Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me; I didn't make them up. I
think they probably belong to Midway, I guess. Anyhow, there's no sex or
such in here, no cursing, but some violence. I hope you've all been
properly disclaimed.
This is the first story I've put on fanfiction.net so I hope it turns out well.
Stryker's Story
By Blackjackg
In these pages I commit my last testament, my memoirs. I am all that remains now of New York City and its millions of people. I am the sole survivor of the most devastating massacre in unrecorded history. I am Kurtis Stryker and I am Legend.
Part 1: New York City
I'm not sure when exactly it began. I woke up at around two in the morning to the sounds of yelling and explosions. Waking up was the first mistake I would make that night. My first thought was that a riot had broken out, and that meant overtime pay. That also meant I had to get up and get down to the precinct. I got up right away and dressed. Nothing fancy, my good old blue t-shirt, yesterday's jeans, and my NYPD cap. After I strapped on my nightstick I sprinted out the door of my tiny apartment and down the hall. The elevator was stuck again so I had to take the stairs. I made a mental note to write a strongly worded note to the super and slip it under his door come morning. Then I got outside.
The cars on the street weren't moving. Most of them had run into something on the sidewalk or into each other. A few just sat in the middle of the street. I sprinted toward the nearest car, one that had collided with a lamppost a few yards away from me. I leaned into the passenger side window, the second biggest mistake I had made that day. The driver was dead. Definitely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, dead. His skin was a sort of a blue-grey tone and his mouth was open in an hours-old scream. I turned away from the window. That was something I didn't want to see then or ever again.
I started to move towards the next car, but I was distracted when a car exploded in a huge orange ball of flame a hundred yards or so down street. As I watched, a creature jumped up from between the cars and landed heavily on the roof of a grey chevy hatchback. I can tell you right now, it wasn't human. It was a bull from the waist down, but didn't look that good from the waist up, either. It had huge arms, and some sort of curled horns on its head. The thing had a long shiny tail, and it was swinging it back and forth like a whip. Then it looked at me. Straight at me. Its eyes glowed red. I had never before in my life had so keen a desire to be in my truck. Needless to say, I made it in record time. I don't know how it happened, but by the time I got the key turned, that thing was right in front of the truck. I slammed on the gas. Probably hit fifty clicks in reverse. As soon as I cleared the parking garage, I swung the most reckless U-turn ever attempted by modern man. Then I got the hell out of there. I swear, that thing was right behind the truck for the first half-mile. After that it was gone.
I drove at top speed for most of an hour before I had the guts to stop. I wanted to put a lot of distance between New York City and me, and I didn't feel comfortable stopping until I had crossed over the border from New Jersey into Pennsylvania. I pulled over to the side of the road, and just breathed for a while.
I had not seen any living thing through the whole state of New Jersey. A lot of cars swerved off the road. It was a lucky thing, because if you've ever tried to swerve through stopped traffic at 120 miles an hour, it's not exactly the easiest thing to do.
Something was horribly, disgustingly, mind-bogglingly wrong. Assembling the few pieces of evidence I had in my already frazzled brain, I managed to piece together the only logical theory. The Arabs had nuked New York City. That bull-thing was obviously some form of mutant. The only thing to do was put a lot of distance between me and the deadly radiation in New York City. I had some relatives in Chicago, maybe that would be the place to go. Hopefully, it was still standing.
I hopped back into the truck and started her up. My needle was fluttering on the orange letter E, but I had an extra can full of gas under the seat, so I figured I could at least make it to Ohio. Maybe Indiana, but it would take a few hours. I would worry about my fuel concerns later. At that point, my priority was getting far from New York City. Fast.
*************************
I first saw him by the side of a particularly deserted stretch of highway outside Altoona, Pennsylvania, in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains. I was so thrilled to see another human being moving that I didn't even consider not pulling over. He was the first living non-mutant I had seen since going to bed the night before. The man was dressed in black pants and a dingy leather jacket, and that was all I could see of him, because he was hunched under the hood of a big red Ford pick-up. He must have heard me screaming up the highway, but he didn't seem to care. I parked the truck by the side of the road and jumped out. After careful consideration, I left my nightstick in the car. I didn't need to scare this guy off.
I walked up beside him. "Hey Buddy," I said, "Need a hand?"
He pulled his head out from under the hood and looked me in the eye. "Yeah, I can't figure out this buggery Yankee motor. And my name's not Buddy."
At that point, I couldn't have cared less whether his name was Buddy or Elizabeth, because I couldn't stop staring at his face. The right half of it seemed to have been replaced by a moulded steel plate, with one glowing red slit where his eye should have been. That, coupled with the lattice of scars covering his face and arms, did not paint a particularly savoury picture of this character.
"Well," I said, slowly prying my eyes away from his mangled face, "I know a little bit about engines, why don't I take a look at it." Though my mind screamed for me not to turn my back on this man, I ducked under the hood to see what was wrong. "I'm Kurtis, by the way, Kurtis Stryker." I stuck my hand out backwards, in an awkward attempt at a handshake.
The man ignored my proffered hand as well as my proffered name. "What's wrong with it?" You had to admire the man's directness, if not his manners.
"You just need some oil. I have a pint in my car, why don't I fill you up?"
"You do that."
It might have been a too much to expect some thanks from this man, given what I already knew of his character. Nevertheless, I was a little surprised by the coldness with which he accepted my rescue. I was grateful for the opportunity to return to my truck, as I suddenly felt the need to have a weapon on my person. I walked back and pulled the spare pint out from under the seat. I also snagged my nightstick and thrust it into its holder on my belt. Hopefully the man wouldn't notice.
He stood aside as I poured the promised oil into his engine. As I screwed the cap back, I heard him shift his weight, and I heard the sound of metal being drawn across leather. The man had pulled a knife. He was preparing to thrust.timing is of the essence. dodge left.now! As I rolled to the left, his fist whistled past me and drove the knife deep into the engine. While I didn't want to imagine the damage it did to the machine, I could see that it was jammed there. Good. It gave me the precious seconds I needed to pull my nightstick out and strike him across the temple.
Now I'm not generally a bragger, but no one, and I mean no one, has ever gotten up after I hit them like that. Not only did this guy get up, he got up kicking. It was all I could do to block the furious assault of his feet. Fortunately, I had more than a little martial arts training myself, and could pay him back in kind. Plus, I had something he didn't have: a weapon. We traded blows back and forth, neither of allowed as much as a flick past the other's guard.
I'm a good fighter. One of the best. I've fought them all: bikers, thugs, ninja wannabes with nunchucks. What's more, I'd beaten them all. No one I had ever fought, however, compared with this aussie. We went punch for punch, kick for kick for long seconds. For those of you who don't fight, that doesn't seem like long, but trust me; it is. Then, ashamed as I am to admit it, he began to get the better of me. I started to slow down, and he started to get shots in on me. First one, then another and it just snowballed from there. He didn't seem satisfied, however, with the petty pot shots he was getting on my chest and abdomen. Suddenly, without warning, he crouched and sprang back up with an uppercut that sent me flying.
I'm not sure that I'm able to accurately describe what happened next, but here goes. As I pulled myself up onto my feet, the man rose up into the air, formed a tight ball and came flying at me. I guess the best way to describe it would be a horizontal cannonball, minus the pool. I was somehow able to recover from my shock fast enough to get the hell out of the way. He landed about ten feet past me and spun around to face me again. He looked pissed (I'm not entirely sure how a man with a face like his could ever NOT look pissed, but somehow he outdid himself.) It occurred to me that this would be my last chance to take this guy down. So I did.
I charged at him, making like I was going to try a flying kick. He reacted exactly as I would have expected, dodging to his left, straight into the low sweep of my nightstick. As I drove his feet out from under him, I spun around and brought my stick down hard on his head. This shot managed to knock him out. I was pleased.
I cast about for something convenient with which to tie or wrap him up. My eyes finally settled on the bed of his truck. Whatever he had in the back, it was covered by a heavy tarp. That would work admirably. I sauntered over to his truck and began detaching the tarp from the moorings spaced along the sides. When I had the first side unfastened, I threw it over and revealed the contents of the truck bed.
At first, I couldn't believe my eyes. The thing was loaded with artillery. More than I had ever seen, and I had been in the Marines' weapon storage. I'm talking grenades, rocket launchers, bazookas, flamethrowers and more guns than I could identify with ten hours and an NRA brochure. There was a whole new dimension of weirdness to this already messed up individual. I unhooked the other side of the tarp as quickly as I could and hefted it over my shoulder back to my unconscious prisoner. There I laid it beside him and slowly rolled him up in it. Then I sat down and waited for him to come around.
It didn't take him long to wake up, only another five minutes or so. By that time I had a pretty good list of questions I wanted to ask him. While my job description did not include a lot of interviews, I had seen enough cop movies to know how they went. There was a routine they called good cop bad cop that seemed to work pretty well, but there was only one of me and I was in no mood to be the good cop.
When he woke up, he woke up fast. He did some sort of weird wriggle which I could only assume was an attempt at jumping up which was fouled by my clever tarp use. Then he looked at me.
"Right, then," he said, "what do you want from me?"
"Just some answers. Like who the hell you are."
"They call me Kano. You want to unwrap me and we can talk like men?"
"No, I don't think so, Kano. I have some more questions to ask you. Tell me, where were you headed with that munitions factory there."
For the sake of brevity, I'll spare you the grizzly details of the next few minutes. Suffice it to say that by the time I ascertained that his destination was New York City, he was a few bruises richer and probably short a rib. Perhaps it was the Good Samaritan in me, but I felt the need to inform him of the status of the big apple when last I left it. What he said next surprised me more than it probably should have.
"Know it? Mate, I'm counting on it. I have to train the Centaurians somewhere."
"The what? Are you working with the Arabs?"
"Arabs? No, mate, Centaurians. Big fellows with four legs."
"Are you telling me that New York City was bombed by Australian mutants?"
"Mate, they're not from Australia. They're not from this world."
That was all I needed to hear. If this guy was working with whoever or whatever destroyed New York City, it was time for this conversation to end. I must confess that I wasn't thinking all that clearly for the next portion of this story. I realize that I am accountable for my actions, despite the blinding rage that consumed my troubled mind. For the rest of my life, I will remember the way he screamed as I threw the struggling bundle into his Ford and walked away. I will remember the violent blast that ended his screaming and his life. I will remember watching the truck go up in flames and shrapnel. And I will remember not caring one little bit that I had just killed a defenceless man in cold blood.
As I watched the last pieces of flaming wreckage fall to the scorched ground, I heard a voice behind me. That was surprising for three reasons. First, I wasn't aware of anyone alive in the world besides Kano and me. Well, me, anyway. Second, I know that there was no one behind me a few seconds earlier. Third, the person who had suddenly appeared was not the kind of traveller you usually met just outside Altoona Pennsylvania.
He was an older Asian man. He wore a white tunic, matching pantaloons and a wicker hat shaped like a flattened cone. The hat wasn't the oddest thing about him, however. The oddest thing about this man was the fact that he was translucent. I could see through him. I held my nightstick ready and involuntary fingered the gun that I had liberated from Kano's arsenal.
"Well done, Stryker, but killing Kano will not bring your people back."
I hate to use an old cliché, and even now it makes me wince to think that I said it, but the only thing I could think of to say was "How do you know my name?"
He chose to ignore the question. "Go west," he told me. "Go west and find others like you. Earth's chosen warriors. My power dwindles. I can not say more."
Then he disappeared. This was officially the weirdest day of my life. I looked once more at the blazing remains of Kano's truck. Then, lacking any better ideas, I got into my truck and drove west, into the Allegheny Mountains and the shrinking shadows of dawn.
More to come.
This is the first story I've put on fanfiction.net so I hope it turns out well.
Stryker's Story
By Blackjackg
In these pages I commit my last testament, my memoirs. I am all that remains now of New York City and its millions of people. I am the sole survivor of the most devastating massacre in unrecorded history. I am Kurtis Stryker and I am Legend.
Part 1: New York City
I'm not sure when exactly it began. I woke up at around two in the morning to the sounds of yelling and explosions. Waking up was the first mistake I would make that night. My first thought was that a riot had broken out, and that meant overtime pay. That also meant I had to get up and get down to the precinct. I got up right away and dressed. Nothing fancy, my good old blue t-shirt, yesterday's jeans, and my NYPD cap. After I strapped on my nightstick I sprinted out the door of my tiny apartment and down the hall. The elevator was stuck again so I had to take the stairs. I made a mental note to write a strongly worded note to the super and slip it under his door come morning. Then I got outside.
The cars on the street weren't moving. Most of them had run into something on the sidewalk or into each other. A few just sat in the middle of the street. I sprinted toward the nearest car, one that had collided with a lamppost a few yards away from me. I leaned into the passenger side window, the second biggest mistake I had made that day. The driver was dead. Definitely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, dead. His skin was a sort of a blue-grey tone and his mouth was open in an hours-old scream. I turned away from the window. That was something I didn't want to see then or ever again.
I started to move towards the next car, but I was distracted when a car exploded in a huge orange ball of flame a hundred yards or so down street. As I watched, a creature jumped up from between the cars and landed heavily on the roof of a grey chevy hatchback. I can tell you right now, it wasn't human. It was a bull from the waist down, but didn't look that good from the waist up, either. It had huge arms, and some sort of curled horns on its head. The thing had a long shiny tail, and it was swinging it back and forth like a whip. Then it looked at me. Straight at me. Its eyes glowed red. I had never before in my life had so keen a desire to be in my truck. Needless to say, I made it in record time. I don't know how it happened, but by the time I got the key turned, that thing was right in front of the truck. I slammed on the gas. Probably hit fifty clicks in reverse. As soon as I cleared the parking garage, I swung the most reckless U-turn ever attempted by modern man. Then I got the hell out of there. I swear, that thing was right behind the truck for the first half-mile. After that it was gone.
I drove at top speed for most of an hour before I had the guts to stop. I wanted to put a lot of distance between New York City and me, and I didn't feel comfortable stopping until I had crossed over the border from New Jersey into Pennsylvania. I pulled over to the side of the road, and just breathed for a while.
I had not seen any living thing through the whole state of New Jersey. A lot of cars swerved off the road. It was a lucky thing, because if you've ever tried to swerve through stopped traffic at 120 miles an hour, it's not exactly the easiest thing to do.
Something was horribly, disgustingly, mind-bogglingly wrong. Assembling the few pieces of evidence I had in my already frazzled brain, I managed to piece together the only logical theory. The Arabs had nuked New York City. That bull-thing was obviously some form of mutant. The only thing to do was put a lot of distance between me and the deadly radiation in New York City. I had some relatives in Chicago, maybe that would be the place to go. Hopefully, it was still standing.
I hopped back into the truck and started her up. My needle was fluttering on the orange letter E, but I had an extra can full of gas under the seat, so I figured I could at least make it to Ohio. Maybe Indiana, but it would take a few hours. I would worry about my fuel concerns later. At that point, my priority was getting far from New York City. Fast.
*************************
I first saw him by the side of a particularly deserted stretch of highway outside Altoona, Pennsylvania, in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains. I was so thrilled to see another human being moving that I didn't even consider not pulling over. He was the first living non-mutant I had seen since going to bed the night before. The man was dressed in black pants and a dingy leather jacket, and that was all I could see of him, because he was hunched under the hood of a big red Ford pick-up. He must have heard me screaming up the highway, but he didn't seem to care. I parked the truck by the side of the road and jumped out. After careful consideration, I left my nightstick in the car. I didn't need to scare this guy off.
I walked up beside him. "Hey Buddy," I said, "Need a hand?"
He pulled his head out from under the hood and looked me in the eye. "Yeah, I can't figure out this buggery Yankee motor. And my name's not Buddy."
At that point, I couldn't have cared less whether his name was Buddy or Elizabeth, because I couldn't stop staring at his face. The right half of it seemed to have been replaced by a moulded steel plate, with one glowing red slit where his eye should have been. That, coupled with the lattice of scars covering his face and arms, did not paint a particularly savoury picture of this character.
"Well," I said, slowly prying my eyes away from his mangled face, "I know a little bit about engines, why don't I take a look at it." Though my mind screamed for me not to turn my back on this man, I ducked under the hood to see what was wrong. "I'm Kurtis, by the way, Kurtis Stryker." I stuck my hand out backwards, in an awkward attempt at a handshake.
The man ignored my proffered hand as well as my proffered name. "What's wrong with it?" You had to admire the man's directness, if not his manners.
"You just need some oil. I have a pint in my car, why don't I fill you up?"
"You do that."
It might have been a too much to expect some thanks from this man, given what I already knew of his character. Nevertheless, I was a little surprised by the coldness with which he accepted my rescue. I was grateful for the opportunity to return to my truck, as I suddenly felt the need to have a weapon on my person. I walked back and pulled the spare pint out from under the seat. I also snagged my nightstick and thrust it into its holder on my belt. Hopefully the man wouldn't notice.
He stood aside as I poured the promised oil into his engine. As I screwed the cap back, I heard him shift his weight, and I heard the sound of metal being drawn across leather. The man had pulled a knife. He was preparing to thrust.timing is of the essence. dodge left.now! As I rolled to the left, his fist whistled past me and drove the knife deep into the engine. While I didn't want to imagine the damage it did to the machine, I could see that it was jammed there. Good. It gave me the precious seconds I needed to pull my nightstick out and strike him across the temple.
Now I'm not generally a bragger, but no one, and I mean no one, has ever gotten up after I hit them like that. Not only did this guy get up, he got up kicking. It was all I could do to block the furious assault of his feet. Fortunately, I had more than a little martial arts training myself, and could pay him back in kind. Plus, I had something he didn't have: a weapon. We traded blows back and forth, neither of allowed as much as a flick past the other's guard.
I'm a good fighter. One of the best. I've fought them all: bikers, thugs, ninja wannabes with nunchucks. What's more, I'd beaten them all. No one I had ever fought, however, compared with this aussie. We went punch for punch, kick for kick for long seconds. For those of you who don't fight, that doesn't seem like long, but trust me; it is. Then, ashamed as I am to admit it, he began to get the better of me. I started to slow down, and he started to get shots in on me. First one, then another and it just snowballed from there. He didn't seem satisfied, however, with the petty pot shots he was getting on my chest and abdomen. Suddenly, without warning, he crouched and sprang back up with an uppercut that sent me flying.
I'm not sure that I'm able to accurately describe what happened next, but here goes. As I pulled myself up onto my feet, the man rose up into the air, formed a tight ball and came flying at me. I guess the best way to describe it would be a horizontal cannonball, minus the pool. I was somehow able to recover from my shock fast enough to get the hell out of the way. He landed about ten feet past me and spun around to face me again. He looked pissed (I'm not entirely sure how a man with a face like his could ever NOT look pissed, but somehow he outdid himself.) It occurred to me that this would be my last chance to take this guy down. So I did.
I charged at him, making like I was going to try a flying kick. He reacted exactly as I would have expected, dodging to his left, straight into the low sweep of my nightstick. As I drove his feet out from under him, I spun around and brought my stick down hard on his head. This shot managed to knock him out. I was pleased.
I cast about for something convenient with which to tie or wrap him up. My eyes finally settled on the bed of his truck. Whatever he had in the back, it was covered by a heavy tarp. That would work admirably. I sauntered over to his truck and began detaching the tarp from the moorings spaced along the sides. When I had the first side unfastened, I threw it over and revealed the contents of the truck bed.
At first, I couldn't believe my eyes. The thing was loaded with artillery. More than I had ever seen, and I had been in the Marines' weapon storage. I'm talking grenades, rocket launchers, bazookas, flamethrowers and more guns than I could identify with ten hours and an NRA brochure. There was a whole new dimension of weirdness to this already messed up individual. I unhooked the other side of the tarp as quickly as I could and hefted it over my shoulder back to my unconscious prisoner. There I laid it beside him and slowly rolled him up in it. Then I sat down and waited for him to come around.
It didn't take him long to wake up, only another five minutes or so. By that time I had a pretty good list of questions I wanted to ask him. While my job description did not include a lot of interviews, I had seen enough cop movies to know how they went. There was a routine they called good cop bad cop that seemed to work pretty well, but there was only one of me and I was in no mood to be the good cop.
When he woke up, he woke up fast. He did some sort of weird wriggle which I could only assume was an attempt at jumping up which was fouled by my clever tarp use. Then he looked at me.
"Right, then," he said, "what do you want from me?"
"Just some answers. Like who the hell you are."
"They call me Kano. You want to unwrap me and we can talk like men?"
"No, I don't think so, Kano. I have some more questions to ask you. Tell me, where were you headed with that munitions factory there."
For the sake of brevity, I'll spare you the grizzly details of the next few minutes. Suffice it to say that by the time I ascertained that his destination was New York City, he was a few bruises richer and probably short a rib. Perhaps it was the Good Samaritan in me, but I felt the need to inform him of the status of the big apple when last I left it. What he said next surprised me more than it probably should have.
"Know it? Mate, I'm counting on it. I have to train the Centaurians somewhere."
"The what? Are you working with the Arabs?"
"Arabs? No, mate, Centaurians. Big fellows with four legs."
"Are you telling me that New York City was bombed by Australian mutants?"
"Mate, they're not from Australia. They're not from this world."
That was all I needed to hear. If this guy was working with whoever or whatever destroyed New York City, it was time for this conversation to end. I must confess that I wasn't thinking all that clearly for the next portion of this story. I realize that I am accountable for my actions, despite the blinding rage that consumed my troubled mind. For the rest of my life, I will remember the way he screamed as I threw the struggling bundle into his Ford and walked away. I will remember the violent blast that ended his screaming and his life. I will remember watching the truck go up in flames and shrapnel. And I will remember not caring one little bit that I had just killed a defenceless man in cold blood.
As I watched the last pieces of flaming wreckage fall to the scorched ground, I heard a voice behind me. That was surprising for three reasons. First, I wasn't aware of anyone alive in the world besides Kano and me. Well, me, anyway. Second, I know that there was no one behind me a few seconds earlier. Third, the person who had suddenly appeared was not the kind of traveller you usually met just outside Altoona Pennsylvania.
He was an older Asian man. He wore a white tunic, matching pantaloons and a wicker hat shaped like a flattened cone. The hat wasn't the oddest thing about him, however. The oddest thing about this man was the fact that he was translucent. I could see through him. I held my nightstick ready and involuntary fingered the gun that I had liberated from Kano's arsenal.
"Well done, Stryker, but killing Kano will not bring your people back."
I hate to use an old cliché, and even now it makes me wince to think that I said it, but the only thing I could think of to say was "How do you know my name?"
He chose to ignore the question. "Go west," he told me. "Go west and find others like you. Earth's chosen warriors. My power dwindles. I can not say more."
Then he disappeared. This was officially the weirdest day of my life. I looked once more at the blazing remains of Kano's truck. Then, lacking any better ideas, I got into my truck and drove west, into the Allegheny Mountains and the shrinking shadows of dawn.
More to come.