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Thread: My Part of History

  1. #1
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    Default My Part of History

    My Part:

    Misinformation is a powerful thing, I think to myself as I hit send. Just one little button, and a whole bunch of people are going to be in a world of hurt.

    Not that I will see this, of course. I’m about nine miles away right now, in a seedy little motel room with what used to be a thug called J-Rod, I think, or maybe it was G-Rod, or Jay-Rod, or something. Whatever.

    It’s not like he’s going to need to answer to his name ever again. It’s not like he has eardrums anymore, either, though his . . . female friend, or what’s left of her, does. She’s not dead, yet, which surprises me; I shot her twice in the liver at close range, then cut the tendons on her arms and legs behind her knees and at her elbows. Duct tape is my friend, so her screams are, relative speaking, quiet. Relatively speaking.

    I’ve done what I came to do. The message is sent, and already J-Rod is receiving texts back, confirming that they, too, will be there. I drop the phone on the bed as I leave. I’m wearing gloves, but there’s a can of lighter fluid, already in the room that has, for the last week, been used to make meth.

    I turn on the fan in the bathroom. It’s on a timer, but the twenty minutes that it will run will be more than enough. I also turn on the HVAC unit under the window with the fan set to ‘outside air.’ Little details count in big ways.

    I knock the can down with my toe as I pass, and some splashes onto the woman’s face. She screams louder, but it’s still not loud enough to alert the neighbors. Not that they’d care.

    There’s a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, right next to a lighter, but even better than that, there’s a lit cigarette in the ashtray. I knock the trashcan over, then drop the cigarette on it. The lighter fluid is seeping its way across the carpet towards the small fire I’ve started as I leave, closing the door

    Details, details, details. I stand by the door for less than five seconds before I hear the ‘whoosh’ of the fire catching.

    Chaos. Death. Destruction. My work here is done, I think facetiously as I slide into the back seat of the minivan. I don’t say it out loud, though; it’s corny enough to think it.

    The driver takes off as Daniel, the man sitting behind me, helps slide a dress over my head. A second of adjustment and I’m decent again, and John, next to me, buckles my belt for me. We didn’t practice that, and I glare at him for it; he should be keeping a look out, not helping me.

    Daniel pats me on the shoulder, then turns to face the rear. I can hear him pick up his rifle and get back to his main job, covering our tail. It’s not as important as John’s job, though, because there’s two other men back there with him, and one riding shotgun up front. John is the only one who can cover the left front quarter, though.

    We leave. Our job is done; this particular ringleader is dead, and many of his followers will be too, soon, as they walk into the ambush we’re setting up. This is one of many that will take place today, though we probably won’t ever be able to do this again. Both the rioters and the military will be looking out for this trick to happen from now on, so it probably won’t work again.

    Or at least, it we like to think that, as a group, we would have learned from this. The DUY might not, and depending on their leaders, the military might not, either. We, though, our little splinter of Hell, won’t try this again.

    We head home. Home is now a little cluster of habitable buildings in the middle of several blocks of burned out rubble. A week into the riots, we had to stop a spreading fire by knocking down houses. Pragmatically, we chose ones that were on the other side of streets, and we took down trees, too, just to be safe. Now, the people of like mind who lived in the houses that were taken down have moved into the safe area, into the homes that other people fled.

    ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

    Home Again:

    We’ve been fortunate. We’ve only had to kick one person out, or we would have, but detox got to him first. He was a hard core druggie, on meth and coke and opiates, that we knew of. He ran out of his meds the second day and started trying to bum off other people. His girlfriend asked for help, and when none was forthcoming, she left, taking the three children who lived with them with her.

    None of us are perfect, and some of us are less perfect than others, so I was entirely unsurprised when someone I’d known for over a decade admitted that he’d been an addict. He still was, in fact, but he had been clean for a long time. That didn’t stop him from recognizing the signs of withdrawal, even masked, as they were, by the stress of the situation.

    We did what we could for the addict, but it wasn’t enough. Cold turkey was the only way we had; there were still some of the stronger painkillers around, but we couldn’t waste them on him.

    I kissed my husband as I walked in the door. Ours was one of the few houses that still had electricity, but we didn’t use it for light or air conditioning, even if it was hot outside. Given that it was the middle of November, there was no need, right now.

    My husband is disabled, and has been in a wheelchair for the last seven years. He’d been good with computers before the accident had retired him from the Navy; since then, he’s gotten better.

    What used to be the master bedroom is now a computer room, and the living and dining room is now a hospital for those who need the most care. Our bed is back in the family room. It’s not ideal, but it’s the best we can do. No other house in this area is handicapped-accessible.

    “Anything?” I ask.

    “Yes. We’re up to about six hundred replies from the DUYs. The sniper squads have signaled their intent to act, and the Military responded to the snipers’ communications while completely ignoring the DUYs.”

    “Good.” I reply in satisfaction. It had taken Harold three days to track down the current leader of the DUYs, and another two days to get to him. Five days of work and three flash riots, and the military hadn’t responded to the riots because they didn’t want to catch DUYs, they wanted to catch the good guys.

    Well, we turned that back on them.

    Our security sucked, but we’d managed to talk face-to-face with almost every sniper squad out there, even the independent ones. They all – or at least, most of them – knew that the whole point of this riot was to get the military to respond to the real problem, the DUYs, and not the snipers who were breaking the riots up.

    Some snipers would respond, I was sure, but none of ours, and none of the other three enclaves, we didn’t think. Or at least we hoped.

    You see, we already knew that the military wouldn’t fire on the rioters; they had one goal and one goal only, to catch the evil racist snipers who were killing those poor, poor Disadvantaged Urban Youths, DUYs for short, and breaking up their expressions of free speech – or riots, for reality.

    So the military would show up, but not fire. The DUYs, we hoped, would take this as a sign of weakness and attack them. They would be forced to defend themselves, killing a bunch of DUYs in the process.

    We hoped – we didn’t know for sure – but we hoped that this would be the impetuous needed for the military to get off its collective ass and deal with the riots like they should have been for the last month.

    Not that we blamed the guys in the trenches, so t speak, but if they could deploy rapidly enough to catch the snipers who were dispersing the riots, then they could certainly deploy fast enough to stop the rioters – if they wanted to.

    Problem was, the higher up didn’t want to catch the rioters.

    Rioting merited summary execution.

    Murder merited summary execution.

    Looting merited summary execution.

    The DUYs were doing all three in job lots, but executing ‘minorities’ in job lots was something that the current POTUS wanted to avoid at all costs. Literally. He quite literally didn’t care how many people died at the hands of the rioters. He didn’t care how much they disrupted traffic, trade, the shipment of goods, the travel of workers.

    He only wanted to look good for the cameras, and executing several hundred people of the same skin tone looked bad, provided those people were dark-skinned. Light skinned people he couldn’t care less about.

    Workers he couldn’t care less about, or voters, or the military, or anyone who actually made a positive contribution to the country. Ratings he cared about, the illusive, unreal ideology of lead-from-behind, of jumping on someone else’s bandwagon. The man had never had an original thought in his life, and as near as we could tell, he wasn’t going to start now.

    It was an October surprise, you see. Food stamps, now called SNAP, were to be cut in half in October and be gone entirely in November, because the other side was going to win, you see, and so he was just doing what they told him to do . . . or so he said.

    It made no sense to me, nor to anyone I talked to, but it seemed to make perfect sense to his sycophants in the MSM, who repeated if endlessly and tirelessly. It was all their fault, not his.

    The opposing party controlled the House and the Senate, and so controlled the checkbook, so if you looked, you would see that, in fact, the full amount of money had been paid out to every account. Darn you, reality.

    The riots had started mid-October, and POTUS had seemed genuinely surprised at them. I think he was genuinely surprised, at that. He was never good at translating a publicity stunt into real life.

    But the end of October, everyone who could leave the big cities did so. Those that couldn’t – because of jobs, lack of finances, or because they had no-where else to go. Most of them, or at least, the ones that lived in anti-gun states, are now probably dead.

    We didn’t leave because we have no-where else to go, and because our neighborhood banded together.

    We’re not an all-white enclave, no matter what others might think. About a quarter of us are from other demographics, but by and large, they keep inside the walls, when they can. Today, Daniel had gone with us, and for good reason. He’s what could be called a scary black man, but he doesn’t need to be black to be scary; he can do that with size alone. Daniel is the one who hauled me, protesting, to J-Rod’s door as a peace offering. I’m not young, I’m not the most fit or the prettiest, but I’m a natural blond, which is obvious when I’m naked, which I was, except for my gloves.

    Cliché as it is, there’s quite a bit of traffic in white women right now, but the young ones tend not to live long, so someone in her mid thirties, like me, was likely to still be alive after the week I’d spent as a slave, or at least that’s what we told J-Rod’s group. Funny thing I noticed, though – women of any race don’t seem to last long around DUYs, no matter what their age, for some reason. I guess after more than a generation of referring to women almost exclusively as ‘bitches’ and ‘hos,’ they just don’t respect women. Go figure.

    We’re around three hundred people in twenty or so houses, and we’ve taken over the high school, too, and its buildings, fields, and parking lots, so there’s a good bit of space for us. We’re eyeing the golf course on the other side, too. If things don’t settle down by the beginning of March, we’re going to take the golf course so we can have more and bigger gardens.

    Yeah, it will hurt the owners, but if it’s that or starve, well, then, there’s really no choice, is there?

    ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

    Trending:

    A week into the riots, we noticed a trend – flash riots. They’d pick a place and Tweet the location, and in half an hour, hundreds of DUYs would show up, block the roads, trash the place, rape and rob and murder, and then leave before the police could get themselves organized.

    Sniper teams were the response. Remember the Beltway Snipers? Same thing, only with a driver, too, and usually working in more than one vehicle.

    Some states had called in their National Guard to deal with the riots, and that was working, somewhat.

    POTUS didn’t call for the military to act, though, until the snipers showed up. What’s worse, snipers proved effective at making rioting too dangerous, but with the military on the snipers’ tails, the rioters effectively had bodyguards, so it all started back up again.

    That’s what our little game today was trying to accomplish. Trigger the riot in an area that looked high-value but had few easy routes in or out. Sure, they could go up the hills or across the river, but most of them wouldn’t think of that soon enough to do and good. The snipers that should show up won’t because they listened to Admiral Akbar.

    People are now paying attention to the DUYs’ tweets and texts, so the traffic, and thus the targets, should be greatly reduced. The military should show up, not fight, and then get attacked.

    It would, of course, be stupid for the DUYs to attack the military; after all, the military is the only thing that is protecting them from the snipers. But we’re counting on the DUYs being stupid. Maybe we shouldn’t, and after this, we won’t, but right now, it seems a pretty safe bet.

    I’d like to take a nap, but there’s bodies all over the place. Not on our bed, of course – someone had installed a wallbed for us, so that’s tucked up out of the way, but there’re people lounging on the sofa, loveseat, chairs, on the floor, even outside on the back patio.

    Most of the people waiting are guards, usually, but they’ve all volunteered for laundry duty tomorrow, so they get today off. Little do they know, we’re pulling out every bit of clothing or cloth that we have to get it cleaned while the weather is still good. There are a lot of beds with sheets that haven’t been changed in a month, but that will change tomorrow.

    I stir the pot of beans on the stove. We have a gas stove, which is wonderful, because it means we can cook at home. Most of the rest of the enclave has to use the communal kitchens. Of course, the oven is controlled using electricity, but we only bake bread in it once a week. For that day, it’s plugged in. Otherwise, it’s off.

    In my head, I count the people eating here. Myself, my husband, his two sons and our three children. My brother and his wife, and their four. My next door neighbor is in the early stages of pregnancy and the smell of cooking food of any kind makes her sick, so we’re feeding her husband and their two sons, and their three foster children.

    Eighteen or nineteen, depending on whether Andrea is up to eating. It’s a lot, but they’ve sent over enough beans to cover their part, and some cocoa powder, besides, as payment for the work.

    ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

    Action:

    “It’s starting!” My husband calls from what used to be the master bedroom, and there is a rush as everyone heads in to listen and observe.

    I follow more slowly. I have a designated seat just to one side of the desk. I can’t see any of the screens from my seat, but that doesn’t really matter. I’m close to my husband, that’s all that counts.

    Information comes in several streams, some from twitter and other social media sources, some from on-line chat, but the most important comes in from other sources.

    One is a police-band radio. It actually belongs to our neighbor, Larry, but he’s losing his hearing, and besides, he doesn’t have electricity.

    The second is a CB set-up. It’s not that useful, over all, but provides us with background, sometimes.

    The third is our own HAM radio set-up, complete with tower. It lets us see the bigger picture. TPTB are actually finding it easier to censor the internet than they are the HAM frequencies.

    The fourth, though, that’s our hole card. I don’t know where we got it, or what all was involved in getting it, but it has the channels that the government uses to coordinate troop movements.

    We’re smart. We have gotten a bunch of information from the fed radio, but we’ve never acted on it, other than to take note of their responses and response times. We aren’t going to take action against them, anyways, at least, not directly.

    The information comes in and is filtered through Harold. There are other people who get the raw data, of course, but by and large, there’s enough info coming in fast enough and in enough layers that it needs to be filtered for most people to make sense of it.

    Larry and I sit together. We both knit, and right now we’re each working on sweaters. It doesn’t get very cold here, but it gets cold enough. A couple of the other people knit, crochet, or sew, too, and they all have their handiwork with them. The ones we are teaching to knit don’t bother, nor does the many who does needlepoint; they would need to put too much attention into their work to pay attention; miscounted stitches are a pain, regardless of the medium.

    Every now and then, another report or event happens and is written down, and things unfold pretty much like we thought they would.

    Traffic in the target area dropped as soon as the text went out.

    Someone used the CB to put out the riot information to the truckers. We didn’t expect this, but no-one is upset. Trucks bring food, amongst other things, so if they’re not going into the kill zone, that’s all to the good.

    The military was deployed on the outer edge of the target area. Other than the rather steep hills on one side and the river on the other, there’s only six or so ways into the area, though the area itself would have been a rich target even a month ago.

    Actually, we picked it on purpose because it’s near the intersection of several state and interstate highways, and there’s a bunch of warehouses but almost no housing in the area. The roads are wide, and it would seem that there is abundant access to the area, but in reality, there’s not.

    The rioters arrive and set to their tasks, but we, at least, knew the area ahead of time. There are a lot of warehouses in the area, but they’re all empty, or at least, the ones that are still standing are empty.

    J-Rod is supposed to give the scatter order, but for obvious reasons, that’s not happening.

    The riots spread outward, but wonder of wonders, all of the sniper teams stayed away. I honestly didn’t think that even could happen, much less that it would.

    The military has their perimeter, and they stick to it. They’re looking for snipers and only snipers, and it occurs to me that

    The DUYs start burning buildings, which was hard, given that most of the buildings are metal and the rest are brick or stone. The military asks for permission to act, but they are denied.

    The DUYs and getting upset by about half way though they second hour. There’s no loot, no people, not cargo; there is, really, nothing to hold their interest in the target area, and so it shifts outward.

    It is at this point a sniper team might have been vulnerable, if there had been any. Hemmed in by military on one side and DUYs on the other, the DUYs might have learned that a concentrated charge is effective in taking out a sniper. Yes, a lot of them would die in the charge, but they’d be able to take out the sniper team or teams.

    Instead, they aim for the only other real target in the vicinity: the military. And no matter how you cut it, they can’t overrun the military, not here and now. They’re outnumbered two to one (the DUYs, that is, the military has more people,) they’re outgunned, and they’re basically untrained.

    And that’s when things get interesting, to say the least.

    I never thought we were the only people listening to the military channels; I don’t think that anyone here was stupid enough to believe that we were getting information that no-one wanted us to have. Someone gave us this radio, so that someone wanted us to hear.

    And they gave radios to others, too, apparently, because the traffic on the internet was heating up.

    We had this one event planned in our city, just the one, and Harold, my wonderful husband, had suggested to other enclaves in other cities that they might choose to do the same thing at approximately the same time.

    It was more successful than we could have hoped. Sixty-five cities planned and executed events, and most were as thoughtful as we had been – the flash riot was supposed to take place somewhere that looked, on paper, so to speak, like a good target, but in reality, had no value at all.

    And one by one, the rioters turned on the military instead of disbursing.

    Don’t get me wrong, I felt bad about that, in a way, but not very bad. Mostly, I felt bad about the guys on the front lines who were being told to hold their fire as large groups of DUYs advanced on their positions.

    What’s better, or worse, depending on how you look at it, we weren’t the only people to wire the site for sound, not to mention video, and over two dozen groups, ours included, were cutting the video into segments and posting it as fast as it happened. Some groups tried live-streaming the video, but those sites were, relatively speaking, easy to take down. Anonymous servers made sure that our posts were hard to track or trace.

    In our case, the DUYs were less than fifty feet away from the positions that the military had taken before a shot was fired. Here, as with many places, the DUYs were throwing rocks, bottles, and whatever else they could as they advanced, and at right around fifty feet, the mob was close enough that some people, at least, could actually reach the sites. Not many, mind you, but some.

    They might have waited longer, but someone in the crowd still had bullets. Many had guns, mind you, but after a month with too many targets and too little self-control, only groups like us still had ammunition.

    But at least one of the DUYs did, and one of the shots, not the first one, we don’t think, actually hit a human target.

    And that was that, really. That position was being fired upon, so that one position returned fire. The others soon followed suit, and in all, just over four hundred of the estimated thousand rioters died either immediately or over the next few days from lack of medical care.

    ----- ----- ----- ----- -----

    Afterwards:

    And that was only in our city. New York City took out three thousand that they admitted to. Los Angeles had two riots at the same time, for a total of five thousand. Miami, Dallas, East St. Louis, and Kansas City each admitted to five thousand, as well, though estimates for all four cities were considerably higher.

    Chicago and Detroit, though, had the undisputed highest casualty rates. Between the two of them, it is estimated that over thirty-five thousand people died because they didn’t have anything better to do than challenge the military. The real shock, for most of us, was that there were still that many people in the cities.

    Of course, not every city had our success in warning off snipers, but in the end, that didn’t really matter. A total of forty-six people were tired for crimes relating to sniping, but oddly enough, most of the trials ended with acquittals or hung juries. It seemed that the juries had to be made up of registered voters, and just about the only ones to be found were located in enclaves like ours.

    The changes in orders started at the bottom and worked their way up. Local commanders no longer bothered to target the snipers. What was the point?

    They stopped trying to ‘inspect’ the enclaves and let the local law enforcement handle it, whatever ‘it’ was.

    The shaking continued up the chain of command, even as the military pulled back to their bases and refused to fight on American soil.

    The POTUS was, understandably, furious, but got no support from the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

    He got his revenge, or so he thought, just after Thanksgiving when La Raza and the Aztlan separatists moved. It was silly of them, really; they could have moved during the riots instead of waiting until the military had pulled back to the bases.

    Snipers that were effective against rioters weren’t effective against the separatists, but they didn’t have to be. When the POTUS refused to give orders for Arizona, New Mexico, and parts of Texas and California to be defended, Congress quickly impeached and convicted him. The VPOTUS proved to be much more reasonable, and though it was bloody, by the end of January, we had control of most of Northern Mexico, all of Baja California, and troops had taken Mexico City, too.

    Shortly after that, picture ID laws were passed in all fifty states, and then we held elections. Three and a half months late, but they happened. VPOTUS, now POTUS, ran, but lost to the other party.

    Things were getting better, but we kept the walls up, and we plowed up that golf course for gardens, for the same reason I waited until the lighter fluid caught before leaving the motel, all those months ago.

    Little details count in big ways, and if you don’t make sure it happens yourself, then it might not happen at all.




    End.

  2. #2
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    Matt Bracken?
    Stupid should hurt- bad

  3. #3
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    Quote Originally Posted by opsview View Post
    Matt Bracken?
    No clue.

    This was my drug-induced dream last night.

    (Literally drug-induced. I'm on anti-seizure meds that have the side effect of giving me vivid, coherent-at-the-time dreams that are easy to remember.)

    Who's Matt Bracken?

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    http://westernrifleshooters.wordpres...ence/#comments

    MUY=Minority Urban Youth
    Sniper Teams
    Stupid should hurt- bad

  5. #5
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    Oh, yeah. I did read that article, I guess.

    But the article never made any mention of everyone's skin being blue, which it was in my dream . . . I told you, they're drug induced.

  6. #6
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    Quote Originally Posted by Narshalla View Post
    Oh, yeah. I did read that article, I guess.

    But the article never made any mention of everyone's skin being blue, which it was in my dream . . . I told you, they're drug induced.
    Bartender....... I'll have what she's having
    Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.

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    Very, very interesting! Thanks for a great read.

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    Quote Originally Posted by Narshalla View Post
    Oh, yeah. I did read that article, I guess.

    But the article never made any mention of everyone's skin being blue, which it was in my dream . . . I told you, they're drug induced.
    Your drug prescription must be PC-compliant
    Stupid should hurt- bad

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    Quote Originally Posted by RVN11B View Post
    Very, very interesting! Thanks for a great read.
    Thank you!

    Quote Originally Posted by opsview View Post
    Your drug prescription must be PC-compliant
    Na, not really. It does, however, mess with my brain chemistry (that's the whole point, actually.)

    This is the first one I've had that is in the 'prep' genre. Most are SciFi.

    You know what I can't figure out? Everyone's skin was blue, and the same shade, too, and no-one had hair except me, (another detail I left out of the story,) and yet, there were still minorities! No clue how that worked, and I'm the one who thought it up!
    Last edited by Narshalla; 09-05-2012 at 11:23 PM.

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    Quote Originally Posted by Narshalla View Post
    Thank you!



    Na, not really. It does, however, mess with my brain chemistry (that's the whole point, actually.)

    This is the first one I've had that is in the 'prep' genre. Most are SciFi.

    You know what I can't figure out? Everyone's skin was blue, and the same shade, too, and no-one had hair except me, (another detail I left out of the story,) and yet, there were still minorities! No clue how that worked, and I'm the one who thought it up!
    Everyone's skin is blue, huh? Must be....YEP!...Gotta be the smurfs. (Sorry, Narshalla, Just had to throw that in...snicker, snicker)

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