Throwing the gun-laden bin-bag over his shoulder, he kicked open the front door and traipsed across the soft, sandy gravel of the small parking lot up to the beast, before climbing in and lobbing the bag into the back seat, 'Probably should be more careful with so many dangerous items' thought Danny as the weight of steel, polymer and lead slumped in to the leather. He floored the mammoth engine as fast as he dared through the drag-strip-straight roads of the Florida plains, determined to make it back to Jay and the farm as fast as he could; the fate of him, his friends and his fellow survivors was at stake. Eight cylinders hammered and tore at their mounts, reciprocating as fast as Tatums' jabs', fuel poured into each well in vast squirts of liquid into a world of fire and clattering impacts, all whilst massive turbochargers whined and screamed, forcing air into the engine with the power of two, tiny, tornados. She was flying today, no problems at all, which was just what he needed for such an important run, white lines became a blur, and the miles turned into noise as they both roared and screamed through. 10:39 he was off the pace by a few miles, time to turn up the heat. Danny pushed down his foot even harder and switched up a gear; he was in unknown territory now. The DYNO wasn't strong enough to take this sort of torque, the noise was terrifying, and the speed astronomical, but still he kept going. The tachometer had given up long ago, and he feared the tires would too soon enough, but it wasn't a time to be cautious; still he floored it, hopping bumps in the road, keeping an eye out for the police, and trying to keep his nerve in the process. Passing what he thought were signs, he recognised where he was, and slowed for the entrance to the farm, still travelling faster than any super car; he threaded the car through the rough gates and shot up a loose drive to their illustrious home. Throwing all caution into the wind, he slid up to the door and jumped out into the house; "JAY, YOU BETTER FUCKING BE HERE" he screamed at the top his lungs, shortly before he noticed a yellow note on his laptop; 'Basement' it read. Diving out of the house again, grabbing the bag and locking up the car all whilst sprinting for a nearby red-wooded barn, Danny was moving faster than he had done in a long while. Sprinting as fast as his lungs would allow, his feet sank in the sandy earth, and what felt like the barrel of the Tavor poked him right in the kidneys repeatedly, until he got to the threshold of the barn and hurriedly scrambled for the key-hole in the floor, before sliding in the key, and hopping down into the inky depths.
The basement smelt like damp chemicals, wet dog, and motor oil mixed into a pungent aroma only found in the foundations of an abandoned cotton barn, as Jay walked down the hallway to the main auditorium he felt a fond familiarity to the cold, mossy walls and blue chem-lights affixed to the walls. It was quiet, not really clean, but it was pretty awesome, I mean who else could say they owned a secret, underground sanctuary and a massive farm? Apart from Hershel, or Bruce Wayne, but they were characters anyway. The dank corridor opened up into a larger room, still made from the same materials, only much more circular and brighter inside, thanks to the large halogen lights strung to the brick work and plugged into a small transformer in the corner. The room was still dank and fairly rank with odour, but it was out of the heat and prying eyes of whoever decided to come snooping, and it did at least afford the comfort of being private if nothing else. Jay rubbed his hands together and inhaled sharply, shortly before he realised that wasn't a good idea, and headed over to the right-most section of the room, pulling back the thick polythene chemical curtains of his work space, he cracked his knuckles and sat on his old wooden stool before examining the latest project; a pair of steel 'breaching paddles' as he had dubbed them. The idea was simple: a set of armatures fixed together much like a scissor-lift with strong steel paddles at one end, and hands at the other could be inserted into a door at the hinges, and simply squeeze off the doors' mountings by two people pushing heavily on the handles. Jay reached over to the radio and turned it on to a pre-programmed station, which blared contemporary rock out at a just-bearable level of static, helping to break up the monotony of 6 hours in the shop. Every piece of equipment and every tool was scattered around shelves and in large, tin boxes on the floor, which were ordered – to a point. In stark contrast; Danny's workstation was covered in half-made scraps of projects, pieces of failed projects covered in washers, screws and bolts of every size and shape imaginable. However, every tool was filed away meticulously and kept clean as possible, every project was laid out in a pattern of completion, and all screws had their own magnets where they sat, in order of removal, waiting to be replaced, underneath the wooden workbench stood large cans of drink, segregated into brown and black on the left, facing the white and blue on the opposite side. Jay could tell some, if not most of them were empty or half drank, but the combination of caffeine and alcohol had always perplexed him, as to how Danny could put away such vast amounts of diuretics and not have the need to piss every second for every hour he was down here. Jay turned back to the device he was working on and began tinkering furtively.