User:Vanguard/Fanfiction/M4's For Everyone

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M4’s For Everyone!

Part 1

“Look what hell hath wrought”. A phrase often related to massive acts of pandemonium and disaster. No one can put a bounty on a storm; nobody can truly bring themselves to hate any act of nature… No matter how much they think they would like to.

Such is the case of Carl Johnson. Every act of kindness he portrays seemed to be balanced with a heinous hit of misfortune.

He attempted to escape is gangster life, living in the East Coast, in Virginia, only to be rewarded with a dead mother. He was blackmailed into helping his old gang, only to be rewarded with two of them dead by Carl’s own hand, and his brother dying of gunshot wounds in a prison hospital. In Vengeance, he shot his blackmailers dead. As miracles would have it, or simply a rare turn of fortune, many of their police comrades who previously feared exposing them, did not mourn their loss and gave Carl an unspoken celebration.

For a few months, he was free. There was still bad blood in Los Santos, the Ballas now having no difficult competition… and Carl avoided it. (You weren’t expecting a hero story, were you?) Regardless of the obvious dangers, he had returned home, to Grove Street. He wore his dull green combat jacket with a helpful Kevlar vest tucked underneath, oddly complimented by urban camouflage pants and basketball converse shoes. This was an odd contrast to his care-free Afro he sported with some enthusiasm. Overall, it was an ill fated attempt to look intimidating.

Carl didn’t spend a very long time on Grove Street. In fact, he seemed to visit like it was the last he’d ever see it. He sifted through his, regrettably, barren amount of photos he has with his two dead brothers and his mother, who happily made ‘chubby’ look good. He pocketed a few. Even with all his flaws, he wanted to remember and grasp the last remnants of his morality and humanity.

Part 2

He had taken an hour long rest in his old room upstairs. His room was above the kitchen, giving him an easier time with identifying where he heard a window shatter. He figured it was a threatening rock or brick with a childish note attached to it. It was worse.

It happened to be a Molotov cocktail, and his entire kitchen was already aflame. Through the glowing fire, the shattered window gave sound to Carl’s assailant.

“We heard you was back, motherfucker!”

Carl wasn’t surprised. He ran back to the front door, to which he found was unblocked, and the cul-de-sac outside, clear. He never once figured the Ballas as very intelligent trappers, or this attack wasn’t that planned. A theory that he confirmed after seeing that the Molotov was the weapon of choice. This soothed him, even as his house – his home, burned. This simply meant that more were not on the way.

Carl stood in the middle of the cul-de-sac, in a numbed awe as the flames worked their way to the upstairs. The smoke, clever as always, worked through the creases of all window panes, building its own city of black spires.

He wasn’t afraid, or saddened as he was back when he stepped in his home a couple years ago. Everything had numbed his fear and sorrow. All he did was frown when he finally heard vital foundations break away and tumble inside. He could hear the sirens, but he knew there was no point. Carl finally walked off into Grove Street, already taking mental notes of his various goodbyes. He did not want revenge for his home. His life here was over, he was done. He was done with Los Santos.

Part 3

Carl sat in a quaint outside table of a café in San Fierro, reading a newspaper in peace. Quite obviously police found alcoholic accelerates. Also quite obviously, they did not care to locate and speak with him. Maybe they knew better. Maybe they didn’t.

Either way, he enjoyed his new-found boring life. He folded his paper in apathetic disgust, giving one little scoff and contradicting his preferred emotion.

“Maaaan… Fuck it,” he thought, slamming the paper on the metal table. He took one last swig of his coffee and paid the server. “I think I’ll get cut up,” and got to his feet.

He smirked, the last time he said those few words, he was with a Grove Street friend that he was forced to kill months after. But no harm, he was happily alone.

He went to a stylist to get his Afro dyed blond, and grinned when he felt it bounce as he stepped. He happened to notice an odd scenario during his walk back to the apartment. Not just one, but two pairs of people were giving each other facial reconstructions with their fists. They were across the street from one another, and one cop was on the sidewalk addressing his rattling head wound. No doubt he attempted to break up one of the fights. This was odd and vaguely amusing. Odd, because San Fierro’s violence was more behind the scenes and not on the streets like they were in Los Santos. Even stranger, the few assailants were a mixture of a jogging mother, a suited lawyer, and a couple more seemingly ordinary and non-violent looking people. Amusing, because his life twisted Carl’s sense of humor.

Carl walked to his apartment in front of the driving school, and sat on his bed, registering what he had seen. Like anyone else, he formed multiple theories on the provocation of each fight, ranging from mundane, to humorous, to violently insane.

In the end, he slept dreamlessly.

Part 4

Carl woke to a gunshot. For once in a long time he feared for his life, he thought it was another attack in his new home. He checked himself for wounds and deduced that he was, in fact, still alive. He sat the edge of his bed, dazed from the sudden sharp sound. Another shot rang out, snapping Carl to his senses. Soon after came a succession of many, signing off to an SMG or assault rifle.

He quickly got dressed in his clothes from yesterday, knowing that cleanliness didn't matter if something serious was happening outside. He had a mixture of thoughts and feelings. Were they after me? What are they shooting at? Why is my place not being broken into? He armed himself with what he had, including the same armor vest as yesterday, along with his trusty Sub-machine Gun that had served him so very well in the past. He learned from his drive by days to never be unarmed in San Andreas.

He sneaked to the window to help confirm any of his previous thoughts. He was only on the third floor so he didn’t need binoculars, a convenience only balanced by the fact that he was more vulnerable the closer to the street he was. He surveyed his expectations. There was a light fog about, limiting his vision but it was not debilitating. Other than the weather, it was a run-of-the-mill riot. What was strange however, the rioters were very ordinarily dressed civilians. A woman in a pink ‘50s style dress was unloading an SMG into a car, where two cops have bunkered down temporarily. The amusement from yesterday’s odd scene was no longer amusing. Carl further equipped himself, noting its seriousness and headed downstairs.

He was careful, and crouched as he tiptoed to the back entrance to his building. It led to an outside ally, where shots were constantly rung out from the distance, both near and far. It sounded like a battlefield. Carl has been in both riots and gang-fights, but nothing like this. He used a wall as a guard and sneaked around, peeking into the street. Cops were using cars as a barricade, and seemingly ordinary citizens were firing widely at anything and everything, and in the middle of the street with the concept of self preservation no longer registering in their minds. Carl has never encountered this level of madness.

He ran past the street, being sure not to fire first. He knew he was a street rat and never went to the cops in his life, but given the odd twist of fate, he may be forced to. To his deduction, they were not mindless like the rest. The civilians ran wildly, shooting and stabbing in the middle of the street. The cops, were using tactics, aimed shots, and took cover.
He dodged a swung bat that came at him from the corner of his eye, and not wanting to hurt the madman, disarmed the assailant with a well aimed high-kick to his hand, followed by a swift punch to stagger, so Carl could make his escape closer to the men in uniform who are using a nearby car for cover.

Despite his proud intelligence so far, he forgot to stop and think they the cops may mistake him for a crazy as well, and halted a moment to take cover himself, giving him the ability to call out first.

“Hey, five-oh, don’t shoot me!”

They replied with “Oh yea? And why the hell not, nutjob?”, their voices stricken with paranoia.

“I ain’t like them, man! Really!”

The second officer took the initiative, “Alright, get over here. Quick!” Carl did another ground dodge, albeit unnecessarily. He huddles next to the wheel, giving a nod of appreciation but staying silent, still awed at the goings-on.

“Why aren’t YOU shooting us, guy? So far, I haven’t seen one sane person other than police…”

Carl replied, “Yea, I’ve noticed that too. I dunno why, but I ain’t feelin’ like shootin’ anyone up, man. When did this shit start?”

“About two hours ago. Entire fuckin’ city goes nuts. Weird thing? No one called in. Only fellow officers. But really, no 911 calls from normal people or nothin’. Just us.”

“Hot damn, shit be crazy.”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Carl. Carl Johnson.”

“Ah, I’ve heard of you. Also heard you cleaned up a lil’?”

“More like, just gave up.”

“That works all the same. I’m John Frock. My scared friend here is ALSO a John. So you can call me Frock, everyone else does,” his demeanor lightens a little, putting a sliver of trust into Carl.

“A’ight. So, what we gonna do about this?”

“We’re not sure. We need to get to a police station, or something. If nothing else, another barricaded building will work. Come on, follow us.”
Carl, oddly, obeyed. He knew he needed allies in order to survive a city-wide trek across mad town. They got up from their car-shield and started walking towards the driving school. The cops fired freely and often aimed for the heads. Doesn’t take a genius to guess what they were thinking this was. Carl, hesitated a little, but was forced to open fire when he started seeing civilians with rocket launchers making their way down the sidewalk. They flopped immediately, squirming in pain. “Well, not zombies,” Carl thought.

The small party of sane individuals safely made their way down the street, thought barely. John Number 2 volunteered to peak around the corner. Their station was down this street. He was promptly rewarded with his valor with a knife straight into his face. He screamed (quite obviously) and fell back, shooting his handgun wildly in the general direction of where he thinks his attacker was. Though, Carl had already taken care of him with a few burst shots of his SMG. Carl went to observe; The man who stabbed and was shot looked like a standard drunk who just stepped out of his house after eating chips and drinking and sweating. Not as odd as some, but still strange.

“Just… normal people…” Carl said, not wanting to have shot several innocents so far.

“Self defense, son.”

“Sorry about your… partner.”

“Shame to lose an officer, but we weren’t partners. Met him on the streets an hour ago. Come on.”

“Cold…”

Part 5

A series of similar and unordinary events occurred on their way to the station. Some gunners here, some there. Carl trailed behind Frock, and the fog seemed to become thicker… with a green tint. It made them both cough a bit, and Carl even hacked painfully.

“You alright, Carl?”

“Guh… It feels like needles are attacking my heart.”

“Eh, be careful man. I pray that this isn’t some zombie movie, with all the infection nonsense… Just let me know if you, ah, start ‘turning’ or something,” Frock smirked.

“Are you SERIOUS, man?!”

“Kidding, kidding. Come on, it’s right up here.”

Not so amazingly, the road was rather clear. No doubt police patrolled their own street to keep it clear of enemies.

Frock had to wave his comrades down to signal that the man following him was, in fact, safe. They walked up the steps to the impressive building, and were halted. Two men in biohazard suits scanned them both down. They spoke amongst each other for a few moments and gave them permission to enter. They were escorted a couple stories up, using stairs. Finally, they made it to an office area that had it’s cubicles and chairs all shoved into the walls, making an improvised command center. Several officers surrounded a map to the state of San Andreas. Their tones were mixed with arguing and normal conversation.

Frock and Carl introduced themselves, and one of the seemingly well-decorated officers felt the need to confirm,
“Johnson, you said?”

“Yea?”

“Did you have a brother, by any chance?”

“Yea, Brian. Died a couple years back.”

“Well I’ll be damned. No wonder…”

“What? Don’t hold shit about my brother back from me, man!”

Another one of the assorted police interrupted, “Son, do you have any idea what’s going on?”

“Don’t treat me like an asshole, asshole. Of course I don’t. I’ve been shot at all fuckin’ morning so I’m a little edgy.”

“Understood, soldier, ha-ha. Now, we’re only a few hours in this but we have various theories on what’s going on. Frock, this is for you, too. These theories range from divine intervention to apocalypse. Whatever case may be, there is definitely something in the fog.”

“The fog?”

“The fog.”

“Man, this shit is straight out of a horror movie…”

The man sighed. “Unfortunately. It seems to have infected every civilian in the state. We’re not sure about any others. But so far, the only people who are immune are people employed under law.”

“And why am I…?”

“Your brother, Brian. He was a cop.”

“What the fuck?”

“Yea, figures your brother Sweet wouldn’t tell you. Your entire gang hated him for it, even when he helped them. All the same, you were family of a man in law.”

“How come no one else is…”

“Most of your family is dead, Carl. And a lot of ours is, too. We have some in our basement, safe.”

“Holy shit….”

“A lot to take in, I know. Tell ya’ what; you and Frock go downstairs. First floor, maybe. Rest up, arm up. Whatever.”

Carl wordlessly agreed. He had a lot to take in. He never knew his younger brother became a cop, and died with the secret unavailable to Carl. And this fog? Nothing adds up. It seems to be aimed at a certain group of people to be immune. Even in horror movies, nothing is sacred, no one is safe. And even they often had explanations, supernatural or scientific… this had none of that. Just seems to be a fog that wants to watch the state burn.

Carl, thankfully, rested on a coach while Frock got himself some water out of a cooler. Carl’s eyes drifted towards the stairs to the basement. Frock caught this, stating, “I wouldn’t, man. They’re traumatized enough as it is and probably don’t want some scary black guy interrogating them.”

Carl replied “Fuck you”, but playfully. They both gave a good laugh. But Carl couldn’t help but notice a bit of malice behind Frock’s eyes after warning him. There is clearly something in the basement he should see.

And see, he did.

Part 6

He had to wait a while. Three days, to be exact. Frock was tired of watching Carl every second, and sleep became him. Carl tried being as innocent as he could. Acting like everything is okay, joking with the cops. He even slept normally. But he knew Frock watched him. Carl wasn’t sure whether it was a suspicious gaze, thinking Carl might go all zombie on them, or if it was a more dangerous “Don’t go in there” type of watch. Either way, his real mission was to just wait until Frock got tired. He fell asleep on a first floor couch, and Carl snuck away.

The basement was, oddly, unlocked. They must have trusted him more than they should have. He snuck downstairs, and it was extremely dark. Carl laughed out loud to himself and thought “Oh come on, man. If it’s really just their families, they’ll be alright!” He found the switch and flicked it. And what he saw nearly made him puke.

He had to survey the scene for a solid ten minutes before it really registered in his brain. Every feeling of shock and awe surged through his body and he felt weak. He fell onto the ground, sitting up, putting together the pieces of what he is seeing.

Blood, everywhere. People, everywhere. Dead people, everywhere. Limbs have been removed, random assorted weapons with blood spattered all over them showing obvious use. He saw mostly women and children, and a couple of young men. Small girls lie face first with a baseball bat lodged into their backs. He saw young men with various bullet wounds in a fall-back motion on various furniture. This was a battle, a slaughter. It looked like some old ancient gladiatorial battle. But surely, Carl thought, these poor people were victims of what the fog had done to them.

A sigh was heard on the stairs above. Carl slowly looked up, seeing Frock. Frock casually yawned and slowly stepped down towards Carl. He stood over him, giving an “I told you so” look, and they gazed upon the bloody violence himself.

“What… is… this?” Carl didn’t even have the energy to curse.

“This? This is GOD, my friend!”

“The.. what?”

“Divine intervention! Giving the power back to the people – that deserve it! Law bringers! This state has fallen in such a STATE of chaos, it was unbearable. We had to do SOMETHING, of course.”

“The fog…?”

“WE made it, with the help of the powers above, of course,” and at this point Frock’s eyes seemed to go completely black, making it look like he had no eyes at all. He grinned all the while.

“Man.. you… you’re-a fuckin’ monster, man!”

“WHAT I AM, is irrelevant. What MATTERS, is in a few weeks the power will belong to the righteous. A new Spartan-like state will rise and the world will be right as it always should have been. And YOU, Carl, should never have been immune. You should have died with the rest of your fucking gangster family. I seek to correct this immediately.”

Carl didn’t have time to think, and just got up as quick as he could. His speed was only matched by a swift sidekick to his side. He reeled in pain, and replied with a couple of Wu Shu martial arts he learned in San Fierro. Frock didn’t expect this, and took a few good hits from a high kick or two. He reeled on the steps and Carl grabbed this throat and started strangling him. He gripped as tight as he could as tears filled his eyes, the images of that basement burning in his mind and are not going away.

Frock could only make out a few final words, “We… will… reign…” and he breathed a final breath, and laid on the stairs. Lifelessly.

Carl swiftly and quietly walked back up the stairs, grabbing his stupidly abandoned SMG next to a couch. He saw a few patrolmen, but they did not know of the recent happenings and he darted out of the building.

The fog was worse. Thick, and heavily green. He ran as much as he could, back in the direction of his house. He still heard shots in the distance. Even after a few days, the madness never stopped.

So many thoughts went through his head. Mostly, plans to escape. And others of; was the entire police force in on this? If so, is it true he had no more allies to speak of? The next thing he thought, was to leave the state. His house was relatively close to the docks, he had to get his car – no, his motorbike. Too many civilians with RPGs could be roaming the streets; he needed something small and fast.

The only cars on the streets he ever saw were on fire, full of bullet holes, or abandoned and keyless. So he got his own motorbike and went straight for the docks.

The beaches were littered with bodies. At first he thought it was people who tried running away. But wasn’t everyone ‘infected’? He didn’t know. He no longer knew what to think. Nothing ever added up. He hopped off his bike and let it crash into the side of the small dockside store, and began inspecting his options. He saw plenty of fishing boats, speedboats, and some yachts. He didn’t know much about any of them, and which were suited to go across a sea. In the end, he stole a couple dozens of gallons of gasoline to fuel a small yacht, as well as week's worth of food. He didn’t care how healthy those Cheetos were, it no longer mattered in the long run. He had to get away.

He loaded this small yacht and began driving. He never stopped.

Part 7

He lost count two weeks ago. He only had a few gallons left, and a few bags of chips. But alas, he found land. He did his best to keep his head, and thought about which way to proceed as he made the boat autopilot on medium-speed ahead.

Surely, they couldn’t see his SMG, if they were healthy. He didn’t want to make that impression. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a change of clothes so they would have to deal with the sight of blood on his shirt and pants. That’s all he had to work with for now.

He turned off the autopilot as it made its way to land and docked unofficially. A couple of guards ran by, yelling things akin to “You didn’t radio in, what the hell?!” But they lost their voice when they saw a world-weary and sleepless Carl step off the boat, muttering, “Police… I need to speak with the police…” And they escorted him to their station. They were rather kind and were not scared that he was a murderer of any sort, and fed him a better meal with caffeinated soda. As they called in, he stepped up to look out the window.

Everything was so serene, normal. People drove their cars on their daily schedule. Two black gentlemen gave each other props as they met for the first time that day. Lovers walked down the street hand-in-hand. It was so foreign to him, as the past two weeks were full of visions and horror.

A police car finally parked at the docks. The officer stepped out calmly, regardless of a dire situation about a deranged man with blood on his shirt. They exchanged information, and the cop had indeed confirmed that they lost contact with San Andreas a couple of weeks ago, with only but a few messages that were akin to Maydays. Everything matched Carl’s testimony, so they kindly escorted him to a Hotel where he bathed and ate. He got a lovely room with a window overlooking the beach. They said they’d give him time to settle down, and they’d arrange funding and temporary housing the next day.

But he’d never stop wondering. Was it really god, back at that state? In a biblical, modern-day arc. Where the world is flooded with madness and to be refreshed with the blood of the righteous. The answer was out of his hands, and it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He did sleep a couple times during his overseas trip, but the soft bead to him was heavenly. He fell asleep instantly. He dreamed of the future now, instead of the past, in San Fierro. He wanted a wife, and a kid son. He wanted to regrow a family of friends. He could see them all at a dinner table, laughing and enjoying their thanksgiving dinner. My god, it is beautiful.

Carl woke to a gunshot. Then a succession of many. His eyes were wide open.

Trivia

• In the original version of this story, Carl himself was a cop due to a woman he dated. (Which is also a possible in-game relationship).
• The M4 carbine is a family of firearms tracing its lineage back to earlier carbine versions of the M16.