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Date Posted: 11:09:22 09/28/99 Tue
Author: AceEnglish [GUN]
Subject: Me first stab at an i76 story (work in progress)

OK.
No laughing, unless you let me in on the joke ;o)
My first foray into i76 fiction, heck, my first
attempt at writing something since English Lit.
Apologies in advance if it seems awkward, childish
or hamfisted- I can only improve if I write more,
so consider this my "starting out story".
It's not finished (Bah! I hear you say) but I've
got the mad idea that if I show what I've done so
far, I'll be obliged to finish what I've started.
I'll paste it in below, for you to read, and for
those of you, like me, who have to pay by the minute
to read this, I've included the url to the text
file, so you can persuse it at your pleasure.
I'm probably miles off with the "look and feel" and
when I write more, more cultural errors will no
doubt work their way in- hey, I'm a limey, what do
I know about life in the southwest. That's why my
protagonist is a British ex-pat- they say you should
write what you know, so maybe I can pass off any
factual/cultural errors as writing sympathetically
with a foreigner in a strange land...
Hope you enjoy- there's very little plot development
I'm afraid- I tend to get bogged down in the prose ;o)
More installments will be coming, whether you like it
or not :o)
As usual, any comments, criticisms, death threats etc
gladly received.
I call this
"Yorkie Barr : Story 1" (I suppose catchy titles are
an area I need to work on...)
grab the txt file at
http://www.morka.freeserve.co.uk/ys_1.txt
cheers
Ace English [GUN]

Part the First:


"Somewhere in the southwest - 6th July 1979"

"Nah, it's fucked, love." Scouse Willy wiped his hands on a rag and
made his hands a more even shade of black, his cracked and oily face
grimaced at her, "Too much sand's got in through those trumpet socks-
the piston rings have scored more than you ever did."
Yorkie Barr heard the unspoken accusation, it was her fault the
Leopard had finally died. Being an ex-racing driver meant she
carried their delusion with her, the delusion that says "I know
better than my mechanic, I know what makes a car tick." Now her
expert opinion had landed her without a ride.
A gang of rebellious hairs had escaped from the confines of her
ponytail, the dark red strands tickled her face, like pets craving
her attention. She dismissed them with a brush of carmine tipped
fingers, but they came back all the same. She ignored them instead.
"Well, what can we do, then?" She kicked the toes of her para
boots into the ground, casually exchanging boot polish for red sand.
"We'll lift another engine from somewhere. Just a matter of
looking hard enough, innit?" Scouse Willy lit himself a Camel and
offered one to Yorkie.
"Heh- keep your smelly french fags to yourself, Scouse." Yorkie
pulled her own battered packet of Berkeleys from the inside pocket of
her black trenchcoat, and felt the reassuring bulge of the Czech
CZ-75 that lived under her right armpit. Lighting up, she sighed
through the smoke, looking westwards past the bright red glow of her
cigarette to the dull glow of the New Mexico sunset. Red sunset.
Long way from the West Riding of Yorkshire, she mused, taking a drag
of more imported nicotene.
"Getting dark..." Stating the obvious was a habit she had yet to
break. She sighed, for effect, but she was the only one paying
attention, Willy was now busy rummaging in the back of the Cargo
which they used as a mobile workshop.
Willy was always doing something useful, he had some wierd phobia
about inertia- he thought that if he ever stopped, he might not start
again. It made riding as a passenger in his truck an interesting
experience- interesting in the "oh my God we're going to die let me
out let me out" sense of the word. Yeah, Scouse Willy was full of
beans, unlike her car, she thought glumly.
The Leopard sat there lifeless, its once gleaming red paint the
colour of a scabbed wound in the fading light. Willy was busy
removing the weapons and systems from the Leopard, they were going to
have to hide the car nearby- there wasn't enough room in the Cargo
for it anymore, what with all the "important salvage" Willy had
picked up. Yorkie loved that car- it had taken her to second place
in the '73 Transcontinental Road Race. She had to admit, however
reluctantly, that it was better to risk losing the chassis than the
electronics and weapons- the radar and damage systems and the elderly
50 calibre machine guns were sourced at considerable expense from one
of the myriad ex-military "salvage" yards. Cars, on the other hand,
could be picked up like litter, discarded by owners who either
couldn't afford to keep them running, or were too dead to care.
Without warning, a wave of dizziness crashed over Yorkie, and she
staggered on the edge of balance. Everything had gone red;
Red, the sky.
Red, the glowing tip of her cigarette against the sky.
Red, the fingernails that held the cigarette.
Red, the hair that whipped into her face.
Red, the dust that caked her boots.
Red, the sand beneath her.
Red, the car she loved so much.
Red, the wet stain that dripped down the bonnet, darkening to black
in the failing light.
Red, the hole in the head of her best friend, slumped over the car.
Red, the blood that filled her eyes and blinded her.
Red, the warm blanket of unconsciousness.

* * *

In 1970, Yorkie Barr had won the national British Saloon Car
Championship by two points overall in a Ford 100E Anglia. The
victory was clouded only by a "fifty-fifty" incident with her nearest
rival in the fourth round at Cadwell Park which had netted her five
points over him and, as it turned out, the championship. The victory
celebrations after the last race of the season were no less
enthusiastic for all that, and she had drunk and partied and maybe
even done some other things with one of her pit crew, but she could
never remember for sure what had happened that night. The hangover
that greeted her that morning was nothing compared to the
sledgehammer that was being pounded into her skull at this moment.
Consciousness wrested her from the comforting embrace of
oblivion, bringing with it the knowledge that she was alive.
Painfully alive. There was no comfort in the fact that the thudding
of her head was distracting her from the sprained ankle and other
knocks she had suffered when she fell onto the rock strewn desert
floor.
She spat some blood out of her mouth as she put her hand to her
left temple in a vain effort to stem the flood of pain, but withdrew
it sharply as her fingers stung where she touched.
Gingerly, she sat up and tried to get a bearing on where she was
and what state she was in. She opened her eyes slowly, the dried
blood in the corners now cracked painfully as she squinted at the
sky. Red like before, but now the sun was in the east. Morning.
She had slept the night twisted on the desert floor, even with
her overalls and coat, it was a miracle she hadn't frozen to death,
although the way her head pounded she almost wished she had. The
brightening sun hurt her eyes, and she shaded them with blood and
sand encrusted hands to survey the scene.
The Moth was gone, the Leopard was still there, but had been
burnt where it stood. The ruined metal pinged quietly still as the
last of the heat from the blaze evapourated. What was left of Scouse
Willy had been placed carefully, sitting in the car, holding the
wheel. Black skeleton forever fused into the driving seat of the
sports car.
Yorkie thought it seemed fitting, strangely, puzzled only by her
own reaction to the tableaux.
She and Scouse had often drunkenly proclaimed their friendship to
one another during cold alcohol fuelled nights, each swearing to
avenge the other's death just like heroes in the films. But now, in
the morning sun, with a head wound that was aching and pounding and
nothing but the clothes she stood, albeit unsteadily, in... She
could summon no passion, no grief, no righteous anger. She felt
hollow and cold.
Happen I'm still in shock she wondered through the confusion.
Tears would come later perhaps, but right now, grief seemed utterly
unimportant to her.
She explored the remains of the camp for anything useful she
could find. The creepers hadn't left much- there were at least two
of them judging by the debris- a cigar smoker and another, who had
gone through at least twenty Marlys during the night. Her hopes were
raised when she saw the canteen off to one side on the rocks, but
fell again when she saw that it had been used for target practice.
Shit! she thought, feeling for her pistol, they've taken the CZ.
Probably wanted to try it out, but she wondered why they hadn't used
her for a target- they'd been happy enough to create some performance
art with Scouse Willy, why hadn't they messed with her?
Think later, she thought, act now. The canteen was holed about
two thirds ofthe way down, and it appeared to have some water left in
it, maybe enough to keep her alive for a few days. Then she caught
the smell, it seemed it hadn't been used as target practice just for
the gun. Still, piss riddled water was better than no water, and was
at least drinkable, even if it was disgusting.
Further searching provided only a partly burnt blanket and a pair
of black ray-bans with a cracked left lens. Well she may be half
dead, but at least she could look cool, and they would keep the
sunlight from her still sensitive eyes.
The nearest thing to civilisation in this empty land was a farm
about twelve miles back east, and another two off the road. A ten
minute cruise in the vehicles, and an afternoon's hike at most.
Yorkie knew it would take her much longer than that. She would have
to travel during the darker hours, for concealment and to protect her
from the burning desert sun. She would have to keep away from the
main road, which left the rock infested foot hills. She would be
dizzy from the blood loss, and the ankle sprain would slow her almost
literally to a crawl.
If I'm lucky, she thought, I might make it in three days. The
sun was now fully clear of the horizon, and was beginning its ascent
into the sky proper. Yorkie gathered the blanket and the bottle of
piss-water and started to limp eastwards.

* * *


Any point in carrying on? or shall I stop wasting me time now?
AE:-)
http://www.morka.freeserve.co.uk/i76nitro.htm
http://gun.highway82.com/

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