Peeking Under The Hood
Posted by BigWords on August 2, 2009
The past few posts here, where I have been walking through my unique style of add-and-add writing, has given me pause for thought. It has been fun exploring how I butcher the English language, but I get the feeling that I’m spoiling the mystique writers like to hide behind. I’m like Penn & Teller, showing how the magic tricks were done, and it might be a good idea to quit while I’m ahead. Hell, I don’t want the Library Mafia coming after me, do I?
With the last entry I introduced the idea of a long-standing covert group, so I’m gonna finish what I started before I move on.
September 29, 1913. The Dresden.
Diesel sighed, his hands gripping the rail tightly as he gazed upon the fog-enclouded sea. The knowledge of the Machine heavy in his heart.
The Machine. The dreadful engine of destruction.
Time was running out. Too much was already known, and The Architects were aware of his creation.
Movement at the other end of the vessel caught Diesel’s eye. They had arrived. A figure moved from the shadows, slowly and with the elegance of an individual unconcerned with being discovered. A leather hood obscuring his features.
“That is my name.” Diesel’s grip on the metal rail tightened. “What do you want with me?”
A hand reached round from behind him, covering the engineer’s face with a cloth. The slippery scent was one of plastic, alcohol, disinfectant and unmistakable. The world slipped away from Diesel, blurring and dissolving into shadow. Muffled voices seemed to be speaking from a distance, and the sleep of the dead was upon him.
“Take him to the Count.”
Two of the leather-hooded man’s accomplices lifted Diesel’s body carefully. Taking him from the ship and placing him in the small vessel shadowed The Dresden seemed a matter of course, and as they did so another body was removed from a storage area. Of enough similarity to be mistaken for the unconscious man, the hooded figure made sure of identification by placing the correct papers and appropriate personal items in the pockets of the corpse.
October 12, 1913.
The clank of metal against metal, then the familiar scraping, meant that the door to Diesel’s cell was to be opened. He stood, familiar by now with the process.
The guards remained silent throughout all of Diesel’s interactions with them, performing their duties as if under a spell. Automaton-like, they moved and acted on the command of a few chosen individuals amongst their number. The Hooded Ones.
“Herr Diesel.” The voice was different, but the demeanor and subtlety of movement was eerily similar to the man he had confronted aboard The Dresden.
“I trust your stay has been made as comfortable as possible. Apologies for the manner of conveyance, but your cooperation is essential in the matter at hand.”
“You speak… As if I am to assist you? This… this is the way you treat a guest?”
“We are in need of a mind whose foresight can bring forth an engine of formidable power. A battlecar for the field of war which will soon envelop Europe.”
“War? Nein, there will be no war. Whom would it benefit?”
There is an awful lot of yakkity-yak here, and the story needs more action rather than words.
I’ll jump a little ways to where the action kicks in, and see if there is life in this…
Diesel stood back from the creation. It mirrored the terror of the ascending powers. Blunt, devastating and unstoppable, the tracked behemoth stood three times the height of its’ creator, casting a deep shadow over the workshop.
“Very good, your talents are more impressive than we were led to believe. This will make a suitable addition to our arsenal.”
“Sollen Sie doch!” Diesel slumped, defeated and exhausted.
An ever-silent drone stepped forward and entered the vehicle, and after a moment the sound of the engines roar filled the air. The tank growled, hissed and moaned as the gears turned for the first time, the strain of the traacks being taken up by powerful wheels. The noise teared at the onlookers, a painful, angry scream.
The large doors to the workshop rolled open on their tracks, the machine moving painfully forward, out, into the yard beyond. The yard filled with silent members of the order. They didn’t move, even as the machine guns began turning and firing upon their number. The Hooded One watching on…
There’s more movement here, and I’m liking the suicidal nature of the drones. I’m stopping this here, before it gets too complicated to keep in the confines of a blog entry.
Dammit, I knew this wasn’t a good idea,,,