Two days passed. On the two square miles in which the twenty-four ramshackle buildings of the Lakeshore Apartment Projects hunched and huddled darkly, all was quiet as a tomb. Fourteen-year-old Naith Threlt sat at his window, looking out and doing some hard thinking. He was in his bedroom in Building 18 of the Lakeshore Projects. The criminal quarantine was still in effect, but oddly, guardians were no longer storming through apartment after apartment. They continued to patrol in squads of eight , and had at least fifty officers stationed around the perimeter. But they no longer seemed to be questioning anyone.
Dylan’s Note: This short story is a prologue to a longer tale, but stands on its own I think. It’s not that funny, sorry about that. I’m going to post it in at least two parts, maybe three, as its about 7000 words in length. Of everything I’ve done in my (non-published) writing career, this one is probably the most indicative of what I want to do. SF action/adventure with a message.
It was the rookie, of course, who spotted the crime in progress.
“Stop!” Allfeld cried out.
Startled, Guardian Tiroz pulled over the two-seat patrol cycle. His grey eyes, which bulged grotesquely from the faded indigo of his face, looked at the eager trainee with disgust.
“Observe and call in, rookie,” the grizzled vet said wearily. “We’re only on a watch patrol. We’re not to stop.”
Trainee Allfeld was a physical contrast to the aged guardian in every way; the indigo of his skin was still dark and glistening and his black eyes and hair hadn’t a hint of grey. But the difference between the two partners was more than merely age.
“I think they’re killing someone!” he informed his senior. “At least four, maybe five guys are beating up a girl by that corner!”