CHRONICLES OF THE VIOLIN
BK 1:- BROKEN DREAMS

By: Rama Toulon
AKA Carib FMJ the Nuka-Cola Chaser
Inspired by Charlyn Vidal the Red Violin

Part 1: Violinist

Decadent Downtown, Old Moscow, apartment complex area, north Main Street...

PROGRAM RUNNING...

ENTER the RED VIOLIN

Chapter 1: Charlyn and Spears

One of those rare places that still remained intact after the war. Old Moscow, Idaho of the dead United States was spared the nuclear war but not spared the dark human survivalist that lurked within. It fell into major disrepair, and of course, looters, the nuclear winter and the acid rain didn't make anything easier for the human remnants trying to eke a pathetic existence. The small apartment on the forgotten lane of Pulma, a residential area, there was a small, quaint apartment complex which was muddled with graffiti – new and old. Most rooms were intact, some expanded by breaking down walls and sharing into other apartments for family extensions.Ahead lay a wooden door reinforced with rusting metal grill work and the copper plate numbers stamped on the wooden door. 16A was an unpolished copper lettering that long turned green from oxidation century or so ago.

The room number was 16A which consist three rooms. The kitchen which was tidy and would fit in well with the standards of the EPA, even in the post apocalypse. It had a fully stocked fridge from nuka-colas to other products, especially dry food stuffs, the kind that never spoil once they're kept moisture free. A one bed room, which had more room than a standard eight by eleven prison cell. And the main room where an old junked out TV from the pre-war era stood on a stack of books and the coffee table was the main feature. On the coffee table you can see several different books and articles that survived the holocaust. Mostly surplus gun magazines and civil defense guides. Herbert the C-D Turtle was demonstrating the proper way to duck and cover.

The TV looked like some alien with its one straight antenna and the other crocked, probably bent to adjust to the signals that floated through the air. It read in the fading tin-foil letters – Panna Tranna, in Techno-Color. There were some books stacked on the table adjacent to the TV.

Sociology and Psychology 101 by Safe-House-Vault-Tech Research. If you turned over the book you'd notice a disclaimer about the unlawful reproduction and coping of this document for profit or to a foreign nation was punishable under the Espionage Act. 0A42. This would translate to death, wouldn't it? Oh, well, no G-Men around to enforce that law, no men in black suits and dark shades to nab you up for selling secrets to the commies.

Two Popular Mechanics: 'For all those budding new mechanics and electricians out there.'

A Popular Science about the wonders and complexities of micro-biology. And a stack of Pulp Comics. Three black and white, noir-esque dime store novels that was gritty and violent.

Then there was the Red Rose, a pre-war romance novel by fabled romantic and erotica author Sophia Van Dyke. The cover depicted a woman lying on a bed of blood red petals. Her breasts and private parts obscured by petals.

As you progressed through the rest of the apartment, things seem to change. Not so much as color or vibrancy. It turned so much as in vibe. It was neat apartment, even by post-apocalyptic standards.

There was a sound of shuffling feet and a male voice cursing in a drunkard's version of coherent speech.

Behind the door, you'd see two women and single man. The woman standing was casually getting dressed, while the other was clutching her blanket tightly. The latter woman was staring intently on the angry man.

The man was tall heavy set man with a misshapen belly and had a face that was very hard to look at; old poker marks and other horrible knicks, probably from bar fights or him trying to give himself a shave with a combat knife while hopping on chems. His name was Albert, and Albert wasn't happy. Not happy at all. It wasn't totally with the girl getting dressed or not at least yet.

This odd girl with light brown skin but reddish strawberry tipped hair, this girl with the rude snare to her mouth that told people to back the fuck off. Albert didn't even seem to notice her. His anger, his grievance was with the pale skinned brunette woman who was in bed, covers over her naked torso.

She had been caught cheating. But not with another man, no, not that, that would have been simpler to understand and deal with. No one would question the Regulator for bashing in the skull of the said man. But a woman was a totally different and dynamic factor Albert's drunken mind couldn't handle. What Albert couldn't figure out it made him angry, made him see red, and that was the reason why he had a knife in one hand, his sweaty, pudgy fingers working the wooden handle nervously and anxiously. Sometimes he squeezed it so tightly his knuckles whitened.

He took another step. His already bloodshot eyes seem to get redder.

"Al... Please don't. You don't understan'-" The wife began, her voice shaky, pleading.

Albert's only response at first with his nostrils flaring and then attempted to articulate, "Shut... the...(hic)" He seems to be so angry that the words came within intervals of cheap whiskey scented burps, a synaptic lapse of judgment that was clouded by primal emotions that drove humanity. "Shut the fuck... up... cow... can't... you see... Yer man is at work. Don't worry, I settle with you after I deal with the chickie here." He gave a thumb towards the dressing female in dark leather.

"So… so… you," his hands seem to play with the buck handled knife, "wanna screw my fuckin' wife, huh?" His voice rose, it was clear with murder was intent. It was the sound of a man who was seeing himself at the edge of everything and didn't know how to handle it, how to deal and adapt.

The woman stood and shrugged her shoulders; it was part defiance, part indifference. "It seemed she needed..." she licked her honey brown lips at Albert's wife for spite, "That she needed a woman's touch. I did you a favor. Made her a lil wet. You ever go between? I mean I tell you lord she tastes nice… like – elder berries." She had enjoyed the lust derived from the woman; she always liked them when they felt another woman's touch for the first time. And she knew how to please.

"A fav-favor? Elda Fuckin' Berries?" He seems to stutter at the words, his hands on his ears as if trying to block out mental interference, and it made him shutter with rage. "A favor... You fuckin' lesbian-cock-suckin' whore! I am gonna carve you from crack to neck. You hear me, I am gonna--!"

The girl simply made a crack sound from her neck and smiled evilly. "You are going to die." She finished for him. The man made his move, his hand grabbing that buck handle knife, the razor sharp edge, probably capable of peeling the skin of a death claw. He didn't seem to have any advance expertise with edged weapons, for one, his stance was over extended, breaking the cardinal rule of knife fighting, not even bothering to use his hand to attempt to blind the female and try and drive his ten inch blade into her gut. But she was faster, swifter and smarter, because she side stepped and grabbed something with a mahogany handled item from the table that was obscured by a leather back pack.

The obscured mahogany handled item in question was a Winchester Widowmaker, double barrel .12 gauge shotgun; a favorite of Americans before the end times for its cheap price and easy maintenance.

She just side stepped Albert's ill fated lunge, the pale brown figure moved like a blur and swung her Widow-maker to her right, pressed the barrel against the direction of Albert's stomach, just under the arm and squeezed the left barrel trigger.

BAMMM!

The blast had struck Albert dumbly in the side, shattering his stomach and ribs like glass and filling his lungs with lead fragments and blood, and he rocked backwards. With gravity pulling Albert in its embrace, he staggered backwards his massive frame broke the window he stood directly behind, sending him downward. For those who looked upward, they saw something odd.

A figure is propelled through the darkness of an apartment window and lands awkwardly on a dumpster, two stories down. His shattered remains stare blankly to the sky. Back in the apartment room, the barrel smoked as it had laid low a man.

One shell left...

She looked at her belt and noticed the GI Jane issue olive drab gun belt held a small pouch attached with ALICE clips, a pouch made up of ballistic nylon, very strong, and could hold about ten shells in small elastic rings. She counted five shells, all #4 type shells and one door breacher. Pinching one buckshot shell, and replacing the empty shell with a fresh one. The girl felt the warmth of the spent shell and placed it in the pocket. The shells were reloadable and thus no waste.

Looking out the window, she realized that every shell would count. Checking her holster, she remembered she kept her 10mm Colt in her waist band, cocked and locked. Maybe she would need it.

Albert wasn't a very much liked man. He worked with the Atomic Union Workers, an anti-mutant Regulator organization. More like a remnant of the old racist groups, except people of all color and ethnicity were allowed to join – the new enemy had been the ghouls and the mutants. In Old Moscow, there must be twenty members in the district. They were men and women who had trefoils tattooed between the thumb and fore finger like a bright yellow jacket. Albert was the hard hat man, the tough. Big and stupid, but honest and headliner for the group.
Downstairs he had a few good men and a lady, Ronald McGurry, Bobby Depape, Jonny Dee and Mia Reynolds. They were all passing time shooting the shit, hitting back home brew beer McGurry brought for them in paper bags and sterilized old beer bottles.

McGurry owned the Eighty Hole, a tavern of sorts that actually sold decent liquor and hooch. He was a middle aged man with a bitchy wife he hoped to outlive and crackling knuckles he knew he'd be cursed with for life. A man of stalky build and at the age of forty six. He had a gruff beard that made many think of old man Rip-Van Winkle or an Amish, just without the black suit.

To his right was Bobby Depape. Quick handed with a gun but some felt god might have traded his wits in exchange for the swiftness of the draw. He had no facial hair and was easily the youngest in the Union at the age of seventeen. Reddish hair and green eyes, some called him a mick, because of his Irish heritage. Depape wasn't too bright but he had fast hands and a hardness that the Atomic Union liked. So apart from his daily runs at the whore houses, he is spending his days in town collecting tribute for the AWU.

Next to Bobby Depape was a Jonny Dee, a post apocalyptic version of a greaser. He had dark hair combed back with engine grease giving it that thick smell of oil and the shiny gloss of pitch that depper-dan couldn't give. He wore dual sleeve leather jacket complete shiny zippers and trefoil on the back. His jeans were skin tight, but no one dared call him a fagot. Jonny was known for his bad temper and quickness with a knife. He had a kids face, even though he was twenty seven. Jonny Dee was lanky in frame and prone to snapping his fingers. A hook like nose. Some called him Jonny Fish-Hook or Beak Man. He had a lucky strike between his lips and passed one to the woman next to him.

Now, Mia Reynolds was known to affect a dark brown trench coat with a red scarf around her neck, a ratty thing. She had black seedy hair and crossed eyes. This didn't alter her vision in the slightest and she was tough. No man's woman but her own. She always had a six shooter tucked under her shoulder. It was blued steel Remington Revolver a family heirloom, loaded with freshly gained .357 magnum hollow points. It was from her grand father. She was pretty, maybe even model material, except for ungenerous breasts which looked more like apples than full sized bosoms. Her eyes were hard flicks of ice and her speech was like a chipmunk, but many learned the hard way never to underestimate Mia, not in the least. Albert was her friend and like a big brother to her, almost a daddy figure. They all liked Albert, even though he was hot headed and even stupid, they loved them. The AWU looked out for their own always.

The few inhabitants saw the spectacle, but didn't seem to care. The only one's who seem to take notice were the Atomic Union Workers down stares by the old pay phone who saw their comrade fall to his death with a gapping hole in his side where his stomach and lower ribs had once been. In fact he was dead before he hit the ground, but that didn't change the price of water in Baker, now did it?

They weren't pleased. A second later, feet began to rush upstairs in that noisy shuffle of moccasins, boots and sneakers.

The footsteps came pounding up the stairs, but there is the sound of another set of footsteps coming in the opposite direction. There's a voice in the hallway. "HEY, FELLAS!" It sounded different, jovial. The men and woman coming up the stairs turned towards the voice before they even reached the middle of the step, forcing them to bump into each other.

It's followed by the sound of gun fire and two thuds. The door opens, and Ron Spears steps in, Beretta lowered. "Did you kill that big guy?" He asked the girl, though her eyes told the tale. "Guess you did. Well, his hombres were sorta pissed off. Must be a good shot with that scattergun, huh? Have fun."

The mercenary shuts the door with a grin and a wave.

More gun fire ensues. 9mm calibers splitting the decaying plaster of the wall and some making their mark on the unarmored group on the steps.