Prelude To Armageddon, Part III


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Scene Title Prelude to Armageddon, Part III
Synopsis The sand of time keep grinding down, and history inches closer and closer to the end of the world.
Date January 18, 2009

Queens: Long Island City, Eagle Electric

Yellow moving trucks roll past an open chain link fence, one after another, four in total. The vehicles roar into the abandoned parking lot, crunching a thin layer of ice and snow on the cracked and upheaved pavement, circling around the front of the graffiti-scarred warehouse, rolling down a narrow driveway between two large primary facilities in the long shadows of smokestacks.

Each vehicle rounds a corner again, and like some synchronized acrobatics they move unerringly into position as if they had done this a thousand times. The lead truck turns sharpest, pulling up to a loading dock door at the back of the warehouse, nose first. The moment it halts forward movement, and before it's even locked into a parked position, the back door of the truck is rolling up and open as men in urban camouflage with black ski-masks come pouring out, rifles held close to their chests.

The second truck takes a slightly wider tuen, pulling in to the next loading dock down the line, repeating the same process as it comes to a halt and spills forth with heavily armed soldiers. All the way to the fourth truck, finally grinding to a halt by the last loading dock, more armed men piling out of the vehicle. Though this one, unlike the last, has a man in a different uniform climbing out of the truck. Short-cropped blonde hair catches the cold wind and lightly falling snow, eyes squinted as he peers up at the sheet of white-gray clouds that carpet the heavens.

No orders are barked by Hans, he needs to give no verbal commands. These man are practiced, trained, professional; they know what needs to be done. One by one the loading bay doors open, rolling up to open into the warehouse and the soldiers climb up into the building in groups of three, sweeping the facility as they move. Standing outside, Hans' eyes scan the pair of primary buildings, looking up at the warehouse's blown out windows, then across to the foundry and machine floors that must be contained in the other, larger brick building, its loming smoke stacks long gone cold.

Three of the soldiers come out, dragging a stiff body behind them. It's hurled out onto the ground as another pair of men unroll a black plastic tarp to recieve the corpse. Zhang Wu-Long's lifeless body crashes to the tarp and strikes the pavement beneath, blood drooling out from the open crown of his head onto the plastic, even as the soldiers begin to roll up his remains.

Life is so fleeting.

Ruins of Midtown, New York Public Library

The flickering glow of a laptop shines against circular-lensed glasses, reflecting the distorted image of blue lines on a white background. A few clicks of a mouse drags and draws out a bounded field of yellow, and a few more mouse clicks preceed typing, the soft click of laptop keys.

Eagle Electric, begins to be printed across the text field on the image, Three primary structures; one storage facility, one administrative building, one manufacturing plant. Leaning forward, Doctor Edward Ray reaches down to rifle thorugh loose sheets of paper, pulling up and unfolding a large document, tracing his fingers over schematics and designs quietly.

Connected by underground access tunnels for electricity, steam, and water maintenance. Roughly a quarter mile of tunnels. His head tilts to the side, neck popping as he does. Tension ribs through him, horrible and worsening. Manufacturing facility; five stories. Warehouse; single floor. Administrative office; three floors. Facility surrounded by razorwire fence. No reports from electric company of power going to facility.

Staten Island, Sea View Hospital

Boots kick in a door, and soldiers storm the quiet and dead halls. Paint peels from the walls, plaster has fallen from the ceiling to crunch underfoot. Part of the ceiling of the entrance hall has collapsed, down through the floor to a flooded basement below. This is where Judah Demsky nearly lost his life; it's funny how everything comes full circle.

Treading slowly behind ten armed men, Drake Leeds strolls into the musty and darkened halls, a long cylinder of dark metal laid over one shoulder, yellow text printed on one side reading Flip up scope, load rocket, aim blast vent away from personnel. He stops at the middle of the entryway, looking at the dilapidated front desk where nurses would have accepted patients in the past; a place of healing to become a place of death.

"Clear!" A voice calls up from two floors overhead, creaking wood and settling stone showing signs of more soldiers elsewheres in the compound. Drake nods his head, flicking two fingers down the one serviceable hall, and more soldiers climb up the crumbling front steps and slip into the building. Blue eyes stare again at the vacant desk, looking at the moldering paperwork still clinging to the warped front desk. Brows lower, and a thought crosses Drake's mind.

Is this what everything will look like, one day?

Ruins of Midtown, New York Public Library

Sea View Hospital. A new series of blueprints, and new notations. Leaning forward to pick up a cup of steaming tea, Edward pauses in his typing, viewing the browser window pulled up next to the edited document, looking at th eexterior photographs of the structure, a heavy sigh slipping out of his nose.

A sip, two, and the cup comes back down to the desk, clinking something metallic beneath one of the loose paper maps of Manhattan. Edward's eyes fleetingly move to the reflection of his desk lamp off of something chromed. A faint smile crosses his lips, but bleeds away into a frown as he focuses back onto the laptop. Former Women's Ward, structural damage hi—

Edward pauses typing, bringing a hand to his forehead to rub slowly across his brow, eyes tracking away from the screen to that glimmer of chromed metal poking out from beneath one of the blueprints. His eyes stay there, transfixed by the reflection of his desk lamp on the metal, knowing full well what it represents.


Five Miles off the Coast of New York; Cargo Freighter, the Invierno

«Pack it up Mattias, bring in all of the rafts!» Climbing up from the side of the ship, Rico Velasquez is back on home turf, on the roll of the seas and the cold string of the salty air. «We've got our orders…» Even if the words he spills out from his lips cause him some level of dread, a certain intense worry that sinks down to the pit of his stomach.

Scrambling across the deck of the ship, ruddy-skinned men in dark rain-slicker ponchos move to the Zodiac raft being unloaded on the ship's port side. Crates of ammunition, firearms and explosives loaded on to the wet deck of the cargo ship. The Captain of the ship, a thin and scraggly looking Portugese man rubs at his unkempt beard, dark eyes following Rico as he moves in to keep pace with the South American mercenary.

«Something is on you rmind, cousin. What's troubling you?» Mattias narrows his eyes, looking back to Rico's men unloading the cargo from the raft. Rico just keeps his eyes ahead, walking towards the bulkhead doors that lead deeper into the ship, one hand reaching into his jacket to retrieve a rolled cigarette from his inner pocket. Rick licks one side of it, then slides it between his lips, reaching down to his vest pocket for his lighter.

The silence of the walk to the door is cut abrupt, when Rico moves to pull the door open and Mattias slams his hand on the door to push it shut. «Rico.» He steps between the dour-looking man and the door, eyes narrowed, «What is wrong?» The answer, at first, is just sucking in a slow breath to burn the cigarette down, letting the smoke burn his nostrils on the way out.

«King is dead. We're all dead.» Rico moves quickly, stepping forward to grab Mattias by the collar of his jacket, dragging him off of his feet as he slams him into the metal door. «We're all fucking dead!» His cigarette bobs up and down between his lips, trailing a corkscrew of smoke through the air as he shouts, «So let me die in fucking peace!» Rico's tongue catches the cigarette, sweeping it into the corner of his mouth before he drops Mattias back down to his feet, shaken.

There's a long, awkward silence shared between the two until Mattias shuffles out of the way of the door, allowing Rico inside the ship, followed by a slam of it closing behind him. The ship's Captain breathes in a slow breath, straightening his jacket collar, then turns towards the soldiers beinging a mortar launcher up from the raft.

His eyes narrow, «We're all dead?»

Ruins of Midtown, New York Public Library

The Invierno. The laptop displays a 130 foot long cargo freighter as shown from a helicopter view. Edward stares at the screen for a few long moments, eyes drifting shut as his head bobs forward. Days of being awake, straight, without a moment of sleep begins to catch up to him. Crewed by — He stops typing, staring at the screen again, roughly —, his tongue rolls across the inside of his cheek.

"Fuck it." Edward snorts out, slapping the laptop screen closed. The sudden motion blows one of the papers off of his makeshift desk, falling to the floor with a swish of paper on tile. As he leans over to try and drag it out from from under the table, Edwardly eyes settle on what was obscured beneath it.

A snub-nosed revolver, laid out on road maps of Manhattan. He stares at the gun, eyes wide for a moment, before snatching it off of the table to tuck inside of his jacket. The paper on the floor is forgotten, lost beneath his chair like some long forgotten scrip of ancient wisdom.

His hand clutches the gun inside of the jacket, fingers shaking.

Not yet.

It's not the end yet.

January 18th: It's All In Your Head
January 18th: Old Lucy's Recruitment Center
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