DEATH TOWN

[LAWCOP]

The man dropped like a marionette with the strings cut. Quickly, silently, without a peep the man crumpled into a ball onto the ground. The .22 bullet fired from the suppressed AR conversion unit had flown silent and true and the watchman had been dead a long time before he hit the ground. “Just as I planned it” he thought. He slowly pressed forward leaving the cover he had so cleverly camouflaged. Leaving his “hole” to forage on the dead. What looked like just another pile of rubble was really the headquarters of the terror that was only whispered by the people still left in the area, the Gunkid.

People who wandered into the wrong place just never came out, at least alive. How many times had the area patrols gone through the area, 50, 100? They never turned up anything. The area would be deemed secure. Then another person would be found dead, their pockets or packs emptied and there wouldn’t be a trace of “the Kid” except for the all too familiar .22 bullet hole expertly placed in the deceased’s brain.

When the SHTF the world went into turmoil. Slowly groups of survivors got together and working together they struggled to rebuild a safe and secure world for their families. It was common now for areas to be broken into what used to be called city-states. These enclaves would encompass a mile square, to a hundred square miles, depending on the size of the population that had banded together for their common defense and survival. Once the boundaries were defined, they were patrolled, and sometimes even fenced to protect those inside from those who roamed the rest of the world, who resorted to the lives of predators, preying on the weak and those unable to defend themselves, or defend what they had.

THE survivors who eventually settled in the ravaged city of Hard Times, as it had been renamed, had thought themselves blessed. The town was on a long wide peninsula that jutted out into a huge lake and river system. This meant that securing the town only required the land side of the town had to be secure. The area controlled by the new inhabitants was almost four square miles. It had farm land, fresh water wells still working, a huge stand of forest and several buildings in the old town still standing. What had been unnerving to the was that no one else had tried settling in the town. They had not even found a lone or two recluse. What they had found were bodies. They were everywhere in the town. All had been killed by a single shot to the head. All looked like they had not been disturbed where they fell. There were also numerous places where the name “Gunkid” or the initials “GK” were scrawled in what looked like blood. No one who was new to the area was aware of what the name and initials really meant.

At first, there were multiple groups of roving security as they swept and cleared the town looking to see if anyone was around at all. After numerous and redundant explorations of everywhere from the old city hall to the junk yard next to the forest, the area was deemed clear and the security for the land approach was set. They group which numbered almost 400 was getting well settled in when the first mysterious death took place just one month after finding the city.

It was on a warm spring night that one of the towns blacksmiths said he had seen some metal in the junk yard he needed and was going to retrieve it. He was never seen alive again. His body was found about 40yds from the entry to the yard. There was a small .22 hole in the back of his head right at the back at the cerebral cortex. His arms were filled with small pieces of steel. He had died so fast he didn’t even have time to let go. His pockets were turned inside out. Immediately a search was made in the area and an investigation started by the leaders of the town. It was to no avail. There was no one who wasn’t accounted for. Also because the man was a talented craftsman, he was a very valuable asset to the community.

As time went by, people started missing items of food, clothes, assorted bits of tools. AND the murders continued. At night, people would think they heard something moving in the dark, but when they looked, no one would be there. More people died and more provisions were missing. There were tripwires and booby traps set to no avail. Sweep after sweep of the town produced nothing, and whoever was causing the terror, moved like a ghost. There were never any tracks or sign. The only sure thing was that more people were killed close to the junk yard and forest then away from the area, but it had all been cleared multiple times, just as everywhere else had.

Gunkid arose earlier then usual that morning. He lounged in the security of his home, knowing that in hundreds of searches, no one had even come close to discovering his secret. He stumbled across it just days after the war started. Alone, on the run for his life, surviving by his wits, sharpened by years of self taught training. He was hiding like a rat where ever he could find a crack in a wall. He was sneaking through this junk yard when he fell through the old crumbling floor of the old farm house that had been there before it became the junk yard. It was a six foot drop to the bottom that had accumulated a hundred years of mouse and other rodents droppings. The room was about 20 feet wide and 20 feet long. As he panicked looking for a way out he notice what looked like an old storm cellar door at the end of the room. He broke away the supporting crossbeam and the door caved in along with a large pile of dirt that had been piled on it for longer then anyone alive knew. He saw daylight over the dirt mound. Clawing his way out he came up in the middle of a jumble of old washing machines, old discarded toilets and the usual detritus relegated to the junk yards of the world. He formed a plan.

Over the next few days he proceeded to clear the room of the dung and then he set about making his underground livable. From the junk site he recovered an old table, a couple of chairs, mattress, enough usable junk to actually have some comfort. He found a gutted top loading washing machine and centered it over the old storm cellar entrance added more junk around it and he now had a hatchway access to his lair. Over the ceiling hole he took an old gutted freezer, put if face down so the interior gave him a pocket to rise up in. By carefully using the sharp steel scraps he managed to put a couple pinhole size observation holes in the old freezer. Anyone looking at it would never be able to tell someone was looking out from the Frigidaire pillbox. His meager rations were now running thin. He knew there were people in the area but they didn’t come here often because the junk yard was also where the locals were dumping the bodies of those who had been effected by the semi-lethal virus local terrorists released, only because they could add to the horror of the times. The locals had survived the worst of the horrors because of their remote location in the greater scheme of things. The air and water were still safe. Looters had been driven off by their own people. They thought they were safe. GKs first night’s excursion into the town among the population was for scouting and maybe take provisions if the opportunity presented itself. He camo’d up and using the skills he had learned from the books he had read from Paladin Press, moved through the houses of the unsuspecting folks.

The first one was easy. He was maintaining his light and noise discipline when the old lady was coming down the street with one of those small net type bags. In it could be seen what looked like a small ham and a loaf of bread. As she walked by him in the dark shadows, he slipped out behind her and expertly used his WWI trench knife, the one with the brass knuckles. He didn’t stab her, they take time to die that way. He stepped in behind the 4’8” octagenarian and hit her with the knuckle part of the knife with a straight arm snap timed and powered by the years of martial arts conditioning. The old woman never knew that she was dead. Her lights just went out, suffering a subdural hematoma from which she would never awaken. He caught her to keep her from making noise and then moved her into the shadows. He took her food and left. He had enough for at least 3-4 days. He then returned to his new home.

The townsfolk were aghast at what happened. This beloved old lady cut down by someone surely not of their town. The townsfolk tore the town apart looking for the person who caused this travesty, to no avail. There was no spoor to follow, no sign of anything.

The reign of terror continued. Sometimes it would just be that sometime during the night the ghost would enter a residence and when they woke in the morning, the pantry would be bare. Sometimes, the residents would be found with their throats slit or executed with surgeon like precision shots from a .22. No one ever heard or saw anything. Over the next several months the terror claimed at least 100 of the townsfolk. No trap or set up ever worked. The stress was too much for most of them. Most chose “the road” leaving their known world for the unknown dangers elsewhere. At least out there they may have a chance. They might just get a chance to see who or what was after them. Where they were, appeared to be a slow but certain approach of death. There were some who wouldn’t leave. Those were the ones found dead throughout the town by the new residents.

Over the months that followed his initial discovery of the unknown basement, “the kid” had developed different tunnels from his hole in the ground. He had even rigged a makeshift periscope using an old discarded toilet. His skills at fabricating and engineering had made his life much easier.

He had just figured out life was good because he had his own town, when the new people discovered it. By then he had secured enough provisions and other supplies in his basement that he could go for months if he had to. BUT, he didn’t want to. He didn’t have to. He had developed his matchless skills over the years for a reason. Being the superior being and predator that he was, it was his right to look upon the weaker as his prey. He had just toyed with them so far. NOW these new people would learn why they should fear the night. Tonight, he would take at least ten of them, only because he could do it and they must learn that he not they was the true master of the region.

Night time. With extra ammo, just as a precaution of course, since he never needed more then one shot per person, he slipped from his haven and out into the crisp night air. He balanced the shorty CAR with the can on his shoulder. His camouflage was so expertly applied, unless he moved, he appeared to BE the night. He set off to hunt.

He had his first ambush site already scouted out. He knew that the roving sentries always gathered at this one point to exchange comments and maybe a minutes camaraderie . They had increased the walking teams to 3 men since he had killed several 2 man teams as they made their rounds. He wanted their arms in case he ever needed more then his trusted AR. Tonight he would show them the true meaning of ruthlessness and quiet efficiency. He would take all 6 men as they relaxed, thinking that numbers would give them security. His previously determined position would place them no more then 40 yards away. Even on a quiet night, the home made suppressor on the CAR would make his shots impossible to hear, it was that efficient. The sentries were not due there for another hour. But, Gk, as any good predator knows, knew that it is easier to have people walk into your kill zone then try and stalk into theirs. He lay in the grass and became part of the night.

The teams approached from opposite ends of the road. “The fools” he thought ”having a set time table made it sooo easy. You could set your watch by the their movements. They would keep their own appointment with death.

The unsuspecting victims came in under the light, lay down their weapons, pulled out their canteens or water bottles and started to come down from their pent up energy of being on patrol in a world where there was, a super predator who took them whenever he wished. Three of them pulled smokes as Gunkid was obtaining his cheek weld on the plastic stock. The one guard lit a match, and the 3 of them were in the process of lighting their cigs. “dumbasses, I’ll show them why 3 on a match is bad luck” he thought. “They have screwed up their night vision from the flare of the match, they have their heads together, this will be too easy, the third one will be dead before the first one hits the ground” he thought as he mentally thought out the sequence of firing order. He was just getting ready to squeeze off a round when his heightened predator senses picked up a strange sound. It was far off but growing louder, there was something terrible about it that drove fear into his heart. It was a horror he thought buried in the long and distant past.... and it was coming for HIM..... It started to become clearer and his fear was now complete, he was FINISHED!!!!

“Johnny, are you all right poopsiekins, your bedwetting alarm is going off again” his mother’s voice smoothly intoned. “Now be a good boy and go tinkle before it’s too late again” Johnny, aka Gunkid, dutifully followed his mother’s instructions and went to the bathroom as she went back to her room. AS she retreated to her bedroom she could be heard muttering, “damn kids 35 years old, this is ridiculous.”

[omma]

The last paragraph was the best!!

[LYCAN]

[1340hog]

[yagotme]

Yeah, stay out of Litchfield, IL if SHTF. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

[LYCAN]

[Old Man]

Absolutely great!