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 Post subject: Countdown to Fallout 3: my fanfics 3 of 4
PostPosted: Tue Oct 28, 2008 10:52 
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Honey Boo Boo

Joined: 28th Mar, 2008
Posts: 12328
Location: Tronna, Canandada
Dedicated to Craster McCraster.

======

The hum of the propellor engines was deafening, as Corporal Longhurst looked around the cramped cabin of the C-82 transport. All of the troops were checking their rifles or hunched over with apparently crippling anxiety. Bored, Longhurst peered out the window. A hundred metres away, a brand new Meteor fighter flew, escorting them. The Meteor was one of the first jet-engined fighters to enter service with the Royal Air Force, and Longhurst couldn't figure out why some big-buttoned general had picked up on what seemed a huge design flaw. The open nose of the fighter seemed an obvious target to fire bullets into, ruining the intake fans. Suddenly a red light appeared over the rear hatch. Wearily, the troops began dragging themselves to their feet, and shuffled dejectedly down the narrow walkway. A waiting crewman failed to reassure them with a thumbs up, and instead decided to pretend to open the door. Longhurst clipped his parachute ripcord onto the rail on the ceiling. The redlight over the hatch began to flash, and the crewman yanked on the door handle. Immediately it swung open, and a harsh, cold wind howled into the transport. Tensely they watched the drop indicator. Longhurst had jumped out of a plane countless times before, but only in training. He had been having nightmares about his parachute being shot full of holes, and a long plummet to a particularly sticky end. The indicator glowed green, and the troops began hurling themselves out the hatch. Longhurst forced his eyes to stay open, and stepped out into space.
After the world stopped tilting crazily, Longhurst barely had time to look back up at the rapidly shrinking plane before his head was snapped forwards as the ripcord tightened and pulled open his parachute. Rubbing his neck gingerly, he looked nervously down at the German countryside below. Russian troops had been flowing in like a tidal wave, and Longhurst's Royal Army division had been selected to assist the over-stretched American forces fighting a losing battle in this area. Suddenly, flashes began to appear on the ground. A searing whistling sound passed, and Longhurst realized rockets were being launched at the paratroopers. Suddenly, a screaming could be heard, and Longhurst craned his neck to see another soldier suddenly engulfed in flame as an incendiary rocket struck. As he struggled, his parachute ropes burned through, and he plummeted, still thrashing in agony, towards the ground. Longhurst pulled on the ropes of his parachute and tried to dodge the rockets. He realized that it would be impossible to dodge something going nearly the speed of sound, but if wobbling unsteadily through the air made him feel better, he was quite content to do it.
Eventually the ground was getting near, so Longhurst tried to steer towards where the other troops had landed. However, having misjudged his height, he came in far to fast, and managed to stop by crashing into Sergeant McDougal who was in the process of trying to open one of the collapsible motorbikes. He grunted as Longhurst landed squarely on his back and landed on the wet mud, sliding on his face. The bike, meanwhile, was ground under him, but the friction proved sufficient to snap it into the 'open' position. Longhurst struggled under his parachute while McDougal rose, caked in filth, from the 15-foot long trough he had dug using his head in the wet mud.
"Corporal Longhurst!," he bellowed, and reached for a weapon. He came up with the opened motorbike. Longhurst snapped to attention, and stood like a kid in a ghost Hallowe'en costume, still under the parachute.
"Erm... Well done!," the McDougal continued, and Longhurst lifted the parachute to see the Sergeant place it on the ground and start the tiny motor. Immediately the rear wheels spun in the mud, found purchase, and the bike leapt from between the Sergeant's legs and flew into a shell crater. McDougal watched it, and, embarassed, turned to Longhurst.
"Carry on!"
Creeping along the ground, Longhurst stopped behind a ridge. The sound of Russia voices could be heard, and he unhooked his laser rifle. Peering over the top of the ridge, Longhurst caught sight of a group of Russian soldiers, attempting to assemble a mortar. Reaching for his belt, Longhurst pulled up a grenade. He suddenly remembered that the Americans had issued his division with new grenades. Replacing the old grenade, he pulled out two of the American ones. One was labeled 'Plasma', the other 'EMP'. Longhurst looked over at the Russians again. They had energy weapons. EMP it was. He pulled the pin, and rolled it down the hill. There was an electrical zap, and a frenzied babble from the Russians. Longhurst climbed over the ridge and leveled his rifle at them.
"Don't move!," he called, ignoring the fact that they probably didn't actually speak English.
The Russians, realizing they outnumbered Longhurst, pulled up their own weapons and fired at him. The triggers clicked, but nothing else happened. Confused, they examined the breeches, and noticed the power systems were ruined. Longhurst grinned, and gestured that they raise their hands. Slowly they complied. As Longhurst stepped down the slope towards them, one pulled a knife from his belt, and lunged forward. Longhurst fired without hesitation. A split-second scream and the Russian staggered backwards, his face removed by the laser blast. He fell to the ground in a bloodied heap.
"Anyone else want to have a go?," inquired Longhurst.

After 5 miles of marching, Longhurst and his not-so-merry band of Russian prisoners arrived at an Allied mobile command post. A cluster of ground vehicles sat on the rough ground, and a small group of gliders were arranged in neat rows nearby. Longhurst called out to one of the NCOs.
"Oi! Where do we put prisoners, then?"
"In there, like," replied the NCO, and pointed at a large armoured bus, surrounded by guards.
"Here you are," Longhurst said to one of the guards, who held out a pack of cigarettes.
"Special today," said the soldier in an American accent, "trade in your unwanted Commies for a pack of smokes!"
"Sorry, but I don't," responded Longhurst, and nodded to the guard before walking back to the NCO.
"Do you know where the 23rd Royal Army division is?," he asked.
"Yes, this is their rendezvous point. We aren't expecting all of you lot until this evening, so if you like, the command lorry has got some rations in it."
"Aha, cheers!," Longhurst said, and climbed up into the trailer, eager for some much-deserved grub.

When evening arrived, most of the 23rd had arrived at the outpost, and their field commander announced that the operation had been a success, that the Russian advance had been repelled, and they were all granted leave. They boarded the gliders, and Longhurst settled back as the sound of tow planes droned overhead. A sudden jerk shook the glider as the tow plane's hook caught the glider cable, suspended between two pylons, and pulled it, bouncing, along the rough ground until it managed to achieve flight.

After a long, cold flight, the glider released the tow cable, and swooped down to a bumpy landing at Hornchurch Aerodrome. The occupants, stiff from the lack of heat, lurched uncomfortably to the waiting truck, for transportation to London.

Longhurst rubbed his hands briskly as he stood on platform 4 at Liverpool Street. He look with displeasure at the huge glass roof far above, as rain pelted down. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a crumpled piece of paper. It was the address of his lady friend, Alice Flanagan.
'36A Liswood Road, WC1,' he read, and jumped as an electric train behind him blasted its horn unneccessarily. Longhurst eyed it with disdain as it glided silently out of the station. He rolled the paper back into a lump, and walked towards the ranks of black taxis.

Alice Flanagan was a tall, dark haired girl, with piercing grey eyes, a slim build, and fair skin. She smoothed out her dress for the 57th time, and peered out the window. No sign of him. Chewing nervously on her hand, she turned on the television.
'HUNDREDS OF LIVES LOST ON FRENCH BATTLEFIELD!,' blared the black and white image, and images of a ravaged battlefield littered with bodies and wreckage appeared. Alice quickly turned the knob.
'Men and women needed for the navy!,' shouted an announcer, and Anchors Aweigh played as sleek-looking submarines and corvettes paraded around Plymouth harbour, looking impressive.
Alice clicked off the set. Was he one of those killed on the French Battlefield? Had a sleek-looking Communist submarine sent him to a watery grave on his way home? Was he even coming home in a ship? Suddenly, the doorbell buzzed. Racing to the door, Alice flung it open only to be disappointed by a uniformed man.
'Care for some War Bonds?,' he asked.
'Oh... sorry no,' replied the unhappy Alice, and began to close the door.
'Wait,' called the man, and Alice held the door open again. 'How about a big kiss?'
Longhurst raised his head, revealing his true identity to Alice, who gaped in joyful surprise.
'Corporal Longhurst reporting for de-briefing, ma'am!,' he said, slyly tugging at his uniform trousers. Alice recovered from her shock and threw her arms and legs around him, in a full-body hug. Over his shoulder she spotted two pensioners observing the display and shaking their heads at the baseness of it all. Alice frowned, let go of Longhurst, and yanked him inside.

Several hours later, they sat in the smoky air of the Mouse and Cockatoo, relating all the unimportant events in each others lives with the enthusiasm of a general announcing the development of a new weapon. Across from them sat Alice's friend Val, a plain-looking redheaded girl, who was surveying the room with boredom. She had been hoping Alice's boyfriend would have brought one of his military buddies along. She sighed with single-person's depression, and began arranging the complimentary peanuts into battle formations, and smashing them with a spoon.
'D'you remember old Mrs Coleridge?,' Alice asked Longhurst.
'Oh, her?,' replied Longhurst, with genuine interest (not in the story, but in being with Alice).
'Her umbrella blew inside out last week!'
'Was she carrying that huge shopping bag?'
'Yes, she dropped it! Half her rations were ruined!'
They both brayed with laughter, and Val plucked one of the peanuts she was using as a mechanzied infantry unit, and flicked it off Alice's forehead.
'I'm BORED!,' she moaned.
'Get yourself a boyfriend!,' replied Alice, and turned back to Longhurst, who was describing in exacting detail the time when his bootlace had broken. Val looked around the room at the various examples of men. All horrible. She cupped her face in her hand and sighed again.
'Howay there luvva, fancy a bit o' a bash?,' asked a sailor in a Newcastle accent.
'No thanks,' said Val, not even moving her eyes to look at him. He grasped her arm, and pulled it out from support her head. Val nearly slipped into the table.
'Cam on then, you're a canny lass!,' said the sailor.
'Oi, what do you think you're doing, mate?,' Longhurst said.
'Oooh, a mudman. Fancy crawling 'round in some filth?,' jeered the sailor.
'Can't accept your kind offer, I've got a thing about going with people's mothers...,' retorted Longhurst.

Two orderlies carefully pushed the stretcher into the back of the white ambulance, with drove off into the busy traffic. Longhurst rubbed his bruised arm, Val clinging like a bulldog's jaws to his body. A fat, redfaced policeman scribbled furiously in his notebook, pausing only to mop the sweat which continuously poured from his head.
'So at that point, the gentleman did come at you with the chair?,' he asked.
'Yes,' sighed Longhurst, 'how many times must I tell you?'
'Just trying to get the facts straight, sah,' replied the policeman, wiping his forehead with a sodden handkerchief. He tore a page from the notebook, and handed it to Longhurst.
'This is for your records. Keep it for 30 days. You may be contacted by us. Good day to you,' he said, giving his face a final swipe, before shuffling off down the street with legs that constantly rubbed against each other.
Val squeezed Longhurst, and said ,'Thank you for saving me, Tommy!,'
'Yes, I get the idea, stop saying that!,' replied Longhurst, looking for support from Alice, who just shrugged.
'You're my hero!,' said Val.
'I know...,' said Longhurst, but was cut off as Val hopped up and kissed him exuberantly.
'Erm, Valerie,' Alice said, stepping in, 'hadn't you better be getting home now?'
'Ohhhh all right!,' Val replied, disappointed. She tried to kiss Longhurst again, who leaned away. She skipped merrily down the street, looking back to flash him a bright smile.
'Brilliant idea, bringing her along,' said Longhurst to Alice, who took his hand, and they walked away.

The harsh wind blasted against Longhurst's face as the lorry thundered along the narrow German road. He tried to imagine the warmth of Alice's smooth skin, but failed as a bump caused him to nearly swallow his gum. Leave was only a day ago, and already it seemed like a lifetime. Stupid communists. Didn't they have girls to go home to?
'Turn your heads this way, lads,' called the sergeant. Wearily, they obeyed.
'What's the suicide mission today?,' asked Private Adams, a brash new recruit.
'It's only a suicide mission for the enemy, against you lot,' replied the sergeant, and everyone laughed. 'But this mission is our last push in Germany. If we fail, HQ is going to switch to new tactics.'
There was no response, so the sergeant passed out the mission maps. The typical take-the-heavily-defended-hill thing, thought Longhurst glumly, folding the map into his pocket.

Missions like this were a breeze, and Longhurst and his unit had blasted their way through the defences with minimal casualties. A tall ridge lay ahead. The soldiers spread out and began climbing up. Suddenly, a high-pitched whistling was heard. Rockets! They immediately dropped to the ground, as destruction began raining down. Huge explosions of dirt and fire tore at the ground around them. Longhurst bravely lifted his head, and noticed half the unit was dead or wounded. He began crawling up the ridge. Suddenly, Russian voices shouted, and an accented reply came. Longhurst tried to identify the strange accent. Chinese? Oh no, not now! Figures appeared at the top of the ridge, and looked down at the remnants of Longhurst's unit, weapons at the ready. Machine-gun fire scorched through the air, and the figures shook and staggered, before falling to the ground. A propellor-driven plane roared overhead, past the ridge. Longhurst leapt to his feet and scrambled to the top of the ridge. More planes screamed past. He saw their destination, a large city in the distance. That was their objective? HQ must be desperate to try such a risky mission as this!
White trails of smoke began arcing up from the ground, and the planes began weaving frantically about. Unfortunately they were unable to avoid the missiles, and most succumbed to the fire before they managed to fly back to safety behind the ridge. Private Adams threw himself down beside Longhurst, watching the battle.
'What do we do now, Corporal?,' he asked tensely.
'Where's Brown?,' Longhurst asked him. Adams craned his neck to look down the slope, and called.
'Brown!!!,'. A soldier wearing a large radio backpack scrambled to his feet and ran up to them.
'Give me the radio,' said Longhurst, and unhooked it from the large backpack. He fiddled with the tuner knob.
'Command, this is the 23rd,' he shouted into the mouthpiece. The radio crackled and soon the response came.
'Fzzzt this is command, go ahead 23rd.'
'Mission is a failure. Half of unit casualties. Air support unit destroyed. Over.'
There was an unpleasantly long pause. When the radio operator came back on, there was a hum of activity audible in the back ground. The operator himself sounded tense.
'Erm... copy that 23rd. Stand by. We are...,' the transmission suddenly cut off.
'Command, did not receive, please say again. Command?,' said Longhurst, in vain.

About 15 minutes had passed, with numerous attempts to raise HQ failing. It was unusual for HQ to be too busy to answer. Suddenly, someone further down the slope shouted, and pointed.
'Look at that!'
Longhurst, Adams, and Brown looked up to see several white streaks passing far overhead.
'What in the world are those?,' asked Longhurst.
'Jets?,' said Adams.
Suddenly one of the streaks pitched downwards.
'What's it doing?,' Brown said quietly.
As they watched, the streak continued on its downward course, apparently heading straight for the city. Moments from impact, Longhurst realized what it was.
'Oh no,' he said quietly.
'What?!?,' asked Adams.
A blinding white flash caused them all to cover their eyes. It subsided, and they noticed the distant city was boiling in a sea of flame.
'Erm, duck!,' yelled Longhurst, and they scrambled down the hill. The shockwave hit, knocking them from their feet. They tumbled down the slope, head over heels. Picking themselves up, they struggled back up the grass to the top. The city was a smoking cinder, a large white cloud above it.
'Oh no, oh no, oh no,' repeated Adams. Longhurst was about to scream at him to shut up, when Brown pointed skywards. More white streaks, although headed in the opposite direction. With a terrible feeling in his gut, Longhurst unhooked his rifle and looked up at them through the scope. At maximum magnification, he was able to make out clear markings. Red Stars. And they were heading due west. He sunk to the ground.
'London,' he said quietly.
'What?,' asked Brown.
'Alice,' said Longhurst
'Who?'
'Alice... ALICE! No!!!!!!!,' Longhurst shrieked, and raised the rifle at the missiles.
'NO NO NO NO!!!!,' he cried, vainly firing at them. Soon the clip ran dry, and he threw down the weapon in disgust. He pulled out his laser rifle, but the cell was ruined by the electromagnetic pulse. Furious, he threw it away as hard as he could, and began throwing grenades in the direction of the rapidly escaping missiles. When they ran out, he even threw his combat knife. Tears streamed from his face, as Longhurst fell to his knees and began to cry into his hands. Brown inched away, and opened his supply pack containing the anti-radiation drugs and Geiger counter. He momentarily considered radioing HQ, but realized they probably knew. Rolling up his sleeve, he sat down on the soft, green grass, and began injecting the Rad-away. The city burned quietly in the distance.


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