably.

Much better to use and elbow, or a hold."

"I wouldn't know" April replied hesitantly. "I saw a bar fight oncet, but it wasn't much more than two drunks tusslen on the floor, and my dad watched WWF but thats about all I've even seen. Mother didn't approve of violence and guns." Her voice went hard but dropped to a whisper "But maybe if she had the Zombies wouldn't have eaten her, my dad and my brother." Fiercely she dashed away a tear and determinedly set to work tidying up Rafe's hands.

"But your palms look like Mister Pettimore's or Uncle Nathan's." Under her gently skilled ministrations, which took nearly an hour, his hands ended up looking like those of a GQ model, if one did not see the palms and the betraying calluses that no Federal minion would dain to have.

Then Vera went to work with slips of artificial skin and in an amazingly short time Rafe had a completely different set of finger prints.

I look over the work done on my hands and nod in satisfaction.

"Very nice. Couldn't have done better myself, though I definately could have managed worse."

I was already getting the character set up. The calluses were relatively easy to explain, after-all, a proper yuppie -does- engage in various "outdoors" activities, such as walks along specially prepared hiking trails, golfing on specially sculpted golf courses, climbing plastic rock walls, and so on. Few enough would recognize that they weren't the sort of calluses one got from those activities. Tennis was always an excellent explanation, though, as it did give similar calluses. Sortof.

"Yes, I think this'll work nicely."

"Yes, I think this'll work nicely."

"Good!" Vera replied brightly as April quietly finished packing up her gear. "Our operation may be makeshift at the moment, but we aim to please. However there are no refunds young Samurai."

She escorted Rafe to a bedroom where a seamstreess was waiting with a Hickey-Freeman suit in deepest charcoal. Hickey Freeman was considered by Forbes to be one of the top suit makers in the nation, and was a favorite in the higher corporate and government sectors.

The ancient crone of a seamstress, her face like a withered apple, hair sparse and fine, left so he could change into the suit. "Just sing out when ya' ready" She stated more cheerfully than her appearance would have suggested

Hoot nodded, returning to his seat.

Hey some of us are getting together to make home made pizzas, play a few hands of poker. You're welcome to show up, meet the rest of my crew, have some fun and good food.

"I always make an attempt to meet the crew I'm working with. Good to know whose life I'll be holding onto, and who'll be holdin' on to mine. You can count me in."

Hoot thought of the food, and realized it would be his first true meal in a long time. He had spent the past few months feasting on the cup ramen, and while Hoot never had a problem with the cheap, do it yourself Chineese noodles, an actual meal would be good.

"So pizza and beer sounds like a plan. Any chance for hot wings, or should I not cross my fingers on that one?"

So pizza and beer sounds like a plan. Any chance for hot wings, or should I not cross my fingers on that one?"

"Do you like the battered and fried before they're doused with buffalo sauce kind, or do you like the type baked in buffalo sauce, no batter?" Willow asked as the Black Hawks rotors stopped turning and the post flight check list was finished.

Her sister Rowan was a dab hand at making both types, and would gladly make up a batch if asked.

"There's going to be more than just pizza really, it's just that Rowdy is so blamed proud of that wood fired brick oven he built he wants to make "authentic style" pizza when ever he can."

Do you like the battered and fried before they're doused with buffalo sauce kind, or do you like the type baked in buffalo sauce, no batter?

"Batter 'em first," Hoot smiled, "then drench them in sauce. Thats the best part."

He smiled warmly at Willow. "So, pizza, poker, booze, and wings. Sounds like the type of night I could use. How much cash should I bring. I'm not that great, but I can toss a good hand."

I'm not that great, but I can toss a good hand."


Willow shook her head "Don't bother to bring much more than about fifty dollars. Half the time we don't get more'n a few hands played before they decided they want to do some wild ass stunts like a night base jump, or me to fly them down to Lake Watonga for skinny dipping. That or it degenerates in to a 'There I was ' session. You'll be fresh meat for them, you haven't heard their tales or they yours."

At the hanger behind the Boars Hole...

Willow excused herself from Hoot to go and deal with some of the paperwork inherent in keeping aricraft flying "See ya tonigiht, so bring around fifty and a big appetite."


At Vera's

The tiny ancient seamstress was slow in the fitting of the suit, but she made up for it with the swpeed at which she sewed. Once it was done Vera ironed it and placecd it carefully in a suit bag. Also waiting was several pairs of mens shoes waiting for Rafe to find a pair that fit. Shirts, ties, belts and other necessities were produced and packed up for Rafe.

Eventually, near dark, he was finally done and properly accutered.

See ya tonigiht, so bring around fifty and a big appetite.

Hoot nodded, grabbing the rifles in each hand, walking back away from the bird. "Alright, then, I'll see ya there!"

The best part had been when I hadn't needed to do any convincing of anyone that it was necessary to tailor-in certain specifics, such as the necessity of concealing a pistol in a shoulder-rig. It was also so very nice to work with professionals.

Without at least one pistol, likely two, and two or three knives...I wouldn't be dressed, y'know? On this op, I'd probably have the Tanfoglio in a shoulder-rig, a small sub-compact in an ankle rig, my fighting knife, and a pair of throwing knives. As well as a couple of grenades, just in case I needed something a bit...nastier.

That I wouldn't have to bother re-tailoring was nothing short of a blessing. I -hated- that kind of thing...

Before dinner time rolled around however cell phones rang.

"I've just gotten information that some one is planning to move the rigs tomorrow. We need to roll within two hours to arrive before the our interests depart. Department heads, meet in the conference room in half an hour while your staff's do the packing." Jonni Lea's voice was crisp.

I close the phone and frown. That undoubtedly made sense to most people, but it sure as hell didn't make any sense to -me.-

I check my watch -- and it was -my- watch, being a ridiculously expensive dive watch that retailed for more than the car I was presently driving. In fact, it might have been a bit -too- much, but...meh.

Just enough time. Bags over my shoulder, I quick-step (I'm not going to -run,- things considered,) my way to where I'd left my car and proceed to put into effect my prior plans. The Tanfoglio goes into a shoulder holster, along with two spare clips in my pocket. Straighten the jacket just so, and it's invisible.

I normally don't wear an ankle rig because they don't work well with boots. They do work well with dress shoes. Plus, it'll help keep at least one of the damned dress socks from scrunching up, saving me half of the irritation. Which is nice.

I drop a Glock 29 into the ankle holster -- nice little subcompact, used the same 10mm round as my Tanfoglio...and, despite its miniscule size...carried almost the same number of rounds. The trade-off was that the 29 kicked, bad, even with the recoil compensation it had.

I slip a pair of throwing knives into a slim ankle sheath and wrap that around my other leg -- should keep the other sock in place, too. Which is a bonus.

Then my fighting knife -- Fairbairn-Applegate fighting dagger -- into a sheath that gets strapped to my forearm, thus concealed by my jacket sleeve. I leave the grenades behind.

Check my watch again...plenty of time to saunter back to wherever it was I was supposed to be.