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|Like Cigarettes; Novel Prologue|
|Topic Started: Oct 7 2009, 06:15 PM (284 Views)|
|Dentatus||Oct 7 2009, 06:15 PM Post #1|
The first scene in my novel "Running Black".
Dawson Hull Conglomerate Regional Offices. London, England. New European Union. 2:18 a.m.
He wasn’t going to make it. His mind kept nagging him with that fact, but a primal part much deeper inside snarled back at that cold slap of logic and kept him running anyway. The slip-in had been so smooth too, everything going flawlessly right up to the last seconds of the download.
It should have been a simple loot and scoot. A small crew, the pass codes they’d received got the four of them past the building’s security like wily ghosts, while floor plans brought them straight to the mainframe hub. They’d been told exactly where to search there too, and after a crypto-crack and a quick cable to the terminal, they watched their flash drive filling up and passed a smile around in the stillness, buzzed on the thought of easy money. But someone in D-H cyber division must have strung a tripwire code in the transfer executable, because right at 97% the alarms went off, the thick dark exploded, and a perfectly good break-in got shot to hell.
Now the air was quivering with sirens and every light in the complex glared stark phosphorus. The freelancer was alone, flying through the maze of offices back the way he’d come, his world compacted by the tyranny of rage and fear.
He’d jabbed all the speed-stims at once and the adrenaline cocktail hit him like a freight train. Everything tumbled together into a rabid blur: steel gates slamming down over windows; the drop, lock, and swivel of ceiling turrets; night shift guards shouting, popping out in front of him like cartoon targets in a kill house. He focused on them just long enough to double tap neat holes in their tailored uniforms. The freelancer flowed right over them, ducked and weaved and rolled and ran on.
The intimate dead urged him on, stark and raw in his mind. Riko buried under the first response wave of spider ‘bots; Mahoud shredded by flechettes and choking on his own blood. Even Daffid, so cool and precise, had pushed him through a killzone and ended up spattered all over the lower parking level, just to buy him these last seconds. Lives snubbed out like cigarettes, littered in a trail behind him. He was the only one left.
Somewhere in another long hallway his brain took the opportunity to remind him about the U.A.V. The mission contract stipulated his team have the stealth drone circling overhead for the duration, ready to relay the files once they got clear. Talk about a clue - it had been the first item on the load-out list. Pass codes or no, whoever hired them hadn’t counted on a clean getaway. And they’d been so right.
An eye blink squeeze on the trigger folded up another guard, then the click, click, click of an empty magazine registered in his mind. Now even his ammo was gone.
What’s the use? his brain nagged again. But there was $25 million on that flash drive and the contract read no files – no funds. Four minutes ago he’d wondered what was worth so much, but now all he wanted was to get outside so it could be passed to whoever was up next in this horror show. His data pad was bluetoothed to the drone, but he got no signal inside the building. He needed clear sky, so he kept running.
He darted down a sharp left, bouncing off the walls. He was almost there. At least Mira and the kids would get five percent, plus benefits.
The final stretch was empty and for a second he imagined he’d actually survive. He almost laughed, but his lungs were heaving, his muscles burning out on the last ragged edges of the chemical overkill. As he burst through the basement double doors onto the service road, he instinctively looked up for the drone he knew he couldn’t see. The night sky was littered with stars, and the air was heavy with the sharp reek of garbage and bio diesel.
Someone shouted, but he didn’t stop. He was out.
Still at full speed, he raised his arm and thumbed the Send button. There were figures braced behind concrete barriers, their helmets silhouetted against muzzle flashes and flickering police lights. Rounds tore through him, but they were too late. He heard the electronic bleat and knew the machine valkyrie had caught the data and was bearing it onward. He did laugh then, deep and wet. He’d made it.
Tri-bursts scoured his body, punching his forward motion back until it ceased in jerks and shudders as he tumbled to the asphalt. Blood was running now. The freelancer lay there, staring up as all the overdue pain came crowding in. It was finished. He saw the sky, the stars, and thought of Mira. Then everything winked out.
|mattblackgod||Oct 11 2009, 10:52 AM Post #2|
Big Boss Warlord Dude.
|Nice story. I take it there is more?|
|Dentatus||Oct 11 2009, 06:31 PM Post #3|
|More? Yes. A novel's worth, in fact.|
|Dentatus||Nov 25 2009, 12:13 AM Post #4|
My novel, "Running Black", is currently under consideration at two lit agencies, and I'm hoping it'll get picked up and wind up in print. We'll see how it plays out...
In the meantime, I'm thinking of hiring an illustrator and posting at least the prologue and first five chapters online, for free. The illustrations would coincide with the action in the chapter and would break up the text of each section.
I'm thinking I can post if on a Blog. Failing that, I'll get a domain name and make a website.
|Legend And Fiend||Nov 25 2009, 02:54 AM Post #5|
I am a writer also.
I like how fast your story moves, but it also has a jerky feel to it.
If that is what you are going for, then great...it is supposed to be a scene of wild action...cool.
I would like to read more to see how you describe things...that is most important I think, because you want readers to see YOUR VISION of this world...YOUR World.
The way it read, I see Neo or James Bond...lol.
There are a lot of little mistakes, but these are going to go away when you get the piece edited.
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