Nano Wrimo

   I have been writing for the last 16 days for Nano. Having started with absolutely nothing on November 1st, I have since written more than 26,000 words. Here is a short snip-it:

    Mack opened his eyes. Something was wrong, he could sense it. He listened for several long minutes. He couldn't hear anything. Then he realized, that's what was strange. He often could hear Conner in the next room over breathing deeply, but there was nothing. Maybe he was simply breathing shallower than normal.

     He relaxed and closed his eyes again, but he couldn't get comfortable again. He glanced at his bedside table, where beside the picture of his wife sat the tablet that tracked the questions Conner was asking Data. He couldn't read the most recent questions, but he could see that it was active. That's weird, he thought, but then again, Conner has worked late before. Then he glanced at the clock: 2:00am. But he's never worked that late before. Mack grabbed the tablet and read the most recent questions. What are these?

     He glanced back through the list, not understanding. Then it hit him. His eyes grew wide and he jumped out of bed, swearing loudly. He grabbed a jacket and shoes from the corner of the room and raced down the stairs, not caring that he was still in his boxers. He was half-way down the stairs before he realized his keys were still on the bedside table. He ran back up and grabbed them, along with his cell phone, and charged back down the stairs, out the door, and into his car, tripping and nearly face-planting in the process.

     Once in the car, he threw it into gear and peeled out of the drive-way. He had to get to the lab, fast. He dialed Dale's number. It rang once, twice, three times. "Come on, Dale. Pick up." He swore as he ran a stop sign and nearly hit another car, which honked loudly. He didn't care.

     "Hello?" greeted a very sleepy voice.

     "Dale! We have a problem..."

National Novel Writing Month

Today was the second day of November, which is National Novel Writing Month. This means, as of yesterday, I have began the long, stressful process of writing a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. That's 1667 words a day. I did it last year, and am quite hopeful that I will do it again this year. The website, http://www.nanowrimo.org, keeps everyone signed up accountable to their goals, sends them encouraging talks from popular authors, along with helpful tips on writing.

This year, I am writing about a government organization who has taken humans and attached a super-computer to their brains, which they can access from anywhere in the world. The super-computer, called Data, takes information from every possible place, including an advanced simulation processor and can give the answers to any situation with precise results and instructions on how to get the wanted results. Here is the last part of the opening scene:

“Mack,” Connie pointed to the tablet. “He's ready.”

Mack nodded and turned to the general, “Sir, I introduce to you: CC7.”

He pulled the trigger. The bullet sped through the air, through the glass, and through the head of the first guard. Barely adjusting the rifle, he fired the second shot, which likewise dropped the second guard. Before either corpse had time to hit the ground, he pushed himself to his knees, engaged the grenade launcher, and with precise measurements, fired. The window shattered with the impact and the grenade landed beside the dead bodies. There was an infinitesimally small chance that the grenade would not actually explode. Boom! But that was no longer a concern.

He waited to let the dust clear. There was movement on the perimeter of the half-mile, according to his wrist device. New heat signatures were appearing and moving toward the cabin. This was exactly what he had expected and planned.

He turned his attention to the cabin again. The guards were all dead. The bald drug lord seemed to have a piece of shrapnel in his leg, but was otherwise alive. The fat one had a number of pieces of shrapnel in his body, including one in his head, but was attempting to stand. CC7 put his eye to the scope again, but before he could shoot the drug lord himself, something unpredicted happened. A bullet hit the drug lord between the eyes, and he ceased to move.

CC7 pulled back and glanced at his rifle barrel. He had not fired. He saw the bald one re-holster a pistol and limp toward the door. “Guess the alliance wasn't meant to be,” muttered CC7 under his breath. He picked the two ejected shells off the white snow and tromped toward the extraction point.

“And there you have it,” stated Jim proudly. “A beautiful success, as we promised you.”

“The one drug dealer survived,” pointed out the general.

“Yes, but you wanted us to stop the alliance, and we've done even better than that, by throwing the drug groups back into a civil war. They'll be too busy killing each other now to care about an alliance.”

The general nodded and stood up. “What is to become of CC7 now?”

“He's to be used for whatever you need him for.”

“You do realize that we have the ability to hire mercenaries with equal success for much less than 10 million, right?”

“Yes,” agreed Mack, “but this one will be worth far more, as he cannot fail.”

“Why not? Didn't CC6?” The general had a point.

“CC6 was not quite ready to enter the real world, as I tried to tell Jim, but he...”

“Believed that we would not know if he was ready without giving him a true test,” finished Jim, giving Mack a 'be-careful-or-I'll-fire-you' look.

“And what has become of CC6?”

There was silence around the room. “We're tracking his whereabouts,” stated Connie.

“You mean you don't know where he is?”

“No,” clarified Jim, “we know where he is... but we don't know what to do about it yet. He is still a well trained killer and investigator. He was trained to replace the police. We didn't want to simply kill him, and we can't capture him without putting other people in danger.”

“We were planning on having CC7 deal with him,” Mack sat down again.

The general was silent for several long minutes that seemed to last forever, “Keep me posted.” And he exited the room.

CC7 could here the sounds of a gunfight as he trudged toward the extraction point. He knew that if anyone traced the trajectory of the bullets, they would be led to the packed snow and his footprints, but what was the possibility of that happening? He had Data run the numbers. Yep, he was right of course: the chance was infinitesimal.