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#1
04-11-2011, 08:51 AM
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A Day in the T2K Life
Hi all,
I'm interested in describing more the life that goes on for people in the T2K world. I thought one way to do this would be to write short narratives of "a day in the life" of someone, anyone, describing the world they live in. Would others like to contribute? I realize we all likely have different viewpoints, but I thought it might be a nice creative outlet as well as a source of ideas sharing. I'll start... Andrew edit: Re: the below: well, that was a bit longer than I first intended, but anyway.... I'd be keen to see what else people come up with. Last edited by atiff; 04-11-2011 at 09:38 AM. 
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#2
04-11-2011, 09:37 AM
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Henry, the farm laborer
Henry rose at dawn, as was his habit at this time of the year. The spring sun shone strongly through the window. His two children stirred as he rose from their their common bed, but did not wake. He let them sleep while he dressed and prepared breakfast.
This consisted of building up the fire in the makeshift hearth next to the window they had turned into a chimney using some bricks and sheet metal. Then he reheated last night's meal - a kind of thin stew made of potato, carrot and a little chicken. It wasn't great without seasoning, but the best he could do. His wife could have done better, if she was still alive; but alas, she had succumbed to influenza during the winter of '98. By the time the food was heated, the children were up. Thomas, the oldest at 12, helped his 8-year-old sister, Helen, tidy the bed after they were dressed. They joined their father and ate quickly. Henry reminded Thomas that the boy was due to help at the sawmill today. Thomas nodded but said nothing, and lowered his head somewhat glumly. Henry had the suspicion that Thomas was not treated so well at the mill. It wasn't easy work for a boy, Henry knew, but they needed the chits to trade for things at the market, as well as any wood that Thomas could scavenge. Before leaving the house, Henry reminded Helen to bolt the door while they were gone, and to keep the zip gun handy when she went down to the market. He hoped to God she never had to use it, but it was there just in case. Everyone in the town remembered what had happened to the Elsmore sisters, and no-one wanted that to happen to their own child or anyone else's. The hobby gunsmiths had done a brisk trade after that incident, despite the assurances of the mayor that the militia would be more watchful of strangers from out of town. It wasn't only strangers that could do that kind of thing... Henry made way over to Anderson's farm, where he was tasked with helping to do the planting. Old man Welch was already there with his plow-team, jabbering away to himself and cursing anyone who got to close to him, as he always did. He was a bit crazy, pushed just over the edge by the effects of the War, but he was one of only three men in the district with a plow-team, and as such everyone put up with his abuse. Henry picked up his seed bag and planting tool from Anderson and got to work. ---------- By day's end, Henry was covered in dirt, dust, and sweat. It has been a hot one again, and he could feel the back of his neck tingling from mild sunburn. It would have been a lot worse if he still had the more pale skin he sported back in '96, but the intervening years had tanned him considerably. He picked up his day's pay from Anderson, nine embossed metal discs that the town called 'chits', and made his way back home in the fading light. By the time he got there, he was famished. The bread-and-soup lunch provided as part of the work had been quite tasty, but not filling enough for such a strenuous day. As he approached home, he could smell dinner cooking; Helen had been busy, it seemed. Thomas was talking with their neighbors, the Patersons, and waved them goodbye to join his father in entering the house. Thomas seemed happy; the day must have gone well for him, and Henry was happy because of it. Thomas handed over the three chits he had earned. Henry gave 10 chits to Helen for tomorrow's shopping and added the remaining two to the stash in the hidden wall cavity where their other few valuables were stored. Dinner turned out to be hard bread and stringy vegetables. The vegetables were quite overcooked, but Henry thanked Helen for her efforts anyway. She was becoming a canny haggler at the market and the amount she had bought today was a pretty good haul. As they ate dinner together in the light of their two alcohol lamps, Thomas pointed out the stack of wood off-cuts he had picked up from the mill grounds with the permission from the foreman. Helen also talked about the progress of their vegetable garden out back, small but developing well, it seemed. After dinner, while Thomas performed his role of reading tutor to Helen using a badly-damaged copy of a David Eddings novel, Henry investigated the off-cuts and selected the ones he could use; the rest went into the firewood pile. Then, after putting the kids off to bed, he got back to his project of making chicken boxes. His old carpentry hobby was paying off here. If he could finish 10 boxes for McLeod by Friday, he could take his pick of two live hens in exchange (a cheaper rate than McLeod could get by going to the professional carpenters in town). Henry thought of fresh eggs as he finished two more boxes before turning in to get some much-needed sleep before the next day of planting.
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#3
04-12-2011, 07:27 AM
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I liked this alot! I thought it really captured the daily struggle that most common folk would be enduring, and the uncertainty of it all. Most people would live in constant fear and worry and only a very few would thrive. It was well written too. Well done. Might have a go at it myself if I get time...
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#4
04-12-2011, 07:49 AM
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Thump.
Sergeant Stovall slowly paced the line of dead marauders laid out in the hastly dug ditch. This particular bunch had made a try on the grain silo, trying to steal the seed grain that was stored there. PFC Parker had been on the ball, spotting the forms making thier way through the early morning fog, he mused, the PFC had earned himself an extra ration chit for sure. Thump. Two of his men, Privates Anderson and Yates tossed another mostly naked body into the ditch after they finished stripping the corpse of anything useable. Sergeant Stovall paused and looked over the collection of weapons, old bolt action rifles, a couple of shotguns, three AK-74s, a couple of battered M-16s, enough ammunition for about three seconds of fighting, a couple of home-made crossbows, and several makeshift spears and home-made shanks. The clothing was equally battered and torn, when it was washed clean of the filth and blood, the stuff might make decent rags, Stovall thought to himself. Thump. Stovall looked down the line of corpses, a body count of eleven, LT will be pleased, he mused, taught them raggedly marauders a lesson, mess with Charlie Company and you get your ass handed to you! Private Yates paused, holding a couple of .30-30 rounds that he had just pulled out of a pocket. "Anderson, this crap ever get you down?" Anderson looked up as he pulled the bodies home-made sandals off, "Nope! Better us then them, at least we get two meals a day and decent clothes ta where!" He spit a thin stream of tobacco juice into the face of the dead marauder. Yates, watched this final insult to the body and thought to himself....but these people are Americans too, aren't we supposed to be protecting the civilians?
__________________
The reason that the American Army does so well in wartime, is that war is chaos, and the American Army practices chaos on a daily basis.
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#5
04-12-2011, 08:38 AM
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Dan trudged along the cracked, weed-grown asphalt of 17-92 towards Orlando. Sunlight beat down, but a broad boonie hat kept the worst of it off of Dan's face and neck. Slung on his back was a mesh bag filled with oranges, so large and heavy that it almost dragged the ground. Dan stumbled and cursed; it was another seven miles to the market in downtown Orlando. Seven miles of carrying nearly fifty pounds of oranges, tangerines and grapefruit that in all reality, nobody but the fuel guy or booze merchants would buy, and they paid for shit: citrus, in Florida, was essentially a weed even after the storms and freezes.
Still, it was all Dan had left to trade. Looters had stripped all the houses from Altamonte to Sanford - unless you were in the market for high end electronics that had long ago ceased to function. There was plenty of that to be had! Computers, VCRs, laserdisk and DVD players, TVs... Scavengers wouldn't touch the stuff unless they had to move it to get to more valuable things. Dan stumbled again, twisting his knee. The weight of the sack bore him down and he ground his palms on the hot asphalt. He sat up and examined his calloused hands. They were pocked with small abrasions, but no cuts. These days, a deep enough cut could be a death sentence. Hydrocortisone, peroxide, even "clean" alcohol was as scarce as hens' teeth unless you were admitted into a hospital, and that was a grueling wait outside in the heat and humidity. Unless you were seriously bleeding, pregnant, or otherwise in dire need of medical attention odds are you'd end up sitting out there while a charge nurse took your name, your condition and told you to come back "later". So tending to one's injuries was a must. Dan regarded a skull, sitting in the weeds in the middle lane. Join me for a spell? the jawless apparition seemed to ask. Near the skull lay a cell phone: a fancy one, by the logo. Dan picked it up and turned it over and over. The sun had permanently bleached the plastic case, and burned the LCD screen black. The denaturing process had left the plastic brittle and the once-upon-a-time expensive status symbol crumbled in Dan's hands, exposing the greenish circuit board within. Gossamer-thin tracings of wire were etched into the surface, a chip of blue plastic sat underneath a wire retainer clip. SIM card Dan mused. And...and...he held the board closer to his face, shielding it in the shade of his broad-brimmed hat. A glint of yellow: that unmistakable, precious yellow. Less than the husk of a grain of rice, but there nonetheless. That was something traders did buy. A few ounces of gold could get you firearms, antibiotics, fuel...Dan took his multi-tool out of his pocket and worked all the flakes of gold off that he could. The slivers of alloy were so thin they threatened to blow away, but he carefully slid them into the plastic baggie that held his ration card. Dan began to think. If he could find one, why not more? He looked carefully around the street. No, no more abandoned phones...but a phone was only one piece of electronics. Dan looked up a side-street and jogged towards the subdivision entrance a few yards down the road. Abandoned houses with smashed windows and caved in doors lined the road. In a heap on one lawn lay PC cases, just visible through the elephant grass almost entirely blocking the road. He ran back and shouldered the bag of fruit and started back towards the distant towers of downtown Orlando. I'll have to get me a pan, he thought. Big flat one, a wok. The Viets in Little Saigon are always selling them. A pan, then build a fire underneath it, melt the stuff loose off the boards, the base metals'll separate on their own... Dan's life was about to become much, much better. Last edited by raketenjagdpanzer; 04-12-2011 at 06:55 PM.
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#6
04-12-2011, 08:12 PM
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Good story, very atmospheric. One thing though -
Quote:
__________________
 "It is better to be feared than loved" - Nicolo Machiavelli
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#7
04-12-2011, 09:14 PM
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Sim cards were also the size of a credit card too at the time so I believe, and phone screens were basic things at best.
It's an easy mistake to make for most people today. We've all grown so used to the technology of the last couple of years and forgotten how primitive things were in comparison 15 years ago.
__________________
If it moves, shoot it, if not push it, if it still doesn't move, use explosives. Nothing happens in isolation - it's called "the butterfly effect" Mors ante pudorem
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#8
04-12-2011, 09:29 PM
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Quote:
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#9
04-12-2011, 09:31 PM
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Possible I suppose, but my memory is the smaller ones were still very new and rare.
__________________
If it moves, shoot it, if not push it, if it still doesn't move, use explosives. Nothing happens in isolation - it's called "the butterfly effect" Mors ante pudorem
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#10
04-13-2011, 06:06 AM
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Gold recycling from electronics links
Hi, dug up these....
http://www.finishing.com/447/06.shtml http://www.ehow.com/about_4728480_co...recycling.html http://www.pennyjobs.com/pp/public/Articles.aspx?aid=22 "Dan" might still get something, but maybe not get rich... They layers might have been a bit thicker in the 90s, not sure.... Andrew
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#11
04-13-2011, 09:23 AM
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Quote:
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#13
04-13-2011, 09:16 PM
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Quote:
__________________
"It is better to be feared than loved" - Nicolo Machiavelli
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#14
04-14-2011, 01:48 AM
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I'm guessing KC is like me - the discussion and critique is fine, but its the stories we're interested in
I'm trying to write up a short piece myself to get on here, but a 4 year old and a 5 week old aren't helping....
__________________
Chuck Norris can kill two stones with one bird.
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#15
04-14-2011, 03:15 AM
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Yep Tigger. The stories are great. Critiquing work is fine. Detailed discussion on gold/no-gold in 1980 mobile phones ... it clutters the thread. 1) it doesnt add anything, 2) we're gaming a post apocolyptic world, i think we can suspend reality re grams of gold in a phone.
Been a while since i posted here, no intent to offended anyone - more wanting to encourage people to post their day in the life rather than get bogged in detail ...
__________________
"Beep me if the apocolypse comes" - Buffy Sommers
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#16
04-14-2011, 06:32 AM
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Quote:
__________________
If it moves, shoot it, if not push it, if it still doesn't move, use explosives. Nothing happens in isolation - it's called "the butterfly effect" Mors ante pudorem
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#17
04-14-2011, 08:00 AM
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(I stand by Dan's find, regardless of DVD player versus not; and gold was a lot more prominent in older consumer electronics.)
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#19
04-14-2011, 10:11 AM
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Pavel
I wrote this a while ago, more about the character than a 'day in the life', but it may amuse some....
------------------------ Work at the Citizenship Office was not stimulating for him, but Pavel could see the logic in the process. The city was only capable of supporting a certain number of people, and even that relied on imports of food from the surrounding counties and vovoideships. So making decisions on who could and could not be a citizen of Krakow simply made good sense, if the city wanted to survive and prosper. Pavel could not understand why some of the petitioners seemed unable to agree with this reasoning. He watched the queue and the process from his appointed place near the front of the hall. Mr. Kowalski and Mr. Chelavich were the gatekeepers. They sat opposite ends of a long table that served as the border between outcast and potential citizen. In a sense, they were the two most powerful people in the room. One or other of them questioned with each petitioner about their value to the city. The typical line of questioning went like this: "What did you do before the war?" "What have you been doing since then?" "How many dependents do you have?" "Why should we let you become a citizen of Krakow?" The last question was rarely asked, and usually only be Mr. Chelavich. He said it was something to do with the "X factor" to help him decide. This did not make much sense to Pavel, as usually the first two questions were the deciding factors. Once given the answers to these two questions, Mr. Kowalski or Mr. Chelavich would call to their helpers, clerks that ran the filing cabinets. The clerks would bring the files related to the skills and professions that were in the petitioner's answers, and they would be checked to see if the city had need of such people. Actually, Pavel corrected himself, that was not accurate. The city did not need them; sponsors did. Sponsors were the people who wished to take on extra staff, laborers, or specialists for their businesses. Usually specialists were what was most demanded, and so the criteria were quite exacting (as they should be, thought Pavel). If someone seemed to be a match to a requirement, they were escorted past the gatekeepers' table to the middle or back of the hall, where they waited until they were quizzed by citizens who were specialists. Some waited most of the day; many specialists often only attended in the last hour of the day. There were always a few experts in the room, but these were usually farming types or military men; this was the most common type of specialist in demand. If all went well, they were accepted by a sponsor, and went to another building for probationary citizenship processing; if not, they were escorted out of the hall. Pavel's role in all this was to watch for and deal with anyone who would disrupt this process. For some reason, people could tend to get physical with the staff as this otherwise orderly process took place. Pavel did could not fathom why this would be the case. But it happened nevertheless, and Pavel was one of those tasked to deal with such instances. As he stood and watched, suddenly he felt the throbbing again. It was always in the same place in his head. It happened less frequently now than before, perhaps only once or twice a week, and Pavel had learned how to deal with it. He clenched his jaw and waited motionless for the discomfort to subside. Normally, his vision blurred a little with the pain, but this time it stayed clear. Within a few seconds, the pain was gone, and Pavel relaxed his jaw again. As usual, no-one seemed to notice anything had happened. Mr. Chelavich, who sat closest to where Pavel was stationed, called forward the next petitioner. A male, perhaps 35 years old, swaggered forward, dressed in a mismatch of military clothing that looked a size too small for his frame. Pavel could see American Army boots and shirt, trousers that looked of Polish issue, and a slightly singed leather jacket that was probably Russian in origin, perhaps a tanker's. The man had an aggressive expression on his face, looking like he might be trouble. Pavel casually moved his hands and clasped them together in front of his belt buckle. Reaching the desk, the man spoke. His Polish was quite good, but with an accent that marked him as probably American. "So who do I have to screw to get into this place?" Mr. Chelavich studied the man for a moment, and got a hard stare in return. He looked down and started with the routine questions; "What did you do before the war?" "I'm a Master Sergeant from the US Army," spat the American. "I've been in since '87, and I've fought all over this god-damned country for the last three years. I daresay I know more about weapons and small-unit tactics anyone in your little free-city army here, and I want in. Now." He punctuated this final point by leaning on the table and stabbing his forefinger into the woodwork. Pavel picked up on the religious adjective, and shook his head slightly. He was a practicing Catholic and disapproved of the inappropriate use of the Father's name. "I see," said Mr. Chelavich. He called for the files on military sponsors, and a clerk quickly retrieved a half-inch folder from the cabinets. Mr. Chelavich held it up and opened it so that he could see he contents, but the American could not. After perhaps five seconds, he closed the folder and said, "I am sorry, but there are no openings at the moment. Now, if you would please exit through..." "Lying prick! That's a nice fat file you've got there," retorted the American. He pointed towards the back of the hall. "And I can see two NCOs and an officer from the ORMO right there, just waiting for someone like me." "As I said, there are no openings right now," said Mr. Chelavich, as he stood up and closed the folder, preparing to return it to the cabinets himself. Pavel recognized the sign. "Now look here..." said the American. But as he started forward, Pavel stepped smoothly into his path. "You were asked to exit the office. The correct door is behind you," Pavel said, in English, in his usual level voice. It was not a threat. The man had been turned down, and should now leave. Pavel wondered what was so difficult with that concept. The American stopped and glared at Pavel, standing almost casually in front of him with hands clasped at his front. Pavel was neither big nor tall. With Pavel being barely 5'10", the American was a good 4 inches taller. The taller man was also obviously in good shape, whereas Pavel's slightly baggy clothing disguised his athletic build. Pavel was not carrying a visible weapon. The American made his assessment quickly; "Like hell," he growled, and reached to grab Pavel by the front of the shirt, probably to toss him aside. Instead, it was Pavel's hands that made contact. Still clasped, they shot up together from their starting point at his belt as Pavel took a half-step back. The effect was a kind of double-handed uppercut. Coming from a blind spot down low, the American didn't see the movement until Pavel's hands were over half-way towards their target. The blow struck squarely under the American's jaw. There was a crunch of teeth and bone, and the man's head was thrown back. Such was the power of Pavel's strike that the American was lifted onto his toes before falling backwards. His head struck the hardwood floor with a crunching thud, and then the tip of his tongue landed near his feet. Blood spilled from the man's mouth and nose as he lay motionless on the floor. Pavel looked up, and saw the entire room had stopped. He glanced at Mr. Chelavich, who had gone a little white and seemed in shock. No-one said anything for a second or two. Pavel knelt next to the man on the floor, and turned his head to examine the jaw. It flopped a little too easily. Pavel checked the neck for a pulse, but found none. Still kneeling, he made the sign of the cross. "Lord, please forgive this man for his sins, and may he rest in peace. Amen." Pavel picked up the body in a fireman's hold to move it out of the hall. He took two steps toward the door, then turned and stooped to pick up the piece of tongue. As he stood again, he heard the hushed voices of several people whispering. "... busted neck?" "... see how fast that was?" "... and then he prayed for him?" Pavel paid them no mind. The office should get back to business; it was almost the end of the day, and time was wasting. He motioned to another guard to take his place near the head of the queue. Then he carried the dead American to the exit, through a rapidly-parting queue of prospective citizens of Krakow.
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#20
04-14-2011, 11:38 AM
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Quote:
Webstral
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#21
04-14-2011, 01:51 PM
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“Dig faster, you lazy bastard!” the harsh snarl of the overseer was punctuated by the sharp crack of his whip swiftly followed by the sickening sound of the scourge gouging into flesh. The man next to Josef groaned and stumbled to the ground as the whip struck him again, flecks of blood splattered onto Josef’s face as he drove his pick into the hard face of the coal seam. Splinters of coal pricked at Josef’s face as he prised the pick back and forth and watched another lump of the black rock fall to the floor.
He raised the pick again and struck the face of the seam even as the man beside him started to scream. Josef stole a glance over his shoulder and saw the overseer laying into the man next to him, blood streamed from his back and Josef caught a flash of white bone under the hamburger mess of the man’s back. A second overseer grabbed the whip arm of the first, “You’re clogging up the face you fool,” he said, “do you want to join the bastards?” He looped his own whip around the unfortunate victim’s neck and dragged him away from the face. The man sobbed and screamed as the blood from his wounds left a slug trail of red along the rocky ground, “Work harder you pathetic scum,” the first overseer yelled, “you still need to make up your quota even without him!” Josef strained his aching back even further as he repeatedly prised coal from the stubborn black face. Workers behind him grabbed up the coal and loaded it into small wagons. Josef’s hands bled despite the hardened calluses and his body screamed in pain at the punishment he was going through. Eventually it became too dark to see and the overseers called time on the shift. The workers shuffled miserably out of the open cast pit and the overseers supervised them as they lined up at the soup kitchen. Hawk-eyed guards pointed rifles at the men as they took the ladle full of broth and a handful of potato from the cooks. Josef sat on a rock with his food and swiftly began to wolf it down. The potato was raw and full of mould and eyes but the hungry man wolfed it down regardless. He started on the broth but was too late. The dim light of the watch fires was blocked out by dark shadows. Josef looked up to see three of his fellow workers standing in front of him. The men were filthy and clad in rags. Each of them had prominent ribs and long, straggling beards. Josef paused with his bowl inches from his lips, “That’s ours, boy.” the middle man, a tall Ukrainian with a wall eye and two yellow fangs left in his mouth, “Tax.” “Go pick on someone else,” Josef said, “this food is mine.” He caught the red glint of a shiv as the man on the left pulled it from a pocket; Josef sighed as the knife man moved swiftly forward, Josef threw his bowl at the man’s face and stepped to the side. As the knifeman paused to dash away the bowl, Josef lashed his right foot out and caught the man on the right temple with the heel of his ragged boot. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the floor as his two companions closed in on Josef. The lone man lunged forward at the advancing pair and ducked below the wild hay-maker of the tallest thug. Josef hit the man hard in the solar plexus, smashing into the nerve cluster and momentarily immobilising him. As he doubled over, Josef felt the burning pain of a knife slashing across his fore arm. The last man’s shiv was designed for stabbing rather than slashing and the wound was painful but not deep. Josef stabbed his knuckles at the man’s throat and the last knifeman clutched at his throat and staggered backward. Josef pivoted and grabbed the Ukrainian’s knotted hair as he smashed his face down onto his knee. Josef felt the satisfying crunch of bones shattering and he turned back to the second knife man. The man was lying on the floor, his windpipe crushed. Josef picked up the shiv and stabbed it repeatedly into the man’s jugular. He left him bleeding out and turned to do the same thing to the ring leader. Josef finished the unconscious man and then quickly searched the three bodies. The Ukrainian’s boots were in better repair than Josef’s and as they were his size he changed them with his own. He gathered up the two shivs and the half loaf of bread that they had stashed away in a small sack. Josef retreated to a corner of the open cast mine and gnawed at the black bread as others swarmed over the bodies. The dead were stripped and several men dragged the bodies off into the deep crevasses of the mine. Josef tried not to think about what was going on in the darkness. Heavy footsteps echoed through the deep cutting and Josef saw several armed guards escorting an officer with highly polished boots and carrying a riding crop. The man emerged from his guards and said, “I was watching that,” he said, his voice soft and cultured, “what is your name and where are you from?” “Josef Kowalski, Sir,” Josef replied, “from Gdansk.” “Interesting,” the officer replied, “and where did you learn to fight like that?” Josef shrugged, “The streets were hard in my childhood.” “Hard, my arse,” the officer replied, “now give me the real answer before I have you shot.” “I was part of the 6th Amphibious Assault Brigade,” Josef replied, “I ended up as an unarmed combat instructor.” “Thank you,” the officer replied, “now we can really talk.” “Talk about what, Sir?” “About your new life in Krakow,” the officer said as he smiled, “people with such fighting prowess as yourself should do well in the fighting pits there. What do you say?” “Will I get more food than here?” “Plenty,” the officer said, “in fact, you’ll need a few weeks’ feeding up before you’re up to fighting weight.” Josef looked around, a few more weeks in here and he’d be dead. “You have a fighter, Sir,” he replied.
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#22
04-17-2011, 06:21 PM
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I think in the canon timeline of Twilight, the Pentium II would have been the most advanced Intel chip before the missiles flew. Chuck
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Slave to 1 cat.
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#23
04-19-2011, 07:03 AM
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The professional soldier
Here is something I wrote asa prologue to one of our ongoing campaign sessions. Its a little bit specific to our variety of the game - so please dont be to harsh on the factual content in your critique ( our non canon and heathen timeline that we came up with in 2004 has the world going up in flames in 2004 and we are currently in 2019 AD gametime)
Also its not the one that I started to write but couldnt finish - a single mom toiling to feed her kid kind ofthing. ( A bit more on topic imho) But it was already done so there. Anyways - here it is A pale sun shone through a dim haze of ash and smoke in the stratosphere, down on a burnt and ruined landscape dotted with buildings untouched and patches of growth that had yet to die .Crows swarmed over a lot a few hundred meters out from his well hidden position . In the distance, a black streak of smoke drifted upwards from some burning vehicle or house .Other than that nothing moved in this desolate part of the northern central valley . A chilly wind blew gusts of dust covering Lt.Reyes of Detachment "A" of the WillisCos Corporate Security branch .he didnt mind .Anything obscuring his ghillie suited figure even more he welcomed.He had a full mopp suit on and new maskfilters-and as such not too worried about the rads .Even still...Radstorms were a pain in the ass.The miniscule dust and ash fragments could be inhaled,ingested,lodge in the corner of the eye ..If unlucky you could get dosed pretty good .A buddy had taken cover for 3 days in a collapsed warehouse building when on patrol .He had gotten home , but had severe radiation illness.All the metal that had been stored in there had accumulated far more rads than the surrounding brick and sand and stucco. Oh well..They were well paid considering .And it was not like the other organizations that were hiring had all dandy jobs on offer either .He adjusted the focus of his rubber padded binoculars and checked the anti glare cover .A little glimpse of a reflection could raise suspicion -even in this bleak sun .The chill was begining to get to him now.he had lain on his rubber mat for over 16 hours without moving more than a few inches.His hydration system was soon drained .The nipple inside the mask still yielded a few drops of sickly sweet water/salt/sugar solution when he sucked on it . But he was there for the money .Photographic evidence or no bonus.He sighed and put the glass of his mask to the binos again .He wondered about what his girl had told him before he left on this one .She had something to tell him.They needed to talk .Annoyed he clenched his teeth .Probably another girl with a master plan for him to provide for her growing in her belly already.He shuddered."Come on ..come on.." he whispered impatiently . Another rad storm was brewing out in the distance ,far south.It would be there in an hour or two .The minutes passed slowly,almost reluctantly .He checked the digital alarm clock he had set up next to his binocular on its little tripod and his camera .He looked at the little red numbers and was puzzled .Before closing the plastic cover he checked again .It seemed so dark to be so early .How could anyone really tell the time anymore he wondered.There were no central agencies to give everybody the right time anymore.The atomic clocks or whatever were long since gone .Who was to say that they were even on the right date ?God knows there had been mistakes made before -one monk guy had miscalculated by 33 years on the calender they used in the western world -and that was in 1200 or whatever .Who had had presence of mind to keep track those fateful months of chaos when it all came tumbling down? He remembered standing in his uncles back yard and seeing an airliner come screeching down from a great altitude and slam into the ground miles away .The shock wave had still been enough to rustle his hair. The burning rows of cars on the blocked highways had blackened the afternoon sky all of that week.And always the gunshots in the distance and the helicopters roaring overhead. People screaming in the dark at night.For weeks . No.He hadnt kept track of his calendar. There was finally movement. A cloud of dust hugged the ground as it snaked and grew out of the horizon .Inbetween the scorched buildings and littered ruins a motley convoy was approaching .As it came closer he hit the switch on his camera and adjusted the zoom .He was a bit worried that the fold out LCD screen would give him away -but paranoia is a good quality in a long range recon man .At least it had served him well-seeing as he was still around.The convoy was heavily armed and had a vanguard and a rear guard deployed .Occassionally a gunner would let of a few MG rounds into a suspicious looking brush or ruin .It was always nothing .As the long line of ragged and dusty vehicles drew near ,the ground trembled slightly .Reyes lowered his head and lay utterly still -praying silently as the dustcloud from the passing vehicles engulfed his OP. 5 minutes later ,Lt.Reyes shut down his little OP and started his extraction routine .He went slow and deliberate ,and methodically removed every trace of his being there .Before he got foot mobile ,he exchanged the bottle of piss that he had hooked up to his suit with a new one .Running with a full bottle could be messy -as he knew from experience . The 45 seconds of video in the pouch in his load carrying gear was everything he needed .He had the money now.He just had to get home to get it first . He started a crouched run from cover to cover .He had a long way to go to the pick up point .The first howling blasts of wind reached him and his ghillie suit hissed and flapped .Then the millions of little grains of sand and dust hit him with a noticeable nudge against his gear.It made a constant swooshing sound against the fabric of his kit.He kept his PainTek AK-47 thigthly wrapped in a plastic cover .It would be filled with dust in minutes if not .He flipped open his compass and turned away from the wind to get his bearing. He didnt bother hiding or covering his tracks now. Visibility was down to a few dozen feet. He hummed a Norteno ballad to himself and trudged along .Hopefully he would be miles away by the time this one died down . everything was going smoothly .But then again -there was that talk with his girl waiting for him back in the safe zone.
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#24
04-27-2011, 07:37 AM
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Gas producer
Not sure exactly how 'correct' this is, but an idea..... Based on a book I was directed to by this forum.
--------------------------------------- Stefan backed up, wiping his dirty hands on an old rag as he cast a critical eye over the metallic contraption in front of him. Everything seemed right, so it was time to give it a try. At the left-hand, an old lawnmower engine had been converted into an electrical generator. They had initially run the coils by muscle power to prove they had generating capability, and the engine drive-shaft was geared way down for this first test. It could always be adjusted later to give the output they needed; or they could use a bigger engine. That was the real plan, if this test unit worked. On the opposite end was the gasifier. It had taken them almost three weeks to hand-tool or salvage the right kinds of parts from the ruined warehouses and former workshops. Several more days of trial-and-error experimentation had followed, trying to tune the nozzles and feeds and everything else, before they had been able to get a reliable flow of gas running from it. In the beginning, they just burnt it off at the output pipe, learning to control the output better. But for Stefan and his partner, Johan, it had been a great success. And one that would not have been possible without.... Stefan's eyes drifted over to the book on the rear table. A bit over 100 pages thick, it provided hope for the town in the message on the cover: "Wood gas as engine fuel". Before that book had been found, Stefan had never heard of the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, but he would be singing their praises forever more if this worked.... He turned back to the middle section of the contraption. Filtering; that was the problem. The raw gas was too dirty to use in an engine. They had already ruined one figuring that out. The first filter system they tried had not stood up to the heat of the gas, and had failed. The second had worked for a short time, and then the cloth filters had gotten blocked with tarry residue and stopped the gas flow. Because the gasifier was hard to get started, they couldn't always be stopping and starting it around a filter change. And you couldn't change the filter quickly, because they got too hot. So they had come up with this. The gasifier output pipe led to a pipe junction, controlled by a directional tap. Two pipes led out the back, to an identical pair of filter units, and then to another directional tap which rejoined the flows leading into the engine. They knew the cloth in the filters would only last maybe an hour or two at best, but if they could change redirect the gas and change one set of filters out as the gas ran through the other, they could keep the engine running continuously. It would be manpower-intensive, but not as hard as trying to generate the same kind of electrical power using muscles, or as wasteful as using grains to make alcohol fuel. Stefan gave the nod to Johan, and he fired up the gasifier. Stefan kept an eye on the pressure gauge and after a good 15 minutes, it was ready to go. Stefan moved over to the engine and reached for the starter cord. The second pull, it turned over and burst into life. Johan let out a whoop, and Stefan smiled; but they still had the filters to test. Each man moved to the tap at their end of the filter apparatus, and on the count of three, slowly turned them from one extreme to the other. The engine stuttered, but kept going. It took a few seconds before Stefan let his smile return and grow bigger. Johan pumped his fist, and then the men shook hands. Very soon, and for the first time in two years, they would have lights on again in their little town...
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#26
05-08-2011, 10:49 PM
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Still trying to get something written. I haven't done any writing for my own pleasure for weeks. Every minute is sucked up with lesson planning and correcting papers and having all the women in my life (my cooperating teachers, my faculty supervisor, and my wife) wag their fingers at me about how I'm not giving enough to their particular interest. How I miss the infantry.
Webstral
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#27
05-09-2011, 07:15 AM
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I'm in something of a dark mood due to some crap at work today so here's my offering - not one to read to the children...
The Sun. Gram hated the Sun. The hot yellow orb burning in the sky, stinging his eyes and itching his skin. It would have been much better to do this at night but Gram had only one opportunity and he had to take his chances with the Sun. He’d been stalking this herd for several hours during the night but the herd was too big for Gram alone. Now during the harsh light of mid-morning, a young female had separated from the others and was splashing in a pond that used to be part of a farmyard. The female appeared relaxed and unaware of Gram’s approach until he was within a few metres. She sensed something, eyes wide and nostrils flaring, she sniffed the air but could detect nothing unusual. Gram was so dirty he smelt like the dark soil beneath his unshod feet, the dark soil where he and his companion had dug their bolthole. Gram moved up swiftly, the bag was over her head and the chord tight around her neck, causing her to choke on any call for help. Gram viciously yanked the chord, the prey stopped kicking and collapsed. Gram had panicked, worried that the accursed Sun would light his actions and the herd might see. He ceased choking his catch and checked her flanks to see if she still breathed. It wouldn’t do to kill the prey right here, food that was live until right before the feasting time was preferable. Gram entered the crudely excavated trench carrying his prize over his shoulder, he had to crawl some distance and the weight was pushing him down but he would not give up this prize. This prize was worth several days eating. Eventually he entered the chamber underneath the blackened remains of a forestry hut. Maz was sharpening the knives, thin shards of steel ripped from the wall of some factory that had been bombed earlier in the war. Gram had been at the factory but he couldn’t remember why, Maz had also been there and been injured. Gram could not remember how or why Maz had been injured but the limp meant that Gram was the stalker and Maz was the scavenger. Alicia Kendall awoke when the rough sack was pulled from her head. Light shone down on her through some broken structure. She stared around the filthy hole she now occupied, sodden paper, bones, shreds of cloth, animal skins, even pieces of wire had been massed together into some sort of feral nest and two deformed men appraised her lustfully. No wait, it wasn’t lust she realized, it was naked hunger. One of them had started to drool and the second closed in on her with two wickedly sharp pieces of metal. She suddenly understood her fate and in those few seconds she recognized many things she had initially missed. The two deranged humans were not deformed as such, just badly stooped, their skin wasn’t burnt, just soiled by filth and the scraps of skin that hung from them were actually the remains of uniforms that may have once been blue. A name badge on one identified the owner as Wolfgang Angram. Kendall stood up in a panic intent on escape but the searing pain in her head removed that chance as she struck the beam above her. A small mercy. Kendall was nearly twenty, a British Army medic. She’d seen plenty of rendered flesh as she’d helped retrieve the wounded. Now she’d be spared the sight of her own flesh being torn. Gram belched and Maz hooted in appreciation, blood stained both their mouths and their hands. As Gram slapped his stomach he left dark red splotches on the film of dirt and grease that used to be his mechanics overalls. He was content, they still had food for a few days, even if it wasn’t going to be fresh and he had the female’s multi-coloured skin to add to his nest. Torn and bloody, covered in dirt and her last fear, the jacket still smelled of Alicia Kendall. The smell kicked at some memory deep in Gram’s shattered mind, another female, much smaller and it had crawled around his feet, somehow he knew that it was his along with a tall female that had shared his cave long ago. The cave had had many rooms and he’d been locked inside it for many days. He couldn’t remember anything more, just the burst of many suns and the sky demons screaming overhead laying their terrible eggs. Perhaps he’d eaten those two before he met Maz?
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#28
05-09-2011, 10:26 AM
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Major Petrofski of the Russian 3'rd Border Guards looked up as his lead Sergeant came into his tent with a confused look on his face. God, he thought to himself, is this the best that our mighty Motherland has to offer, as his gaze wondered up and down the tattered Russian sergeant.
"Comrade Major! He is here! He is outside the west gate with a white flag and wants to talk to you!!" ************************************************** *********************************** "So let me get this right... you want to stop running and join the mighty Russian army - as private mercenary soldiers - under MY command. I point you at my enemy and let you kill them for me? In return you just want food and shelter?" Major Petrofski was intrigued. "Why fight it", I replied with vigour, "we could go on for months and for what? More death and destruction. You are using up your food, precious ammo and men for what? Did they promise you a promotion and a dacha by a lake for my capture. Look around you Major. There are no more promotions! No more Dacha! What we do have are our men, our wits and our will to survive. I am sick of living on the run. I was born in a country that no longer exists and yet I still follow the orders of its "Best" military minds. NO MORE! From what I see... you are my greatest hope to survive in this hell." Major Petrofski looked over at his Sergeant, “ Well Nicolai, what you think of Captain Everest's idea?” “Major! It is a betrayal of everything we have worked for. The Motherland has been good to us through these trying times. Shoot him. Or let me have the honour of eradicating this enemy of the State!" Sargent Nicolai put his hand on his pistol. Major Petrofski gave a heavy sigh, "Yes Sergeant. You are right. Our enemies must be destroyed to make us stronger." Major Petrofski whipped out his pistol and shot Nicolai in the forehead. "And old ideologies make you the worse kind of enemy my friend! It’s time to seize the moment and live for ourselves. Well Captain Everest – I too believe it’s time to take what we can. So welcome, you and your men are the first recruit of…. Petrofski's Private Army!" Laughing, I whipped out my special gift... a bottle of pre-war merlot and we celebrated the start of our new life.
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************************************* Each day I encounter stupid people I keep wondering... is today when I get my first assault charge??
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#29
05-29-2011, 08:59 AM
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A little help please
I have an idea for a story, but I need some help from the community at large.
I do not own T2k in any flavor. Could someone please post the targets for North Carolina during the TDM? I have the list that was generated in The Morrow Project. North Carolina was hit fairly hard. I could use this, but would prefer to stay within the "historical" boundries of the forum. Thanks Mike
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#30
05-29-2011, 09:07 AM
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As the books are vague on the smaller nukes, if you can justify a particular location as a target, you can nuke it. You can also not nuke an otherwise prime target due to missile failure, changing military priorities or any number of other reasons.
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If it moves, shoot it, if not push it, if it still doesn't move, use explosives. Nothing happens in isolation - it's called "the butterfly effect" Mors ante pudorem
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