The Mini-burger

FanFic in the Birmoverse

The Falcon Masters – by Stephen Francis Murphy

The Falcon Masters – – Without Warning Fan Fiction
By Steven Francis Murphy

Snow covered the empty plains of the American Midwest, the bleak sun peering down through a clear grey blue sky down upon the bones of empire. Tufts of fine grass, waist high reached up, shifting with the Siberian express blowing hard across Kansas and over the river into Missouri. No rabbits scurried to evade the nimble fox, the eager wolf or the cagey farm dog. Huddles of cattle were nowhere to be found either. Rusting farm machines covered in snow and dirt sank on deflated tires into the soil. A windmill spun crazy lazy on a busted pivot, betraying the wind’s true direction, creaking in the empty air, joined only by the sound of turbine thunder roaring far above a land orphaned in the blink of an eye by the hand of fate.

They were a pair of metal falcons painted sky grey, sleek and mean. Their masters, hearts hardened, marked time on their graveyard sentry, flying lazy circle eights over their patrol zone, tapping into the UAVs which covered other patches of the sky. Winter slowed down the jackals, vultures and other carrion who fed off the land, freezing them in hibernation until true spring cracked open her thawing warmth across the plains. Wings burdened with precious fuel and irreplaceable ordinance, the masters of the metal falcons were perhaps relieved to receive the gift of boredom after the last three years. After eight hours on station, they vectored back to Whiteman Air Force Base to be replaced by the next pair.

Soaring low on their approach, they used I-70 as their cookie crumb trail, a double belted strip of asphalt marred by hundreds of divets in the median, burned out semi tractor tractors with their backs cracked open, spilling canned spam, toilet paper and cosmetics over the land. Closing with Johnson County, Kansas, the first wisps of smoke reached high to greet them, to show them that the ghosts were not alone in the graveyard any longer. The falcons dropped lower to rattle the windows, reassuring the new settlers that men and women still watched over the living as well as the dead.

It was patchy, the wisps of smoke, the ever so often vehicle crawling along the snow covered streets littered with ruined SUVs from Mercedes to Lexus, from BMW to Land Rover. More practical types settled for transportation of the four legged variety, making better progress past the stubborn who clung to wheels. They all clung tight to the brick buildings of the Sprint Corporation, where the Trans Mississippi Settlement Authority had set up temporary barracks for the returning Americans, natural born and the newly minted homesteaders from all over the world. They crossed the line between two vanished states over the frozen muddy brown Missouri, catching a rising Globemaster III climbing into the air from the Downtown Airport. Plows cleared the runway, crews patched the holes around the airport and repaired the buildings. No wisps of smoke were seen here, steam climbed into the air instead from portable heating units donated by the Japanese. Bundled up insects just off of the Globemaster shuffled into the refurbished terminal in search of warmth while the falcons pushed onward, following I-70 back out into the deserted rural landscape.

The masters of the falcons soon set foot on Mother Earth, the cold hard tarmac unforgiving against the soles of their boots. Thin, worn from constant flying over nothing, they looked forward to their one cup of coffee at the dining facility and perhaps some chili mac. Maybe someone had made a run into Kansas City and scored some Starbucks beans that were still good. Perhaps someone had found a case of beer or some decent bourbon. Widowers both, the men, whose names really aren’t important I suppose, go back to their racks over a joyless meal and slip into the land of nostaglic nightmare. Until they fly above the bones of empire once more.

The End

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15 March, 2009 - Posted by | Without Warning

3 Comments »

  1. Great read Murph.

    savo

    Comment by miniburger | 15 March, 2009 | Reply

  2. good stuff Murph…VERY UPLIFTING…Fucking hell!

    Comment by havock21 | 15 March, 2009 | Reply

  3. Thanks, guys. Glad you liked it.

    Respects,
    Murph
    On the Outer Marches

    Comment by sfmurphy1971 | 15 March, 2009 | Reply


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