I can’t believe that more than three years have passed since I completed (what I believe is) my best work. What have I been buggering about with since then? Oh yeah – some certain Earplug Adventures. Well, just to prove that I can be serious, here is a brief snippet from this book…
For bonds Tasman used cable ties that he found in the maintenance department. Speaking pidgin Espeeg to our captive he instructed the youthful technician to sit upon the floor with his legs out in front of him. He then tied his hands together, followed by his feet. Then, just for insurance, he bound his feet and hands together.
“I hope he hasn’t eaten recently.” I said. “With him bent double like that we’re likely to find out what it was.”
“Couldn’t care less.” Tasman said as he stood up. “All I care about is that he stays still and quiet.”
He then mocked the technician by making chicken-like movements and clucking.
For a brief moment I began to feel pity for the captive: I assumed that like many a soldier before him he’d been a victim of his civilisation’s ways and the demands of their society, which meant that he little option but to comply with the demands made upon him. Or to put it more simply – he’d been drafted. But when I saw the malice in his eyes; the arrogance in his bearing (even when bound hand and foot); and the barely disguised smirk upon his face, my sympathy evaporated.
I waggled my Espeeg weapon in his face. “Tell him that if he moves I’ll cut him to pieces with this.”
Tasman translated for me as best he could, and our captive’s widening eyes told me that he believed that I’d do what I said. But they quickly narrowed once more when the distinctive hum of an approaching Espeeg flying machine permeated the building.
“They’re here!” I shouted needlessly and with an obvious panic that embarrassed me and emboldened our captive into a full-on sneer.
Tasman ran to the electrically powered roller door that led from the bottling plant to the outside world. Looking through a tiny window set into an adjacent pedestrian door Tasman confirmed my hypothesis. Unslinging his MP7 he hit the ‘up’ button on the roller door control box.
“No time for cleverness and subterfuge.” He said, “Let’s give these guys a warm welcome: a very warm welcome.”
Then he was moving towards the plastic swing door that led into the warehouse. I was yet to move – apparently rooted to the spot with a terrified look upon my face.
“I’ll take care of the dogs.” He shouted as he placed distance between us, “You take out the Law-Keepers.”
Then, just as he was about to disappear from sight through the semi-transparent material he added, “Watch your trigger finger, Fel: If your gun is anything like mine it won’t reload.”
‘Anything like? It’s exactly like!’
“Thank you.” I shouted at the empty space that Tasman had occupied a nanosecond previously, “Thank you very much indeed.”
Then my adrenal gland went to work.
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2014
Gosh, what might happen next? Big shoot ’em up perhaps?
See side bar for outlets that supply this book in e-book form. For a paperback version simply click on the Lulu logo. It will not be the worst thing you’ll do this week. Quite the opposite, I think.