The Story Of Alan White

My legs where hanging over the edge of the cliff as I sat beside her. "You don't have to do this…" I said softly. "We can still make it to the next outpost, it's only a few miles up-" The ground under me began to vibrate softly, and a loud, grizzled wail broke the calm rhythm of the waves gently lapping against the cliff bottom. "Go." She said in a low whisper, her eyes beginning to water. "I'm not moving without you." I said coldly. "Don't do this to me now, get out of here, now!" She said, raising her voice just above a hoarse whisper. Her words jabbed at me, but I remained solid. A slow hum in the air began, followed by a steady metallic beat. "I'm so sorry for dragging you into this…" She whispered. Rising in front of us, a large, slender figure hovered, the sharp nose of it looked down at us, aiming a long barrel in our direction. Sand blew into our faces, and the loud hum of it's fan raged behind it. "It's alright…" I said, my voice was almost completely drowned out by the howl of the machine as it reared it's neck back. I placed an arm over my face to keep the sand out of my vision as I glanced back over to her. "Alan, help!" She said, looking over to me with a grim face. I grabbed hold of her hand, tightening my grip. "Everything's going to be alright." I told her. The machine snapped at our direction as a short, high pitched whine came from it's barrel, and several light blue tracers flung themselves at us. I closed my eyes, and in the darkness, the shots echoed, ringing in my ears.

…

I opened my eyes, panting heavily, I quickly pulled myself up, my eyes darted around my dim room. I let out a long sigh, slouching back down into my bed. I threw my legs over the edge of my bed, and allowed my head to rest in my palms, rubbing my temples. "Only a nightmare…" I told myself. Suddenly, a loud voice broke the silence of my small room. "Alan!" It called. It was the voice of one of the refugees in the compound, Mitch. Looking over at the scuffed up nightstand by my bed, I hurried over to it, dropping down to my knees. I fumbled the drawer open, taking out a moderately sized pistol and magazine of ammunition for it. I hurried out the door, rushing out of the living room. "Hang on, I'm coming!" I yelled, running across the walkway. I stopped at his door, quickly flinging the door to it open. I swiftly moved inside, pistol in hand. I saw Mitch pressed against the wall of the room, his expression was a cross between confused and horrified. He was looking over at the window in the opposite corner of the room, where a red light bobbed up and down behind the boarded up window. "It's a scanner, shoot it!" He yelled. The hunk of metal attempted to bash it's way through the window, not particularly successful. "Not a good idea, we need to get out of here, now!" I said, grabbing Mitch's shoulder, pulling him out of the room with me. We ran atop of the walkway, down the stairs, and crossed the main complex over towards the drainage pit entrance. Panting, I looked over to him. "Right, we're going outside, are you ready to run?" I said, catching my breath. "And where are we going?" He said, showing obvious signs of fatigue. "Well, into the sewers…" I said, reflecting back on my plan. "Great, and what are we supposed to do down there?" He remarked. "I say we take a few days worth of supplies down there, lay low in the trenches for a while, and wait for them to give up on finding us." I suggested. "Sounds good to me, but we should grab the gear and get out of here, we've spent enough time waiting around here." He said, looking paranoid. "Right, let me handle that real quick." I said, running over to the supply cache. I snatched a few packets of food, a few bottles of water, among other essentials out of the crate. "This should be enough, let's get out of here." I said, not wanting to further test our luck with the response time of the local Metropolice Force. Biting my bottom lip, I looked over to him. "Let's take the lower access door, it'll save us some time." I said, Mitch simply nodding in agreement. He followed me through the workshop, and down the rusted stairs.

…

Running down the stairs, we turned the corner into a service tunnel. Whilst running through the tunnel, I tried to think of anything we could do to get down to the pit faster. Emerging through the tunnel, I immediately turned the corner towards a rusty ladder. Grabbing hold, I tested if it could even hold my weight. While I looked down at the easily three story drop. "You've got gloves, right?" I said, looking over at him. "Yeah, why?" He said, looking down at his own fingerless gloves. "Well good, you're gonna need 'em." I said, dropping myself down the ladder, sliding down by only holding onto the two main bars. He looked down at me from the top of the concrete ledge, pointing up towards the top of the pit, his mouth moving, but the smell of my burning gloves and the sound of the rushing wind overwhelmed my senses, preventing me from hearing him. I looked down, and the ground below me became very close, very fast. I grabbed onto the ladder as tight as I could to slow my fall, and my gloves began to smoke, the friction starting to rub a hole in my left glove. I splashed into the sewage at the bottom, my gloves looking fairly ruined, but no worse for wear. "Uggh!" I grumbled, looking down at my mucky shoes. I signaled Mitch down, and he slid down the ladder as well. "Alan, it's right behind us!" he said, stumbling around in the mud, trying to regain his balance. Looking behind me, I was almost blinded by it's light. I pulled my pistol out of my holster, placing a well-aimed shot right to it's fan blade, sending it to the ground with a slushy splat. It wiggled around on the ground, chirping and beeping. I walked over to it, smashing my boot on it's tail, keeping it down. I put my face close to it's camera, talking boldly into it. "It's been a long time sense you last found me, nice job, come get me…" I said, placing the end of my pistol to it's lens, firing a round into it. The scanner stopped wiggling from under my foot, and it's light slowly faded to darkness, leaving us in the mud, quiet, dark, and alone.

…

I took out a small flashlight, slipping it under the barrel of my pistol, as Mitch took out his own, shining it in my eyes. "Jeeze, careful where you shine that." I said, blinking a few times. "Sorry." He said, aiming it down the sewer path. "It's fine, this way." I said, walking down the sewer tunnel. We walked down the tunnel for quite some time, before finding a service exit, climbing the steps out of the dirty water. "Alright, this should lead down to the trenches, where we'll branch off over towards a dry drainage ditch, and hide out for a while." I said, opening the door. As I walked outside, I carefully surveyed the two ledges of the trench, making sure no lookouts where out to spot us. "Seems all clear." I said, carefully walking out in the trench. Mitch followed behind me, not seeming as jumpy. "Alright, there's a ditch right there, let's head in before-" Suddenly, a sharp crack comes from my right, bits of concrete flying out from a small hole in the wall next to me. "Haul it into that ditch, now!" I said, as Mitch ran into the small concrete cave. I followed behind him, trying to get a quick glance at whoever just fired at us. To no luck, I ran inside, hiding behind a wide pillar. Mitch remained dreadfully silent as he stood, hidden in the shadows of a barred off exit. "We're trapped…" He whispered, hands holding onto the rusted bars of the drain. "Don't worry now, you need to keep your head, I'll think of a way out of this…" I said, checking my magazine. "Seventeen…" I said, clapping the magazine back into the pistol. I checked my bag, finding a large amount of grenades and food. "I'm so glad I brought these now." I said, looking back to Mitch, who had a large grin on his face. "Looks like we're about to even the odds." I said, lightly tossing a flash grenade in my hand.

…

"Anti-Citizen." A booming, scratchy voice said. "You have been convicted of multiple anti-civil violations, exit the structure imminently, with your hands open, and in view." Continued the voice. "Never going to happen." I said, pulling the pin on the grenade. I tossed it over my shoulder, and out of the ditch. "Grenade!" The voice called, an explosion sounding off soon after. "You've brought this upon yourself." The voice called, as a hail of gunfire returned. The concrete wall behind me acted as a bulletproof barrier, but I wondered how much it could withstand. The storm of bullets stopped for a second, and I could hear the hiss of a machine gun cooling down. I quickly took out another grenade from my pack, reading the label. "Smoke…" I said to myself, pulling the pin. I took a quick glance out behind cover, getting a good sight as to where the gunner is. I tossed the grenade as he looked up at me, pulling the chamber on the machine gun back. As the smoke filled the air around him, I laid down on the ground, aiming up a shot with the iron sights of my pistol. I fired a round at a vague shadow of a target, and watched as the figure fell to one leg. "Minor hit, continuing prosecution!" The figure said, standing back up. "Oh man, that ones tough." I said, hiding back behind cover. Another wave of fire began, and the edges of the concrete wall began to chip off, and my smoke began to fade. "Ah man, this is getting bad…" I said, looking over to Mitch. "You still with me, buddy?" I said, looking over at him. "Yeah…" He said, still remaining stiff in the corner. "It's going to be alright, I just thought of something…"

…

Before I could explain my plan, more gunfire broke out as I saw a figure attempt to creep his way inside of the ditch. Quickly, I let out three rounds into his chest, the figure falling back, groaning in pain. "Hah, you're not moving up on me!" I said, feeling as if we had a chance now.

First, a little background info. My friend Charles was a drummer who suffered from Lupus for around 20 years. Over our years together we did a bit of drumming together, put on a drum workshop for some kids, went to concerts etc. He was indeed a special guy . . . Over time, he lost use of his hands. The doctor told his parents that he would eventually go blind from his condition (although this never happened). He eventually had to have one leg amputated. I'm really condensing 20 years in a short paragraph. Basically Charles suffered more than anyone else I've ever known.
When I had Alan White come to my shop for a clinic in 2006 I made it very clear to my friend that this evening was "for him" as much as anything else. I was able to get his wheelchair right in front of the stage and he had a great view! Basically, after Alan had already signed things for the other 300 fans present he came over to Charles' wheelchair and spent a good 5 minutes in conversation with him. I mean a good solid five minutes - not just "Thanks so much for coming out tonight". I'll never forget watching my friend's face (although Charles had lost use of most of his facial muscles) when Alan told him "Next time YES come to Vancouver have Rob contact me and we'll make sure you get backstage to meet the whole group" . . . He certainly didn't say this to everyone at the clinic! Sadly, Charles passed away 6 months later. He would always talk about this special evening though. I don't write this story to get any credit - I just wanted to do something special for a friend. My thanks once again to Mr. White for giving my friend the night of his life. I love Alan's drumming, but I love the man behind the drumming even more.

Luetta42 wrote:First, a little background info. My friend Charles was a drummer who suffered from Lupus for around 20 years. Over our years together we did a bit of drumming together, put on a drum workshop for some kids, went to concerts etc. He was indeed a special guy . . . Over time, he lost use of his hands. The doctor told his parents that he would eventually go blind from his condition (although this never happened). He eventually had to have one leg amputated. I'm really condensing 20 years in a short paragraph. Basically Charles suffered more than anyone else I've ever known.
When I had Alan White come to my shop for a clinic in 2006 I made it very clear to my friend that this evening was "for him" as much as anything else. I was able to get his wheelchair right in front of the stage and he had a great view! Basically, after Alan had already signed things for the other 300 fans present he came over to Charles' wheelchair and spent a good 5 minutes in conversation with him. I mean a good solid five minutes - not just "Thanks so much for coming out tonight". I'll never forget watching my friend's face (although Charles had lost use of most of his facial muscles) when Alan told him "Next time YES come to Vancouver have Rob contact me and we'll make sure you get backstage to meet the whole group" . . . He certainly didn't say this to everyone at the clinic! Sadly, Charles passed away 6 months later. He would always talk about this special evening though. I don't write this story to get any credit - I just wanted to do something special for a friend. My thanks once again to Mr. White for giving my friend the night of his life. I love Alan's drumming, but I love the man behind the drumming even more.

Wait, why don't you just make another thread with your story?