06-23-2007, 12:15 PM
Red wire gets ducked with orange tape. The three greens get ducked together, forming a bundle, and was small enough to wedge between the pistons. The spindled remains of blue-fibre wire tied into the detonator's recievers.
Scrutinizing his shad-work, Vitya wedged the homemade timer between the trucks engine block and coolant housings. It stuck. With the last bit of axel grease he lubed the ignition prongs before sliding them into the soft putty. He rose, unhinged the hood brace, face emotionless as it slammed locked.
Vitya Keslov pulled his rifle from the mechanic's bench. The empty plastique box, an crumpled cigarrette pack, magazines dated two days ago, and spent weapon magazines were left to idle in dust. He fished his Commissar's Cap from the vice grip on the bench's end. Beers cans tinkled in his wake towards the garage door of the gas station. Selected hops, stale, unmolested, and probably laced with soma lingered at his nostrils.
The wide-bed doors retracted to his approach, revealing a beard-ravaged man, a shotgun slung around his shoulder.
'You're positive this'll work?' He asked Vitya.
The Commissar nodded. 'Worked in Jerusalem didn't it, against those damnable preachers?'
The man shrugged, his face blank. 'Crowded streets?'
'Stop second guessing me and pour the gas Sultan.' He complied with a mute gesture.
Vitya paced a couple feet from the gasoline dispensers and admired what little he had to see. The gas station was utterly delapitdated, overhead lights blown out, the nozzles venting streams of unleaded gasoline that pooled in wide lakes before draining through a storm drain at the end of the street. The glass outside the concession area had been pulverized into brilliant sediment.
'From Russia to here and all I have is an Israelie soldier.' He muttered.
Sultan Fitzgerald emerged from the station, carrying empty gas canisters. He was a head shorter than Vitya and his dune-puzzled fatigues seemed bulkier around the waist.
'How do we know the bomb goes when they're here?'
'We don't.'
The pallor drained from his face. 'But you said-'
'It might work, might. Dig the sand from your ears and follow me, there's a grocery store down the street.'
When Sultan passed him, the Commissar retrieved a Zippo lighter from his great coat. The decal on the front was tarnished, but in the abstract tint of dusklight, he caught the scythe and hammer imprint. He flicked the cap. A tear-drop of flame appeared. Sighing inwardly, he watched it slide through his fingers.
Vitya turned heel, the gurgle of flames erupting behind him. 'For you Kelsia. For you Aelxandria. We may live through this yet.'
He crossed towards the gorcery store.
Scrutinizing his shad-work, Vitya wedged the homemade timer between the trucks engine block and coolant housings. It stuck. With the last bit of axel grease he lubed the ignition prongs before sliding them into the soft putty. He rose, unhinged the hood brace, face emotionless as it slammed locked.
Vitya Keslov pulled his rifle from the mechanic's bench. The empty plastique box, an crumpled cigarrette pack, magazines dated two days ago, and spent weapon magazines were left to idle in dust. He fished his Commissar's Cap from the vice grip on the bench's end. Beers cans tinkled in his wake towards the garage door of the gas station. Selected hops, stale, unmolested, and probably laced with soma lingered at his nostrils.
The wide-bed doors retracted to his approach, revealing a beard-ravaged man, a shotgun slung around his shoulder.
'You're positive this'll work?' He asked Vitya.
The Commissar nodded. 'Worked in Jerusalem didn't it, against those damnable preachers?'
The man shrugged, his face blank. 'Crowded streets?'
'Stop second guessing me and pour the gas Sultan.' He complied with a mute gesture.
Vitya paced a couple feet from the gasoline dispensers and admired what little he had to see. The gas station was utterly delapitdated, overhead lights blown out, the nozzles venting streams of unleaded gasoline that pooled in wide lakes before draining through a storm drain at the end of the street. The glass outside the concession area had been pulverized into brilliant sediment.
'From Russia to here and all I have is an Israelie soldier.' He muttered.
Sultan Fitzgerald emerged from the station, carrying empty gas canisters. He was a head shorter than Vitya and his dune-puzzled fatigues seemed bulkier around the waist.
'How do we know the bomb goes when they're here?'
'We don't.'
The pallor drained from his face. 'But you said-'
'It might work, might. Dig the sand from your ears and follow me, there's a grocery store down the street.'
When Sultan passed him, the Commissar retrieved a Zippo lighter from his great coat. The decal on the front was tarnished, but in the abstract tint of dusklight, he caught the scythe and hammer imprint. He flicked the cap. A tear-drop of flame appeared. Sighing inwardly, he watched it slide through his fingers.
Vitya turned heel, the gurgle of flames erupting behind him. 'For you Kelsia. For you Aelxandria. We may live through this yet.'
He crossed towards the gorcery store.