The Alphaville Herald

Sabotage in Badnarik Sim – Avalanche!!!

by Alphaville Herald on 25/08/07 at 1:53 pm

Badnarik sim pwned! Who is to blame for man-made disaster? Merczateer officers? South South African security staff?

by Ace Graveling – war correspondent

Searching for survivors of the Badnarik avalanche

I stood upon the frozen ground and surveyed the landscape, my trusty photographer Llama Mike at my side. I had been assigned to cover this story, and it would be a story that would forever change my perspective of war, of life, of love, and of mortality. Upon first laying eyes on the damage, only one thought passed through my mind. It is a powerful thought, maybe a feeling more than a thought, maybe both at the same time. Whatever it is, it is something that I have found myself unable to pass through parted lips, and something that I have not spoken of amongst my colleagues. It is something I can only express at a typewriter.

I think it’s awe.

In the darkest hours of the night, some person or persons had intentionally caused an avalanche from the tall mountain ranges of Badnarik sim, located just south of the southernmost part of South Africa. The entire complex had been wiped out, and only bits and pieces of it remained visible above the void created by the snow. The snow was a dirty grey, covered as it were in speckles of a brilliant crimson, and – except smelling of fuel, decay, and the bitter cold.

The freezing wind bit at my jacket like birds of carrion, and I motioned to Mike to follow me into a makeshift encampment established at the base of the newly created slope. We were signaled by a guard to enter a nearby tent, and we obeyed.

The scene inside was a profound picture of tormented humanity. The men stood there wrapped in blankets and drinking whatever warm liquids there was that could be swallowed. Stretchers covered in fresh blood lied abandoned in a pile near the door, and the silhouette of a medic with a bone saw flashed harshly against a plastic curtain. I could feel my blood curdle as I heard his screaming echo ghostly over the sound of the wind.

Incalculable quantities of snow

We asked for a drink, and our request was rudely declined by a angry man with long locks, his expression and identity hidden by both his hair and his deep shades of eyeliner. We did our best to try and find a comment, an interview, or even a noteworthy series of grunting noises; all were bound to silence. We stood there, looking out through a window cut in the tent at the rescue effort for some time until a skinny man ran through and nailed a sign to a support beam. It depicted a bald man in what appeared to be some sort of ceremonial dress (A toga, perhaps?). The words “WANTED FOR QUESTIONING” were stenciled underneath his picture in a harsh and hastily done military print. I placed my hand on the young man’s shoulder, a man of seventeen years at the most, and asked for an interview. He lead Mike and I out again into the harsh cold, to what appeared to be a command tent.

Inside, the familiar sound of the saw came alive again, although, this time, it did not appear to be for medicinal purposes; this time, it was on a man in a chair facing a spotlight, a spotlight that clearly illuminated the scene to those behind a partition which separated the rooms. A warm man who did not appear to have shaved in weeks welcomed us to sit. We talked for some time; apparently, there were only a handful of people who could get so far up the mountain as to be capable of causing this natural disaster, and they were being questioned one by one. I shuddered slightly at this as I glanced at the partition – it was harrowing, what these people would do for vengeance.

very little remains — the smell of fuel, decay, and the bitter cold

According to him, the prime suspect for organizing this scheme was one Avil Creeggan, the man in the toga (yes, it was a toga) from the sign. His accomplices were unknown; it varied from Merczateer officers to South South African security staff to third parties of questionable loyalties. Names were hard to come by – one named Stefan here, one named Naumova there, and a third man by the apparent name of Schuman arose and was quickly dismissed. An argument broke out between two of the officers, and the guard soon entered the tent; Mike and I took our chance and left the encampment for a closer look.

As we ascended higher, we… we… I don’t know what happened exactly. A stinging pain began in the back of my head, and my body collapsed as though it was a ragdoll. Mike… they didn’t find Mike. Mike was gone.

I woke up some time later back in that same tent, covered in bandages and blankets and with an IV dripping slowly into either arm. My vision faded in and out. I didn’t have much memory of the next few hours – but I was apparently sedated. I didn’t know how much time passed. In time, however, I awoke and rose to a sitting position. My jacket was thrown over the back of the cot I was sat on, and I searched for my phone. In it’s place, I found a quickly scrawled letter.

“BE HAPPY YOU LIVE.
NO PROOF I DID IT.
THE TRUTH LIES WITH DUPORT.
LONG LIVE THE SANDWICH.”

What the fuck did that mean? Are the answers to the Badnarik sim disaster to remain forever buried? Is Avil Creeggan still hiding in the mountains, toying with us?