This is an excerpt from another unpublished sci-fi trilogy; this is the one I’m looking to publish on my snazzy new Patreon page.
Give it a look and see what you think!
In what he suspected was his final interrupted nap, the storyteller dreamed. It wasn’t peaceful. The cloud in his room absorbed every detail for posterity; zeros and ones marched in long columns through his electric sleep. A medical intelligence choreographed his every thought and breath.
“Lay down some fucking lead, Johnstone.” Joe couldn’t see any kind of target. Nothing. There was a dusty village and some shitty olive green trees. Plink! The sound of bullets hitting his truck sounded like little rocks hitting tin cans. He wanted to shoot. He needed to shoot. But there was no target. Joe heard Sergeant Cox’s voice through the intercom. “Hey, asshole, shoot!” “I’ve got no PID!” “I don’t give a fuck. Suppressive fire!” The young soldier’s mouth was dry, his hands were numb. He pressed the button by the trigger well that read “S.” The plunger safety popped out on the other side, now it read “F.” He had to fire. But for fuck’s sake, at what? Plink. Joe put his right cheek on the comb of the stock, his index finger rested on the trigger guard. With his left hand he pushed the turret control joystick to the right, his mounted weapon rotated about ten degrees. His vision blurred as he tried to focus on some trees; the 240B was pointed at the sky. His hand shot to the T&E assembly; in a flash he adjusted his elevation knob downwards. The tree appeared over his sights. He squeezed the trigger, his weapon barely pulsed in its mount. Die motherfucker die, he thought, just as he had been trained. He released the trigger, hot brass and links danced around his desert boots. Sergeant Cox’s voice came through the intercom. “Fuckin’ get some! Another burst!” Joe complied; he killed the pistachio tree. His cherry popped.
Joe’s neck hurt. It was a constant keening discomfort, an itch that could not be scratched. His twenty-eight pound machine gun hung about his neck like an albatross, he wanted to collapse, even though his load was a couple of hundred rounds lighter. The fucking lieutenant was doing something, he didn’t know what. His eyes cast about, the rising sun banished the blue shadows. Red smoke drifted about, the harsh buzz of a Blackhawk grew louder. It almost drowned out the screaming man. He was about ten feet away from Joe, someone was guarding him. Joe pulled out an L&M cigarette and lit up. A fucking bad guy. Who gave a shit about him? The man writhed. The medics were busy with others. Joe pulled in a lungful of smoke. He wanted to sleep. The sky darkened. What the fuck, he thought, it rarely rained here this time of year. Someone was talking. He strained to hear. But the words didn’t make any sense.
“We’re so sorry, ma’am, but this is one of the hallmarks of his generation…” My generation, Joe thought, as the synapses in his natural-born mind fizzled. They had been born in peace, then they were sent off to war. Some, at least. But long not all went.
Of course the formatting is all messed up for some reason, but you get the general idea.
I’m pretty excited about this series, and I’m at the mid point right now in the first book. It’s taking me a little longer than usual, but I want to get this one just right…