Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24890120-20160415213340

(I realize the indentation errors, I don't have time to go through every paragraph and indent. Just asking for grammar/punctualization errors, scenes I should edit or remove or perhaps add, some more appropriate/eloquent vocabulary I could replace less refined words with, and perhaps a (1-10) rating. Thank you. This is not a finished product.

Testing, testing. Does this thing work? I'm seeing text so surely that's a good thing. I haven't used a typewriter in years, and even then only for some obscure history project. Just goes to show how inexplicable this situation has become. I should probably mark this with a date. OCTOBER 24th, 2018 There. Better. Anyway, I've decided to start writing for a multitude of reasons, one of them being I have little else to do, and another to be my remembrance story if ever shit hits the fan. Right now, I'm staring outside to a rising pillar of convoluted black smog, the natural fog created by NYC's cold atmosphere disturbed by the still-smoking 747 not too far off. I feel closed in by my own apartment, partially instigated by the Guard pissing themselves over the crash. Right now I'm feeling scared. What if this ends up being Armaggedon? What if this causes the apocalypse? What if my entire race ends up eating the cold tail of annihilation? No, I really ought to not start thinking like this, it's unhealthy for the mind... Anyway. I suppose I ought to recap the previous events that have transpired. It'll most likely leave me fewer questions to answer. Or maybe just further weigh down my burden. Approximately four days ago, life in the city was as per usual. Frostbitingly cold, congestedly bustling yet exhilaratingly alive. Everywhere you went there was a light, a television and a clusterfuck of random people you'd probably want to kick in the shins if you ever knew them more intimately. As for me, I usually stuck to my townhouse in Jersian Suburbia (Jer-see-an). Small, but luxurious enough to enjoy it. The general social hubub involved the upcoming Superbowl, Black Ops IV, and whatever fashion couture the more superficially inclined busied themselves with, Can't really tell you exactly what happened before a day ago, primarily due to a lack of interest, but those days are merely irrelevant by now so their importance is stagnant. But approximately thirty-six hours ago, one of my neighbors Chelsea banged on my door. She told me the skies were being run over by an entire fleet of what looked to be attack jets. My roommate Jenson was probably too intrigued by his nerd fantasy to notice anything like that. Of course I stepped outside to see the commotion and I had to actually shove down the flight of stairs as I pushed aside so many gawkers that it's more than likely one of my shoulders is loose in its socket. Thus, it took me nearly a quarter of an hour just to descend some five flights of stairs. Wen I finally got outside, my eyes caught the receding tail of what was, sure enough, a convoy of thirty plus pitch-black fighter jets. Chelsea must have seen even more. The entire neighborhood was milling about like some sort of hazy mosh pit. Punches were literally thrown. In my confusion, I heard the cry of one sort of red-neckian bloke with a beer gut and a thick beard holler that the given scenario was a bag of canine defecation set ablaze, to put it appropriately. What he really said was that this was a fiery bag of musty dog shit, and I quote. Me having a curious nature, I said fuck it and wandered towards the block path where he had just came from. A few dozen yards down the marked trail I came across a perturbing sight. A rowdy crowd of my ambiguous neighbors was standing several yards from the front entrance, most shouting or throwing up obscene gestures. I'm kinds tall at six-six so I could see beyond most of their shoulders at a circle of hand-cuffed adults who probably just got the shit smacked out of them judging by their busted lips and red faces. Just three feet or so beyond them was a double line of at least thirty policemen equipped with riot shields and baton sticks, some of them in the back with actual combat shotguns. Trained SWAT dudes. And roughly twenty feet beyond that yet was a gang of military humvees, shouting some hypocritical shit about staying calm. I had been in a couple small-time riots when I was still a sophomore in college but that was just me and some colleagues squatting about human rights or some shit in front of a police station. Weaponry was kept down to a pistol, vehicles got no bigger than a police car and there sure as hell weren't jets racing through the skies. It was probably a smart move, me keeping my head low and creeping back to my block in the neighborhood. I didn't want to get my head bashed in (by the cops or my "fellow" neighbors) and I didn't want to get thrown in jail. I'd been there before twice, once for that squatting riot I mentioned and one for half an ounce of pot. Most of those guys and chicks in the raucious crowd probably didn't give half a fuck about the incarcerated either, probably was just pissing themselves about getting out or police brutality to save their asses. Me? I was honest and got the fuck away from the hornet's nest. Halfway back to my apartment I noticed (more like was aggressively interrupted by, but formalities) a big swept-up current of more of my estranged locales. They mostly looked confused and interested but a few at the front looked like they could set a village on fire with the heat from their nostrils. They looked angry. I didn't bother to get caught up in yet another commotion but I'd be a liar if I said I wasn't also interested. It took a few minutes but as some of the denizens of the crowd gathered their senses and left the hyped-up masses, I caught a glimpse of yet another pool of incarcerated on the ground and yet another intimidating line of policemen behind them. I continued on my way back to my apartment. By now it was early evening and the sun was disappearing in a thick glaze of reddish orange behind the horizon. I quickly crept back to the front door of my complex and sprinted up the stairs to my residence. I would've rode the elevator but it was slow as a snail with a splinter and half the time it was broke as shit anyways. Soon as I got in my roommate's closet of a bedroom I shoved his ass out the chair. It took him a few moments to fully register my transgression, what with his aloof ass, but soon enough he blankly oriated "Literally dafuq, nigga". No, he's not black he's Hispanic. Anyway, enough with the brainiac. I minimized whatever coding shit he was working on and quickly brought up Firefox. With blazing fingers I typed up my neighborhood name or something. I flitted through the first couple pages before Jenson perked up and called me a scrub, suggesting he do the work. I cursed and pouted but I gave way. He took over the keyboard, brought Tor and some suspicious looking, probably personally made black box up and inclined his look to me, his rectangular glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, slick with skin oil. He really ought to take showers more often. At any rate, he typed in whatever I attempted before he asked me a few questions about the nature of the subject, and I answered him with some shit related to the police. He did a couple keystrokes with trained fingers and within half a second, Tor filled up with relative links and his other browser thing took a few seconds, then snapped shut. He crossed his arms then unfolded them when a somewhat sophisticated blue and black page came up, and hundreds of snippets of conspiracy and blacklisted news tabs showed themselves. "Hand-made." He said, and ran his hands through his shaggy black hair. "You take to the keys now, cap", and flourished his fingers to gesture at the keyboard. I took to it and brought up at least half a hundred tabs on either browser, Tor and the custom work he brought up for me. Luckily his computer was strong enough to handle it. I reviewed the information and saw startling revelations about attempted assassinations on our president, Donald Trump, serious procedures of making counterfeit money, even about American agencies enacting minor acts of chemical terrorism on select populations. The scary thing was that the provided evidence wasn't very easy to dismiss. Then finally, I came across one particular article. One about Chinese-American international relations. In short, it said the relationship was shit, low-key hostile kind of shit. In long though... First off, it said that the Chinese had ceased making production for America by middle 2017. That was obvious, hardly anything nowadays has 'CHINA' imprinted on its bottom side. But what was weird was the reason. Trump released to the press that America had to cut down on and eventually completely erase its deficit to remain a first world power, and that ceasing trade with China was step one. But this article said the total trade embargo wasn't intentional. In fact, America's various leaders were enraged when the embargo was set by the Chinese Communist party. But rather, America just said fuck this and completely stopped paying China. The commies were pissed because we were still close to a trillion in debt. So they said fuck you too, and stopped trading with us. The second thing was that it said America's lead got pissed with China's lack of cooperation. Really pissed. So they tried to hack into China's governmental databases and 'research' their circulation of funds, more sensitive information about the Communistic Party, trading assets, the works. This went unnoticed, for a time. It even talked about American black ops teams 'annexing' various Party members, which probably meant abduction, torture, interrogation, and maybe even execution. You know, the usual super-duper-secret operation kinda shit. The third point is where it got... Kinda scary. Kinda scary yesterday, but really fucking dreadful by today. Towards the middle of the page, it talked about China's discovery of America's actions. They knew that declaring total war on us probably would have led to their defeat and maybe even worse, complete nuclear devastation (for both sides). So they started up a sort of beyond-Top-Secret operation which I think was titled 'Operation Paranoia". Essentially it was about a think tank of chemists, engineers, army officials and other intellectuals of high profile coming together to formulate a sort of complex, secret, chemical attack plan on America in retaliation for our covert operations. I was sure to take notes and I just felt Jen copying it all down in his overly-smart mind. I would've read more -- there was a fourth heading towards the bottom of the page -- but I was interrupted by the explosive boom of a shotgun and multiple screams. Jenson stood there looking out his window towards the streets but didn't seem to completely understand if it was real life or yet another of his simulations but I instantly knew better. I bolted from the chair and half hung over the window frame. What I saw was a combat-ready line of SWAT units with black drum-loaded automatic shotties hovering above white-lettered riot shields. I didn't see any blood but I didn't hold my breath. "Bro, what the fuck is going on out there. That Chinese conspiracy had better not to do with this bullshit. I swear, if those pencil-dicked samurai wannabes..." Jenson started up with his usual anti-Communism semantics, but lightly trailed off when he was reabsorbed in his coding again. I swear, he's smart as hell but at times he's just goofy. As for me, I just trotted off to my own room and paced about. It was nighttime by then, and it had quitened down as most of the crowd dispersed and the cuffed were transported to the nearest holding facility, so around three PM I fell asleep, because hardcore conspiracy hunters need some Zs just as any normal man or woman. By the next morning (this morning) I was abruptly awoken by something extremely loud. You might have inferred what it is from the first paragraph I typed up. Yup, it was a 747 blowing the fuck up in my backyard. I had just woken up so I was still confounded by morning haze, and a very awkward instance of morning wood. By the time I had fished up my sneakers and shuffled to the front door, Chelsea and Jen were sitting on the couch catacorner to the door. The way Jenson slightly hovered above her shoulder and kept his arm on the back of her neck it makes me wonder if he wanted to hit. It wouldn't work though, not with me and Chel's history. It's excessively convoluted and rather fucked history, but it's good history. Anyway, Chelsea was heaving and sobbing, muttering something about a plane. Keep in mind I had absolutely no idea about the burning 750-ton avian flight machine just chilling about one tenth a mile away. So clearly I was even more hazy. And seeing Chel, thinking about her wavy red hair and vivid (though quite glassy at the moment) green eyes and slim body didn't help me get any less woody either, so I had to adorn an oversized petticoat to hide my inconvenient stick. She suddenly thrust her face into her palms and rocked vehemently. Jen put up a single warning finger, and then beckoned for me as she finished. I quickly sauntered over and as her cries ceased she finally took hold of my presence. She immediately jumped from the leather couch and almost ran at me, glomping onto my chest as her height would allow. Jen had a smile on his face, probably because he got a nice view of her ass (which I can't really blame him for)  instead of our little reunion, but he wouldn't take it seriously. Whether because he respected our Lovecraftian love or feared a bony knuckle to the jaw is kept secret. Chelsea proceeded to kiss me multiple times and quickly led me to a seat beside the impression her bottom left on the couch. Jen fixed his glasses with a long, sinewy couple of fingers and patted Chel on the back. Sometimes he got on my nerves with his sometimes overly affectionate gestures but my (disputably) redhead had put him so far deep in the friendzone she'd fuck him out of pity, which is probably a worse fate than dying a virgin. Anyway, onto the subject at hand. Her crying had almost completely subsided by now, leaving glossy wet trails from her eyes to her small chin, so she was in the shape to recap to me what had just transpired. It was a lot of shit. Probably the shit the redneck from yesterday had yapped about. Essentially, a plane had just crashed in the middle of our clearly bustling community. I didn't even know ole' Jersian was big enough to house a plane crash but then again it housed over ten-thousand individual little shits so touche. So being the obviously good-natured young bloke I am, I took time away from the main topic to comfort her, the usual chivalry. I cradled her in my lap for a full minute before I asked her why she was so shooken. The first thing she said was that her husband died. See, this is where the convolusion in our relationship stemmed from. Some of it, anyway. The way she said it wasn't racked with tears or wrought with the usual drawn-out weep that often overcomes a fresh widdow, but rather it was said in a quick, hushed sentence. She was twenty with a sixty-something year old man. It was arranged, obviously. But, onto the plane burning up like a plump, fun-shaped marshmallow dropped in a campfire. The conversation that followed was mostly temporary trauma from an airplane just sort of crash-landing in the middle of your neighborhood. I took note that Chelsea didn't take much time to survey the wreckage and mainly just wanted to see if I was alright, since probably some hundred unlucky folks got squished. That made me feel nice inside. See, sometimes senpai does notice you. Chelsea was a sort of black or white and no gray type of young woman. She either wanted a tiny little munchkin Chihuahua or an oversized Grayhound. Either pitch black coffee or over-sweetened mocha with too many pumps and whips and flavors to count on a dozen people's hands. Normally, she was an almost abnormally sweet girl whom shied away from even the buzzing of a fly. She pretended (subconsciously) to be weak and she improvved very well. But I'd seen the black of her come out before. Four times, actually. I almost thought she was permanently lost when she literally hacked my bedroom door down with a fucking fire axe and blood coating her abdomen, chest and chin. Don't ask me how she got through the halls unnoticed. People must be too deep into their Slipknot or Texas Chainsaw or Halloween shit to give two fucks about a bloody woman with an axe running rampant through their halls.

Oh yeah anyway, she had sort of indirectly persuaded me to take a stroll outside and check out the burnt-up plane that had nose-dived several dozen meters out. I walked outside with Chelsea almost cowering with her hair nestled into the crook of my armpit and my boy Jenson by my side. The streets outside my townhouse was literred by wondering civilians and I'll be damned if I didn't hear a few screams of people being trampled over. The crowd was insanely thick -- even more compact than the hallway when the jets flew by -- so it took me and squad literally two fucking hours to finally get to the plane. I was one of the unlucky ones, if you will. When I was just two or three people away from the plane and I could see the blue tail spun straight upward at an awkward angle I heard several shouts and two distinctive booms from a streetsweeper kind of shotgun. Jenson backed up a few feet but wouldn't completely leave my pact. Chelsea just sort of stared at what had just occurred, her eyes betraying a sort of look that was reminiscent of the first time her black uncovered itself. Blank, but wide with a hideous jot of murderous wonder. Even I had to hold back yesterday's breakfast. In front of me and my posse was somebody, or pieces of a somebody. The person's legs and midsection was red but intact. That's where it ended. And I mean literally ended, the top portion of their body was nowhere in sight. I think I even saw a kidney slowly seeping from what was left of the body. There was also another woman, crawling away from a team of the clad military units (they were not SWAT) with LED-lit, beyond military-grade guns. She was clutching a wound to her side, and I could see at least two strings of intestine hanging out. That's when I let go of a week's worth of meals. I didn't see Jenson but I knew he was less stoic than I was, so he was probably passed the fuck out. I wouldn't blame him. Chelsea just stood there, observing the carnage with astonishment for half a minute before she too hacked something up and covered her mouth to keep it from blowing out. The second-tallest man in the black-and-blue-clad group -- who must have been at least seven feet tall -- took a few nonchalant steps toward the woman, aimed through the brightly blue-lit scope on his assault rifle-type gun and put a few rounds in her skull. I'm not gonna lie, he and his group looked badass, like some sort of Advanced Warfare or Elysion kind of shit. They definitely had tech beyond anything that I had seen. Electric, pulsating blue lights, complex sets of high-tech body armor and gadgets and guns that were so souped up I wondered if Mass Effect wasn't just a damn game. They were clearly top-of-the-line, best of the best of the best, fuck-you-we-can-do-what-we-want-and-then-fuck-your-wife kind of guys that even Clint Eastwood would think twice about shooting at. The smallest one, a woman with a slick shock of shadowy, chin-length hair on one side and then a buzzcut on the other who was around six feet with an almost malnourished figure did a quick glance at the impassive crowd and then -- in a single, fluid movement which was almost too fast to see -- shot off one bullet in a tall, beer-gutted redneck with a .45 Magnum in his hand with one of her lit-up Uzi-esque submachine things. I think he was the one who said this was a fiery bag of musty dog shit, but he didn't have the beard. Must have shaved. Oddly enough, I felt a tinge of sympathy for his head wound, because I couldn't agree with him more by now. The woman looked back at us with a condescending stare. "This here --" She began by pointing one of her submachine guns at the burning plane behind her "-- is now a military personnel-only crash landing site, pedestrian traffic prohibited." They stood on top of the end of a severed, soot-slick wing with no trace of a fuck to give. "We have been tasked to investigate the wreckage without civilian disturbances. Otherwise, our superiors have given clear orders to not kill passive civilians." A big guy, and I mean a really fucking big guy who was probably close to two feet taller than me and most likely weighed some eight-hundred pounds without his insane protective gear finished for her. "On the contrary however, we were given the green light to blast anybody who shows even a slight hint of aggression back into their mother's womb and then some. An apparently pea-brained loudmouth excitedly shouted "Well fuck you, you big goddamn knuckle-dragger!". The big guy -- with more scar tissue than skin on his face -- let a small but terrifying grin creep across his thin lips. "Even a SLIGHT hint..." He warned, before he stalked towards the stone-faced instigator. With one free hand (the other was locked onto a gun probably as big as me), he picked the man up and literally just fucking flung the guy into the air and away like a baseball in the MLB. I didn't see his death but he was at least twenty feet in the air last time I seen the poor soul. Not gonna lie, I pissed myself right there and then. "... Even a SLIGHT hint" The brute ominously restated. The dude in the middle with a one-eyed helmet on raised his gun and flatly declared "You may resume your business. And don't try getting out of the neighborhood. You may find that to be a rather difficult endeavor." Jen quickly clapped my shoulder with both hands and gestured toward my apartment about two hundred feet away. He anxiously whispered into my ear something that was most likely worded in Spanish. Me, Jen and Chel rapidly retreated at a brisk walk. A brisk walk because running may be seen as a transgression and those three fair chaps were chaps to not be fucked with under any circumstance. Although, I was morbidly curious by the smaller guy's tip that getting out would be difficult. I looked to Jen and Chelsea when we were in front of the middle-class complex and hunched over so only they could hear. "Guys, you go inside and get my shotgun in the false wall behind the water heater. Gang together in my room and shoot a bitch if they get too close. I think Chel's better suited." At this point Jen pouted but he knew she was better at pulling a trigger or swinging an axe when she got into one of her trances. He had experienced her last trance personally and knew about two more. Chelsea took me by the collar and kissed me rather passionately with her full, pinkish red lips. They were very comforting in such a time and tasted kind of like pineapples. After an hour that was probably a few seconds, she looked at me with a vicious look in her eyes. Not quite trance-like but getting there. "You are not going to fucking leave me and you are not going to die a twenty-three-year-old nobody in the middle of a freshly dug hell. You bring your ass in with us or I'll die with your sorry shit of an ego." I looked at her, contemplating in my mind but stern in my eyes trying to figure out whether I should abandon my quest, further persuade her to go with Jen or let her go with. I knew the path was probably very dangerous but most of the people around had either gone into their homes as told or were just running in circles screaming and or prophecizing Armageddon and shit like that. "Fuck it, let's get the shotgun and check this shit out." I asked of her. She nodded but then Jenson defied my order. "Sorry to interrupt you two's romantic little venture but remember that redneck who got his head shot up?" I remembered him -- the guy the woman had killed -- and instantly thought of his revolver. For a second I thought Jen was thinking about getting his revolver but then I thought about how he didn't even raise it and how he had already been marked for death. Jen continued. "If they see us toting around a shotgun, they might view it as an act of prospective hostility and give the goto to fill us with lead or worse yet, throw us into that plane. I don't trust it. Or them." He raised a pretty good point, they might shoot us on sight. So I agreed and formulated a reconnasaiance plan to investigate the exits without drawing obvious attention to our actions and potential misdeeds. There were three exits. Chelsea started. "The side exit has a bunch of houses we could hide behind but there are a few alleyways, we could probably see the exit without getting caught." Jenson continued. "Yeah, but there are a shitton of people there and who can we count on to alert somebody less than friendly to our presence? I suggest the back. Not much stuff to hide behind but nobody ever goes through there so clearly it shouldn't be too heavily enforced." I finished. "Or the main entrance. It's probably the most guarded but in case nobody here remembers, there's an underground maintenance tunnel that leads directly to a sort of outhouse and from what I remember, the door has a one-way window panel facing directly towards the driveway." We all scuffled for a few moments before a bloodcurdling scream the kind of which are common in horror flicks but never real life emanated from my right, which was probably towards the side exit so no. So essentially by then it was either the back or the front, neither of which could we see or hear from. "I think front would be best." Chelsea perked, apparently into her own thoughts with one of her arms wrapped across her midriff and the other perching up her chin. Jen looked at me with a black eyebrow raised, his orangish complexion getting a good tan from the afternoon sun. Without approval or democracy, I began walking towards the midwestern quadrant of the neighborhood, which we all knew held the maintence building closest to the outhouse in front. It took about half an hour due to the immense size of the place just to get there, skimming white-bricked curves, hopping through thick garden shrubbery and crossing tidy little appropriately marked white lines. The walk was sort of both a literal and philosophical walk for me and probably Chelsea and Jen too. It made me realise just how pretty the place was, and how much of an antisocial I had been lately. And then the thought of the man in pulsating blue killing the gutted woman and the huge brute flinging the other guy and then the woman killing that redneck without any form of human sympathy and... Thats when I... Misplaced, a few more meals worth, about a hundred feet behind the registry station. Chelsea laid a small hand on my shoulder and was probably about to ask what was wrong, but she's smart. She can put a dead guy and a blown-up plane smoking in the back of my place together to get four. Then Jen came along and patted me on my back. He asked about my condition, or in other words if I was alright. Clearly being doubled over throwing up with a huge pillar of smoke not far off for the second time would warrant a no, but formalities. After I coughed up half of my body weight, I brushed their hands off, shaking my head a little too fast and a little too much and tried to calm their cares as much I could and continued towards the registration building in the front, where everybody goes to lease or rent an apartment. A few minutes later we were inside and taking a quick glance around the place, mainly absorbing the carnage. There were sheets of paper everywhere in the rectangular waiting room, beige chairs were thrown about and some were even outside on shattered glass. What disturbed me most, though, was a big blotch of crimson red and the impressions left by footsteps in the registry room, a smaller cube in front of the waiting room. I seen no bodies but the blood gave me a sense of dread. I stopped by it, slipped my finger through the slick pool and noted it's wetness. I have an MD in medical so I immediately guesstimated the blood was fresh, maybe an hour old. And judging by the path of the boot marks, the suspect left for the utility room, where the manhole for the maintenance tunnel was located. I wasn't deterred. "Get something sharp and let's go." Jenson looked at me with a bewildered expression like I had just suggested to fuck. Chelsea looked confused for a moment but readily unhooked a fire axe from the wall, which flooded my mind with memories. Her face, the first of her trances I had witnessed and a blank look with murderous astonishment in them, blood dripping from the edge of the weight, and her brother, in several separate pieces. You could say she was just a little... Fucked up. I was a bit fucked up too, but nowhere near her level of hidden insanity. She looked at the axe for a few moments with painful disgust before handing it to me. In truth, she was probably much more ready to hack somebody in the neck than I but I wasn't about to give her back one of the worst memories she could harbor. She liberally picked up a broken-off leg of a chair with a metal tip, and Jenson just sat there like a bitch. "You fucks realize you're walking into the Devil's den, right?" Jenson sardonically asked us, with a bit of scorn in his tone. In truth, what me and Chelsea were about to pull may end up being a first degree felony. I cut him some slack and offered to let him stand guard and maybe cower under the desk until we returned. He stood there for a few moments, in the corner of one wall-sized window and another broken out counterpart. For a good three minutes. "Fuck you guys..." He muttered before he finally manned up and picked up a leg-length metal rod which probably came from the utility room. And so, we descended into the Devil's den. It was decently lit and smelled of wet dirt and saw dust but looked antiseptic, with white walls hiding dirt and creepy crawlies. It was mostly a linear passageway but there were a few branches which lead to other outhouses and other municipal stations around the neighborhood, in hindsight. We were, admittedly, afraid of the potential murderous stalker but we were pretty adamant about the prospect of getting out of this hellhole so we continued on. The further and further we got, the footsteps got lighter and lighter until we could no longer discern boot mark from the tile itself, although as soon as the marks became completely invisible, we heard grunting at the end of the tunnel where there's a ladder leading up to the outhouse we had been hunting for. Grunting was not a good sign. Jenson slowed his steps considerably for a little while but was too scared to be completely left behind, so he eventually caught up to me and Chel. I kept my axe held as tightly as I could with my grip -- and my grip was really fucking strong. Chel kept her chair leg hovering above her head with tense arms and biceps that looked unusually large for her slim shape. Jen sorta crouched down with his rod clasped in both hands diagonally. Not a very suitable choice for a closed-in environment such as the tunnel, but I was surprised he came along at all so woohoo, go Jenson, the genius coward. At any rate, we closed in on the grunting and by now the exit was about two dozen feet away, but we dreaded the moaning. And by then I could tell the grunts and moans were of a sexual nature. Me and Chelsea both knew, if you understand my meaning. Jenson subliminally said fuck that and stayed there while Chelsea followed behind me with cat-like, tentative steps. As we neared the ladder, I abandoned all subtlety and very audibly asked what the fuck from the universe. Because I mean, literally what the fuck? Behind the corner a few feet to the side of the ladder was Larry, a known retard (and that is no metaphor, his IQ is literally somewhere in the high seventies) and a decapitated head and body. He noticed me and Chelsea immediately but did not immediately register us as a threat, and continued to sodomize the poor deceased woman's severed head. Chelsea remained stoic but I could see the color drain from her face. Jenson looked at us from around the corner with concerned interest. I shook my head. As I regained my grip on the axe, Larry dropped the head to reveal his manhood, which was covered in crimson. He spit out out a guttural roar and picked up another fireaxe, identical to mine. He then began to try and administer some broke ass English which I'm not sure I'll ever understand. He raised his axe above his head to a surprising height for his short build. Chelsea was ready to go batshit by then, but I beat her to the chase by flinging my axe into the crook between his neck and his shoulder with all my strength, severing his collar bone and extending to his heart. Blood gushed and squirted everywhere at an almost inhuman rate and I let the axe go. I know how in the movies the teens or young adult victims do a seemingly fatal blow on the killer and then leave, only for the killer to brutally murder each one of them but by then my fucks for movie cliches were in the negatives. After seeing an innocent woman's chopped-off mouth being brutally assaulted and killing my third guy, I got the fuck out of there, climbed the ladder, and promptly threw up a few ounces. I was genuinely surprised my stomach had anything left to spare. I think it was my body fat by then. I stayed knelt over a good minute before Chelsea finally ascended the ladder, followed up by the sound of more vomiting, probably Jenson seeing the dead bodies. I don't think Chel threw up, she generally held less regard for human life than I did so she probably gave a damn only for my act of violence, not the retard ferociously bleeding to death below ground. She knelt beside me and kissed me on the cheek and politely laid her hand on the small of my back. Her touches were a calming sensation for me and felt like a minty vapo-rub. I slowly regained my composure as Jen climbed the ladder with very shaky hands and a green complexion on his usually toasted skin, cursing the devil in crack Portuguese. His eyes were wide. He was much more human than me and certainly more 'there' then Chel, so he was probably still reeling from the gruesome scene I left behind. Finally standing at my full six-six height, my spiky, messy, dirty blonde hair scraped against the top of the outhouse. I knew the panel was right behind me and I could finish my little adventure just by turning my head around and peering through it but I wasn't mentally prepared for what might be there. I rubbed my hands firmly against my face and asked somebody else to do the honors in my place. Chelsea volunteered first. She stepped ahead of me and within a few seconds, she gasped. "We... We can't leave..." She started. My curiosity was piqued enough by then to look up, but the first thing I noticed was the insane wonder slowly filling into her eyes. She was losing it, right there and then. "We're stuck here! We're stuck here in hell! You, me, even you Jenny! We're all damned! We're going to burn! Oh god, we're going to burn!" She continued to ramble. I felt like I should've been six feet under or at least in a coma by then but I couldn't let her go into one of her trances again. I picked my exhausted ass up and wobbily walked her way, putting two large hands on either of her narrow shoulders. What I saw in her eyes was odd, I saw the murderous astonishment but her eyes were livid, not blank. I think by now she was going plain crazy. Not running into a trance, just legitly losing it. I tried to calm her down, but my burning intrigue as to what was behind the door clouded my words a little. I tried again, slapping my face a little too harshly. "Chelsea, please listen to me. We're not in Hell." I entertained the thought of seeing mountains of flames and big, red guys with bulging muscles and pitchforks but I knew we weren't there yet. Chelsea wouldn't be there beside me if I was. I can still remember the rest of what I said. "We're alright. We're breathing and we still have a pulse so I'd say we're alright. We're going to make it. I love you so much and I need to know that you know we're going to make it. Please. Look at me." Her green eyes began to regain their sanity. "We're going to make it." I finished, then promptly pushed my lips to hers, leaning over so I could as she was a foot shorter than I. It seemed to last until my fortieth birthday but I knew that was too good to be true. Although it sure did last longer than usual. To the point where Jenson started to squirm. I was genuinely glad to see he had retained some of his normal jealousy, for the first time. I released from the lip-lock with Chel and pulled my balls from my chest cavity. Slowly, I turned to see what was through the panel. Not gonna lie, I sympathized with her sentiments about us being in hell. The main entrance was no longer an entrance. By then it was evening and yet I could still see the surrounding trees were cut down or run over to form a sort of makeshift barricade, and hundreds of sandpiles and metal barriers were set up, protecting an entire battalion of Hummers, Jeeps, artillery trucks, carriers, foot soldiers, shit I even seen a few tanks with their rocket launchers aimed toward us. And then I noticed the helicopters in the air, at least half a dozen of them. They clearly were taking no chances. When I turned around, I didn't give a fuck. Literally all my fucks for the week and then some were exhausted in the matter of an afternoon. I think some of my own black started to show, because after my complete apathy subsided, only rage remained. Rage at the crashed airplane. At the Chinese. At Trump. At that squad of supersoldiers. I was fuckin pissed. I picked up the metal-tipped chair leg Chel chose as a weapon and shoved Jenson out of the way. I don't remember the next few minutes, but I remember a clear picture of Larry, his entire body in two and mutilated in various ways. His chest was crushed into mulch and he was missing a head. Shit, I might've even cut his dick off. I don't fucking remember. After that, me and the gang retreated back to my apartment. We all took a shower (thank god the water system still functions) and tried to calm our heads. I think Jen might not be as sane as I thought because he was right back into his coding shit. Whenever I asked him about it all he said was "I'm busy". I took note of the various pieces of technology he had newly set up, souped up scanners, various USBs, two high-tier gaming laptops beside his main desktop like two women budding up to a rich man, and then a sort of nondescript black box which had a big white label on its topside reading "PANDORA'S BOX" in all caps and unusually neat handwriting for his caliber. I took it all in with a cup of piss and returned back to my bae. Me and her barely said any words. She just crawled into a ball, nestled by my chest as I sorta enclosed on her on the couch. I tried turning the TV on but by then the public electrical grid was cut off, which made me wonder how Jen was operating all his gadgetry. I would've made him hook the TV up to whatever concoction he had so me and bae could watch that old Titanic movie. I personally didn't like it very much -- too sappy for me and ships always made me uncomfortable -- but it was Chel's all-time favorite so. But she was already asleep, half on me and half on the couch. It took me a few hours to finally escape from under her and get some ice cream from the freezer. I felt a pinge of regret, forgetting to offer Chel any but she was already lightly snoring so I said fuck it. I didn't really, really want to eat it but since the electricity had been cut off and we lit the place up with candles, I knew it would spoil within a few days. Not to mention my stomach had repulsed probably half a week's worth of food. Not to mention, it's ice cream for fuck's sake. I brought it into my room and sat on the bed for about an hour, pondering on my next move. I decided it would be something worthwhile to keep a written log of all the shit that's happened thus far so I got on my PC. I seen the half-battery icon but as soon as I seen the no-wifi tab pop up, I immediately remembered the lack of power. So I promptly gave it up. I didn't like to write excessively long papers by hand so I decided to spend a few hours fishing up my old ass type writer, a small one with only the essentials but small enough to fit into a backpack that I had saved from my freshman year. And that's where I am now. It's past five o'clock -- my watch says so -- and I'm fucking drained so have a good day. October 26th 2018, 12:01 AM Just woke up. I think Chel's still asleep on the couch and knowing Jen he probably pulled yet another all-nighter with his coding. At times I wonder just what it is that consumes so much of his time. But most of the time I fail to give a damn. This is one of those days. I had a dream, a really bad one. I'd call it a nightmare but nightmares are just bad dreams and have I have an odd issue of pronouncing the word correctly (it always comes out 'neat-mare') so eh. It was probably the worst dream I've had thus far and I've had some extensively fucked up dreams that people back in the day would lock you up for. In the dream, it was about the scene with Larry. Except Larry wasn't there. And I personally knew the woman being sodomized. Very personally. The severed head had the same bouncy red hair and wide green eyes that Chelsea inherited and Jenson replaced the retard. My best friend had murdered and was in the process of viciously sexually assaulting my girlfriend's decapitated head. Just let that sink in for a bit. And then when I looked down, I seen the second-last thing I wanted to see right behind my boy Jen fucking my dead girl Chel. My dad's wedding ring. I do not carry a healthy relationship with my father. It was unique as it had been left behind in a fire once so the gold was black with soot on one side. And then, cooly enough, the sizeable diamond surrounded by sapphires was lopsided on the clean side. Most people would find it lovely, but it made me want to vomit. In the dream, there was a mirror right above Jen's head. I ignored the terrible sight in front of me, and looked through the shattered reflection. On the top left side of the cracked screen was my dad. Most would consider his face handsome, what with his strong jawline, neatly-cut goatee and mustache, the bold blue eyes set underneath thick blonde eyebrows and his blonde hair very meticulously combed over to one side, rather common for a Frenchman. But me? I found it repulsive for a variety of reasons. And then on the bottom right side was my own face. I had inherited half of my features from my mom so I had a much less chiseled mouth, darker, messier hair and an ovular face versus his square set and her thinnish lips. But I still carried his blue eyes, the light complexion and the tall height. He was two inches short of seven feet. I noticed that his grin was the exact same as the grin he held as he brutally assaulted my mother as she was slowly dying -- his wife -- in a similar manner as the two below the mirror, one-sided and all the way up to his ear lobe. But me? I had a vicious snarl on my face. The same as when I tore his throat out with my teeth. Yeah, I'm pretty fucked up also. I hated that grin. By now I've sort of come to terms with it, but I think that somewhere deep within my cerebrum still lies an inhuman hatred of him. I couldn't say. In the dream world, dream-him slowly parted his lips to let out a small chuckle. It quickly escalated into a maniacal laughter. I punched the mirror too many times to count, as any loyal son who bit his dad's throat out like a wild wolf would. One hell of a father-son relationship right there. But midway through the session I seen something which I felt ambivalent towards. My mother. Many would consider her beautiful too, but less of a mainstream sexy kinda way and more in a stunning oddity kind of way. She had pretty lips that were thin but when stretched in a smile seemed to perfectly complement her almost awkwardly large hazel eyes. Her nose was big but not in a wicked witch of the west kind of way, it was round at the end and thick in the bridge. Her eyes were spaced just slightly farther away from each other, maybe a fourth of an inch but it was noticeable. I always thought it made her look intelligent. Her complexion was dark for a Brazilian, and her face was very rounded. When she smiled, it was one of those smiles only animated characters can have. Her eyelids lowered just a little, her lips stretched into a calm smile and her skin stretched a little to give her an almost doll-like look. She always gave me that smile when I felt down. It was so calming. I can't lie, she did love me. Maybe even more than Chelsea and that's a love I'd already die for and almost did once. When I was younger, I never knew the incredible amount of strength it must've took for her to carry that smile around, like a perfect mask. But neither did I realize her astounding level of stupidity for never leaving him. She would be alive and I wouldn't be so damn fucked up in the head and I might not even be in this situation if she had. I tried to warn her, tried to persuade her, but no. All I ever got was "We can't survive without him". And sure, maybe we couldn't have. She was smart but lack of funds meant she couldn't get into any college save for community colleges unless she got a scholarship. She even did -- a partial scholarship to Princeton -- but ol' pops tricked her into his financial legacy. My dad was even smarter -- probably smarter than I am and maybe even as smart as Jen and Mensa prescribed him an IQ of 186. He was rich -- really fucking rich -- and we never experienced financial issues. He knew the right people and knew how to play the rest. That was his genius. Persuasion and coercion. He was a lawyer and I won't lie he was a damn good one, probably one of the best, but that wasn't the only thing he did. I didn't and still don't know what, but I do know he always knew more than he should have. So I guess he played my mom. Played me too, for a time. It bit him in the ass, though, or more appropriately bit him in the neck. I don't like the memory of either of them, they're both too intertwined for me to think of either of them without thinking about the other. I miss my mom. Wow. I got sidetracked really fucking badly. I didn't even finish my tale about the dream. Fuck it, it's bringing back too many bad memories anyway so I'll just leave you hanging. I'll update this shit tonight. Or tomorrow morning, I dunno. My schedule's even more fucked up than it already was and that's some shit in itself. October 28th 2018, 4:15 AM Even more shit happened today, as you could probably guess. Obviously, me and Chel tried to check out the plane ourselves and survey the crash site, maybe check out those supersoldiers or whatever. Didn't work out. Also, people have been acting very... Weird, lately.. But first let's start things from the beginning. I woke up with a migraine and so did Chelsea. Jen had apparently stayed up the entire time we were asleep working on his complex coding project. He says it's important and I know him enough to know better than to argue against him on the subject of his orgasmic scripting, so I let it be. Despite my migraine I slowly made my way to the living room beyond a hallway adjoining it and my room. Chelsea was still on the couch in a position that would suggest she's sleeping. She even snored a little. But I know her enough to the point of where I know when she is and when she is not sleeping. First off, she snores lighter than that and it sounds more nasal. Oh, Chelsea. I took it upon my own liberty to sit on her waist and just sort of fall on top of her, my chest and shoulders blocking her face in. I'm tall and heavy so of course the discomfort ultimately made her wriggle out of her false sleep. I stayed on top of her and bent my neck at an odd angle to see her annoyed face. I think I had a smile on my face but my eyelids distinctively felt weighted down by metal paperweights so I probably looked happy in that way when you just get finished banging your girl. "Get oooooooff..." She moaned, making sure to outstretch the 'off' for maximum effect. "You didn't say that a few months ago. What changed?" I dared say. She gave me a look that you give when your dog shits on your favorite chair or when you forget to press the six only once on your microwave and it blows the fuck up. But slowly, slowly but surely, a mischevious grin crept across her face. She knew what I was referring to with carnal delight and passionately kissed me on the lips, starting my day off with yet another morning wood. But it's a'ight. The kiss sort of began to escalate, probably because I put a little too much pressure on her lips. She wrapped one leg around me and I began to unbutton her blouse, one hand slipping from her shoulder to her luxurious waist to her prominent hip and then, finally, to that fine ass of hers. We were already in the motions of things with both our shirts off when Jen came through his door. Luckily my shoulder hid Chel's breasts or he'd be smacking the walls with his woody. He looked raggedy as hell, with his hair stuck out in various forms and his face slick with oil. Me and Chelsea stared at him with equal poker faces as he liberally removed his glasses, wiped them with the hem of his shirt, and replaced them, never removing his eyes from us nor failing to return our blank stares. "I'll come back in three minutes. You scrubs better be dressed by then or else I'm getting some cold ass water." He stated in a matter of fact sort of tone and then went back the way he came without a second glance. Me and Chel exchanged an odd look, took a peek at his door, repeated, then gave each other one more kiss that was less I-love-you and more I-wanna-fuck. But we contained our horniness and I made a sorry attempt at hiding my raging boner. Jen was punctual on his timing and came back in on exactly the three-minute mark. Chelsea was still in the process of buttoning back up and I just stood there with my eyes dutifully trained on her bum. It really is a nice thing to stare at. Round and plump and accentuated by wide hips. Oh yeah, anyway, onto the matter at hand. Jen carefully observed her last two buttons and pursed his lips. He was probably trying his damndest not to get a woody himself. When he looked back at me I stood with maximum posture and even crossed my arms, flexing to show off my muscles and gave him a chin-up. The message was obvious: What's good. He pushed his glasses up back to eye-level by the bridge and cleared his throat, standing at his full five seven height. Was he trying to appear intimidating? I thought so. I mustered an additional level of baritone to my already very deep voice when I asked what was so important to interrupt our session. He attempted a deep voice himself -- which came out as croaky and disheveled due to his usually soft tone -- and said something about his scripting procedure, sort of like an introduction. Chelsea had caught on by now that we were both trying to seem tough. She perked up with ingenious charisma. "If you two manchildren are done comparing dick sizes, I'd like to actually know the nature of why you left your room." "Ah yes," Jen began. "I managed to dig up some interesting information about the nature of the plane crash behind us along with the general census and atmosphere of the American populace. I'd like to show it to you but everything I have thus far is in binary code so clearly you scrubs wouldn't understand it." I took a minute to register that he apparently suggested at his knowledge of binary code. "You can read that one and zero string shit without a guide?" I asked, sort of hoping he didn't know that much. "Of course. You can't truly be in harmony with such a machine without speaking its language first." He swept his hand through his shitty ass hair. "Get on with it." Me and Chel said in respective harmony. Jen explained that he would have to put more research into his findings to present it to us with finality. I shrugged and Chelsea sighed, both frustrated that our little make out routine was interrupted by some half-ass find. But then ol' Jenson asked the question I didn't really want to answer. The question of whether we should check things out or not. It was already two in the PM and a lot of things could happen in half a day so there was more than likely some shit going on. Almost on cue, we heard a man's shouts. Young, by the sound of it. Me, Jen and Chel looked at each other in question for a moment before we decided to check it out. I was there first. Through my sixth floor window, I could see a pale man lying on the pavement that complemented my own complex, blood seeping from a wound on his leg, but he wasn't dead, not by any means. He was still up and jolly as ever waving around a golf club in his hands maniacally as a few civilians tried to approach him. I recognized his voice; he was an early twenty something frat kid who was a true loudmouth and frequented the local bars. Idiocy at its finest. With the few unfortunate encounters I've had with him I could tell he wasn't just an idiot, but actually stupid. Like really, he lacked intelligence. I mean, who tries to punch a cement wall straight through? I had to bop his ass in the nose once. The blood was a bit lighter than the blood from his leg, it seemed. So, anyway, he was waving around a golf club at anybody who tried to get close to him. Chel had almost hawk-level vision so she commented that the wound to his leg would prove fatal if he didn't get help. But still, the people around him tried to help him but he refused, and continued to swing the club at anybody who neared, shouting something about how they "won't get" him. He even got a shot at a guy's shin. Looked like it hurt. I noticed that the streets were mostly empty, hardly anybody save for the guy and his potential saviors -- whom had begun to retreat his paranoid ass and let him bleed to death -- was outside. Not gonna lie, the military encampments around the area wasn't necessarily welcoming. Jen was the first to pull away from the window. He was practically jumping from his burning intrigue. "I want to check out how it is outside. I want to know, I can't just sit here while those futuristic superhuman soldier boys chill at the crash site. I want to know what they're up to." Me and Chel gave him equally estranged looks. Going outside was scary enough. But going anywhere near those murderous supersoldiers? Hell to the no. I told him that too. Hell to the no. Chances are we'd get caught and if we did we'd be at their complete mercy. Jenson isn't exactly the sneakiest cat in the litter. Even in an isolated forest with falling treescand nobody around he'll make sure everybody hears him. Oh, Jen. Although, I won't lie that my own curiosity was a little too strong for me to passively resist. I could tell that Chel was uncertain about them too, but she dared not to go anywhere near them. And so, there formed yet another impassé. I was already pacing about the room before Jen finally sat down and Chel got back into her thinking position -- her right arm crossed about her midriff with her chin perched upon her left hand. I knew that sitting in my apartment not knowing what the hell was going on while Armageddon furiously breakdanced out in the hallway wasn't a good idea, but I didn't want to go skulking around a woman who was faster than my eyes, or a giant who could throw me like a ragdoll, or a guy who just looked plain badass. No fucking less all three at once. Then I remembered Jen's hacking or coding or scripting what the hell ever. I began to ask about it in French -- something I occasionally do subconsciously -- before I regained myself and cleared my throat. I don't like speaking in French, or in Portuguese despite the fact I was fluent in either for obvious reasons. I started back up. "Jen. You mentioned you were working on something that was important, the coding right?" Jen vehemently reciprocated me with a vigorous nod. I continued. "Then could that satisfy our interest?" Jen shook his head in a similar manner as his nod. "Maybe, but it's not likely. I mean, I'm trying to get into one of the Pentagon's subsidiary computers but it's going to take a good while and I don't think it'll be as important or as direct as whatever they would have on them." He told me, almost shaking with nervous energy. I took a moment to realize he was trying to hack into the fucking PENTAGON. "Is that safe?" I inquired without stating the subject, but Jen already knew. "With my Pandora's Box it should be. My IP gets bounced around the globe and then self-erase protocols and trace-over routines make my virtual intrusions essentially invisible. It's not exactly how good they are that determines if I get caught, but rather where I go. Which is why I'm only attacking a side, not a main. If I was attacking a main, then not even my beautiful hand-woven PB would be able to erase my shit quick enough." I took it all in with a cup of piss as before. "Alright." I wasn't about to go over the convoluted details and technicalities and whatnot that would force my brain to implode under the immense pressure. Instead I just sorta stared out the window with a blank expression on my face. I kind of wanted to go outside too but it wasn't quite as simple as a five year old going out on a play date with his best pal. "Maaan, fuck this shit." I declared. Fucking shit is a very productive form of activity, I've noted. Jen immediately understood my intentions. "I'm taking the shottie with me, fuck the supersoldiers." I wasn't sure what to be more worried about, them or the lunatics out on the street. I hastily made my way to the water heater towards the back of my townhouse upstairs, to get the shotgun. I had bought it about a year ago after I helped Chel dispose of her second husband. It was a handy tool, not a hick's plaything. 12-gauge with a felt stock, a scope, enhanced barrel to increase shrapnel per square inch and a boss ass design on it displaying the American colors. It got souped up thanks to Jen copying me a false military ID. When I got back down, Jen handed me a much more plain-looking Beretta M9. Could still put a bitch down but not near as deadly nor awesome as my beloved shotgun. I took it from him before I politely inquired of him just how the fuck he snuck a fucking pistol into my own fucking house without fucking telling me first. Like literally, what the fuck. He threw his hands up in protest, claiming he had brought it in at the very beginning of my house ownership, before I laid the ground rules and then just forgot about it. How convenient that he suddenly remember it. "Bro, I would fucking shoot you with your own goddamn gun if I didn't know you so well. But still, fuck you." I declared, placing clever emphasis on the "fuck you" part. I did know him well, since the beginning of junior high but still. Dafuq. I shook it out of my head and was about to place it in my pocket before I realized my selfishness. Surely Chelsea would enjoy shooting a bitch up just as much as I. As I offered the pistol to her, rather than immediately accepting my gracious offer, she stared at it for a few moments. Probably contemplating whether or not she wanted to kill yet another man. I would've understood her decision if she were to reject it, she was the type who could kill but only when shoved into the corner between life and death, and even then she would harbor a sort of distaste for it. Distaste or bitter resentment I dunno, probably the latter. Although, despite my empathic mentality, she took the gun from my hands anyway and hid it in the front of her belt between her belly and jean. Classic. I think she cared more about her and my survival than her own mental stability. Oh Chel, you're a fucking psycho but I'll always love you. I was about to leave through my front door when I caught Jen standing beside Chel behind me, unarmed. He at least needed what she had but the only weapons I could think of to give him was a kitchen knife, and those probably wouldn't be too handy when you have insane nitwits swinging golf clubs at your head or supersoldiers flinging you into the air. Although maybe it just wasn't that bad out there yet. Sure, I seen the man lying in a pool of his own blood trying to attack his would-be saviors but that was all I seen. I might've heard something else but I'm not sure and it wasn't likely anyway, I was surprised I heard the other guy. And then there was the fact he was plain clumsy. Sneaking would be hard with him around. "Jen. Can you stay behind and uhh... Stand guard here and work on your coding?" I asked. Jen just stood there for a moment, crossed his arms and gave his surrounding scenery a calculated once-over, which mostly consisted of my week-old laundry and some discarded books I never finished reading. He spent about a minute looking around with a distant cast on his face and never bothered to look back at us. He didn't want to be seen as a coward (which we all already knew he was but) not to mention he was legitimately concerned about the outside world, but he was also naturally very involved with his techie shit so I essentially already knew what his answer would be. "Fucking fine." He gave an exasperated sigh, "I'm going to finish my project and flesh it out so it's not just raw data and binary. You two psychos are better suited for that kind of business anyway." He dropped his arms and trotted off back to his room, head hung in a sort of defeat. He probably wanted to go with us and in a way I feel sorry for his ass but then again he would most likely just prove to be a liability. Not to mention it was probably just some sort of juvenile sense of adventure leading him outside. Me and Chelsea looked at each other and I think I saw some humor in the bounce of her eyebrow. I looked back at the door and, with a shaky hand, twisted the knob. We both decided the fire exit would be a less visible way (it was surrounded by shrubbery). Normally it would emit a very shrill alarm around the complex when used, but the electrical grid was supposed to be off so it shouldnt've been active. We crept through the hall and I noticed that they were empty, although I heard many odd noises from behind the various doors, most were hushed but a few were loud, like a table breaking or something. We fell through the fire shute and pushed open the exit door, which was heavy, and, fucked enough as it was, was a mosaic of various patches of blood. What the fuck? Chel didn't enjoy the sight of the blood but she wasn't overly queezy by now and was able to hold her lunch from yesterday. I didn't think too much of the blood -- tried not to, anyway -- and hefted the door with the butt of my shotgun. Me and Chelsea weren't excited about surveying the wreckage (and thus potentially tempting the lit up soldiers chilling in it), so instead we were inclined towards checking out one of the exits again. The side was the closest and I didn't think I was mentally prepared to see Larry again, what after viciously hacking into him with an axe and then after that dream I had. Then of course, there was the back but fuck the back. We started towards the side but didn't get very far before we heard yelling. Or screaming, I couldn't tell. I gripped the shotgun in both hands and Chelsea slowly slid her pistol from her waistband. We were between two complexes -- mine and another, probably lower-tier, and the sidewalks were interrupted by various forms of large trimmed bushes. We couldn't see whoever was shouting but it didn't stop and it was probably around the turn behind the end of my condominium. We kept on along the road and sure enough, hiding behind my complex, was a middle-aged, maybe fourty-something brunette woman and some other similarly aged, short man in a gray polo. Maybe married, I don't care and I did and continue to fail to give a fuck. The woman was bleeding -- I seen a very large, very nasty gash on her forearm -- and the man seemed confused, sort of torn between helping the woman and getting the fuck away. Honestly, I think the woman already lost it, she was laughing and crying and shouting and blanking out intermittently. The guy was probably close to her condition, he kept flailing his arms about and was pacing, yapping about saving her and not trusting her at the same time. When they saw me and Chel behind me with guns, that's when things got weird. The woman had a very clear reaction, to get the fuck away. She stopped giggling, stopped zoning out and stopped yelling, so only the terrified screams remained. She acted as if I was a soul-harvesting demon from some twisted Stephen King novel. Sure I had a shottie but I didn't even have it up and already she was freaking. Not pleading for her life either, just straight-up freaking. She tried standing up but her blood loss was severe -- all the color had drained from her dark skin and was now on the sidewalk -- and after a few very wobbily steps fell right back down.The man's reaction was a bit more ambivalent. He still had a little sense but not all of it, and still registered us as an immediate threat. He turned around and ran off with his wife(?) bleeding to death on the pavement, shouting for us to stay away from him. What a great guy. I felt a nab on my ankle and was about to blow the woman's scalp off but when I saw her, she was sprawled out on the sidewalk staring up into the sky with a kind of horrifying wonder on her face, white as an albino. She was probably black so it was an odd look on her. When I finally checked out my ankle being molested, I saw a small chestnut and vanilla squirrel clinging onto my pant leg, staring up at me with its small, black and beady eyes. I smiled a little, it was the least fucked up thing I had experienced in the past half-week. I even think I heard Chel give a little, soft moan. I had no idea where the guy ran off to and the woman was probably dead. I shook my leg a little and the squirrel hurriedly hopped off and bounced towards the very back of the neighborhood, where a sort of small forest lies. Cute little guy. Me and Chel continued on and it was rather uneventful except I took notice the neighborhood was almost completely empty save for the few people I could see halfway across the neighborhood trying to hide. When we were in one of the alleyways formed between two big complexes, we could see to the side exit. We tried hiding behind one of the big bushes that bordered between the alleyway and sidewalk. The driveway itself was only about twenty feet away and I just barely kept my nerve. From there I could see that it was similarly blockaded like the main entrance, it was littered with toppled-over trees, Jeeps, Humvees, tanks, the works. I also seen some foot soldiers with gas masks occasionally trek through the barricade but not often. I could only differentiate between about four seperate people but I would bet there were more, either ones I didn't catch or just simply hiding in one of the military vehicles. Well, getting out of the neighborhood was still fucked. I wanted to but the exits were completely blocked off and the wall surrounding the neighborhood was at least ten feet tall. I used to think it was a nice addition, kids tended to draw on it (and of course delinquents often painted graffiti across it but that was usually scrapped) and it kept a lot of unfavorables out of the area. But now I hate it for very clear reasons. So now all that was left was maybe check out the crash site. Something inside me dreaded it with a very real fervor but I couldn't exact just why it was so I left the hedges and began towards the plane, and I beckoned at Chelsea with a jerk of my head. She glanced one more time at the exit -- for a little while -- and then started towards me with a solemn look. I think being trapped here with a big plane still bumming out in pieces in the middle of her yard probably didn't benefit her psychology. Me and her traversed the neighborhood trying to keep behind bushes and in corridors and between complexes and whatnot, avoiding the open street and trying to keep out of public scrutiny. I came across (well, I seen) some people who still held a mostly level head skulking around and I assumed they were doing the same thing as me and Chel. It felt odd. I mean, not scary or dangerous necessarily, just odd. I was hiding around my own damn neighborhood I had lived in for three or so years with a shotgun ready to shoot one of my neighbors. It was silly and it made me feel like I was paranoid but then I remembered that band of souped up mercenaries near the crash. Were they even still there? I hoped not. It took about an hour for us to get there, it was sort of in the very middle of our circular neighborhood, and it wasn't what I expected. We only got as far as a complex half a mile from the actual plane before I nearly shitted my pants. So me and Chelsea were sneaking through an alleyway littered with trashbags and dumpsters. I held my 12-gauge in both hands and Chelsea had both her hands clamped around her pistol like a constrictor wrapped around a small dog. I noticed something -- a sort of sign which was unusual, at least for my neighborhood unless they were on doors or in gates -- at the end of the alley, roughly fifteen feet up. Chelsea looked up from the paper-strewn ground and I beckoned her towards the end, signalling the sign. It kinda looked like a Stop sign, but this wasn't a road for cars. She squinted her eyes and read the text aloud. "Caution, do not pass..." She paused for a bit, her green eyes widening. "Fatal force will be used." That's exactly when something blinded me, a really fucking bright spotlight, similar to those they have on helicopters when a journalist or the police are on a manhunt. It bathed me in stark white light and I could just barely make out Chel's outline. I think she was on the ground. I almost dropped my shotgun trying to shield my eyes. After a few seconds of torture, I heard a loud voice. Probably enhanced by a megaphone. It was a sort of gruff voice, but not that harsh. Kind of like Sean Bean, the guy that always dies in the movies. It warned us about leaving the area. "This is now military-occupied land! Civilian traffic is prohibited! Drop your weapons and leave the area!" I couldn't make out exactly where the voice originated from, but it was probably from an apartment balcony, I didn't see any police towers or trenches. I was still reeling from the bright ass light thrown in my face so I didn't immediately follow his order. "Leave the area now! Civilian traffic is prohibited in this area! You have thirty seconds to remove yourselves or else we will shoot you down!" He said. I still had a hard time seeing, although I could differentiate the apartments from the pre-evening sky. I heard his threat about shooting us so heeeey. Chelsea was the first to throw out a suggestion. "Alex!" She yelled. I just thought of something. I never have mentioned my name before in this uhm... Log, have I? Heh, cool. "Follow me!" I could see her already up and moving towards me, a hand outstretched. I took it with a grip that was probably too strong, still stunned from the light. The initial blast had faded but there was still a thick purple ring imprinted on anything I looked at, I couldn't even see Chelsea's face when I looked at her. My eyes were effectively fried for a few minutes. I heard a count down. "Ten! Nine! Eight..." I heard. Chelsea tugged me out and away so fast I tripped over a bag of trash. "Seven! Six! Five..." Chelsea started to freak by then. "Baby get up! Get up and come on, please! Don't die and don't fucking make me die either!" She was visibly crying (even I could see that with my assy sight) and her sentence was choppy. She was about to die and yet still wouldn't leave me. Oh, Chelsea I love you. I nearly lost my grip on her so she gave her own grip that was so surprisingly strong it almost crushed my knuckles. I got up and began to blindly run forward. I tripped a couple times more but I didn't fall over, I dared not to do so. "FOUR! THREE! TWO..." "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fucking shit" Was all I said. I couldn't even think up any intelligible words, all I could muster were swears and curses. I have longer legs than Chel so I was already out by the time the guy with the megaphone shouted one but Chelsea didn't... Quite... Make it. By the time she fell past the corner she was already shot four times from a low-caliber weapon, twice to her right leg, once to her left arm and once to the waist. It didn't hit anything critical (although that's in hindsight, I had no idea what got fucked up in my terror in the moment) but she was losing blood at a quick rate because she had already been shot four goddamn times. She screamed when she fell with a tone that I didn't fully recognize, it was scared and angry and happy and contained just a slight hint of the childish giggle she would give when she got into her last trance. It sounded very odd and very freaky, for me at least. But I didn't think about any of that when it happened oh fuck no. My girl just got shot. I filed the anger away for a later moment because all I could think about was getting her the fuck out of there. I picked her up (probably a little too fast because she screamed again in pain, sorry Chel if you ever read this), hoisted her in my hands bridal style and ran. I fucking ran. I ran like Forrest, ran like Zamperini, ran like Usain, ran like all the fast fucks in the world and I can't remember stopping. I ran top-speed for god knows how long, at least thirty minutes at some twenty miles per hour. By the time I got back in my apartment I was coated in blood and my legs were numb. I kicked Jen's door open and broke it's middle hinge, not like he gave a fuck. I meant to call for him but all that came out was a deep, feral roar that I don't like to think actually came from a man at all, no less me myself. I thought Chelsea was dead. Fucking dead. God, it scares me even now. It knocked him out of the chair instantly and he scrambled for a nearby bat he had for protection, waving it around with shaky arms. It took him several seconds of placid observation to realize it was me and my Chelsea, bleeding to death. "Oh god no..." He dropped the bat and leaped over the various crates and boxes he had scattered about his room. I don't remember the next few minutes, I think I either blacked out or was reeling from my own trance. Jen got the usual medical stuff I kept in the main bathroom downstairs and wrapped gauze around the wounds, applying antiseptic. Not gonna lie, he did surprisingly well for being a newbie medic and probably being in half shock, but he wasn't a trained doctor with a Master's Degree like I was. He put some bags of cold ass water on her wounds and came to get me. I don't know how much time it took to get me back into reality but I remember him smacking me lightly and the purple fading from my eyes and feeling exhausted, my knees buckling. In fact, he had to get a chair for me while I examined Chel's wounds. When I got to Chel reality sorta took another go on my psyche, I re-realized my beautiful, loving -- dangerously fucked up in the head but loving -- sweet, sweet Chelsea was bleeding to death. One of the bullets grazed her tibia and the two others fractured her femur but didn't sever any major arteries or veins. Although I was still worried pissless (this was literally the time where I wet myself) about the wound to her lower abdomen. I had to rip her shirt open and cut her pants off to make sure there were no other injuries -- to Jen's gracious delight -- but other than a few shallow cuts and some minor bruising from wear and tear, nothing was beheld. But you still had the bullet wound. It could've cut her nephron, or urethra or even punctured her bladder. I don't know if God or really any god exists, but the bullet trajectory actually curved enough to chip off a miniscule piece of her pelvis. That was my miracle. I removed the gauze, took out the bullets with some forceps and chiseled the chip in her waist down to a tiny, round semicircle. A jagged bone could still cause massive pain and severe circulation damage if not treated. I stitched her up, looked at Jen and promptly passed the fuck out. I think I was out for two hours or so. After I woke up the sun wasn't in sight and Jen was still sitting near Chelsea. A sort of primal worry that he was disturbing my lady inappropriately temporarily came about, but I knew him better than that. Jenson may have been horny but he'd cut his dick off before he messed with my girl. He was cool like that. I sat down in the chair I used to work on her with. Jen was clearly tired and probably half out of it by then because I could see him zoned out, staring at nothing in particular. When my chair creaked two things happened. One, Jen snapped out of his phase and two, I took realization that my legs hurt like FUCK. I doubled over and grabbed my shins. They felt like growing pains but so much worse, I thought if I stood up again they might literally shatter. Jen looked concerned and with a soft voice asked "You a'ight bruh? Need some water?" It took me a few moments to face him again and my eyelids felt so damn heavy. I shook my head and looked at Chelsea. I seen Jenson had respectfully placed a thick white sheet on her bare body which I would have done but I didn't have time before I got knocked cold. I was fuckin exhausted but I wanted to pay my respects to Chel and maybe thank Jen for looking over her and hopefully not at her. "You alright?" He asked again, pronouncing the 'l'. I shrugged and after a few moments shook my head. I mean fuck it, how's lying going to help in such a situation? I perked up a little, but kept my beaten and battered eyes trained on the hardwood kitchen floor. "I'm OK, I guess... Just... Just not feeling well." "I know. None of us are very good but I think you two have had it worse than me." He took two fingers, lifted up the left side of the sheet just ever so slightly, shook his head. "Definitely worse than me." Not gonna lie, he had stayed up a few straight nights working on his crisis-related hacking mission and had seen things many people never have to see, but Chel got fucking shot and I... Don't... Really know. I just ran a damn marathon, almost got shot, killed a man and had my girl fired on and hit, but I felt even more tired than you would think that warranted. Usually people expect the big, handsome hunk like me to just put on a mask and walk it off, brave it through, cowboy it up. But I didn't. I tried to be tough but I was too damn tired and too damn worried to give an airborne bungee-jumping rainbow-colored hyena's ass about being tough anymore. I wanted to go to sleep for a few years or decades or however long it might take for this to blow over and let life fuck itself without me. But one thing hurt me the most. I knew I couldn't. I kept quiet for a while, not bothering to give Jen the time of day and ruffling my face with my hands. Turns out I had some 5 o'clock shadow stubble growing out. I hated 5 o'clock shadow stubbles growing out. So instead I teased my dirty (literally) blonde hair a little. "I know. It's alright." It wasn't alright but I didn't want to talk. Don't think Jen did either. But he tried his damndest to comfort me 'cause that's what bros do. "Alex, if you need anything... Anything at all except some head, I got'cha. At least... I think." That made me chuckle a little. But it was a bitter kind of chuckle. The kind you give when you're stuck in a watertight manhole in a cave with nobody around and you realized just how fucked you really are. I think it was the "anything at all except some head" part, but not because I found it funny. I realized that was Chelsea's job and she did it quite well. I'd say the best but then again nobody else has ever given me head. And, thinking about her wounds and her pale skin... It made me wonder if she would actually wake up. And even if she did, would she survive this ordeal? Better yet, would I survive with her? My hopes for freedom and survival were slimming. "Thanks Jen. I appreciate it." I had no other words. "I think I'ma get back to work on my project and maybe look at some of the porn I have saved on my comp, maybe pass out on the keys with my dick hanging out. You never know with my type." That actually made me laugh. Not grimace and chuckle in melancholy but actually laugh. Jenson never had much luck with the ladies -- they found him cute but he never would shutup about his genius -- so it brought back old memories like this one time when he got kneed in the nuts when he said he was smarter than this one Puerto Rican girl's entire bloodline. He started laughing too but then I opened my eyes and seen Chelsea's deathly pale body, still as a corpse and our bit of laughter ended abruptly. He put on a faint smile, sort of saluted to me and then bowed to Chel, then made his part. After he shut the door to his bedroom I thanked him even though he couldn't hear me, I really did need the alone time. I felt my own mind begin to succumb to my exhaustion so I leaned over the table, kissed Chelsea on the cheek and then froze. She was so cold. I paused, uncertain of whether I should or not, and then slowly raised my hand with two fingers outstretched to check her jugular. I was sweating a waterfall but when I touched her still neck, I felt something. Barely something, but I felt it. A pulse. After that, I started crying. It was for a lot of reasons, most of which I forgot but the one motive that I can still remember was Chelsea's life. Not even her being almost dead, but her just having such a fucked up life and never experiencing the happy, attractive young sophomore-age woman she would have been otherwise. It started when she was just a little girl and her father was 'training' her for marriage. I'm not going to say how but let's just say she knew what she was doing the first time me and her made love. I guess that's sort of the main thing that makes us connect. Our unbelievably strong hatred for our dads, something that could set the world on fire. It was a beautifully and disgustingly pleasing aphrodisiac, to know that the ultimate hate paved the road for the ultimate love. I tried to step into Socrates' or Aristotle's shoes for a minute, then promptly blacked the fuck out. I woke up about three hours later to Jen checking up on me. I could see the bulging veins on his left forearm sticking out (he was left-handed) even in the dark so I guessed that he stayed true on his idea of working on his project or flipping through the porn he had saved on his computer. I didn't blame him one bit. In fact, I put it on my bucket list to find him a hot, nice horny babe to bang before this was over. Maybe even try to more officially get with her if all four of us made it out alive. And that's that. Now I'm just sitting here on my typewriter punching a bunch of shit up so I'll never forget one detail about this event. I have to take a shit, take a shower and just maybe pray because goddammit I could use some fuckin divine help right now. I'll update this tonight or more likely tomorrow morning. See ya, would wanna be ya. October 29th, 2:54 AM I'm biting my finger nails. I haven't done that since the end of elementary school and I think I know why. Jenson finally converted a little bit of the raw data he interpreted a few days ago into readable text and even that was enough to scare me. Chelsea's still asleep and honestly I don't feel like waking her up just to freak cher out. I put her on a makeshift IV to make sure she doesn't dry out and mummify. Today's been fuckin stressful yet again. When I woke up I found myself lying beside Chelsea, still in a very deep rest. I was still heavy with the sleep I had gotten and I could see through the blinds behind my couch the afternoon sun, laying a bright glaze on everything in sight, the sky blue with a deep orange creeping about the horizon, stretching all the way to the other side of the planet. I lifted my torso and cracked my neck, trying to get a better view of Chelsea. Her face was still rather pale but not as sickly-looking as last night. I felt a little warmth in my chest at that realization, probably relief. I tried to get up, swinging my legs across the fourth chair set in a row as my bed, sat up, and buried my somber face in my hands. My muscles still felt sore -- especially the ones in my legs -- so every move I made ached. I rubbed my eyes a little to get the cold out of them. After a few minutes of just sitting there without much of a coherent thought in my head, I raised my chin to be a little bit above eye-level with Chelsea's chest. I was on the right side of her and I was curious as to how red her bandages were. I leaned over and with my long fingers clamped an edge of the sheet lying on her between my index, middle and thumb. I raised it a little but I was still too low to discern much about her injuries but I could see the outline of blood at the seams of the gauze hiding her waist. I stood up, but it turns out my legs hadn't gotten enough rest and were essentially jelly by then. I fell forward onto the table and fumbled to catch myself without disturbing her chilly body. I caught the two edges of the table just in the nick of time where my face hovered a few inches above her shoulder. It took me a few minutes of heavy strain to remove myself from the table but I did so successfully. I sat back in one of my lined-up chairs and let my face fall back into my hands, my hair pouring around. My small-time beard pricked at my hands. I could've shaved it -- there was still running water and I had a few spare razors -- but I just felt too damn exhausted to do so. While I sat there, memories of yesterday came into my mind. The side exit. The bright light. The loud voice. Chelsea being mauled down like some rabies-infested brute. My shotgun. My shotgun. In a small act of panic I scrambled about my chairs in some vain hope of finding it. But my fingers came across nothing but felt green and some wood. I sighed, cursed, and sacked my face back into my palms. I left it behind when I picked up Chel and ran. The shotgun led to Chelsea, which led to her wounds, which led to whatever shot her. I had a question sort of put on a rusty coat hanger in the back of my closet of a mind that I really didn't want to dig back out. It was like that fugly ass coat your grandma gave you that you hate wearing but can't quite bring yourself to just throw it away because it's fuckin granny. Anyways, the thought was about the military. Were they going to come looking for us? I didn't really think so but I couldn't just bring myself to easily dismiss it like I wanted to. It was a possibility. And that wasn't there last time I checked out the crash, at least I don't think so. So that meant the military was taking extra precautions to make sure nobody fucked with that plane. What was so important about it? Clearly if they were just scared about our safety like they tried to say a few days ago they'd have evacuated the neighborhood, not mow down innocent people with guns if they got too close? But honestly, what really bugged me was the encamped exits. They weren't letting any fucking body get out. Why didn't they send in rescue helicopters? It seemed like we were guinea pigs forced to try out whatever new concoction they had planned. All that questioning and heavy thought made my head hurt. It gave me a migraine. I was depressed, weak, exhausted and in emotional disarray so I decided to lay back down. Better to forget reality than to indulge in all of it's various issues. I let my body rest in a comfy lavendar pillow and in the four chairs I had lined up last night. I did indeed fall asleep for a little while but when I woke up the sun was still up and Jen was practically running rampant about something he had "found". Although, I did not instantly recognize his voice (I was only a few seconds awake and it had been weeks since I felt alive) and I kind of freaked. I remember bolting out of my chairs, crashing into Chel's table and almost knocking it over in the process and then promptly fell to the floor because my chins still hurt. Jen calmed his hyper ass down and backed up a few steps. "Bro, are you alright?" He asked, taking just a few careful steps toward me. "I'm... I'm fine." I lied, waving one of my arms out as if drunkenly dismissing him. He stayed though, and tried to approach me. "I've just been feeling fucked up as a whole mentally, emotionally and physically." I continued. "I'm... I'm sorry, I guess. Just don't come in here jumping at the stars like that again goddammit." "I won't. I apologize." Jen politely said, more or less forgetting his caution and continuing toward me. "I just found something... That I think you really need to know. You really need to come see this." For the first time since I had suffered my rude awakening, I bothered to look up at him. It felt like my neck was carrying an anvil. I'm not gonna lie though, he was putting forth some pretty serious effort in whatever he was doing. His black hair was in mats and you could see the greasy shine from oil and his glasses were disheveled. Ever since I met him he's always been tediously frisky about his glasses. They can't be too low, too close, scratched, smeary or even just touching the middle of his nose where the bone of the bridge sticks out. That always aggravated him. But now he didn't care, and the bags under his eyes were turning purple. I think he deserved at least my attention. "Alright, fuck it." I slowly put one knee between my chest and the floor to raise me, and I carefully kept my hands shoulder-width and my fingers sprawled in a full palm to stabilize myself and catch onto something if my equilibrium failed me. After successfully standing to my full height -- minus a small hunch -- I followed him through the living room and into his adjoining room. The place smelled badly of manly musk. At least his sweat was masculine. Sort of. I seen that he had yet even more technology set out, I surveyed a few small, cheap-looking laptops miniscule enough to almost fit on your hand, a half-foot cube of a crate filled to the brim and beyond with batteries of varying brands and sizes, a few USBs scattered about his over-populated desk and on the floor surrounding it, and three extra monitors that seemed to fold out of a souped-up FX desktop. Where in the fuck did he find the money to buy or even make this shit? I dared not ask. Probably hacking FaceBook profiles for clingy exes or siphoning millions of in-game currency to hardcore gamers who have only even seen ass in the virtual world or some shit. It didn't matter. Jen interrupted my wandering thoughts with his findings. "Alright, so I managed to set up a few backdoors and key loggers in various gadgets. Personal phones, WiFi routers, cameras, audio systems, radios... Anything that might be considered low-profile. And so I found this." He excitedly rattled off, having fun in his swiveling chair as his maniac began to show. He paused a window displaying dozens of strings of blue ever-changing letters occasionally stopping to form words, usually followed by a red 'X'. Very reminiscent of the Matrix. His cursor floated to his leftern-most screen and a tab displaying not much more than an iPhone 8, some specs and a small data log was maximized. "This is the cellular device carried by a certain 'Dr. Ulysses S. Grayson'. He's supposed to be one of the executives -- which are essentially right-hand gents and ladies -- in the Pentagons scientific research  