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Armageddon It 

"Did you catch that movie '217'?" Randy asked. His shift was pretty close to its end and he wanted to make lite conversation to pass the time. He found it made the last half hour go faster. 

"Is it that movie that everyone is gawking about these days?" his elder partner, Vic, asked. Vic earmarked the page he was reading before he put down the pulp novel, The January Project. "The one where 217 Texans stave off the advancing Spanish army?"

"Yeah," Randy said. He was glad that Vic knew of it. "I saw it last week when it opened, I was thinking of going tonight again..." 

The walkie talkie sqawked.

Vic reached over and picked it up. "Sentry Station 7 here." 

"We have an unidentified bogey coming in your direction," the operator said. "It's not slowing down."

"Great," Randy said under his breath. Just what he needed, some bleeding heart liberal protesting something or another about this facility. He stood up and stretched, and he could hear the roar of the van approaching. 

"We're on it," Vic said. He hooked the walkie to his belt and unlocked the cabinet where the shotguns were.

"By the sounds of it this fellow is in a hurry," Randy commented. He couldn't see the van approaching but he could hear the squeal of tires as it took a bend. Randy stepped out and took the binoculars with him. "He's going to be within view in a few seconds." 


Max shifted into another gear, picking up more speed. Ramming speed. He brought up a bloody hand to wipe his brow; his knuckles continued to bleed. He took the opportunity to take the cigarette from his mouth, and exhaled a long plume of smoke. 

"Speak to me, baby," he said to the haze as it began to swirl. He cracked a smile, a rather pleasant happy smile. He glanced at the pack of cigarettes that was in the shotgun seat; they were open and three smokes danced about the seat. 

Should have stopped and gotten another pack, he thought. But then again a shot up cream-coloured van and a bloody driver might draw suspicion.

His foot had the pedal to the floor. Blood was still seeping from the gunshot wound on his right arm; there was no time to bandage it. 

He drove past a sign that declared: 

L.E.G.A.C.Y> Research Institute
Brightening Your Future So You Don't Have To

He glanced back at the giant barrel-like device that was anchored in the back, the time was counting down 10:00 minutes.

"Showtime," he said wryly. He shifted it into the fifth and final gear.