Origin: John Thompson

            There it was again. Flint’s hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he scanned the tall buildings. He thought he had seen them. He was sure he had seen movement. Flint turned around, walking up to Elsie Donnahough, who was leaning against the rail, staring stone-faced at the city of Philadelphia.

            “Hey, girl,” said Flint, trying to keep his voice low, “This doesn’t feel right. Where’s all the damn people? Where’s the parade? Ain’t this the city of brotherly love or something?”

            “I felt it, too,” said Elsie, turning to Flint, “Nate, I don’t like this. It’s quite. People are scared. We can’t just… BLAST buildings if something goes wrong.”

            “Spread the word,” said Flint, “Quietly. I want the crew ready for action if it comes down to it. Make sure everyone is armed.”

            “Tense, Lieutenant?” asked Thompson, approaching the pair at the rail.

            Flint turned to the man, smiling, “No worries, John. I’m sure your cargo is safe. Not far now.”

            The Johns. That’s what Flint had been calling them. Stuck up guys that were not so bad to talk to, but they were far too nosey in Flint’s affairs. They insisted on joining the group as they carried his shipment cross-country. They were not even sure they would be able to pay the asking price. Flint didn’t like that.

            John Thompson. He was some sort of War veteran and inventor. He knew guns frontways and backways. His Auto-Ordnance Company had paid the Scorpios to insure the shipment of a new weapon to the US Government, who were unsure if they were even interested.

            And John Blish, his younger, and more rat-like partner. He was far too nosey as to the Scorpios and its inner-workings. The pair had proven to be very annoying during the day, but great company at night. Anytime word turned to music, past stories, even military time it was very laid back. However, as soon as anything pertaining to the mission was brought up Flint wondered how he’d get away with shooting them.

            “Philadelphia is one of the most lively cities in the world, yes?” came the voice of Blish, stroking his large mustache.

            “Supposed to be,” smiled Flint, “What’s the matter, not lively enough for you?”

            “We are serious, Lieutenant,” said Thompson, he crossed his arms and his eyebrows furrowed, “We have made a great deal of enemies with our cargo.”

            “Just some guns, yeah?” said Flint, “I hardly believe that anyone would risk an attack on such a glorious landship such as mine.”

            “So full of yourself,” continued Thompson, “These are powerful people, Flint. They scare me, and I turned down quite an offer from them. These weapons do not belong to the ilk of the world.”

            “Outlaws, they are all the same. Don’t worry,” smiled Flint, “I’ve dealt with pirates and bandits.”

            “There are no Pirates or bandits in Chicago, Lieutenant,” Continued Thompson, “No, our demons look more like politicians then film villains. They are powerful and they ARE scary. Oh, and to them… nothing is untouchable.”

            There it was again. Flint turned and shot up at the tall buildings surrounding them. This time, he caught him. A figure, rushing back into the building. Flint gazed up ahead, and noticed that they were about to go through a denser part of the city.

            With the tall buildings so close together, the Scorpios moved along very controlled and slowly. There would be no way for him to use cannons to his advantage in the tight space, and Flint could now see his mistake in going through the city.

            “Good, you saw it too,” said Thompson, “It’s an ambush. All the signs are there.”

            “So it appears,” said Flint.

            “This idiot led us into a trap!” Yelled Blish, “I swear, if we die!”

            “Never asked you to come along, and this is not a trap it is an ambush. Crap happens!”

            Flint raised the communication tube near him and spoke into it, “Attention, all crew. We are in an ambush situation. I want leg crews to keep going steady and controlled, get us out of the city. Guards posted around them. All else, man small cannon crews on the side but grab some rifles and hit the deck and port-holes. We’re in for a shoot-out.”

            Flint rushed to one of the doors going inside the Scorpios and reached the gun rack inside it. Grabbing the Le Enfields inside, he handed two to Thompson and Blish.

            “Johns, you guys used to be Veterans, yeah?”

            “Used to be?” said Blish.

            “You must be joking, sir,” Thompson almost laughed, “You have blot actions? Le Enfields, right? Know them well… good rifles. But they will not do.”

            “We have a few Gatling’s and Spandau’s. Why, what do you expect?”

            “In this day and age, Lieutenant, I would have thought a man in your business would have thought of that by now. There are so many marketable automatic weapons for such an event.”

            Flint was un amused, but didn’t say anything. Thompson took this as a hint and smiled, gesturing inside the ship.

            “Would you like to lead me to my cargo, sir,” said Thompson, “You are carrying just the thing.”

            Flint sighed, and accepted. Another second or so and they had made it all the way to the cargo bay. Thompson wasted no time in walking over to the cargo and getting the closest available crate open. While the Johns worked on that, Flint was hailed on a nearby communication tube.

            “Lieutenant,” cried the voice on the end, “We have not been hampered yet, but there is an obvious ambush ahead. The windows and doors are barricaded and redy for a fight, and they are hailing us, sir.”

            “What are they saying?” asked Flint.

            “They want us to cease our movement and allow them to come aboard. They claim to only want Thompson and the Cargo.”

            Flint shot a glance at the Johns, but if Thompson heard him he was focusing on opening the crate.

            “Can we see any of their men? Maybe a few standing around looking like muscle?”

            “Yes, sir. They are heavily armed.”

            “Good, tell our boys to open fire. Tell them to only shoot at what they see. We must try to leave as much as the structures untouched as possible.”

            Flint walked over to the two Johns, who had just finished prying open the crate.

            “Please tell me you had a bad loan or a street thug encounter?”

            “As I told you, Lieutenant, there’s a lot at stake,” smiled Thompson, “And these were very powerful people. Chicago is an Urban Jungle if there ever was one.”

            “I enjoy being the hunter, John,” said Flint, “So what do they want so badly.”

            Thompson swept aside the hay, and grabbed a short rifle out of the box. It had a beautiful wooden stock and a forward handle on its short barrel. It seemed incredibly thing and light, and it even got thinner then Thompson/s arm at one point.

            “The hell is that?”

            “This will become known as Thompson’s Sub-Machine Gun. It is the third of its kind. It will replace rifles, and do away with bulky guns,” boasted Thompson, “It is compact, to fit in tight places, it is accurate, to close gaps. Let’s not forget it is quite powerful for a gun of its kind.”

            “Looks like a toy,” snarled Flint, “You really about to use that damn thing?”

            Blish handed a second gun to Flint, and reached further into the crate, grabbing two circular metal objects.

            “Slide the drum up like this,” stated Thompson, slapping the metal object to the gun, “Slide this back here, and you are ready to fire.”

            “What?” said Flint, looking at it, “A… Magazine? Round?”

            “Slide it up there and insert a round in the chamber,” stated Thompson again, “It fires forty-fives. I’m sure there’s enough of those lying around. This means it fires bigger rounds then the others of its kind.”

            “The… sub-machine guns, huh?”

            “It means they are automatic weapons that fire pistol rounds,” stated Thompson, “Keep up.”

            “Don’t judge it until you try it,” said Blish, smiling at Flint’s gaze, “Here, have another drum. The Magazine is specially designed. There’s over fifty rounds in there.”

            “Fifty?” Flint’s interest was now going up as Blish grabbed his own rifle and shut the crate.

            “Let’s go test these babies,” said Blish.

            “Test?” Flint’s eyes narrowed.

            “It’s been tested and re-tested,” said Thompson, sighing, “However this weapons has yet to kill a single soul. Time to tarnish its reputation as an idea. Let’s go make it a weapon!”

            Thompson and Blish headed out the way they had come. Flint looked down at the gun he held in his hand. Shaking his head, he decided to give it a try.

            They had made it to one of the bulkheads when they heard the first of the gunfire. Flint jumped to conclusions that the warning shots had finally been ignored, and the battle was beginning. Thompson had nerves of steal, and peered out of the bulkhead, looking for a target. Blish seemed slightly more nervous, and he fiddled with his gun.

            “Well, let’s go send these boys a message,” stated Flint, “ ‘The Scorpios does not take visitors’. Right back to Chicago.”

            “How fitting,” smiled Thompson, “This has been given a terrible nick-name there, as ‘The Typewriter’.”

            “Oh, cow… why would you tell me that.” Whined Flint, “I am not scared of The ‘Chicago Typewriter’ and neither are they.”

            “Why do you think they want it so badly, Lieutenant?”  pushed Thompson, who tilted his own fedora down over his eyes, “How about a wager? I bet I can kill more then you can.”

            “You are on, sir,” smiled Flint. He pushed past the two gentlemen and into the fray.

Aiming his gun, he pulled the trigger. Nothing. Flint’s eyes bulged, and he gazed at the gun. Turning it to the side, he saw the safety was still left on. Switching it off, he raised the weapon just as Thompson and Blish ran past him, raising their own guns.

Scanning the buildings, Flint saw a group of three guys on a balcony hiding behind a few wooden planks. They brandished shotguns and fired down on the Scorpios recklessly. Raising his new gun, Flint pulled the trigger.

The gun fired very rapidly, and Flint was not ready for the recoil. The gun raised into the air. Only a few bullets slammed into the balcony, and one removed the hat right off one of the thugs. The rest kept rising above the building, hitting a painter’s cart a few stories up. The cart snapped, and the two thugs on the cart fell with it down below, slamming into the balcony, killing all thugs.

Flint was surprised with the gun, and smiled at his luck. Thompson gave him a glare, and mimed holding the weapon tighter. Blish and himself then opened fire on their attackers. Bursts of gunfire rat-tat-tating into the nearby buildings.

Flint raised the gun once more, firing it at the buildings. This time he held the gun tighter, and he followed Thompson’s lead and fired in bursts. As he pumped the trigger, burst after burst of gunfire flew towards attackers. At first, Flint was doubtful of the weapons power, but after realizing a more powerful rifle was useless when he would miss a target, he accepted that this weapon was making him a better killer. Flint’s blood began to boil, and his eyes widened. It wasn’t long before he didn’t even bother pumping the trigger. Holding it down, he fought to keep the gun under control and sprayed the hasty bunkers with lead bullets.

Flint’s heart almost stopped when the Thompson went silent, steam visible from the barrel. He fought with the trigger, but he could not make the weapon fire.

“Out of bullets,” chuckled Flint, wrestling with the gun to remove the magazine.

The Scorpios gave a shudder. Flint was confused. That had been a pretty powerful hit. No grenade or dynamite stick could hit the Scorpios that hard. Flint ran to the side of his ship, and noticed that they had been hit by some sort of shell. Down one of the streets to the side of them, Flint spotted an armored, mechanized walker. The machine was tiny compared to the Scorpios, but it yielded one, large cannon and one machine gun that opened fire on the Scorpios, needlessly pinging against the armor.

“They own a walker?” shouted Flint, turning back to Thompson, “Who the hell has enough pull for one of those? They have a small army!”

“Powerful men, Flint,” said Thompson, firing his own Thompson into a building, “Powerful men.”

Flint opened a communication tube and shouted into it, “Cannon crews, right side, I need three cannons mid-rift to fire upon that walker! Make those shots count.”

A Flint tossed aside the empty drum onto the deck, sliding a second into its place. The Walker fired off a second shot, the round slamming into the side of the ship, but doing very little damage.

“Why bother? They can’t bring us down with one walker…”

“Show of force, Flint,” yelled Blish, “They have no need for power if they can make us think they have power. They might not have expected us to fight back with such vigor.”

Three cannons below Flint opened their ports, and the barrels were pushed out of the ship, aiming down at the loan walker.

“Big mistake,” said Flint, “Hope they hated that crew.”

The cannons fired, their shots not missing as one by one the cannons hit the Walker. The Mechanized walker exploded after the second shot, and it disappeared in a cloud of fire and debris after the third.

Flint’s victory was cut short at the sound of grenades. The crew was ducking from them as they rained down from the buildings. Flint ran to the wall of his ship and pressed against it, cover his eyes as one exploded not far away.

Overhead a vibrating hum became prominent in Flint’s ear. Looking up, Flint saw some kind of flying craft swooping in and hovering overhead. The machine held two persons, one flying it and another tossing grenades from his perch, and firing with a pistol. At the sight of the craft, others from the building started firing back harder, tossing grenades they had stashed.

Flint turned his gun on the machine and pulled the trigger. A hail of bullets sprayed the flying machine, lines bursting and fabric tearing. The one firing the pistol got hit in his hand, and he ducked to cover, shrinking away from the hail. The pilot was not so lucky. Thrashing in his seat, the pilot was shot multiple times, and the machine began to spin out of control. The machine spun more and more wildly, and then it slammed into one of the buildings.

Flint smiled at his kill. Ducking back inside of the Scorpios, he fondled the new weapon as the ship lumbered past the rest of the fighting. After the fall of the flying machine, the gunfire died down and the Landship was passing the last of Philadelphia and clearing the rest of the buildings. As they continued out of the city and through the smaller buildings in the outskirts, Flint looked back at Philadelphia. Some figures could still be seen, watching the Scorpios as it stepped away. Even another Walker could be seen walking to the edge of where the battle had taken place.

“We can open her up,” said a voice of the communication tubes, “We’ll put this city behind us in no time.”

Flint hadn’t heard a thing. He danced around the deck of his ship, swinging the gun back and forth and hooting and hollering. Thompson and Blish  approached him cautiously, their brows furrowed.

“This,” yelled Flint, a grin on his face from ear to ear, “This is seriously… amazing. I could feel it… did you see that? Did you hear it? Rat-tat-tat-tat! WOW! I most definitely see the appeal… A typewriter? I… I love this…”

“Sounds great, Lieutenant,” said Thompson, “You wielded the weapon expertly. I am… impressed…. A bit.”

“Hey, I love this. It’s… it’s amazing. ‘Hello, bad guys. Wanna mess with me? Well, say hello to my… Tommy Gun!’, haha!”

“Please don’t call it that,” sighed Thompson, closing his eyes, “Actually… never…. Ever…. Say that again.”

“I don’t think they were expecting much of a fight,” said Blish, “Doesn’t look like they came prepared for an all-out battle. Maybe they just expected to come aboard and take a few in the surprise of it all?”

“Maybe,” said Flint, smiling, “This is just… wow…”

“Well, I am glad YOU like it, at least,” said Thompson, “Let’s hope this makes a similar show when showing it to the Brass at the U.S. Military, huh?”

“Look, Johns,” said Flint, “I know money is tight.”

“Please stop calling us that,” said Blish.

“And I know this is your big break and all… but there are a lot of guns down there,” continued Flint, “Why not say you give me a few Tommys-”

“Please, ‘Thompson’s Sub-Machine Gun’,” correct Thompson.

“Whatever. Give me a few ‘Thompson’s, some of these ammo cajigers.”

“Magazines, Flint,” corrected Blish, “They are called, Magazines.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” continued Flint, “How about a few of the ammo holders and some boxes of ammo and we call it good. The trip is worth it.”

“Ah…well,” said Thompson, looking at Blish.

“John,” Blish tried to whisper, but failed, “We don’t exactly have Flint’s… fee. We are stretching things thin as is… and the military has other offers at this time… It could save us loads to just give him a case.”

“Boo-yeah! That’s what I am talking about,” said Flint, “Woo-hoo! A case! And some other stuff… but… you know… we can work out the details…”

“WOAH!” Thompson bat away Flint’s gun barrel from his face, “Please… I would like to not get shot with my own gun.”

“Typed… got you. So we are cool?” said Flint.

Thompson shook his head, and smiled.

“So, now we got a new conversation waiting for us inside,” smiled Flint, throwing his arm around Thompson, “Why don’t you tell me about how simple this mission is… and about how you make such powerful friends that they can send a small force after us…”

Thompson gave Blish a worried look, but walked with Flint inside.