[saltinespike]

By far not my best work. Just trying to knock the rust off, so here goes:

Rebel

Something wakes me up from a dreamless sleep. The sun is forcing its way into the room between the gaps in the sheets hanging over the window. I sit up and lean against the patched wall, fishing for my lighter in the dirty sheets with one hand as I pack my cigarettes against my leg with the other. The girl must've left already because none of her shit is here, and her shit was definitely everywhere last night. There's another insistent pound at the door. The tip of the menthol lights up as I take another drag; I place it in my mouth and exhale through my nose as I look around for something clean enough to wear. I place the cigarette in the ashtray as I walk to the door in a loose tank top and sweatpants. I slowly press my eye against the eye hole. Fuck. A suit. The microwave tells me it is 9:30. I hold my breath and think. Get dressed, grab the gun, the wallet, the laptop, pack some clothes, sneak out the window, climb the fire escape, jump over the alley to the next building, down the stairwell, leave through the back and put as much distance between myself and this apartment as possible. It could work.

I exhale and jump into action, pulling on last night's jeans and leather jacket. I stay light on my feet. No one is home. The next knock is violent, moving the door against the frame with each impact. He wouldn't try to break it down, would he? I won't be around to find out. I tuck the gun into the small of my back and drape my t-shirt over it before stuffing my laptop into a Pelican case and into the bag. It's pretty ballsy for a suit to be so intrusive, unless he's a detective. I only have time to shove an extra set of clothes into my bag before slipping silently out the window. I climb the fire escape as nimbly as I can, but it still creaks under my feet. Sprinting up, I reach the pipe that leads me to the roof in ninety seconds. As my body crosses the threshold of the building, I see her. The girl from last night is sitting on the curb in handcuffs. Why did they arrest her? How could they have known? These mysteries are trivial, so I put my mind back on the task at hand. I reach the far edge of the building as the rooftop door slams open.

My muscles tense as I ready my stance and leap forward. My knees act as a spring as my body hits the ground and tucks into a roll. A radio keys about thirty feet behind me, "He's on the roof! He jumped over the alley and landed on the building directly west. I have a clear shot but cannot pursue!" So much for the stairs. I rocket my body forward, moving along generators and air conditioning units. I stop when the man retreats through the door he came from and assess my surroundings. The closest building has a ten foot gap, but that will have to suffice. After backing up about thirty feet from the ledge, I burst forward and hurl myself through the air. I feel my bones smack into the brick structure as the far ledge wedges into my armpits. The air rushes from my lungs before I realize I have a very weak grip. My boots dig into the grouting on the side of the building and force myself upward. Climbing up, I pull the Glock from my jeans and continue to run.

After five or six blocks of leaping from building to building, I take the stairs down what seems to be an abandoned bar. A quick reconnaissance of the alley reveals it to be empty. I venture out carefully, swinging my pistol in both directions, making my way to the street. She comes out of nowhere, bringing with her the searing pain and blinding light of the butt-stock of a rifle to the nose. As my gun clatters away from me, I land hard on my ass, the bag luckily keeping me from cracking my skull open. Before I can get up, she places a boot on my chest and leans into me, the barrel of her M4 so close to me that I can almost see the round chambered inside. There has to be others nearby. These people never travel alone, even if they always seem alone. That's how it's meant to be. "Where the fuck do you think you're going, Lee?" God damn it. "You get this far - which, all things considered, isn't far - and expect to get away on the street? And to consider you trained... what a joke."

"Rita," I gulp. She clicks the safety off. "What the fuck was all that? It's not the first time a suit has showed up to my door, but fuck, they brought cops!" Her hard expression softens as she clicks the safety back on. Her brown eyes match the color of her skin and even through she's only thirty-four, it's easy to mistake her for a decade older. Her wiry hair is beginning to gray at the roots and the creases on her forehead are clearly visible. She's wearing her uniform: a skin-tight, flexible black jumpsuit with a small emblem on the right breast - our emblem - tucked into black boots, not as rugged as they are urban.

"It was a raid. They're trying to bring us down, for good. They know we're better than them on a computer, so they're getting physical. Very old-fashioned." I open my mouth to ask why, if we had all of this intelligence, was I not let in on it when she holds up a hand to stop me. "We didn't know who they were going to hit. It's not as if we were going to tell everyone. We don't want any spillage and we know there are a few kinks in our system already. Get up." I force myself onto my knee. A dull pain shoots into my tailbone, but I know it's not broken. "We have to move. Heat's not too far behind. Good call sticking to the rooftops, though you shouldn't have even come down. You could've been seen." Rita grabs my arms and shoves me forward. "Move. I'd assume you know the way, but with the direction you were just headed, I'm not so sure."

"I got it," I grunt, retrieving my weapon. We move forward, keeping a low profile, for another twelve blocks. We look both ways, even though we both know it's useless these days, and uncover the manhole using a crowbar kept underneath a low overhang used for warehouse offloading. Before I drop down, I steal a look at the city from where I can see it. New York used to be beautiful before the war, but the Russians, or our government, bombed this place to bits. No one is too sure these days because Russia doesn't exist anymore. America doesn't necessarily exist, either; just a hostile ghost of what it once was, now driven by false words like safety and security. But we will bring them down. That is what our eagle stands for. That eagle in the foreground of what used to be our nation's stars is now a telltale sign of our rebellion. I pull the manhole cover shut, knowing that our insignia is imprinted on it. It's subtle, but obvious enough to be a slap in the face. It's a declaration that we are thriving and that we will prevail.

This post has been edited by saltinespike on Thursday, May 17 2012, 04:57

[Ziggy455]

Awesome. I can't believe I didn't notice this sooner.

I must say it's started off hot and heavy, which is a good thing. I'm glad you're back and even though you consider this to just be dust off that typewriter, I think it's well written, well presented and it doesn't bring on the exposition too heavy. I'm looking forward to seeing what this is all about, the main antagonistic opposition are these so called 'suits'? Are they this Ghost town's authority? Does it even have authority?

I'm looking forward to seeing the next part, welcome back mate. A subtle entrance to say the least.

[Mokrie Dela]

Two things I want to point out:

1 - "My boots dig into the grouting on the side of the building..." - nice line - perfect balance of detail I think. Instead of saying 'wall' you were specific enough to say the grouting.

2 - the end where you mention the Russians, bombing etc. this really peaked my attention. I'm hugely curious as to what that's all about. I advised someone's recently on raising a question that will make the reader want to read on, and that's exactly what you've done. I could imagine the scene well, seethe man running etc, but I want to learn more about the 'war' you've hinted at

Nice work.

[saltinespike]

I'm definitely flattered, gentlemen. I'm glad you two enjoyed it! I felt as if the plot could've been stronger, but then again, there isn't much plot there to dissect anyways. I may run with this idea and make it into a story if more people like it. This was meant to be a one-time exercise, but what the hell, I can probably turn it into something more.

[Ziggy455]

QUOTE (saltinespike @ Saturday, May 19 2012, 14:04)

I'm definitely flattered, gentlemen. I'm glad you two enjoyed it! I felt as if the plot could've been stronger, but then again, there isn't much plot there to dissect anyways. I may run with this idea and make it into a story if more people like it. This was meant to be a one-time exercise, but what the hell, I can probably turn it into something more.

Go for it. You know I'll read it.

[saltinespike]

"We need to get you to the planning room for a debrief." Rita tells me this before I've made it down the ladder. The sewer only has a pitiful creek of mulch running along the bottom. The rivers of waste that used to run through these tunnels have been receding for several months. Now that the city's population is a fraction of what it used to be, along with the fact that plumbing has become a luxury, the sewers that run underneath don't serve much of a purpose. That's why we use it for our headquarters. The government doesn't have nearly enough manpower to manage the underground, especially the sections that are no longer used. This particular manhole is in the center of East Village, just two blocks into the destruction. There are eight manholes in Manhattan, all leading to Midtown: Ground Zero. Since the incident, guards no longer patrol the area due to the radiation. All civilians have been forced into the lower part of the island and plans to evacuate the entire borough have been in the works for nearly two years.

As we walk, Rita strips me of my bag and rummages through the contents. "I trust that you didn't leave any classified material behind." I open my mouth to respond, but she cuts me off. "That wasn't a question, Lee. You wouldn't be here if you'd forgotten anything classified. Your living area's already been searched by both sides." Rita was an officer in the Army before the bombings began. Her hometown of Atlanta had a very similar fate to New York's, but worse. Evacuations began right away. Rita didn't have any family to speak of - only a few distant cousins on the west coast - so she fled. When America retaliated, if that's what it was, she headed north for the countryside. It was at a checkpoint in Virginia that they discovered she had been a defector and she was arrested. It was then, in jail, that a theory was produced. All first and second generation Americans were being detained for interviews and possible deportation. The look of innocence on those faces along with the doubt registered in some of the soldiers and police officers was enough to convince her that her own government had been doing something unforgiveable.

I know we are getting closer to the control center when I see the first camera pan as we walk. Soon after, we approach the first door. Our first line of defense is very basic: a blast-proof, stainless steel door that stands twenty-four inches thick. The door is reinforced with concrete and is meant to protect from radiation. Less than ten feet above us, Midtown Manhattan lies in silence, radiation consuming the air like tear gas among the rubble of the skyscrapers that once were. When all of the soldiers and almost half of the police officers got pulled away from guarding the "suspected communists", Rita staged a rebellion and overwhelmed her guards, tying up those she didn't kill. After inventorying their gear and weapons, she and eighteen others rode off in humvees and armored SUVs for New York City, where she'd hoped to join "The Movement". The streets of Brooklyn and Lower Manhattan were heavily guarded and any talk of The Movement was the easiest way to get arrested. Still, there were neighborhoods in New York with a fiery passion for the rebellion. There were no guards there.

The second door had two armed guards standing by it, with plenty more acting as a reaction force nearby. They open as we flash our identification, "Colonel Turner, Mr. Green." Normally, Rita Turner would try to force me into wearing a uniform, but not today. Perhaps someone is waiting for me. I can only hope that she finally understands I won't be wearing one any time in the near future. The riots in Williamsburg and East Village were out of control, notorious for injuring and killing suits. Two years into the war, all branches of the military and law enforcement were given the same uniform: a solid black button-up over a bulletproof vest with black pants and tactical boots. Other gear was issued as needed, such as guns, helmets, riot shields and the like. Government employees were allowed to stick with a traditional black-and-white suit combination, but one trait remained common amongst all of them, the quarter-sized horseshoe branded into their neck. It was meant to instill fear in whoever the enemy was and portray them as public servants to the nation.

Though the last door appears to be very simple, it is by far the toughest and most complicated of them all. With an automated locking system that controls seven locks and two others that must be manipulated manually, the door that looks like it belongs on a submarine is built to hold up against whatever got past the first two doors. We step into the LED-illuminated hallway, heading in the direction of the planning room when she stops me. "Lee, listen. The two-star is in there. General Green." Rita fell into the ranks at The Organization fairly quickly. After hours of intense questioning and very probing background checks, she was given a job as an assistant operations chief. She graduated that position in six months and recently became the head operations chief. She was appointed by our Northeast Division commanding officer himself. Colonel Turner always enjoyed life on the frontlines, however, and requested that she serve out there where, she argued, she could gather crucial intelligence that only someone with a military background could find. Her thirst for intelligence might explain her recent interest in following me.

"Fuck, you can't be serious. I thought he left New York!" She shoots me a look. Of course he's still in New York, with the intel of a suspected raid. 'This is a good thing,' I think, 'I have something to say.' General Carl Green was one of the very first members of the movement. The public still supported the war while he read in between the lines. He retired from the Marine Corps a year after the war and planned to reveal the military's atrocities when a conveniently-timed accident stopped him from sending a letter to a major news network. Of course, the letter was never seen again. Six men, my father included, met in Brooklyn three times a week until they gathered the means to disperse across the country and begin speaking. Their speeches were often interrupted with violence and arrests and tear gas, but as time wore on, the discontent became noticeable. I wouldn't become part of The Movement until The Organization was formed twenty months later. By then, however, my allegiance seemed obvious.

I prepare myself outside of the door, once again going over what I plan on saying. There is mumbling inside and it sounds as if quite a few people are waiting. I run my hand along my jacket once more, feeling the leather under my fingers before scratching at my stubble. I feel along the side of my neck, tracing along the damaged skin. That horseshoe-shaped scar used to mean the world to me. It was what I fought for. For the past two years, I haven't entered this room without first tracing along my scar. I take a deep breath and feel Rita's hand on my back. "Do you need the laptop?" she asks in a clipped tone. I shake my head and open the door, pulling my shoulders back and standing straight as I walk into the room. A guard shoots up and calls out "attention on deck!". Everyone in the room rises.

This post has been edited by saltinespike on Tuesday, May 22 2012, 15:01

[Mokrie Dela]

hmmm,, iinteresting. O'm getting a real sense that something big and something bad happened.

I do however feel the balance between explanation and action is a little off. It feels to me too much like a long analysis of events, with nothing much really happening. peraps it was necassary, or perhaps my perception's off, but for me, nothing really happened in that chapter.

The quality of writing's good though, and on the whole it's still very good. I'm still interested in the backstory and what's going to happen though.

[Eminence]

Tight, pacy, punchy - excellent prose. It's even better than I remembered, and it already used to be good. I love your style.

The first chapter, especially, is magnificent. I think the balance between description and action there was spot on; it always had forward momentum, it always kept an alarmingly high pace, reflecting the content perfectly.

As such, I can understand the need for a breather in the second part, but I think the exposition is laid on a little too thickly. I do like the idea of cutting back and forth between the present scene and the backstory, but prolonging it for such a period of time felt like it took away from the description of the present scene: instead of going on this journey through the underground, taking in all of the details, it just felt like we got constantly sidetracked, sapping away the atmosphere.

That's not to take away from the content of the backstory itself. It's an intriguing premise, and what makes it so enamouring is the detail with which it's laid out; it's not some vague, or stereotypical, post-apocalyptic tale. The small details make it feel unique.

A question I do have, though, surrounds its consistency. The second part talks about Manhattan as an irradiated wasteland, yet the protagonist - and the girl he was with - seemed to be coping pretty fine when they were up there. Given that they slept up there, it can't be that uninhabitable, surely?

Regardless, I'm really enjoying it. A perfect reintroduction. If this is just dusting off the cobwebs, I can't wait to see something that has your full weight behind it.

[saltinespike]

Thanks for the feedback, fellas. This is a temporary project and I don't think anyone should get too attached to it because I've been creating the story as I go. There's no direction planned and I fully expect to abandon this project after a few chapters. Good observation on the "present" being a bit slow. I was definitely focusing on the backstory and wasn't exactly sure where the end of the chapter (if you'd even call them that) was going to land until about two paragraphs before. Much like the first excerpt, I had no idea where I'd end when I started, I just let my fingers type and see where it got me. I definitely plan on writing something with a little more thought behind it when the time comes. Right now, my life is in a bit of a whirlwind and doesn't show any sign of slowing down for at least a couple weeks. Still, you should expect some ideas to be tossed around in The Social Club soon!