11-11-2009, 09:58 PM
“What the hell is that?” Trafford whispered to himself. He cautiously peered out from behind the jagged, snow covered rock he had dove behind only moments ago. It was a low, rumbling noise that he could hear in the distance that frightened him. When he first noticed the disturbance it was faint and could barely be heard over the howling winds that were constantly encircling him; the ferocious storm had no particular direction, but rather blasted to and fro, this way and that way, in an illogical and chaotic pattern. As the minutes passed, with Alexander keeping a haphazard lookout from behind his white-topped stone cover, the sound’s intensity increased – the rumbling became eerily similar to a large stampede romping through the snow.
The cold was beginning to frustrate him once more. After squatting behind the cover of a rock for an extended period of time, without any real motion whatsoever, his feet and his legs had begun to numb, and he was quite sure that his toes had long since fallen off. After lighting another cigarette, Trafford decided to take one last look in the direction of the disturbance before continuing his depressing trudge across this arctic tundra.
“Holy shit!” Alexander exclaimed. Cresting over a far away hill was a giant wave of snow and debris. The front of the massive flood of aggregated powder was continuously rolling over itself, much like a steamroller, and was rushing down the side of the mountain. It was a mother fucking avalanche. His cigarette slipped from his awestruck mouth and dropped uselessly to the fair canvas.
Trafford maintained a safe distance from the avalanche, making sure that he did not become endangered. It was odd, he noted, that the avalanche was continuously changing directions in a manner that did not make much sense to him. He had been an intelligent student back home, and even graduated his private, highly esteemed high school with highest honors, but he could not understand the snow flood’s movement – it was constantly changing directions against the path of least resistance. That was unnatural.
Alexander took a few steps back, maintaining a low, stealthy crouch for some unknown reason. It wasn’t like anyone was watching him in this god forsaken shithole. He ran his long, bony fingers through his hair and swept the orange locks away from his eyes. His eyes were squinted, peering relentlessly through the gusting snow in order to keep track of the avalanche’s path as he slowly and carefully backed away from this section of arctic wasteland.
Suddenly, the sound of a detonating bomb ripped through the area. The volume rose above that of the avalanche, and made the sound of the storm irrelevant in his ears. Trafford dove headlong into the snow out of instinct, covering his head and waiting for the smoke and the flames to devour his body. But they never came. After a minute of lying like this, face down in the freezing snow with his Armani suit leaking water like a sieve, Alexander lifted his head and peered out across the snowy desert. In the distance the avalanche no longer existed, but instead was replaced by two separated mounds of snow that had once been the combined sum of the solidified flood. Smoke rose from the center, the aftermath of whatever explosion had caused the split and the halt of the rushing wave of snow, ice and debris. Near the origin of the detonation, a figure was walking away from the scene. He was too far off to identify, Trafford couldn’t even tell if the being was human, but it was certainly alive. And he was marching towards something, appearing determined.
“Might as well see where that fellow is off too,” Trafford whispered through chattering teeth as he lifted himself from the ground and dusted himself off. Shrugging his shoulders, he temporarily unbuttoned his suit and removed one of his two Desert Eagle handguns from its respective holster residing against his left ribcage. “Just to be safe . . .”
Having followed the creature into the stout, well fortified building, one he assumed was an old bunker, he assumed he would have made some sort of contact with said biped. He had been a good distance behind the being, and it was possible that he, she or it had already exited, he had not seen the fellow leave, and he had not yet found an alternative exit.
“Oh well,” Trafford spoke rather loudly, before lowering his voice into a whisper midsentence, nearly forgetting the possibility that he was mere yards away from a hostile organism with the ability to halt and separate titanic avalanches. Thinking his absentminded mistake may cost him his life he leveled the heavy handgun in front of his torso and crept slowly along the cold, concrete wall that lined the entrance to the bunker.
As he made his way through the small fortress, he passed a kitchen, what appeared to be a lounge room, and a few bunks, but there was no sign of his abstruse avalanche annihilator, or ‘Triple A,’ as he referred to him. He thought this was hysterical because, back home, AAA was the name of the company he called when he needed on sight help with his car.
When he reached the end of the long hallway, and after he looked both ways with his gun leveled, Trafford slipped into what appeared to be a supply room. He entered this area of the bunker expecting some food, maybe some clothes, but what he found was a fully stocked armory.
“Oh, hell yeah,” Trafford spoke through his traditional, widespread grin. He grabbed, examined and discarded weaponry like it was candy. Every so often he pulled one against his shoulder and pretended he was gunning down the enemy, like a child playing cops and robbers, or some other foolish game.
Reaching for the shoulder strap of an assault rifle that was mounted high upon the eastern wall of the armory, Alexander immediately found the gun that fit him. Tucking his Desert Eagle back into its holster, he threw the strap over his shoulder so that the large piece of weaponry hung diagonally across his back. He made sure the barrel was pointing downwards, resting almost on his hip, so that if need be he could quickly slide the weapon across his side and tuck it under his arm.
On his way out of the room, Ace flipped up the old, wooden cover of a chest that was resting cleverly behind the open door. As the cover opened a collection of dust flew up from the disturbed storage facility. Nearly coughing, Trafford waved his hands furiously in front of his face, squeezing his eyes closed and spitting repeatedly to avoid any dust intake.
“Jesus . . .” Alex sputtered out the last bit of dust from his lips and wiped his eyes clean. Examining the contents of the chest, however, immediately returned the nefarious grin of mischievous triumph to his visage.
Inside he found a thick coat, the interior of which was lined with some sort of animal fur, an equally thick winter hat, made in the old soviet style, which he immediately pulled snug over his ears, an old satchel and a bunch of energy cartridges for his newly acquired weapon. It was almost as if he were meant to find this hidden stash of items.
After stowing his cigarettes, flask, lighter, and little bag of drug related paraphernalia, along with the newly acquired cartridges in the satchel, and sliding his arms into the slightly-too-large jacket, and readjusting his energy assault rifle, Trafford headed for the exit of the bunker.
Before he left the room, however, he slapped closed the chest cover. The old wooden top was heavier than he expected, and it came crashing down hard on the remainder of the frame. The noise echoed loudly throughout the entire complex.
Alex froze, his back becoming erect and his eyes becoming wide with fear. From the other side of the bunker he could hear a distinct rustling sound, following by the shuffling of a pair of feet. Was it his mysterious man? Was it the Triple A? Or was this some far more dangerous creature?
Leveling his rifle, Trafford inched into the hallway . . .
The cold was beginning to frustrate him once more. After squatting behind the cover of a rock for an extended period of time, without any real motion whatsoever, his feet and his legs had begun to numb, and he was quite sure that his toes had long since fallen off. After lighting another cigarette, Trafford decided to take one last look in the direction of the disturbance before continuing his depressing trudge across this arctic tundra.
“Holy shit!” Alexander exclaimed. Cresting over a far away hill was a giant wave of snow and debris. The front of the massive flood of aggregated powder was continuously rolling over itself, much like a steamroller, and was rushing down the side of the mountain. It was a mother fucking avalanche. His cigarette slipped from his awestruck mouth and dropped uselessly to the fair canvas.
Trafford maintained a safe distance from the avalanche, making sure that he did not become endangered. It was odd, he noted, that the avalanche was continuously changing directions in a manner that did not make much sense to him. He had been an intelligent student back home, and even graduated his private, highly esteemed high school with highest honors, but he could not understand the snow flood’s movement – it was constantly changing directions against the path of least resistance. That was unnatural.
Alexander took a few steps back, maintaining a low, stealthy crouch for some unknown reason. It wasn’t like anyone was watching him in this god forsaken shithole. He ran his long, bony fingers through his hair and swept the orange locks away from his eyes. His eyes were squinted, peering relentlessly through the gusting snow in order to keep track of the avalanche’s path as he slowly and carefully backed away from this section of arctic wasteland.
Suddenly, the sound of a detonating bomb ripped through the area. The volume rose above that of the avalanche, and made the sound of the storm irrelevant in his ears. Trafford dove headlong into the snow out of instinct, covering his head and waiting for the smoke and the flames to devour his body. But they never came. After a minute of lying like this, face down in the freezing snow with his Armani suit leaking water like a sieve, Alexander lifted his head and peered out across the snowy desert. In the distance the avalanche no longer existed, but instead was replaced by two separated mounds of snow that had once been the combined sum of the solidified flood. Smoke rose from the center, the aftermath of whatever explosion had caused the split and the halt of the rushing wave of snow, ice and debris. Near the origin of the detonation, a figure was walking away from the scene. He was too far off to identify, Trafford couldn’t even tell if the being was human, but it was certainly alive. And he was marching towards something, appearing determined.
“Might as well see where that fellow is off too,” Trafford whispered through chattering teeth as he lifted himself from the ground and dusted himself off. Shrugging his shoulders, he temporarily unbuttoned his suit and removed one of his two Desert Eagle handguns from its respective holster residing against his left ribcage. “Just to be safe . . .”
~~~*~~~
Having followed the creature into the stout, well fortified building, one he assumed was an old bunker, he assumed he would have made some sort of contact with said biped. He had been a good distance behind the being, and it was possible that he, she or it had already exited, he had not seen the fellow leave, and he had not yet found an alternative exit.
“Oh well,” Trafford spoke rather loudly, before lowering his voice into a whisper midsentence, nearly forgetting the possibility that he was mere yards away from a hostile organism with the ability to halt and separate titanic avalanches. Thinking his absentminded mistake may cost him his life he leveled the heavy handgun in front of his torso and crept slowly along the cold, concrete wall that lined the entrance to the bunker.
As he made his way through the small fortress, he passed a kitchen, what appeared to be a lounge room, and a few bunks, but there was no sign of his abstruse avalanche annihilator, or ‘Triple A,’ as he referred to him. He thought this was hysterical because, back home, AAA was the name of the company he called when he needed on sight help with his car.
When he reached the end of the long hallway, and after he looked both ways with his gun leveled, Trafford slipped into what appeared to be a supply room. He entered this area of the bunker expecting some food, maybe some clothes, but what he found was a fully stocked armory.
“Oh, hell yeah,” Trafford spoke through his traditional, widespread grin. He grabbed, examined and discarded weaponry like it was candy. Every so often he pulled one against his shoulder and pretended he was gunning down the enemy, like a child playing cops and robbers, or some other foolish game.
Reaching for the shoulder strap of an assault rifle that was mounted high upon the eastern wall of the armory, Alexander immediately found the gun that fit him. Tucking his Desert Eagle back into its holster, he threw the strap over his shoulder so that the large piece of weaponry hung diagonally across his back. He made sure the barrel was pointing downwards, resting almost on his hip, so that if need be he could quickly slide the weapon across his side and tuck it under his arm.
On his way out of the room, Ace flipped up the old, wooden cover of a chest that was resting cleverly behind the open door. As the cover opened a collection of dust flew up from the disturbed storage facility. Nearly coughing, Trafford waved his hands furiously in front of his face, squeezing his eyes closed and spitting repeatedly to avoid any dust intake.
“Jesus . . .” Alex sputtered out the last bit of dust from his lips and wiped his eyes clean. Examining the contents of the chest, however, immediately returned the nefarious grin of mischievous triumph to his visage.
Inside he found a thick coat, the interior of which was lined with some sort of animal fur, an equally thick winter hat, made in the old soviet style, which he immediately pulled snug over his ears, an old satchel and a bunch of energy cartridges for his newly acquired weapon. It was almost as if he were meant to find this hidden stash of items.
After stowing his cigarettes, flask, lighter, and little bag of drug related paraphernalia, along with the newly acquired cartridges in the satchel, and sliding his arms into the slightly-too-large jacket, and readjusting his energy assault rifle, Trafford headed for the exit of the bunker.
Before he left the room, however, he slapped closed the chest cover. The old wooden top was heavier than he expected, and it came crashing down hard on the remainder of the frame. The noise echoed loudly throughout the entire complex.
Alex froze, his back becoming erect and his eyes becoming wide with fear. From the other side of the bunker he could hear a distinct rustling sound, following by the shuffling of a pair of feet. Was it his mysterious man? Was it the Triple A? Or was this some far more dangerous creature?
Leveling his rifle, Trafford inched into the hallway . . .
Quote: Alexander Trafford has entered the Arctic Sector Bunker
![[Image: alext.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v234/waffuru/alext.jpg)