The Days After
Furaffinity version, need an account there to read it: http://www.furaffinity.net/view/30505566/
The Days After Written by Hammarbomber on FurAfffinity.net
It had been unexpected. Unpredicted, even. A second Great Depression, and no Third World War to bring about wealth.
I had been born a good score -a score chronologically speaking is twenty years- before the banks went bankrupt, people panicking to get what little money that was in their accounts into their hands. Others bought up guns and ammo, selling them at thrice the weapon's original equivalent value to those who could purchase them.
Then the riots. God, the riots. People didn't storm storefronts and government buildings like they thought. They stormed houses, banks, and farmfields. Raided cabinets, slaughtered housepets, hunted what little wild and feral life was in cities.
People started banding together to find food, drifted from Chicago and Indianapolis and other major cities, following the highways. Some became no different than Immortan Joe's faction, others, the Followers of the Apocalypse. Some still, became obsessed with machinery. Not like with the AdMech from Warhammer 40k, and not like the Brotherhood of Steel.
I had only heard rumors of these 'plane people', as less imaginative wanderers called them, and had seen works of them on the internet before.
Aeromorphs.
Portrayed with beach balls for breasts and phalli that can only be described as cannons, they were...... Interesting, works. The ones created by God knows who after the collapse lacked them.
I was on a scavenging trip for meats and medical supplies for my hometown, Valparaiso, when I heard the crunching and warping of metal, nevermind the sound that had preceded it.
"Hello?" No response.
"Anyone ther-" K'THOOM as a skyscraper started collapsing, burning three floors up. It had been a site for several clans' destruction at the hands of Junkers, madmen who had replicated the C4 plastic explosive used by most militaries before.
"SHIT!" was all I let out as I ran south, the spire of glass and steel plummeting downwards, the radials at the top pointing southwest. 'Apparently that wasn't as sound as I thought. Glad I got out of there this morning.'
CRSHSHSssss
It had been several days since the tower's collapse, glass dust covering the ground like snow.
I had gone back to investigate what I could, and maybe free anyone caught under the rubble. As I approached, I could hear..... something.
"someone give me a hand here! Rat's sticked under!" a male voice had shouted out.
Me, being a kind-hearted man at my core, had made footsteps towards the presumed two, just barely able to make out what he said.
Another sound, this time one I recognized: the blades of a helicopter in flight. And they were approaching, quite quickly. Ducking to the west side of the street, the only side without a boarded-up entrance, I concealed myself as best I could behind the shelves of a burnt out cornerstore.
"Aw hell, it's one of them! Rat, you're on your own!" "Kalash don't leave me here!" "I'm not getting turned into one of them!" "FUCK YOU KALASH! FUCK YOU AND THE BOSS! IF IT WEREN'T FOR YOU, SHIT-FOR-BRAINS BOOMMAN, WE'D HAVE GOTTEN THAT VALER AND HE'D BE THE ONE BURIED, NOT ME!"
What I heard shortly after, I can't quite describe.
(perspective change, third person view)
The blades had stopped, followed by footsteps.
Cnch, Cnch, Cnch, Cnch.
"_ NONONONO NOT THE FA- _" VRRRRRRRRT. Metallic tinkling, a characteristic sound of empty casings falling to the ground.
A lone Mi-24 Hind helimorph stands above what remains of the man's skull, nothing more that a pink paste among the rubble.
(Perspective Change, Mi-24 helimorph)
"Valer? What did they mean by 'Valer'? Anderson from Valparaiso?" I had thought aloud, walking away from the Junker whose face I eviscerated with the 12.7 minigun in my forearm.
'I know I saw a mop of ginger go into a building on my way down, it looked like whoever they were was going to try and help them.'
"Let's see," I said as I looked around, trying to find where that man could have gone. A quick glance around had revealed only one place without a 'porch', as much as the recessed door and ramp can quantify as one, that he could be hiding in.
"Anderson! I know you're in there!"
(Perspective Change, Anderson)
"Anderson! I know you're in there!" a distinctly feminine voiced called out, from the only exit of this formerly-cornerstore-about-to-become-my-grave.
'Ooooh shiiiit. She knows who I am, I am _fucked, fucked, fucked! _'
At this point I am near-panicking, again, as I heard tales of them in action, and that report from her trait weapon doesn't help matters if she wants to slay me, and I know for a fact I don't have the endurance to get her over the edge if she wants to lay me.
"What do you want?" I had responded, meekly coming out of hiding, all 5'5" of me, pausing mid-step at the -dare I say it- supermodel that towers over me by a good foot.
Her lifting blades folded behind her like the wings on a Victoria's Secret clothing model, her shoulders softly rounded and I estimated to be thirty inches, contrary to the descriptions I heard of Hind aeromorphs. Her breasts a large D, nipples hidden by pasties bearing a symbol I hadn't seen before, a roundel of orange and a ring of blue surrounding it, upon which a green-eyed black dragon sat. Her hips were wide, I had guessed 34 inches, and her waist the narrowest point upon her humanoid anatomy, which I had guessed (incorrectly, in retrospect) to be 27. My eyes couldn't help but to go lower, past her hips, down to her intimate areas. She had donned some sort of G-string, made from an old Indiana state flag, the bottom of the torch directing one's eyes to her thighs. More accurately, the two-inch-wide gap between them.
"ANDERSON!"
"Yes?!" I was snapped out of my reverie of her body by her shout, a slight metallic timbre to it, sounding like she spoke through a tube amp.
"You were staring."
"Sorry. It's..... Not every day one sees an aeromorph-"
"Helimorph" She had interjected, a tone of annoyance in her voice.
"My bad. Let me restart that comment," "It's not every day one sees a helimorph, let alone one with the body of a Victoria's Secret supermodel."
"Well," she started, the tube-amp timbre was barely noticable under her D-flat voice, "I've had my eye on you for some time. About a decade, to be exact." rocking back onto her heels, holding her hands behind her back.
"Waitwaitwait, what?"
"Oh come on, you should be able to figure out who I am. Although I didn't like how you just vanished from school one day only to contact me through social media a good three years later."
"ALEX?!" I had shouted, eyes going wide at the fact my high school crush was standing in front of me, and I had not realized it until then.
(Perspective Change, Alex)
"ALEX?!"
"Yep!" 'God he's cute when he flusters' I replied, putting a slight jump into my response. "Aaaaaaaannnnd, the reason I'm tracking you down is because aeromorphs, which helimorphs are a subtype of, are getting rarer. At least in mature instances."
"Rarer? How? And why did you specify 'mature instances'?" Hiram asked, stretching out a hand and gesturing to all of me, trying hard not to look at my breasts.
"You know the rumors where aeromorphs can kill twenty men before suffering even a minor scratch?"
"Yeah?"
"They aren't rumors. We're being hunted by... someone. We don't know who, but we do know they have weapons that can kill even A-10 aeros for good, and they have something in them that allows them to be resurrected within five minutes of having their brainshtem shot out!" I had responded, the timbre I try so hard to hide making itself evident, as well as the accursed accent it imparts.
"Holy shit. A-10 aeros are tanky as all hell. And are you alright? You sounded like you have Foreign Accent Syndrome."
"I'm fine. It's due to the change. An aero, fresh from conversion, has a heavy accent from the language of the designers of the original model. It only really comes out in 'veteran' aeros, those who have been mechanimorphs for five years or more." I replied, regaining some composure. "The hunters, they..... do something to newhatched aeromorphs, undo the change their parents underwent. We don't know how, but those are the only aeros that survive their assaults. Not even a two-month-old is safe from their wrath."
Several minutes have passed before Hiram spoke up.
"I know who's hunting you guys down." he stated, hands balled into fists, knuckles white.
"Who?"
"They're calling themselves 'Deniers of the Singularity'. Some sort of AdMech-like cult out of the Museum of Science and History, as well as other museums along the Lakeshore. They've shot at the Junkers whenever they got close, and the only ones who can challenge them are ex-military with looted war machines. Only saving grace is they hadn't shown interest in the world outside of their museum save for trading books they've written up, which are a load of bull, and knick-knacks from the gift shops for food and water."
"Greeaaaatttt......." I had exasperated, putting a palm over my right eye, slowly letting it slide down. "Any idea how to contact these ex-military groups?"
"Not really. We can try Wings of Freedom, an anti-slaver group that's stationed out of Porter County Municipal Airport. There's no guarantee the guards are going to be very warm to you, assuming they don't try to shoot you on the spot."
"That's not very reassuring."
"It's because there are rumors going through town about aeros kidnapping kids just entering puberty. That's not true, is it?"
"Not sure about other wings, but the one I'm from wouldn't allow that, even from other ones. We're just outside Springfield farther to the south."
"See if your commander-slash-leader-slash-alpha is willing to move you guys to PCMA. Might get the Junkers off our backs, and get you guys a steady supply of food. Half our harvest spoils due to too much to go around, even with gratuitous shares."
"Really?"
"Yep. Potato crops rotated with soybeans. We've varied the species of potato to avoid a repeat of the Potato Famine of 1845. I'll see if Costas is willing to split it as well."
I knew Valparaiso wouldn't be affected much by the Day, but I wasn't expecting it to flourish. Maybe I should've asked for my wing to be started there instead of Springfield.
(Perspective Change, Hiram Anderson)
It's been two weeks since Alex and I have met again, and the Junker attacks have gotten more audacious, and being backed by Immortan Joe's Emmesaries, damn Mad-Maxers.
"Junkers!" the call came up, from one of the watchmen on the wall
"Understood! Get the Skeeters up on the walls, and the RK1905s focused on their cavalry!"
"Yes sir!" a private from Campus City, a shantytown that included the rundown apartments over by the Valparaiso University, returned, sprinting for the Walmart Barracks.
I had just gotten my Trapdoor Caplock Springfield from the guard racks in the West 30 Gatehouse when the War Rig attempted to ram the doors out. A God-damned War Rig.
"Loading! Someone get a hold of Wings of Freedom, they've got a damned War Rig!"
"A WHAT?!" A sergeant yelled out in disbelief.
"It just rammed the doors! What else do you think the Emmesaries would try ramming concrete-and-steel doors five inches thick with?!" I retorted, aiming out a ground-floor gunslit at the driver.
K-THOOM, and the far side of the driver's head blows open, gray matter splattering across the remnants of the 'armored' glass.
"War Rig disabled! Gatling Gunners, deny them access to the cab!"
"Yes sir, with pleasure!"
thwopthwopthwopthwopthwopthwopthwopthwopthwopthwopthwopthwop
"Sir? What is that sound?"
"Sir?"
"Alex you beautiful butcher."
"Sir?"
"Our cavalry, and our reinforcements."
thwopthowpthwopthwop
"Engage that war rig Hawgs! Leave not one Junker alive!"
"Understood Flight Admiral!"
WhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiBRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTT
"Dear God they're-"
"I hear you say slurs or 'plane people' I'll demote you on the spot sergeant!"
"Understood Watch Commander Anderson!"
"War rig destroyed, Flight Admiral!" an A-10 calls out, a thunderpoon glancing off his back.
"Alex, down here!" I let out, waving a hand back and forth atop the ramparts. "Make a clear space on the highway for her!"
Thwopthwopthwp thwp thwwp......
"Hiram!" Alex shouts out as she lands, flight blades folding as she stands fully.
"Alex! Hhrmhc... Alex, it's good to see you again."
"Same here. Good thing we moved then, otherwise we wouldn't have a safe haven."
"Costas didn't fully approve of the idea at first. Had to point out that having air superiority would make battles like this one far, _far_easier to win. Not to mention less costly on manpower. So is Flight Admiral a mid-rank title ooorrrr?"
"Chieftain, basically. Acting, chieftain."
"Acting? Where's the rest of your wing?"
"Above the cloud cover, not getting involved in the battle."
"Fair enough."
"Sir?" the same sergeant I threatened with a demotion asked.
"What is it?" I had responded with a hint of annoyance in my tone.
"Sir, they're nude."
"NMMMMMmmm....... The reason all, or almost all, aeromorphs are nude is because their anatomy and capabilities simultaneously demand they be nude and prevent them from wearing comfortable clothing, sergeant."
"Sorrysir!"
"But..... why?" This time, a private.
"Because, clothing produces an immense amount of drag at trans-sonic, or super sonic, speeds, basically speeds that can outrun a bullet from_before_ the Day. And I'll say this: The black powder weapons we use today are far, far slower than metallic-case ammunition."
"Are they always like this?" Alex inquired, shifting most of her weight to her left foot and resting her left hand on her hip.
"Sadly, yes. They were too young to remember the Internet......... Aaaannnd now I feel old. Despite not being 35 yet."
"Damnit now I feel old too."
"Alright, let's count up casualties and dead, see how we faired this time."