Sat Jan 01, 2011 6:56 pm
Soups prologue
The stale bread is still lingering halfway down your throat, You swore today that you would never drink the rusty water in the creek again. Your crops are dead, the land's been desecrated by the busy hands of offshore politicians. Spirit and cheer are a myth. There's nothing left. Four miles away your make-shift home of scrap wood and salvage metal from the foundry's refuse is being ravaged by flames, and so is "he". Derek saw to that.
You stand ten minutes down shore of the foundry, relishing the fond memories when the sea breeze was sweet and held aloft various birds from far off islands. The ember of your third-rate cigarette singes your finger tips and you know it's time.
Face covered by black cloth and the metal clink of your salvage revolvers stifled by the same, you enter the foundry's lumber yard by way of shadows. You proceed to the rendezvous point and see that Derek is already in position. With the fence snipped you and your brother proceed with over-bearing vigilance. Derek heads for the docks to secure the get away as you enter the foundry...
A building of steam and steel, a seemingly impenetrable technological marvel. There are no dogs, traps, guards, alarms or any sort of defense. You assume the politicians in their arrogance do not fear the simple peons they dictate. You begin placing your primitive bombs, Derek had taught you to craft, through out the lonely foyer and lifeless halls. You proceed downwards, trailing oil soaked cloth between satchels as a sort of wick. You pass the forge, the kitchen, the armories and the various storage rooms. Supplies that could last the island for years. Rooms and beds for every last person. Around the final corner and down the staircase you see why all is so calm in the foundry.
Your eyes strain to take in the sight, a cavernous room with a body of water in the middle of the floor, home to a monstrosity of steel. Twelve men stand at the edge of the water, rye in hand. You creep along the upper walkways until you face their backs. Twelve men, twelve bullets. Guns reloaded and re-holstered you place the final charge at the bottom of the staircase. Your knuckles go white as you undo the hatch of the iron beast and drop down inside. Bones meet flesh as you are struck. Your eyes water and you draw. The shots miss and the boy cowers. "I'm the only one who can pilot this" he pleads.
You light your last cigarette as he explains of distant lands, tyrants, and technology. When he finishes on the topic of "The Relics" you touch the butt of your smoke to the oil soaked cloth strip and tell him to dive.
You stand ten minutes down shore of the foundry, relishing the fond memories when the sea breeze was sweet and held aloft various birds from far off islands. The ember of your third-rate cigarette singes your finger tips and you know it's time.
Face covered by black cloth and the metal clink of your salvage revolvers stifled by the same, you enter the foundry's lumber yard by way of shadows. You proceed to the rendezvous point and see that Derek is already in position. With the fence snipped you and your brother proceed with over-bearing vigilance. Derek heads for the docks to secure the get away as you enter the foundry...
A building of steam and steel, a seemingly impenetrable technological marvel. There are no dogs, traps, guards, alarms or any sort of defense. You assume the politicians in their arrogance do not fear the simple peons they dictate. You begin placing your primitive bombs, Derek had taught you to craft, through out the lonely foyer and lifeless halls. You proceed downwards, trailing oil soaked cloth between satchels as a sort of wick. You pass the forge, the kitchen, the armories and the various storage rooms. Supplies that could last the island for years. Rooms and beds for every last person. Around the final corner and down the staircase you see why all is so calm in the foundry.
Your eyes strain to take in the sight, a cavernous room with a body of water in the middle of the floor, home to a monstrosity of steel. Twelve men stand at the edge of the water, rye in hand. You creep along the upper walkways until you face their backs. Twelve men, twelve bullets. Guns reloaded and re-holstered you place the final charge at the bottom of the staircase. Your knuckles go white as you undo the hatch of the iron beast and drop down inside. Bones meet flesh as you are struck. Your eyes water and you draw. The shots miss and the boy cowers. "I'm the only one who can pilot this" he pleads.
You light your last cigarette as he explains of distant lands, tyrants, and technology. When he finishes on the topic of "The Relics" you touch the butt of your smoke to the oil soaked cloth strip and tell him to dive.
