The Mini-burger

FanFic in the Birmoverse

Lootin’ Schmootin’ – by NoWhereBob

He slipped over a fence and into a new overgrown yard. A year’s tall dead grass partly hid a kids play gym. He moved towards a back deck listening intently and watching the house for movement. Yesterday he had heard a helicopter in the distance, probably the army. But it was a week since he’d spoken to anyone. A week since the Chechens had killed Dan.

 

It’d started off as such a sweet plan. Arriving just barely 9 weeks after the wave disappeared, they’d have 4 months in country to liberate some ownerless valuables, and then meet up with an old friend who had a aid freight contract out of Seattle, 22 days after that he and his shipping container would be back in Brisbane.

 

Eight months later it’d all turned to shit, he was eating expired tinned crap, drinking from puddles like a dog and he wasn’t sure who’d end up shooting him, the army on gunship helicopter looting patrols, or one of the other Free Companies who were working over America’s corpse. Not that he belonged to a company anymore. The Chechens had fixed that. Perhaps Independent Agent was the term these days.

 

As always he started with the kitchen – damn no bottled water, but a collection of cans in the pantry, so the pick of them went into his pack. He scanned the kitchen, walked through the dining and on into the lounge room.

 

Nothing, nothing and nothing, shit.

 

As always the air through the whole house sagged under the rot and decay. Decaying carpets and picture windows combined to make a crazy jungle scene where a flat screen TV and flash looking sound system weeped mould and fungi. He walked down the hall, past an office and the bedroom of a girl, 14 or 15 by the look of things. At the very back of the house was a door with heavy feature panels & a big olde worlde hinge.

 

Hello, even locked!

 

Two well placed size 11’s and the door swung open revealing dads den. It couldn’t be anything else; all leather bound books and armchairs with a moldering mounted deer of some sort on the wall. This was promising.

 

He dropped his pack on the desk, took a sip of water and started looking closely. It was the last door to the bookcase that caught his eye; it looked slightly different to the others. On closer inspection there was a gap, les than that, barely a crack that ran up here, across there, down there and back. Door sized. Three minutes of probing with a big screwdriver and a distinct click echoed across the room. The whole panel of bookcase glided a foot towards him then rolled away to the left.

 

All-righty then.

 

Lever arch files, racks of disks and a document size strong box sat on a shelf at shoulder height, above it three hunting rifles and Joy of Joys a lightweight AR15. He then played “If I were bolts and ammunition, where would I be?” for all of 6 seconds before finding a second strong box.

 

Now that is more like it.

 

He was humming as he carried the gear out to the desk when he heard movement in the house.

 

Double Fuck.

 

He crept to the dens door and could hear them in the hall way.

 

The Chechens.

 

Quiet as he could, he gathered his gear from the desk and backed into the little room behind the bookcase, he slid the false panel closed behind him. The click sounded very loud and permanent.

 

It was only ten minutes later when he first smelt the smoke.

 

Five minutes after that he was sure he could not open the panel from inside.

 

In another ten minutes he was screaming.

 

And another ten he was dead.

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13 March, 2009 - Posted by | Without Warning

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