Hogsweat
27-02-2005, 00:09
It was a cold winters evening that fateful day, the twenty fifth of february, two thousand and five. There was no worry of any attack from inside the nation - the government had spent the last twenty five years stamping out anything that could be called insecurity to the state. They thought it was all under the covers. It was not so. The State had, apparently, crushed anything that was not what could be called patriotic. Whole masses of people had been lined up and machine-gunned against walls for speaking out against the all-knowning autocrat, Josef Dorsal. But not everyone had fallen to the Iron Curtain of Communism. In the hills, the giant mountains, the dark, forboding forests, of the massive country they hid. With their ancient weapons, salvaged from the great civil war, they hid. Watching. Watching for the right moment.
And it had come. Today, according to their informants, was the day that the Autocrat was driving through the city, for a popular Soviet Workers Party support rally and to collect money. Alot of the money the state had was, as the Fascist's put it, stolen off the people. They had a plan. If they failed, every single last fascist would probably die. All fifty thousand of the rebels. If they suceeded the nation would change... for the better, who knows. But it would change.
The blizzard blew in the face of Fyodor Spaizkow, the man wiped his eyes and took out his AKM. Looking it over carefully, he pulled back the cock, and let it go making a clacking noise. He had oiled it very carefully. He felt like the rifle was his brother. Pressing it to his shouldr hard, and aiming through the makeshift scope, he was absorbed into a new world. His world. A world of death, misery, and destruction. He lowered the rifle, and pressed on, his brotherhood around him, nearly two hundred other fascists like him with rifles such as AKM's, L1A1's, Lee Enfields, and M14's among the weapons that would be used in the new war. The Fascists crept through the snow, into the city. It was perfect timing.
The edge of the city was tightly locked down, the M1 motorway being the only way at this moment to cross in. Hundreds of guards littered the area into the city walls, and APC's drove to and fro, their autocannons swinging from side to side. Alpatzi shivered in the immense cold, putting out his cigarette, lightly flicking it into the floor. His FN FAL lay over his shoulder, the magazine inserted but not cocked and the safety on. The APC drove right past him. He could hear the engine, and a wierd noise.. then all sound stopped. It seemed like he was underwater. Glancing around, the APC was on fire, a burning driver screaming for dear life as he roasted in the destroyer vehicle. Dropping to the floor, Alpatzi knew what was happening. He unslung his rifle, cocked it, and switched off the safety. The crump of grenades was all over, and machine guns rattled. Tracer rounds spat out of the cold darkness of the blizzard, cutting down his friends and comrades as he lay prone by the bunker, searching for a target. He smiled as a helicopter came overhead, it's minigun lighting up the corpses of some torn apart fascists, their pistols and submachine guns doing nothing against the Hind's fierce chaingun. A smile turned to a frown as two missiles smashed into the side of the Hind, an explosion following another as molten metal rained down on top of his position. Two comrades ran to the side, covering each other with their rifles taking pot shots into the blizzard where nothing could been seen within metres. They were promptly cut down with a machine gun. The fire was coming from all sides. The APCs were destroyed, the tell tale whine of a Milan resulting in the death of the crew and the destruction of the vehicle. Before no time had passed, Alpatzi was running into the city gates before they closed - but they didn't. The enemy was inside, everywhere, submachineguns ricocheting off walls and pistols firing in a crescendo of war, cutting down surprised soldiers as loyalists tried to close the gates. On the battlements, officers and soldiers alike whipped out pistols and tried to attack the fascists at close range, but they were outnumbered. The enemy had seeped into the gates, and now a huge battle was commencing. The loyalists were outnumbered nearly ten to one, yet they fought like cockerels in a fight, scratching and dodging but doing little damage. The fascists however, like a bulldog, swatting out the weak boned loyalists with superior numbers and almost firepower. Soon the gate was drenched in crimson blood and bullet holes. The battle had lasted ten minutes, but soon the Fascist banner was raised out of the gatepost.
The motorcade had turned back long since, the Autocrat inside the armoured vehicle, had his pistol ready, as the armoured convoy took turn after turn to retreat. Several Guards Rifles battalions had deployed, setting up checkpoints and the like, but it was of increasing distress of the Dictator that more troops were moving around in the streets. They where approaching the bridge in front of the gatehouse. One more turn and they were away. however, the driver had taken a wrong turn. The opposite side of the river. He had driven straight into the Fascist army.
The eight tanks and twelve armoured vehicles tried to turn around in the short gap of the road, but it was a hard task. Three of the Merkava's were soon burning hulks from RPG and Milan fire, the five others powering forwards ttrying to hold off the fascists. The rebels however swarmed over the tanks, dropping grenades into holes and jumping off. Rebels ahead of the group had fired a salvo of RPGs at the last of the vehicles , trapping the convoy. There was one hope. The two companies three streets down were moving to assist, but the five minutes they too would mean everything.
Josef kicked the door of the armoured vehicle down. The vehicle was near the back, so as he ran the enemy couldn't get a good shot. Bullets pinged off the cobble floors, as he dashed into a door, and smashed it down, three soldiers behind him. inside the room, everything was destroyed. two dead bodies, a woman and a child, where piled together in the corner, some chairs pushed over them. Josef was sick. It flowed from him, as if it were some natural thing, some virus. But it wasn't. The fascists had murdered innocents, children and women. They had died denying access to the country's famous enemy to their home. They would be avenged. The death of these civilians and many more would not be in vain. Josef cocked his pistol, nodding with a burning hatred in his eyes to the three soldiers behind him, as they smashed down another door and rushed upstairs. There was a machine gun crew, their 7.62mm machine gun pouring bullets out the window. Josef's pistol was up, and the rounds hit into the backs of the soldiers with a resounding "pewm" There was on left, however, and as the soldiers secured the room, Dorsal walked up to him. Blood flowed from the mans arm, which had already been hit by a rifle round. Josef brought the pistol sights into the forehead of the unfortunate fascist. Revenge was now. This was the time. He pulled the trigger, and the Fascist trooper fell backwards, his already senseless head knocking against the floorboards, blood flowing from the empty hole.
The clanking of tanks and troops came down the street, as Josef peered out a window and saw a Merkava spraying bullets down teh street at the advancing fascists. A bloodthirsty battle had erupted in the area. Josef jogged downstairs, his pistol reloaded and ready for action. The door was left open as they had done, and he jumped out behind the cover of a vehicle's carcass as a machine gun burst rattled in the night down the street, barely missing him. He crawled under the vehicle, coughing incessently, the smoke clogging his lungs. Josef was glad as he left the underside of the vehicle, jumping into action behind a ruin of a tank. A lietenant, of the Company, was already there and saluting. His had blowing in the wind.
"Sir, The fascists have surrounded this block. We must retreat to the precinct to make an effective resistance. Help is on it's way." The lieutenant held out a rifle, and Josef took it, nodding.
"Then let's get on our way, Comrade."
Three Hours later
All Home Guard and Army units in the area were committed to the fight in the capital. Some hundred thousand and fifty Communist soldiers, against a huger number of fascist hordes. many once-loyal workers had joined the ranks of the fascists, now some four hundred thousand men ready to fight for the cause against Communism. they had been promised promotion when the uprising had victory. They had been promised better houses and more money. An incentive to fight, considering the current conditions. On every floor of the Precinct, machine guns rattled, snipers picked off charging Fascists, and close combat teams battled with invading rebels in every section of the huge building. And at the top, the Autocrat, biting his lip and wincing with the pain of the three bullets that had been lodged into his stomach during combat in the lower levels of the precinct. The Dictator had decided to fight with his men, a huge morale boost as Dorsal killed fascist after fascist. But he had paid the price. A burst of 5.56mm rounds puncturing his kevlar vest and his human skin, and now the Autocrat was sitting upstairs, crimson blood flowing from his wound, the bandage soaking in the substance, major arteries pierced.
Josef Dorsal was dying.
And it had come. Today, according to their informants, was the day that the Autocrat was driving through the city, for a popular Soviet Workers Party support rally and to collect money. Alot of the money the state had was, as the Fascist's put it, stolen off the people. They had a plan. If they failed, every single last fascist would probably die. All fifty thousand of the rebels. If they suceeded the nation would change... for the better, who knows. But it would change.
The blizzard blew in the face of Fyodor Spaizkow, the man wiped his eyes and took out his AKM. Looking it over carefully, he pulled back the cock, and let it go making a clacking noise. He had oiled it very carefully. He felt like the rifle was his brother. Pressing it to his shouldr hard, and aiming through the makeshift scope, he was absorbed into a new world. His world. A world of death, misery, and destruction. He lowered the rifle, and pressed on, his brotherhood around him, nearly two hundred other fascists like him with rifles such as AKM's, L1A1's, Lee Enfields, and M14's among the weapons that would be used in the new war. The Fascists crept through the snow, into the city. It was perfect timing.
The edge of the city was tightly locked down, the M1 motorway being the only way at this moment to cross in. Hundreds of guards littered the area into the city walls, and APC's drove to and fro, their autocannons swinging from side to side. Alpatzi shivered in the immense cold, putting out his cigarette, lightly flicking it into the floor. His FN FAL lay over his shoulder, the magazine inserted but not cocked and the safety on. The APC drove right past him. He could hear the engine, and a wierd noise.. then all sound stopped. It seemed like he was underwater. Glancing around, the APC was on fire, a burning driver screaming for dear life as he roasted in the destroyer vehicle. Dropping to the floor, Alpatzi knew what was happening. He unslung his rifle, cocked it, and switched off the safety. The crump of grenades was all over, and machine guns rattled. Tracer rounds spat out of the cold darkness of the blizzard, cutting down his friends and comrades as he lay prone by the bunker, searching for a target. He smiled as a helicopter came overhead, it's minigun lighting up the corpses of some torn apart fascists, their pistols and submachine guns doing nothing against the Hind's fierce chaingun. A smile turned to a frown as two missiles smashed into the side of the Hind, an explosion following another as molten metal rained down on top of his position. Two comrades ran to the side, covering each other with their rifles taking pot shots into the blizzard where nothing could been seen within metres. They were promptly cut down with a machine gun. The fire was coming from all sides. The APCs were destroyed, the tell tale whine of a Milan resulting in the death of the crew and the destruction of the vehicle. Before no time had passed, Alpatzi was running into the city gates before they closed - but they didn't. The enemy was inside, everywhere, submachineguns ricocheting off walls and pistols firing in a crescendo of war, cutting down surprised soldiers as loyalists tried to close the gates. On the battlements, officers and soldiers alike whipped out pistols and tried to attack the fascists at close range, but they were outnumbered. The enemy had seeped into the gates, and now a huge battle was commencing. The loyalists were outnumbered nearly ten to one, yet they fought like cockerels in a fight, scratching and dodging but doing little damage. The fascists however, like a bulldog, swatting out the weak boned loyalists with superior numbers and almost firepower. Soon the gate was drenched in crimson blood and bullet holes. The battle had lasted ten minutes, but soon the Fascist banner was raised out of the gatepost.
The motorcade had turned back long since, the Autocrat inside the armoured vehicle, had his pistol ready, as the armoured convoy took turn after turn to retreat. Several Guards Rifles battalions had deployed, setting up checkpoints and the like, but it was of increasing distress of the Dictator that more troops were moving around in the streets. They where approaching the bridge in front of the gatehouse. One more turn and they were away. however, the driver had taken a wrong turn. The opposite side of the river. He had driven straight into the Fascist army.
The eight tanks and twelve armoured vehicles tried to turn around in the short gap of the road, but it was a hard task. Three of the Merkava's were soon burning hulks from RPG and Milan fire, the five others powering forwards ttrying to hold off the fascists. The rebels however swarmed over the tanks, dropping grenades into holes and jumping off. Rebels ahead of the group had fired a salvo of RPGs at the last of the vehicles , trapping the convoy. There was one hope. The two companies three streets down were moving to assist, but the five minutes they too would mean everything.
Josef kicked the door of the armoured vehicle down. The vehicle was near the back, so as he ran the enemy couldn't get a good shot. Bullets pinged off the cobble floors, as he dashed into a door, and smashed it down, three soldiers behind him. inside the room, everything was destroyed. two dead bodies, a woman and a child, where piled together in the corner, some chairs pushed over them. Josef was sick. It flowed from him, as if it were some natural thing, some virus. But it wasn't. The fascists had murdered innocents, children and women. They had died denying access to the country's famous enemy to their home. They would be avenged. The death of these civilians and many more would not be in vain. Josef cocked his pistol, nodding with a burning hatred in his eyes to the three soldiers behind him, as they smashed down another door and rushed upstairs. There was a machine gun crew, their 7.62mm machine gun pouring bullets out the window. Josef's pistol was up, and the rounds hit into the backs of the soldiers with a resounding "pewm" There was on left, however, and as the soldiers secured the room, Dorsal walked up to him. Blood flowed from the mans arm, which had already been hit by a rifle round. Josef brought the pistol sights into the forehead of the unfortunate fascist. Revenge was now. This was the time. He pulled the trigger, and the Fascist trooper fell backwards, his already senseless head knocking against the floorboards, blood flowing from the empty hole.
The clanking of tanks and troops came down the street, as Josef peered out a window and saw a Merkava spraying bullets down teh street at the advancing fascists. A bloodthirsty battle had erupted in the area. Josef jogged downstairs, his pistol reloaded and ready for action. The door was left open as they had done, and he jumped out behind the cover of a vehicle's carcass as a machine gun burst rattled in the night down the street, barely missing him. He crawled under the vehicle, coughing incessently, the smoke clogging his lungs. Josef was glad as he left the underside of the vehicle, jumping into action behind a ruin of a tank. A lietenant, of the Company, was already there and saluting. His had blowing in the wind.
"Sir, The fascists have surrounded this block. We must retreat to the precinct to make an effective resistance. Help is on it's way." The lieutenant held out a rifle, and Josef took it, nodding.
"Then let's get on our way, Comrade."
Three Hours later
All Home Guard and Army units in the area were committed to the fight in the capital. Some hundred thousand and fifty Communist soldiers, against a huger number of fascist hordes. many once-loyal workers had joined the ranks of the fascists, now some four hundred thousand men ready to fight for the cause against Communism. they had been promised promotion when the uprising had victory. They had been promised better houses and more money. An incentive to fight, considering the current conditions. On every floor of the Precinct, machine guns rattled, snipers picked off charging Fascists, and close combat teams battled with invading rebels in every section of the huge building. And at the top, the Autocrat, biting his lip and wincing with the pain of the three bullets that had been lodged into his stomach during combat in the lower levels of the precinct. The Dictator had decided to fight with his men, a huge morale boost as Dorsal killed fascist after fascist. But he had paid the price. A burst of 5.56mm rounds puncturing his kevlar vest and his human skin, and now the Autocrat was sitting upstairs, crimson blood flowing from his wound, the bandage soaking in the substance, major arteries pierced.
Josef Dorsal was dying.