viernes, 20 de agosto de 2010

Getting out

It seems that every time I connect this computer to the generator, it glitches and dies off. Poor thing, most of the pieces I cobbled up together were slightly damaged from the Fires.

So, how did my scrawny ass survived the pillaging of the first days? The panic room, along with the supplies, was more than enough for me and my two dogs to survive a little more than two weeks. When food and water ran scarce, and the bathroom was pretty much smelling, we emerged. The house has torn to pieces, and pretty much everything was ransacked over and over: Food, water, knives, any electronics, clothes, you name it.

I had the gun with me, and it felt heavy. I've only used a gun once or twice during Military service, but that was, maybe a few years back. I had to teach myself how to use a gun, and how to defend myself. I knew a bit of hand to hand combat, but honestly, I didn't felt any safer knowing that. My dogs were a bit nervous, and howling. We ran back to the shelter, but before I closed the lid, I heard a car parking infront of a car, and several people, possibly armed.

The panic room (more like a shelter, if you ask me) was a simple thing: It was made below the backyard, the lid entrance covered by a patch of grass (the one you used to see rolled up), wich you had to climb down, and the room was perhaps not bigger than my old room (which was 16x19 feet), save it had a bathroom, a diesel engine, lots of cans of food and bottled water (now eaten and drank), as well as a few amenities that kept me sane.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the men. I closed the lid (and obviously placed the patch above it before) and loaded the gun. My dogs weren't barking, but their ears and eyes well placed on the lid.

There were sounds of more ransacking, muffled voices, very angry, trying to look for anything. I heard steps above me, and one of my dogs (the female) lifted her front paw. I just held the gun with both hands, eyes covered in tears and hoping that they would not find me. The lid opened.

I swear I still don't remember what happened afterwards. I do remember shooting, I remember a man falling, I remember picking his rifle quickly, an AK 47 I think. I remember getting out, and gunshots. I screamed, I think. My dogs were barking.

After that, I remember all the blood. Mine, the five guys, and my house covered in bullets. I cried for a few minutes, and saw my parents' corpses, rotting away. I could not do anything else. I brought my dogs from the shelter, one by one, and took what these men had: Ammo, their guns (not just the AKs, but also an AR-15, a couple of berettas (one of them painted in gold), and several bottles of water, canned goods and what I think it was cocaine, all that stuff in their trunk of the pick up.

I took what I could find from the house: A set of very heavy medicine books (my dad was a doctor), a blanket, and a few set of wires and cables.

The sight of the street was horrifying: There were cars crashed everywhere, I saw smoke coming from several buildings in the horizon. The houses were torned up, mostly by other cars, and several doors were smashed on the street. I think I heard a helicopter in the distance, but I didn't want to venture on that.

I needed to move out, seek food and water. I needed to make a choise.

I'll leave this for the moment. Heard some noises outside.

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