There are nice people
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- Posted: Mon, 23 Nov 2009 00:01:55 +0000
Good Morning Gaia!
I've been working on this book for a couple of days now, and I've managed to come up with an introduction for my main character.
“It was December 19th 2012 when the bombs dropped. The day before everybody predicted the world ended. Proof that the future is never set in stone. Everybody expected Al-Qaeda, the suicidal religious terrorists to do it. Or, by a long shot, at least the Soviet Union to rise again. Many survivors have their suspicions, but only I know the truth. Only I saw what happened that day...”
I rolled under a desk in the abandoned building I was clearing when a radio flickered to life for a moment. There was still power in these parts, it just didn’t come across the lines very well. The bombs had seen to that.
The radio died out again and I poked my head out from my hiding place. My red curls were long enough to fall into my face and I hit my head on the underside of the desk as I got out. I was just glad nobody was there to see my display of graceful stupidity. My backpack was already getting full from today’s rummaging, and it was going to be a half hour walk back to my camp. However, the radio worked. It may have been big and heavy but it worked. That meant that I could listen to the frequencies and maybe hear of some other survivors. If nothing else, I could at least listen to that guy spew forth his propaganda in an attempt to win the public over.
At least, if I had to drop it to fight, it wouldn’t hurt either it or me. My combat boots were steel capped, and my pants were made of a heavyweight drill. I pulled the plug and lifted the radio, stumbling a bit at my clumsy over compensation for the weight. It was surprisingly light, for something about the size of my torso, and luckily it was a single, solid object with the speakers built in. I carried the giant stereo down the stairs and into the street. I didn’t have anything to help me carry it as I began to trek towards the old abandoned bar down the street.
I owned this bar in another life. The Goat’n’Shackles, I’d christened it. It wasn’t a major Night spot, but it kept itself above water, and kept my bills paid. I even had a small one bedroom apartment upstairs, and the place didn’t have many windows. Combined with its heavy solid wooden doors, this place made for a great location to hide out. Hell, I even had plenty of leftover beverages that seemed more or less radiation free, and I traded it with the odd wanderer or mercenary for information or rations. On one occasion, a merc came through with a spare set of fresh clothes, combat boots, and even a Kevlar vest. Needless to say that he’s got a tab here now. I still owe him for those.
It's only a small beginning, but I've only been at it for a short time. Any criticism is welcome, as long as it's constructive. None of this "Your work's crap. Come check out mine. It's rocks."
I've been working on this book for a couple of days now, and I've managed to come up with an introduction for my main character.
“It was December 19th 2012 when the bombs dropped. The day before everybody predicted the world ended. Proof that the future is never set in stone. Everybody expected Al-Qaeda, the suicidal religious terrorists to do it. Or, by a long shot, at least the Soviet Union to rise again. Many survivors have their suspicions, but only I know the truth. Only I saw what happened that day...”
I rolled under a desk in the abandoned building I was clearing when a radio flickered to life for a moment. There was still power in these parts, it just didn’t come across the lines very well. The bombs had seen to that.
The radio died out again and I poked my head out from my hiding place. My red curls were long enough to fall into my face and I hit my head on the underside of the desk as I got out. I was just glad nobody was there to see my display of graceful stupidity. My backpack was already getting full from today’s rummaging, and it was going to be a half hour walk back to my camp. However, the radio worked. It may have been big and heavy but it worked. That meant that I could listen to the frequencies and maybe hear of some other survivors. If nothing else, I could at least listen to that guy spew forth his propaganda in an attempt to win the public over.
At least, if I had to drop it to fight, it wouldn’t hurt either it or me. My combat boots were steel capped, and my pants were made of a heavyweight drill. I pulled the plug and lifted the radio, stumbling a bit at my clumsy over compensation for the weight. It was surprisingly light, for something about the size of my torso, and luckily it was a single, solid object with the speakers built in. I carried the giant stereo down the stairs and into the street. I didn’t have anything to help me carry it as I began to trek towards the old abandoned bar down the street.
I owned this bar in another life. The Goat’n’Shackles, I’d christened it. It wasn’t a major Night spot, but it kept itself above water, and kept my bills paid. I even had a small one bedroom apartment upstairs, and the place didn’t have many windows. Combined with its heavy solid wooden doors, this place made for a great location to hide out. Hell, I even had plenty of leftover beverages that seemed more or less radiation free, and I traded it with the odd wanderer or mercenary for information or rations. On one occasion, a merc came through with a spare set of fresh clothes, combat boots, and even a Kevlar vest. Needless to say that he’s got a tab here now. I still owe him for those.
It's only a small beginning, but I've only been at it for a short time. Any criticism is welcome, as long as it's constructive. None of this "Your work's crap. Come check out mine. It's rocks."
