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Modern/Delta Green - The Beginning of the End (COMPLETED)
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<blockquote data-quote="talien" data-source="post: 4564309" data-attributes="member: 3285"><p><strong>Jack Frost: Prologue</strong></p><p></p><p></p><p>WILLIS, AL— The road sign was plain and green, the sort mandated by state law and never supplemented with anything more decorative: "Willis, Ala.," it read, "Pop. 819." State Highway 9 ran past the sign through deep forest and high hills. A long, narrow bridge stretched across an expanse of swampy water: always a land of endless natural waterways, the region was inundated with new lakes and streams after the Tennessee Valley Authority began damming up the rivers in a Depression-era economic booster project. A sliver of December moon was hidden, high overhead, beyond thick clouds, and the swamp and the hills and the trees were barely visible in its ghostly light.</p><p></p><p>The hills flattened out, slowly, gradually, and the forest thinned to either side. Then, ahead, came a yellow glow blinking in the air, the strobe of an ordinary streetlight to signal caution. Other lamps shined beyond it, silvery-pink and constant, illuminating the shop fronts of a handful of two-story buildings. The post office was easily the finest structure, with sculpted concrete pillars of a Classical design that seemed ostentatious among the simple businesses of Willis. Christmas lights blinked cheerfully in red and green in several windows and the limbs of trees.</p><p></p><p>Slowing for the blinking cautionary light, silhouettes were visible within a building near the road ("Hank's House," proclaimed the shingle). The shadows of men and women gathered for a nightcap, perhaps, before they joined their families. </p><p></p><p>At least they seemed to be patrons; but perhaps that was a trick of the light, to make shadows look like the men and women one would expect. There was no movement to be seen, not in Hank's House, not in the streets, nowhere but for the swaying yellow light. But there, ahead, on the covered sidewalk leading to Hank's, someone was waiting.</p><p></p><p>Closer …</p><p></p><p>It was a man, perhaps 50 years old and heavy-jowled in worn denim overalls and a thick fleece coat. He seemed to be waiting; certainly he was not moving. </p><p></p><p>Closer…</p><p></p><p>No fog of breath billowed in the shadows from his opened mouth. His eyes stared, watching, empty, dry, and a strand of ice hung unattended from his mouth. </p><p></p><p>Then other men and women could be seen more clearly inside the tavern, sitting at drinks long since gone flat in the cool air or lying on the floor in strange positions, as if caught in the moment of a footstep and then falling in that same pose to the ground. </p><p></p><p>Outside, shapes could be seen on the ground; a dog lay on its side, legs stiff and straight. Feathery clumps marked where birds fell in mid-flight to the earth. All were frozen, through and through; all were dead with a cold that would not go away.</p><p></p><p>Jack Frost had come to town again.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="talien, post: 4564309, member: 3285"] [b]Jack Frost: Prologue[/b] WILLIS, AL— The road sign was plain and green, the sort mandated by state law and never supplemented with anything more decorative: "Willis, Ala.," it read, "Pop. 819." State Highway 9 ran past the sign through deep forest and high hills. A long, narrow bridge stretched across an expanse of swampy water: always a land of endless natural waterways, the region was inundated with new lakes and streams after the Tennessee Valley Authority began damming up the rivers in a Depression-era economic booster project. A sliver of December moon was hidden, high overhead, beyond thick clouds, and the swamp and the hills and the trees were barely visible in its ghostly light. The hills flattened out, slowly, gradually, and the forest thinned to either side. Then, ahead, came a yellow glow blinking in the air, the strobe of an ordinary streetlight to signal caution. Other lamps shined beyond it, silvery-pink and constant, illuminating the shop fronts of a handful of two-story buildings. The post office was easily the finest structure, with sculpted concrete pillars of a Classical design that seemed ostentatious among the simple businesses of Willis. Christmas lights blinked cheerfully in red and green in several windows and the limbs of trees. Slowing for the blinking cautionary light, silhouettes were visible within a building near the road ("Hank's House," proclaimed the shingle). The shadows of men and women gathered for a nightcap, perhaps, before they joined their families. At least they seemed to be patrons; but perhaps that was a trick of the light, to make shadows look like the men and women one would expect. There was no movement to be seen, not in Hank's House, not in the streets, nowhere but for the swaying yellow light. But there, ahead, on the covered sidewalk leading to Hank's, someone was waiting. Closer … It was a man, perhaps 50 years old and heavy-jowled in worn denim overalls and a thick fleece coat. He seemed to be waiting; certainly he was not moving. Closer… No fog of breath billowed in the shadows from his opened mouth. His eyes stared, watching, empty, dry, and a strand of ice hung unattended from his mouth. Then other men and women could be seen more clearly inside the tavern, sitting at drinks long since gone flat in the cool air or lying on the floor in strange positions, as if caught in the moment of a footstep and then falling in that same pose to the ground. Outside, shapes could be seen on the ground; a dog lay on its side, legs stiff and straight. Feathery clumps marked where birds fell in mid-flight to the earth. All were frozen, through and through; all were dead with a cold that would not go away. Jack Frost had come to town again. [/QUOTE]
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