This is the beginning of my summer holidays. This means I have quite a lot of spare time at the moment. So I'm gonna start a thing on this blog, and hope I finish it (at this point I intend to - and that is a really big point).
This is a series of posts that are going to be called "You Will Never Know". Basically what the idea of "You Will Never Know" is, is that each post will be a piece of fiction about new characters, and hopefully in a different genre. All these pieces will end with a cliffhanger, then there'll be a final piece where I resolve all the cliffhangers.
This series is a strictly "When I'm Bored" Project - you may get two in a day then nothing for a week, I don't yet know.
Okay, because you can't have fun without rules, here are my four guidelines for cliffhangers;
1) They're very powerful, but very annoying, so they should
be used very sparingly, and only when there's a good reason.
And most importantly of all:
4) A cliff-hanger is a promise to the
audience. It's implicitly saying 'I'm withholding the
gratification of giving you the answer now, but trust me, when
you get it, you'll think it was worth the wait.' And if you're
going to make a promise like that, you'd better be able to back
it up, or at least think you can.
Chris Tarrant sat in the office, accompanied by his boss, a lab-coated official with stethoscope around his neck. The stethoscope was just decorational, or at least that's what the official always said. The official was talking, and had been for some time, but Tarrant hadn't been listening. Strange packets of powders, pills and solutions lined the shelves in the office and it had often been said the sheer content of chemicals in the office were sufficient to topple the Government by force. Oddly enough, this hadn't happened yet.
Tarrant looked up as the official finished speaking and slid
one of the bags across the table towards him. Tarrant was unsure
what exactly the purpose of this particular weapon was, and
perhaps should have been paying attention, but then the official
clarified the situation; "This is the one we'll use if we feel
we're getting nowhere. That okay with you?"
Tarrant nodded
his assent, dazed. Obviously he didn't approve, but they
wouldn't know that. Tarrant collected the bag and left the room
quickly, he had planning to do.
So how would you stop a biological weapons attack on the world? Was it even a biological weapons attack on the world? He hadn't been paying attention. He should've been. Another lab-coated individual walks past, as Tarrant gets up to stretch, taking three long steps and "accidentally" punching the individual in the face (it was a complicated stretch).
Tarrant walked out on to a loading bay, deserted except for a
military-style truck.
"Hey you," the driver of the truck
yelled, directed at Tarrant, "Got the goods?"
"Yes", Tarrant
replied. This had been the plan for a while now, wait until the
eve of the epidemic, then steal the virus. It seemed the only
way to stop it, and even that was sketchy at best.
Handing
the package over to the driver of the truck, as one of Tarrant's
superiors walks out on the loading bay, seeing this transaction.
Tarrant looks up, exasperated, the bag being dropped on to the
loading bay floor, pills rolling in all directions. They would
be useless now, at least that had been done.
The jail door swung shut with a bang, leaving Tarrant on a cold, metal slab that doubled as his bed. Tarrant noticed a small splinter of wood off in one of the corners of the room. Using this to open the lock and door, he escaped back to the loading bay, with loud alarm and three security guards in tow. The guards looked at each other and appeared to reach a unanimous decision. Two of them backed off.
Tarrant looked to the ground, and saw one of the rogue pills nearby. He picked it up. The words "Bovine TB" were pressed into the surface. This is what he had been trying to stop. The lengths people would go to for material gain. The guard approached Tarrant from behind, and as Tarrant turned around, the guard leveled his gun.
With a bang, the gun discharged into the stomach of Chris Tarrant.
"Advance the plans, we don't have much time," the guard said into his radio. As Tarrant crumpled to the cold, metal floor, the sound of small propeller planes was heard directly overhead. On a screen over Tarrant's head, news footage of people living their lives showed, alternating with footage of biplanes spraying chemicals over crops. Tarrant was unsure of the story, mind you he didn't really care, because he was dying. He reached up to the big red button, with most of his energy (quite a bit, given he was bleeding out on the floor). The guard looked up, astonished, and his rifle moved back towards Tarrant. He didn't have much more time. The guard's gun leveled. Tarrant gained solid purchase on the button. Tarrant began to press down. The guard discharged his weapon. And ...
This one is a little early, I had planned for it to be done on Tuesday, but eh what do you do? It is as follows:
It all began with a chance encounter on the 3:30 train through the City one afternoon. I found myself sitting next to a broad-shouldered, tall man called Bob. Bob wore a loose t-shirt and shorts; he didn't appear to care about appearances. I myself was almost the exact opposite, for a cold June morning I had myself chosen a long wool coat and two-piece suit; I was on my way home from work, even though it was little after lumchtime. You'd be surprised how quickly conversations can turn so that two perfect strangers are talking about who they want dead. I suppose it was either that, or watch the city center go past the window.
"I mean I know I could go through the divorce system, but I'm
not sure the courts would find "Being a bitch" reasonable
grounds"
"It is a lot of hassle - the law. Listen, I have a
plan, and this may sound a little rude, but ... are you familiar
with the expression 'You scratch my back and I'll scratch
yours'?" I leaned forward in the chair, staring intently at a
fixed point just above the floor for no real reason.
"Yeah,
it's really famous", Bob was perhaps a little slow on the
uptake.
"Right, well it goes something like that, but a
little more ... kill-y." I said, conspiratorially.
"Are you
going to kill my back?" Still slow on the uptake.
"No, of
course not. Your wife ... you could kill my husband"
"Oh,
that sounds much better. And because we've never met before,
nobody will ever suspect a thing." Bob looked excited, although
based on my prior knowledge of him, that didn;t seem too
difficult.
"Exactly, so here's what you need to do ..."
We outlined the tasks for each other, after which point the train stopped and Bob got off. I never saw him again after that.
After two weeks, I plucked up the courage, and followed the
given instructions to a remote cottage, with lights on in most
windows. I knocked on the door, and a woman answered the door.
"Hello, what do you -- what're you doing with tha-" Her tone
went from tired frustration to surprise to ... nothing because
she was dead.
It was that simple. I drove back home, knowing that in the
not-too-distant future, my husband would meet a similar fate.
At midnight, I was woken by a knock to the door. It was the
police, as per.
"Good morning ma'am. Are you Christie Smith?"
"That's right, is there a problem?"
"I'm afraid your husband
was found dead just now. I'm sorry if this seems insensitive,
but I have to ask you where you were yesterday."
"Well that's
easy. I was - Oh hell."
The idea with this one was "no dialogue and extremely sad". I failed on both counts, while analysing society in what I consider a semi-successful way. So enjoy it. It's also shorter than the others, but I feel its better in terms of character, something the previous pieces had not done. It also uses the name Chrystal, a name that I am told is missing from this blog. It is as follows;
The wall was impenetrable. Chrystal had tried to break the wall, in a very literal fashion, by running at it. This had by and large failed and she had little energy left. She slumped against the wall, spent, turning in her exhaustion to see a group of teenagers, mixed - boys and girls - playing some kind of volleyball nearby. She didn't have enough energy to call. Not that it would have mattered, the glass would have killed any chance of the sound being received. So she sat there, in self-reflection.
This self reflection lasted the rest of the night, and until sunrise the following morning. It was mid-summer, so the kids were back in the volleyball court (or whatever it was called, she had never bothered to check) within a short time. Chrystal had got to the stage of her analysis where she was convinced a god somewhere in the sky was smiting her for something or some reason, or perhaps just trying to teach her a lesson of some sort.
Or maybe just torture her by making her watch the happy people, while being unable to take part herself. She had found this a problem through the majority of her life, and it hadn't got easier as she'd got older - just more awkward and annoying. It really didn't help that the 'cool' kids paid less attention to that, not more. So her standards slipped, and anyonee who talked to her at all was a huge achievement. The thought of these things made her sad, but as always she felt as though she were missing something, but was never sure what.
As she was having this particular thought, one of the
teenagers yelled out, in a voice not quiet, to one of the girls
across the other side of the net "You're so useless, get back in
the kitchen!"
This would be the first comment of anyone in
the group that Chrystal had actually heard. the realisation of
this made her jump. Then she thought.
Tentatively, she touched the glass, armed with this new idea. Already she could feel a change, but nothing happened. Overcome with sadness, disappointment and loneliness, she succumbed to a not-entirely-infrequent bout of sobbing, leaning against the glass because what did it matter, they couldn't see her anyway. There was a sound that made Chrystal look up, noticing a foreign item about at head height.
She touched the window with her finger, tracing the foreign item. The glass had begun to crack.
This is a Christmas themed one, cos what the hell. It's also short.
The war had been ongoing for about two years now, but nobody
ever bothered to check any more. Not specifically, anyways. Time
was measured by the distance between air raids, not via squares
on paper. Timothey Major was leaving his office in one of the
bunkers south of London on this particular evening when one of
his secretaries leaned out of the nearby window, shoving a
telegram in his face. Apparently it was Christmas eve, 1914, but
anyone would believe anything these days, so the information was
not necessarily reliable. The other contents of the telegram,
were however, less than trivial.
"Are you sure," Major asked
the secretary.
"Pretty much", the reply was almost sheepish
"Why, though?"
"Well it is Christmas".
Sargeant Major sauntered into his office, holding the
telegram, intent on doing nothing about it. This belief was of
course challenged by his senior, one General Darling.
“So, Sargeant Major. What the hell are your troops doing?”
“I don’t know. My junior is in charge, Darling.”
A lie.
“It’s
GENERAL Darling, to you Major Dickhead”.
“It’s SARGEANT Major
Dickhead, to you, sir.”
“Quite. It seems your troops have all
decided to ascend the trench and play football on
No-man’s-land”. Darling had yet to pick up on the lie.
“Are they insane? They bloody WHAT?”
Some time later, and in a different place, a whistle sounded.
“Hey, General, if you distract one of the midfielders, the
goal will be unguarded, so I can score”, the Sargeant said,
midst football game.
“Do you even know what you’re talking
about?” asked the General.
“No sir. I never paid much
attention”.
“To what, the rules, or what you were saying?”
“Both. Let’s finish this game.”
“But there’s a time limit.”
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
“The game was a breath of fresh air, certainly,” said
Major, from back in the bunker after the conclusion of said
match.
An officer of some description (as Major could not
identify the bands on his arm) walked into the room, and handed
him some papers.
“Thank you, Mister …” Major implored the man
to give his name.
“Schmitt,” the man said.
The Major and
his junior looked at each other across the table as Schmitt
left.
"What, do you think we ... oh God."
"Hey - hey
Sarge, you know that football match we played on Christmas Day
... which way did we walk back afterwards?"
"Well obviously
to the left, where we walked from at the beginning"
"Even
after we changed ends at half time?" They looked at each other
in stunned silence.
"So. What do we do now?"
The nuclear radiation from the onset of some war or other over the other side of the world had rendered a large part of the surface of the planet uninhabitable. So the population felt an overwhelming desire to, for some reason, move underground to continue living. To this end, society was now divided into factions of about a thousand people living in underground bunkers. Some were larger than others, it all depended on the funding they had when the decision had been taken to move underground. In this particular bunker, ten scientists were figuring out a counter-measure for the radiation to reinhabit the surface of the planet. the lab was a small, enclosed space, maybe twenty metres across, with glass vials of coloured fluids and white walls - the very archetypal image of a scientific lab. Bib Mortimer was the chief scientist of the faction. He hadn't had to work to get there; he'd just been given the job one afternoon, immediately before the move underground.
The thumping was getting to Bob. It had been going on for twenty minutes now. He just needed to finish his diagnosis of the components within the concocted counter-measure mixture, then he would investigate. Four rhythmic thumps, then a rest for ten or so seconds. Then four thumps, then a rest. And so on. Bob looked up, surprised by the silence from outside. Bob called his nine colleagues into the lab from the adjoining staff room and said to them; "there are people outside this room that want this mixture", he gestured at the vial on the table "and we have to defend this room to ensure they don't get it. The vial would allow control over the surface of the planet, and the people who want this ... bad idea. So this is what you guys need to do ..."
He outlined the plan of action and kitted out his staff with sufficient chemical weapons for the defence of the room. The thum[ing began again after a time, and the ten scientists braced themselves for the intrusion of the outside world - the only defence between the current society and certain death. the thumping got progressively louder and louder over the space of the following ten minutes, as the scientists each became more and more edgy about the vial they were charged with protecting. Then the thumping stopped. In the resulting silence, Mortimer crept across the lab floor and grabbed the vial, keeping it safe, or even more so than it was already.
One of the scientists leant over the table, and asked Bob for the vial. Bob smiled politely, but kept the vial clutched to his chest. His reasoning; you could never be too careful. There was a flash in the scientist's eyes that made Bob jump. They were inside. He didn't know how or why, but the creatures they had been protecting the world from had snuck through the barricades. Calmly, Bob stepped back and pulled a lever.
Orange lights flickered through the corridor and "This is Not A Drill" blared through large speakers mounted every hundred meters or so along the corridor outside the lab. Bob picked up a phone and yelled into it, disregarding pleasantries and hiding his panic, "I don't care what you do now, just smash the damn vials! They've got in, somehow. Just make sure -"
The scientist smacked the phone out of his hand. None of the
others made any move to stop him.
"Umm, guys ..." Bob said,
uncertainly. The other scientists looked at him with palpable
malice and the undisguised flash in their eyes. they too had
been lost.
"Treasure what little you have left of your miserable life," the scientist closest to Bob said, as he swung a fist.
This one is short, sharp, hopefully scary and teeing up the end. I can see the finish now ... I also thought it would be a poem. Then decided against it for two reasons; a) it would be against the form set up in these previously, and b) poems are harder to write and I don't have that much time. There's also a subtle-as-a-hammer Sherlock ref in this piece which will be even more relevant than it already is at the end. Just to be clear; THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.
March 8th - 20:00.
If you think the Government's out to get you, don't join conspiracy theory blogs. Don't so that, because then absolutely NO-ONE who will listen can hear you scream. I mean, sure, conspiracy theorists will agree with you and nod nicely about it, but you won't get a result. Typing words on to a server that everyone can read won't stop the slow, loud march of the Secret Service to your door. Believe me, I know. Then they'll bag you up and send you somewhere remote or to an asylum of some sort, just to shut you up. Because who needs fuss. You'd get put in a van, and left there.
I think maybe the most common thing you hear about conspiracy theorists is that they're just nutcases with sci-fi type plots trying to convince everybody of absolutely nothing whatsoever. This is because that's what They want you to think. They want you to distrust conspiracy theorists, because the conspiracy theorists are right and They know it. Big Brother is watching you, Resist the feed and all other associated taglines from dystopian media apply here, because that's what the world is now.
But nothing will stop Them. They are the faceless men in suits conducting experiments behind closed doors with a finger pressed to their lips and gags for those who disagree. Nobody knows what they're hiding, but everyone can agree that they are.
Now, I'm going on holiday for a bit, so I won't be on the forum for a while. Post your theories and I'll respond to them if I can when I return. There is nothing to worry about, I repeat, there is absolutely nothing to worry about [Vatican cameos].
Enjoy the sun, it may not be here forever.
*
I closed the laptop and handed it to the man.
"There.
Happy?" I asked.
He gave no answer, pulling a syringe from
the folds of a long coat.
Then the white set in.
Final post. All cliffhangers previously set up will be resolved, some by throwaway line, others as plot points. You will get answers. This is longer than the others, I think. Here we go;
"Welcome to HQ". The two boys stepped into a room that was
mostly occupied by a single, large table. This table was strewn
with wires and screens to about a five centimeter depth, except
for odd spaces where the monstrous amount of cables had been
completely cleared, presumably for some people's laptops or
something. People worked here, that was for sure, and they did a
bloody complicated job using complicated words and stuff. That's
what Alex got when he entered the building. There were many
doors, all leading to different places, but perhaps the most
shady part of the whole arrangement was the man who had employed
the boys. Tall, reasonably old and graying, with curly hair and
piercing eyes.
"Listen carefully", he said, "we're gonna try
to topple the Government, and here's how..."
The scientist that had swung a fist at Bob connected with his
lower jaw, snapping Bob's head up, but otherwise doing no
serious damage. While doing this, he leaned in close and
whispered "Limp. We need to get out of here". So Bob complied
and was carried out of the room, while the other scientists
watched, slightly jealous.
When outside, Bob stood up on his
own feet.
"What was that about?"
"Don't trust anyone,"the
other scientist said.
"What do you want from me?" Bob asked,
perplexed.
"To topple the Government. Quickly, get to HQ.
We'll be safe there".
The cracks widened in the glass and Chrystal's view of the
other kids became obscured. Then it faded, and was replaced by a
green screen. She looked around her now changing environment.
White walls and stainless steel occupied the space outside her
glass box, as if she was in some sort of ... lab. There was a
thin outline of a door, only just visible in the glass. That
hadn't been there before. She opened it, and was swept up in the
pair of men running along the hallway.
"Vatican ..." said one
of the men.
"... Cameos". Chrystal finished. The men turned
their attention back to the hallway and she ran alongside them.
Whatever it was they were doing for the Resistance, she could be
trusted.
The gun in the guard's hand spluttered and clicked, but no
bullet came out. Tarrant's own weapon discharged neatly into the
guard's stomach and Tarrant got up off the floor, leaving the
guard there to die. Like the conspiracy theorists and that one
idiot who couldn't provide an alibi for the death of her husband
- there had to be sacrifices for the good of the Resistance.
Members who had made mistakes, were tried and found guilty and
then executed were always late to meetings. They were late just
generally. Christe Smith had been the history expert, she was
always talking about the two idiots who, on Christmas 1914, were
executed on the wrong side of enemy lines, and how they'd been
there for a while before they were discovered ...
Tarrant
couldn't afford sentimentality, not now. He was fighting a
bullet wound to the stomach as it was, he just needed to get to
HQ. they could patch him up there. It would buy him time. He was
dead. That much was certain, but when. Grabbing the fallen
guard's own bloody shirt and using it as a bandage (albeit
rather unsuccessfully), he prepared himself to leave.
He checked his comm
unit, and saw a message saying "HQ". He ran off.
The boys weren't expecting the four people who burst through
the doors. Two scientists, by the looks, and a guy wearing ...
whatever THAT was, and a girl who looked emotionally
traumatised. Was this the "Resistance" their boss had talked
about?
They patched up the man with bullet wounds in the
chest. Everyone knew he was a dead man walking, but if they
could all get out, his death might be worthwhile, unlike all the
others.
The meeting lasted half an hour. In it, the boys
learned there was a boat anchored offshore, that would be
brought around by a minimal team of people to the others waiting
at the shoreline. They would then use the boat to get away from
the city, and go somewhere else. Or possibly just live off the
boat, no-one had thought that far ahead.
Tarrant was elected as the boat collector. You would be if you were dying. Get there, and problems are solved. If you don't, they've got nothing on the group. Everyone else would wait at the shoreline for the boat to arrive. Hopefully they'd prepare some supplies or a story or something to get out and survive, while they waited for the boat. There wasn't much time, so Tarrant set off straight away.
He got to the vagie proximity of the ocean before he ran into issues. There was a yell from the settlement, and an alarm went off "THIS IS NOT A DRILL" blared out over the walls and probably a fair way over the ocean. Policemen in white ran out from the settlement. Tarrant had to think fast, so he ran. He wasn't even watching until it was too late. A cliff.
'So this is how it ends', he thought. 'Between a cop and a hard place'.
Chris Tarrant looked left. The police clad in white were
encroaching. He looked to the right. Cliff. Straight up.
So, this was it. No way left, no way right, no way up, no way down.
At this point his time ran out. He had let the others down.
He sank to the ground as the cops appropached him. His last view was of the others on the beach in the distance, waiting for a boat that would never come. He closed his eyes.