Comments and critiscms are welcome
Novellas are strange beasts-not quite novels, and not quite short stories either. They are in between, unidentified. They are what you make of them-and I will craft mine into a form and shape so wondrous, your very eyes shall be blinded by the rich and beautiful literature that you shall read. However, before we go any further into my boasting, I would suggest you make yourself comfortable, if you haven’t done so yet.
Please sit down comfortably on a nice leather chair, streeeetch, lean back, and place the book right up in front of you. Be sure to keep your seatbelt on at all times and be aware of the emergency exits-this novella is dangerously good.
Now, I shall delve onwards, into the very beginning of my novel. My prologue, I hope, was sufficiently enticing for you to continue. But I will have to tear you away from your relaxed state and ask you to think now- think of anything you want to for just a few moments.
Now that you have had some practice, we can get right into my introduction. No doubt you are wondering what this novel is about by now. You are not the only one, I assure you; I myself have only a mere inkling of what I will type in my mind, a brief and intermittent glimpse as to what the future sentence holds. What does the next sentence hold, then? A scene of a city in total chaos.
***
The sky was darkening with smoke rising from the distance. People looked up at it curiously, as if it were an alien invader from an old movie with 3 legs and 4 eyes. On the whole, they went about their day, thinking it only a passing phase in the life of the ‘other’ part of the city. When they arrived home, they were greeted with an incomprehensible occurrence-their televisions did not work. Neither did the electricity, nor the gas-not even the water system.
Panic began to spread, bursting forth from its prison in the smallest parts of the mind, creating hysteria, rioting and widespread looting. The government was non existent, its authority wiped out with many of its police and fire stations. As the wave of destruction spread, so did the stream of refugees trying to escape; the stream turning to a current, the current to a torrent of people, left only with their hunger and a fear they had never felt before in their lives.
***
The sky was darkening; slowly covering itself with storm clouds, rumbling endlessly. Or, perhaps, to look at it from a different perspective: the sky was a musician, incessantly strumming the same note on its pitch-black guitar.
Beneath it lay a city, strewn about in a chaotic fashion, as if a baby had knocked its toy building blocks to the floor. The city had been burning for a few weeks now, the product of an oil refinery’s fiery end. The whole picture seemed unreal; as if it were an artificial end to an artificial scene of destruction.
There were scattered remnants of people left, desperate, hungry, abandoned by civilisation. They had not seen the sun shine in weeks; their source of light during the day was a muffled light seeping through the cracks and holes of the clouds.
***
In the East corner of the city, farthest from the reaches of the rest of the world, and closest to the still
raging inferno of the North-Eastern sector, lie our characters. They are faceless, nameless- a blur which would soon be filled with the colour and vibrancy of life. Both belong to two different sides of a conflict-two gangs of starved, vulnerable leftovers; both forced into their positions in life, with no choice, no way to escape from them; both trying to kill the other to survive. Both struggling to escape the hell their lives had become. Were they to meet, it would be not a scene of friendship and camaraderie, but one of death, bullets, and blood.
***
The derelict government office known as "Palmer’s" was a knife: sleek, metallic, and deadly. Inside one office of this complex sat a small, quiet, seemingly avuncular old man. Fashioning himself as a government employee, Palmer forged exit visas for anyone who could 'persuade' him to do so.
Keeping with his front of officialdom, Palmer managed to keep ‘his’ office well kept and furnished. Books never read covered the bookcase; abandoned government stationery was used in each of his letters and memos. To those who did not know him, he was their last ray of a hope; their means of escape. Those who did know this sadistic man, realised it would take much more than an ‘application’ to leave the city.
‘The government official opened the door to his office to let in his next…victim? Client? Refugee? All of the above?’
Palmer smiled. It was time to put on the façade once more. He opened the door to the hallway. Families were crowded around here, some starved, others with barely any clothes. He searched for some of the more ‘affluent’ people in the corridor, and found one boy who appeared to have an actual gold watch-‘no doubt stolen’.
He walked kindly towards him in his almost reproachful manner, as if he were admonishing him politely for some unknown wrongdoing. Palmer smiled his cheerful smile and beckoned the boy to his office without a word. Surprised, the boy stood up and walked through the door.
“Good morning, lad. Take a seat. My name is Lucius Palmer; I am the government officer in charge of immigration from this city. And your name is?”
The nervous boy’s mind raced around in circles, awaiting the slightest request of his saviour.
“James Leicestervild.” He answered, lightning fast, eager, nervous to do everything possible to leave the city.
“Well James, I’ve looked at your application”- Lucius had taken a sidelong glance at the sheet of paper James had filled out, but a much longer glance at James’s watch and clothes”-, and the good news is that it seems you have a good chance of leaving.”
James might as well have melted into the chair; he let out a large sigh of relief.
“Unfortunately, there are some…other requirements.”
“These-these requirements, they-they weren’t listed on the application…”
“The application was only the first stage of the process, you understand. There are corrupt officials in charge of key operations involved in this refugee situation…and the only thing they listen to, unfortunately, is money. So, obviously, I can only allow those who are more affluent to apply, and even then I must go through back channels or make additional bribes. It is horrible to think about, but there are those who think less of men and more of money, and it may take months to persuade them with gifts and money before they allow any application through their doors, let alone into their desks.”
James’ eyes flashed open as he felt his departure ripped away from him and that all of his struggles were in vain; everything was useless because he could not sleep at night knowing he would be here for another day more than necessary.
Unfortunately, there are few means to acquire money-you may have to turn to means that are…different from the usual ways to get money. Now, as I am a government official, I cannot recommend you to go to a person who partakes in these…unusual means of acquiring finances-but I do know of a person who happens to live quite comfortably here in this city; you might want to ask him why. His abode is the large apartment building a few blocks from here. You know where it is?”
James nodded, more desperate and worried than ever before, and asked the question that Palmer had heard so many times, but still considered a delicacy, to be appreciated for all that it was worth. This question was the culmination of his deceitful glory.
“How much will I have to pay?”
***
Confused, he stumbled out of Palmer's office, not quite sure whether to be elated or dejected upon hearing Palmer's instructions. In a stupor, he walked oblivious of his surroundings towards his apartment-a room with a bathroom adjoining it.
This would quite possibly be the most dangerous thing he had ever done. He subconsciously shook his head throughout the whole walk home. Would he, could he descend to the level of working for a criminal? Of being a criminal himself?
Looking up, he was half surprised at seeing his front door facing him. He took out his keys-the door was replete with locks- and began the process of opening the door. James' mind began to rationalise the events that had occurred only moments ago. The gangster might not even be so crooked; he might not do anything too horrible-certainly not kill anyone, and Palmer had recommended him. Palmer, at least, had his best interests in mind-James was certain of that.
-
Some few days beforehand, a similar person to James, with a similar problem and a similar question received a similar answer: to go work for a gangster.
John, however, is slightly different from James; he is more confident and optimistic-he is the type that would look on the bright side of a pay cut. Moving blindly forwards, he ignores the truth until it hits him right in the face, repeatedly, with hammer-like insistence. Perhaps, deep down, John knows what will happen-but he cannot stop looking on the bright side of his situation, however bad it may be.
John is, at present, walking quietly towards the abode of his gangster- or leader, in John's naďve terminology. He looks at the sheet of paper (a rare commodity nowadays) that Palmer has given him, and checks the address. He walks towards the door, more hopeful and confident with every stride. He knocks vibrantly on the door- if he were a door to door salesman, he would be whistling right now, taking out the Hoover 5000 to show to his next avidly interested customer. No one answers. Puzzled, John knocks again-perhaps his customer isn't home yet? The door is answered by a…John interrupts his optimistic feelings and takes one look at cold, hard, reality. Before him stands not a cheerful young man such as himself, but a very large, very strong, and very irritated underling… youth…? Man…? Person…? Choosing to settle for what appears to be the closest classification, he mentally calls the door opener "the nice person who opened the door for me."
"Hi, my name's John. I'm here to see…"- John frowns and peers down again at his sheet of paper- "…Marcos De Rasula?"
The underling smiles at John, feeling like a lion who has just come upon a herd of blind, deaf, and dumb gazelles. He smiles. "Right this way, John."
John walks awkwardly after the goon, careful not to step on his feet, breathe on his back, or do anything else involving his being within close proximity of the underling.
The goon opens the door to reveal John's overlord- or helpful and charismatic leader, as John has classified him-whichever way you look at it.
The gangster looks up from his desk, where a report from senior underling #1 lies, awaiting the patient eye of its reader to return to its pages. Its contents are-unpleasant, to say the least. For the gangster, however, it is quite good reading-crime is on the rise: robberies by 15%, blackmail by 10%, and protection rackets, most importantly, have skyrocketed. This gangster, however, isn't quite satisfied just yet. His next project? A daring raid on a heavily guarded military base containing a weapons stockpile so large he could buy a small island with it? The assassination of a powerful government official? No. This particular gangster is still quite weak-he will only hijack a food delivery being held in high security warehouses just outside the city. Rest assured, however, that he still dreams of the infamy attainable when responsible for an assassination or a shootout with an army.
His underlings will, of course, receive a small dividend from his profits after he sells the food on the black market-maybe a five hundred dollars or so. No, only a few hundred. Make that one hundred-our gangster is a criminal, after all. How could a self-respecting criminal not cheat his underlings?
Anyways. Let's move on with the next segment, entitled: "How John got hired."
Beloved Leader (henceforth referred to as BL): "Who are you and why are you wasting my time?"
John [cheerfully, with vigour. Remember, he's making a first impression]: "I'm John Nonesworth, Mr. Palmer sent me here because he said you needed some help. You're Mr. De Rasula, aren't you?" [taking out his hand to shake hand of the gangster]
BL [staring blankly at John, not returning handshake offer]: "…Yes."
-An awkward pause ensues, as the metaphorical tumbleweed drifts past-
BL: "Very well then. I have arranged to…deliver a shipment of food to the city. I'll need your help to…pick it up. Do you understand?"
John: "That’s great! Not only am getting money to leave this city, but I’m helping it, too!"
-Another silence ensues, as the metaphorical clock strikes twelve.-
BL: "Yes…well…you can go now. Be back here tomorrow-I will give more details as to the plan I have for this rai-delivery."
John: "Err.. very nice meeting you."
-Yet another pause in conversation occurs, as the metaphorical author searches vainly for another description of silence.-
[BL’s eyes meet the goon’s and gesture frantically towards the door; John is staring in confusion at BL, wondering why his eyes are moving like that. Goon understands instantaneously, steps in front of John menacingly, lurching over him like a giant over an ant].
Goon: "Let’s go."
[Goon and John walk out of the door.]
John: "He’s um…not quite there, is he? A bit…strange, I mean?"
[Goon staring in disbelief, relieved that the door is in front of them; John takes a step out-Goon slams door quickly]
And so, John, Protector of the Food, Defender of the Hungry, walked proudly home, readying himself for the day ahead.
--
One day later, James Leicestervild has met his new overlord-and was much the worse for it. His task is to protect a stolen food shipment from rival criminals in the area. He has been given a rusted rifle that can barely be loaded, let alone fired in order to do so. Consoling himself with the fact that he had at least not been ordered to kill anyone, he took his rifle and stumbled towards the warehouse where the food was kept. His assignment-to be a gate guard. His other ‘colleagues’, as the gangster had mockingly called them, were awaiting his arrival with interest.
There were four of them, to be more specific; each had been a criminal for some time now, now hardened by what he had been forced to do. Perhaps at first they had felt pangs of guilt when they had first killed a person-but the sensation had dulled over time, becoming more faint with every bullet fired from their weapons, with every slash of their knives, with every punch of their hands. All that remained was an unconscious feeling that something was wrong-but they could not remember what, exactly, it was. Amazingly enough, all of them looked quite similar to each other-unshaved, tired, hungry. If despair and an inner sort of fury were looks, these men’s faces would have been the perfect depiction of them.
“When will the gate decoy come?” Asked Michael in a hollow voice.
“According to Luke, today, in the afternoon.” Answered Mark.
“Where is Luke, anyway?” Said Paul.
“Patrolling the outside of the warehouse. More like the outside of the city, if you ask me, though. Went out a good half an hour ago.”
The empty conversation stopped for a moment, as the three simultaneously realised how tired they truly were. Not only physical tired, but also tired of their existence, of their everyday personal hell. They mentally cringed away from the thought.
“Did you hear-”
“What happene-”
A single, loud shot interrupts them deflecting off an outer wall of the corrugated metal warehouse, indicating that Luke was making his way back from his patrol. The trio pick up their weapons and take up their positions in readiness for the arrival of their superior. He walks through the door, tired, and with him walks an unfamiliar face that every single man who has met him will remember for the rest of his life. The decoy, the three think. They mentally mark him as a dead man walking, perhaps pitying more than their other victims-he, after all, was on their side.
“Everyone, this is James. He’s our gate guard.”
The man introduced as James smiles enthusiastically.
“Hi, name’s Jo-”
“James, your post is at the gate we came from. I’ll tell you when you’re relieved. Mark, go with him.”
Perplexed, ‘James’ walks towards the gate, taking out his rifle and holding it by the handle, face downwards.
“ 'James' is some moron working for another criminal. He can’t even keep a false name for more than two minutes, it seems. Mark is a bit more intelligent. Worked here for a while, waiting for the perfect moment to make his move, it would seem. Kill them both when they reach the gate.”
Is this the end of John Nonesworth, you wonder? No; it seems that even Death’s hand recoiled from John.
-
So far, James’s feet had walked him through half the city and back in his journey to the warehouse. Now, as he was actually nearing the place, his arms were tiring; his eyes were slowly and inevitably closing; he needed to sleep. The sun, too, was so overwhelmingly bright-James felt as if it were sulphuric acid hitting iron, burning his body so rapidly and yet so slowly, taking its time to wipe out every single cell of his body.
An overwhelmingly loud shot was fired; James’ brain, were it able to respond quickly enough, would have thought it were an artillery shell blast. Unfortunately, it had no chance do anything at all. It stopped functioning about one second after the shot, when a bullet entered through John’s head and exited through the other side, heading towards the corrugated metal walls of the warehouse that was within metres of him.
-
“I’ll go back on patrol.”-Luke’s final words. He walked silently towards the door.
As the first of the trio, Michael takes aim at John, he is suddenly distracted by the appearance of another person, walking towards the gate. He turns his riflescope back onto John. “Luke, there’s another guy heading towards the-”
But Michael had no time to finish his sentence; it was drowned out by yet another firing of a shot, coming not from the two apparent traitors, but from the doorway. The bullet him squarely in the chest. With only a final gasp, Michael slumped backwards and was dead before he hit the floor.
