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A couple of more scenes for "writing out there"
Scene # 3, Draft # 1
********************
Outside the laundromat, the temperature was almost freezing, the sun shining brightly off the snow. Benson paused, rummaging around in his jacket for his sunglasses, and started at a brisk pace to the north. Twenty minutes later, the town out of sight behind him, he left the road and struck off between the trees one hundred yards past the railroad culvert.
The first two miles weren't much of a struggle, but then the path became steeper. Rounding a slight bend, Benson stepped between a cleft of two pieces of gray granite. He heard a bark as a black Labrador retriever appeared, tail wagging. He bent down to pet him, stroking the dogs smooth oily coat.
“How are you boy? Good doggie.”
Benson heard a metallic click.
“Keep your hands out, and don't move partner, unless you want that to be the last thing you do on this earth.”
Two men, one dressed in a white snowmobile suit, the other in camouflage fatigues, blocked the trail.
Both wore scarves across their faces, crusted with white frost. The barrel of the semiautomatic rifle looked as big around as a soda pop can thought Benson, especially when you're on the wrong end of it. Snowsuit guy held it carefully.
“Okay, friend. Not moving. Here's my hands.” Benson stood frozen, arms outstretched.
Camouflage guy moved toward Benson. He carried his pistol out, casually, as with practice. Benson noted it was a Browning Hi-Power. He patted Benson down, relieving him of his own nine millimeter compact pistol, wallet, backpack and sheaf of papers including the flyer.
“I hear the deer population is booming.” Benson nervously stuttered. He thought that pass-phrase a bit odd considering a large rifle was pointed at his head.
“We're not concerned about wildlife partner,” said Snowsuit guy. “Take off the jacket and tie his hands behind him.” No counter sign, thought Benson. Did I take the wrong trail? Out here in the Outland, private property and bandits were everywhere.
“Umm, so the deer aren't booming?”
“Nobody cares about deer, brother. You got a problem with that, you take it up with our boss.”
A canvas hood came down over his head, and Benson panicked as it was tied tightly. Lack of vision and difficulty breathing reminded him of his problems with claustrophobia.
Several hours went by as Benson was pulled along by a rope wrapped around his waist. Falling repeatedly, the snow was wet and cold, and eventually invaded every crevice in his shirt and trousers. Damn that rat bastard Hilliard, thought Benson. That old man never indicated the God Loves Only Warriors group were so paranoid.
They stopped twice to rest, but Snowsuit and Camouflage guy remained silent. Finally, Benson heard other voices and smelled smoke. They stopped, and Benson was backed up against a pole.
The hood was yanked off and Benson gratefully breathed in several deep lungfuls of air. The sun was just setting, filtering through the coniferous trees at the other end of a clearing, the rays striking sharp shadows and light. His hands had been untied but then re-tied around the pole and he stood with his back to it. He was colder now, not moving, and began to shiver.
Five minutes later a man walked up, dressed in a red and black checkered shirt, his short hair dark, and beard speckled with gray. He had the air of command, piercing eyes. He looked over Benson carefully and walked around him once slowly.
“Tell us why we shouldn't put a bullet through your skull.”
“Ummm, because if you do, I'll file a complaint about being suffocated by that damn hood you put on me. If you were going to whack me, why the secrecy about where your camp is located?” Benson tried to sound brave, but was compromised by a quavering voice.
For several moments, the man stared Benson in the eyes, then grinned and laughed. “Well, ain't you the spunky one, ya old coot.” A statement, not a question. He motioned to the man in the camouflage jacket. “Untie him Brian, take him over to the mess hall and get him some food and let him dry out. Our new recruit passed his first test, and deserves the guest treatment.”
“Do you want him at the meeting at 20:00?” Brian moved behind Benson and began to untie his hands.
“Not at the beginning. We've got some items on the agenda that's no concern of his - but we'll need him during the latter half.” He met Benson's eyes again. “I know you've got some questions. We'll talk before the meeting, Mr. Benson.” He strode away quickly, heading towards a small cabin near the edge of the clearing, a wisp of blue smoke trailing from a rusted chimney on its roof.
**************************
Scene 2.1, Draft 1
Benson woke up to a pounding headache. The room began spinning as he sat up, and he stumbled into the door frame of the bathroom bounced off and then threw up in the toilet bowl. He had come to the conclusion the evening before that among other things Hilliard was an alcoholic.
It'd taken him almost 6 hours to negotiate the information from Hilliard, give him the money, as well as some of the ration coupons before he would provide the contact information and the initial pass-phrase. Benson knew before long he would have to make a critical decision that would affect the rest of his life.
Splashing cold water from the sink onto his face, he gathered his thoughts. Tomorrow he would take the train and embark on possibly the most dangerous journey of his life. Realizing that he was still somewhat intoxicated, Benson grasped his phone and dialed the attendance clerk at work. He informed him that he wouldn't be coming in this morning and that he was feeling under the weather, and would get back around lunchtime to determine whether or not he would miss the whole day. Of course rather than admit that he had overindulged in alcohol, Benson merely mentioned he had a fever and thought a cold might be coming on.
After sleeping several more hours, he was able to get up take a shower and get dressed. He felt it was important to talk to his boss at least once that day about the upcoming trip. He would try to put a spin on his activities during the trip, trying to make it look as normal as possible. He shuffled down to the corner through a steady drizzle, and waited for the bus. Since the morning rush was over he wasn't exactly sure how long he would have to wait, but he thought that the buses ran it still ran at least once per hour in the afternoon. In about half that time, the lumbering machine appeared, belching out black smoke from the bio-diesel fuel, and surprisingly crowded for that time of day. Benson wedged his way into a seat near the back, hoping he didn't throw up again in the twenty minute trip it would take to get downtown.
Around him was the usual cast of characters found in the city. Some of the more wealthy or well-connected government officials dressed like him were easy to spot, while the rest of the lower class workers often displayed their mended trousers, torn shirts, dirty jackets and unpolished shoes.
Getting off the bus, Benson encountered the drizzle that had now turned to a steady cold rain, and grimaced because he realized he had forgotten his umbrella. He removed his glasses, and put them inside his jacket hoping they would stay dry. It was making him shiver. Only two blocks to his building, but in that time several rivulets of cold water found their way inside his coat.
Benson entered the building and reported to the attendance clerk, and then ambled up two flights of stairs and down the hall to his office.
********************
Outside the laundromat, the temperature was almost freezing, the sun shining brightly off the snow. Benson paused, rummaging around in his jacket for his sunglasses, and started at a brisk pace to the north. Twenty minutes later, the town out of sight behind him, he left the road and struck off between the trees one hundred yards past the railroad culvert.
The first two miles weren't much of a struggle, but then the path became steeper. Rounding a slight bend, Benson stepped between a cleft of two pieces of gray granite. He heard a bark as a black Labrador retriever appeared, tail wagging. He bent down to pet him, stroking the dogs smooth oily coat.
“How are you boy? Good doggie.”
Benson heard a metallic click.
“Keep your hands out, and don't move partner, unless you want that to be the last thing you do on this earth.”
Two men, one dressed in a white snowmobile suit, the other in camouflage fatigues, blocked the trail.
Both wore scarves across their faces, crusted with white frost. The barrel of the semiautomatic rifle looked as big around as a soda pop can thought Benson, especially when you're on the wrong end of it. Snowsuit guy held it carefully.
“Okay, friend. Not moving. Here's my hands.” Benson stood frozen, arms outstretched.
Camouflage guy moved toward Benson. He carried his pistol out, casually, as with practice. Benson noted it was a Browning Hi-Power. He patted Benson down, relieving him of his own nine millimeter compact pistol, wallet, backpack and sheaf of papers including the flyer.
“I hear the deer population is booming.” Benson nervously stuttered. He thought that pass-phrase a bit odd considering a large rifle was pointed at his head.
“We're not concerned about wildlife partner,” said Snowsuit guy. “Take off the jacket and tie his hands behind him.” No counter sign, thought Benson. Did I take the wrong trail? Out here in the Outland, private property and bandits were everywhere.
“Umm, so the deer aren't booming?”
“Nobody cares about deer, brother. You got a problem with that, you take it up with our boss.”
A canvas hood came down over his head, and Benson panicked as it was tied tightly. Lack of vision and difficulty breathing reminded him of his problems with claustrophobia.
Several hours went by as Benson was pulled along by a rope wrapped around his waist. Falling repeatedly, the snow was wet and cold, and eventually invaded every crevice in his shirt and trousers. Damn that rat bastard Hilliard, thought Benson. That old man never indicated the God Loves Only Warriors group were so paranoid.
They stopped twice to rest, but Snowsuit and Camouflage guy remained silent. Finally, Benson heard other voices and smelled smoke. They stopped, and Benson was backed up against a pole.
The hood was yanked off and Benson gratefully breathed in several deep lungfuls of air. The sun was just setting, filtering through the coniferous trees at the other end of a clearing, the rays striking sharp shadows and light. His hands had been untied but then re-tied around the pole and he stood with his back to it. He was colder now, not moving, and began to shiver.
Five minutes later a man walked up, dressed in a red and black checkered shirt, his short hair dark, and beard speckled with gray. He had the air of command, piercing eyes. He looked over Benson carefully and walked around him once slowly.
“Tell us why we shouldn't put a bullet through your skull.”
“Ummm, because if you do, I'll file a complaint about being suffocated by that damn hood you put on me. If you were going to whack me, why the secrecy about where your camp is located?” Benson tried to sound brave, but was compromised by a quavering voice.
For several moments, the man stared Benson in the eyes, then grinned and laughed. “Well, ain't you the spunky one, ya old coot.” A statement, not a question. He motioned to the man in the camouflage jacket. “Untie him Brian, take him over to the mess hall and get him some food and let him dry out. Our new recruit passed his first test, and deserves the guest treatment.”
“Do you want him at the meeting at 20:00?” Brian moved behind Benson and began to untie his hands.
“Not at the beginning. We've got some items on the agenda that's no concern of his - but we'll need him during the latter half.” He met Benson's eyes again. “I know you've got some questions. We'll talk before the meeting, Mr. Benson.” He strode away quickly, heading towards a small cabin near the edge of the clearing, a wisp of blue smoke trailing from a rusted chimney on its roof.
**************************
Scene 2.1, Draft 1
Benson woke up to a pounding headache. The room began spinning as he sat up, and he stumbled into the door frame of the bathroom bounced off and then threw up in the toilet bowl. He had come to the conclusion the evening before that among other things Hilliard was an alcoholic.
It'd taken him almost 6 hours to negotiate the information from Hilliard, give him the money, as well as some of the ration coupons before he would provide the contact information and the initial pass-phrase. Benson knew before long he would have to make a critical decision that would affect the rest of his life.
Splashing cold water from the sink onto his face, he gathered his thoughts. Tomorrow he would take the train and embark on possibly the most dangerous journey of his life. Realizing that he was still somewhat intoxicated, Benson grasped his phone and dialed the attendance clerk at work. He informed him that he wouldn't be coming in this morning and that he was feeling under the weather, and would get back around lunchtime to determine whether or not he would miss the whole day. Of course rather than admit that he had overindulged in alcohol, Benson merely mentioned he had a fever and thought a cold might be coming on.
After sleeping several more hours, he was able to get up take a shower and get dressed. He felt it was important to talk to his boss at least once that day about the upcoming trip. He would try to put a spin on his activities during the trip, trying to make it look as normal as possible. He shuffled down to the corner through a steady drizzle, and waited for the bus. Since the morning rush was over he wasn't exactly sure how long he would have to wait, but he thought that the buses ran it still ran at least once per hour in the afternoon. In about half that time, the lumbering machine appeared, belching out black smoke from the bio-diesel fuel, and surprisingly crowded for that time of day. Benson wedged his way into a seat near the back, hoping he didn't throw up again in the twenty minute trip it would take to get downtown.
Around him was the usual cast of characters found in the city. Some of the more wealthy or well-connected government officials dressed like him were easy to spot, while the rest of the lower class workers often displayed their mended trousers, torn shirts, dirty jackets and unpolished shoes.
Getting off the bus, Benson encountered the drizzle that had now turned to a steady cold rain, and grimaced because he realized he had forgotten his umbrella. He removed his glasses, and put them inside his jacket hoping they would stay dry. It was making him shiver. Only two blocks to his building, but in that time several rivulets of cold water found their way inside his coat.
Benson entered the building and reported to the attendance clerk, and then ambled up two flights of stairs and down the hall to his office.