In the doorway stood a short, native but light-skinned man in overalls. He had a substantial grey beard on his face and a mag-fed shotgun in his hands. He motioned subtly for Tris to come through the door. Tris needed no further impetus. Without slowing, he pivoted and raced past the man into the dark interior of the warehouse. He could barely see as his eyes adjusted to the dim light but slowed down and managed to avoid the tall metal shelves that formed a hallway in front of him. Behind him, he heard a shotgun blast and then some bits and pieces of a singular, aged voice speaking loudly, “You kids...no trouble...move on…” then the clang of a steel door slamming shut and a large deadbolt sliding into place. Tris continued to move into the innards of the warehouse.
He slowed further to a speed walk as he noticed some more light emanating from his left. Eventually, an opening appeared and he saw what appeared to be an encampment in a basketball-court-sized open space amongst the floor-to-ceiling shelves. There was a small caravan with lights strung between it and the shelves. A small metal barrel sat outside the caravan, a grate laid across its top, and short wooden benches surrounded it. It very much looked like a campsite.
Then he spotted the thing that made it very much not like a campsite. Across the space from the caravan was a large console--a two-meter-wide desk with a meter-high bank of monitors looming over it. There were what looked like at least ten closed-circuit television monitors and four large computer monitors. What appeared to be three old-school computer keyboards laid on the desk. Tris saw some movement on the CCTVs and recognized the gait of the horsepeople. Then he spotted himself, dead center in one of the displays, the opening behind him. Another figure appeared on the screen. Tris’ heart jumped, he flinched hard, and he turned to see the old man, shotgun in hand, giving him a skeptical look.
“What did they want with you and why are you here?” he asked.
“A man of few words and big guns,” Tris heard himself say. He was surprised that even in his startled and anxious state he was able to draw on some of the street cool he usually relied on to get himself out of difficult situations. He realized he was at least momentarily safe from the gangs, and he could feel the adrenaline drop coming. He hoped he didn’t pass out.
“Just answer the question,” the old man said.
“I don’t know what they want with me. I was just walking back from Hilltop Park to the East District.”
“Why would you come through the Warehouses?”
“I was going to check out the docks.”
“Those gangs don’t usually even come to this neighborhood, let alone set up an ambush. They’re either bored, desperate or wanted something you specifically could provide.”
“I don’t know, man, I’m just a regular guy.”
“Zhao.”
“What?”
“My name is Zhao. Call me Zhao.”
“Oh. Tris. My name is Tris.”
“Gwailou,” the man muttered.
Tris wanted to roll his eyes at Zhao’s anachronistic categorization, but he knew better than to roll his eyes at someone holding a shotgun. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you. So thank you. Thank you very much. I thought I was going to die out there.”
“You will someday,” Zhao smirked and walked over to the console, standing before the CCTV screens. “It looks like they’ve scattered. You can stay here until tomorrow morning. Then you must go.”
That sounded like a long time to Tris, but he couldn’t think of a better time. He wanted the monkeys and horsies to give up on him for now, and he didn’t consider nighttime to be a great moment to be traveling through the Warehouse District or the South Docks.
“Ok, that sounds good. Thanks again.”
Zhao walked up to a large metal box near the console that Tris had failed to notice--taller than Zhao and twice as wide--and placed his hand over a scanner on its door. There was the sound of a lock disengaging and the door popped open a few centimeters. Zhao pried the door open. Inside was an arsenal of weapons--rifles, pistols, knives, more shotguns, and what Tris could swear looked like a rocket launcher. Zhao placed the shotgun into the safe and closed the door. The sound of the locks engaging corresponded with Tris’ adrenal drop. He felt a black curtain begin to descend over his consciousness. He stumbled over to the wooden benches and fell onto one before everything went dark.
Tris woke up to the sound of sizzling meat. He looked up and saw Zhao flipping some indistinguishable cuts of meat over a fire in the small barrel.
“Welcome back,” Zhao said.
“Thanks,” was all Tris could muster. He sat up. The food smelled fantastic, whatever it was, and Tris suddenly realized how hungry he was.
“Food will be ready soon,” Zhao remarked. Tris wondered if it was simple conversation or if Zhao was attuned to his inner workings. Despite the console and the weapons stash, Zhao did have a mystical quality about him.
They sat in silence as the meat was flipped repeatedly. Just as Tris thought he couldn’t stand it anymore and might just grab one of the slices off the grill, Zhao lifted two plates and served three pieces onto each. Then he took a pot that was also sitting on the grill--making Tris more aware of how much he wasn’t observing in this situation--and spooned out some rice onto each plate.
Tris ate quickly. It was delicious. The meat was lean but well seasoned and not too tough. The rice was a perfect consistency. As he took his last perfect bite and laid his chopsticks down, he thought to ask, “What was that? It was great!”
“Rice,” Zhao smirked again, “and rat.”
Tris swallowed before his throat tightened. “You don’t happen to have something to drink?” he managed to ask.
“Sure, have this,” Zhao said and reached into a cooler sat on the floor behind him. He handed Tris a salt soda.
“Thanks,” Tris said as he accepted the beverage. “What’s that you’re drinking?” he asked and pointed at the glass of murky red liquid sitting next to Zhao.
“Hooch,” Zhao replied. “You’re too young for hooch.” He smiled big, showing the most crooked teeth Tris had ever seen in his life.
This gives me a chance to see if y'all give me any feedback before I turn in the final of this bit.
I think the first couple assignments you were deliberately sticking more closely to trying to mimic
I think my main feedback here would be go and return to the different topics assignments that we went through ( detail / sentence structure /etc ) and go through this piece again and see where you can inject more of Gibson here and there.
This is assuming that you are still trying to copy Gibson for this assignment. I remember you mentioning Saturday that you didn't feel as much in the copy mood for that assignment. Maybe you feel the same for this week.
If that's the case, I think that theatrical element is what I found most engaging in your first assignments and i think you could still try to infuse more of that here even if it's not Gibson pastische.
I believe the thing you are trying to deliberately avoid -- keeping the reader in the dark chasing you -- was one thing that made the first two more theatrical. Just the right mix of details and meaningful action (
I think that because you were following
I think these last two assignments reveal how difficult it is to get that blend of details + meaningful action right. I think going forward that would be a great Daniel thing to hone your craft on, but given that this is the final week of
PS I'm already reading that Saunders' book