Read the Story
Guess the Song
here's a clue...
Sierra Nevada, California
Autumn, 2025
The wind thrummed through the gap around the
shutters, making the rough wooden boards rattle in such a way as to set off a rhythm
in his head. He strummed an imaginary guitar with the swollen fingers of
his right hand while his bruised left hand depressed the strings to form the
chords. The rhythm became a repetitive melody.
Then a menacing, insistent tune. He turned on his straw pallet, trying to block
nature’s anger from his ears, but the tune would not go away.
Chill daylight crept
into the sleeping area, Dan pulled himself to a sitting position and looked at his
freckled, weather-beaten hands. Would he ever play a guitar again? Would he survive
to see a real guitar again? Not the way things were going.
Voices broke
through his morning misery. He struggled to his feet and joined the line for a slice
of slimy white bread, a tin cup of water and another day of hard labour. He had
infiltrated the Latino rebels as instructed; stayed with them when they were rounded
up as illegal aliens as instructed; located the President’s secret California base
as instructed – all without weapons, wi-fi, or gadgets – and now, without any bloody
way out.
Leaving the food
line, he shuffled into his work group’s labour line, keeping his fair, greying
head low to avoid eye-contact, but listening to the muttered conversations
around him.
“There are only
half of the guards here? What’s going on?”
“It only the
oldies and Old Wheezer.”
“Poor Old
Wheezer, if anyone needs a day off it’s him.”
“Where’s the
rest? D’you think they’ve got a day off?”
“Nah, they’ve got
it nearly as tough as us.”
“Don’t be stupid.
You ever seen one break into a sweat shifting rocks?”
“What’s going on
then?”
The comments continued as Dan’s
gang was joined by other captured rebels. Seeing they were socialising, an ill-fed
yet obese national trooper jostled them into pairs to form a double file for
the march up the mountainside to the fort.
“Hey, Generalissimo,”
quipped one of his companions from the anonymity of their line, “Where’s your
troops?”
The aging, wobble-jowled
corporal cradled his rifle, removed his stub of cigarette and spat on the
ground. “For your information, sonny, and to keep you up to date with the
outside world, there’s a welcome parade for Her Highness the First Daughter.”
“Vaya, vaya!”
various Latinos responded in mock delight. “La Niña Todo Poderosa – aquí.”
“Yeah, and she’s
coming to inspect your progress. So, you’d better be real good today, because
if you aren’t, we’ll tell her and she can personally push you in that quarry
and blast you to pieces as a special treat. Anything else you’d like to know?”
There were a few
mumbled comments regarding who was sleeping with the corporal’s wife and
mother, but the prisoners near the front remained silent: they were too close
to either end of the rifle to make any remarks.
More national
troopers arrived. Placing themselves at intervals along the marching column,
they all set off up the mountainside towards the new fort – or palace,
depending on your point of view. It was an exact copy of Disneyland’s Sleeping
Beauty’s castle. The hole created by the quarried stone was being developed
into the President’s mausoleum, like Franco’s in Spain. Dan had laughed out
loud at the absurdity of it all, but nobody else could see the irony.
As they marched,
Dan kept his head down, conversing with no one. His arms ached so much from the
previous day’s labour and his hands were so blistered he feared even the
thought of holding a spade. At the beginning of the assignment with the rebels he’d
been obsessed with keeping his fingers safe and whole to operate the tiny gadgets
and pistols he’d left stashed away in the Los Angeles camp. The rebels saw him as
a clueless liberal foreigner, and he played along with it. They called him Dan
because one of them said he reminded him of a film actor. Another neat irony if
the Daniel was who he thought it was. Now, without access to any form of back
up or hardware, his cover was proving regrettably real: he hadn’t been trained
for this sort of field work, and it wasn’t as if he could reveal his real identity
to his captors. His organisation would deny him, anyway.
The sloppy crocodile turned left off
the asphalt road and headed up a steep, stony track. Within a few yards, the
elderly guard known as Old Wheezer was gasping for breath. He paused, hands on knees,
trying to pull oxygen into his nicotine damaged lungs. The crocodile came to a
halt. A trooper set the old man on a convenient boulder and they moved off
again, leaving the old nationalist to
recover on his own. It had happened before: he would stagger up the mountain
slowly, arriving in time for the return march. But not this morning, on this
day he stayed where he was, too sick to fulfil his duties as an obligatory oppressor.
Dan’s group arrived
at their allotted site. They were issued with spades, axes, saws, implements
that could so easily be used as weapons, but weren’t because bored guards kept
their rifles cocked; trigger happy with ennui. The slightest hostile action resulted
in a bullet.
Dan was assigned
to a tree-felling group and given a rusty saw. His work party spent the morning
pulling up scrub, sawing down young trees then digging up the roots. Eating any
berry or nut that looked remotely edible, they cleared a dozen square metres
with their bare hands until a boy leading a mule laden with metal containers
appeared with their mid-day meal. The men sat down on the rocky earth to eat,
too bodily weary to talk.
Storm clouds were gathering,
there would be thunder and lightning by early evening: they’d get back to their
shed soaked to the skin with no means of drying off or staying warm. Nights up
here were cold. If they got back. Lightning on a wooded mountainside had
its danger.
Thunder rumbled.
The ear-worm melody in Dan’s head was joined by drums, then strident brass instruments
lifted to a crescendo. Thunder and lightning – or a volley of bullets.
As they
scrambled back to their feet for the afternoon session the sky opened. The
guards cursed and ran for shelter in the cavern dug into the quarry. The immediate
area around the prisoners was now virtually treeless, they had no shelter
whatsoever. Rain fell in slanted sheets. The men worked on until a trooper emerged
to take charge. Waving his rifle around, he ordered everyone to hand in their
implements and line up for the return trek. Dan gladly relinquished his saw and
got into place, but a gap down the column signified a man was missing. Smart Joselito.
Either he hadn’t heard the order, or he was hiding, or he’d got away earlier
when the troopers ran for cover. The prisoners exchanged glances then shuffled
around to fill the gap, each hoping the nationalists were too keen to stay dry
to count.
The crocodile slipped
and swore its way down the rough track, now a rapidly swelling stream, until they
came to a halt at the point where they had left Old Wheezer that morning. His
body lay where he had toppled from the boulder, his head in a puddle, his rifle
gone. The guards gathered around the corpse, arguing among themselves about
whose fault it was. One man was detailed off with two prisoners to get a stretcher
and there was a general disorder.
Dan briefly studied
his partner on his right: a pasty, thin teenager with acne. How bright was he,
though? Dan motioned with his head to his left and then to his right; he would
go one way, the boy the other. The boy nodded. Dan gestured ‘wait’.
They waited for
what seemed an age until the stretcher bearers arrived. The guards, soaked to
the skin, cursed as they struggled to get the sodden body onto the stretcher. Dan’s
right hand poked the boy’s hip, and gestured ‘down’. Simultaneously, they
hunkered down in the stony mud. Other prisoners followed suit. No guard came
waving a rifle, ordering them to stand.
“Now,” Dan murmured
and rolled off to his left. Rolling over and over, until his body was in a
tangle of scrub and wet grass. Through briars he scrambled, all noise overlaid
by crashing thunder and the electric storm directly above. Dodging between pines,
he pushed his way as far and fast as he could from the work line.
As he moved, the insistent,
gathering rhythm in his head urged him on. Staying low to the ground, dodging between
gnarled trunks and over slippery rocks, he headed uphill away from the sierra road,
not down to civilisation as they’d expect. Eventually, a sharp stitch in his
side forced him to a halt. He was on a ledge. He lay flat and tried to see what
was below.
The teenage boy had obviously lacked combat experience, lacked training or any sense at all. He must have rolled off the path then got to his feet and started to a run too soon. They’d followed him. A rifle shot seared the curtain of rain, then another and another. Dan got to his feet and lurched into a hollow under the granite cliff. Lying back, risking bears, snakes and scorpions, he waited until his breathing slowed, until he could contemplate the next move.
For a few
moments he felt himself relax. For a few quiet bars in his menacing tune, he
enjoyed the forest smells around him, noted the vermilion caps of huge toadstools.
And then, rising, loud and louder, the music ended with an almighty crack that split
the heavens above. A final cymbal signalled the bullet shattering a young man’s
skull.
He slept curled up like a forest
mammal and woke during the night. The music had changed. There was a steady, string
melody now. Then the bloody guitar again. Dum-di–di-dum-dum-da-dum . . . And he
recognised it. Hah! Irony of ironies. He crawled out of his hiding place and stood
tall. Moonlight and the promise of a dry dawn. Time to move down to the road, hijack
a car and head back to the abandoned camp and then back to the city. A mission to
be reported, a new assignment to begin. Preferably one that required a white
shirt, a sharp suit and regular nights in congenial company – he was too old
for this field stuff. Way too old.
By the time he
reached the sierra road leading back to the outskirts of the city the sun was over
the horizon and he had a plan. Then an armoured, black four-by-four pulled up beside
him. Fearing the worst, Dan smoothed back his hair, straightened the collar of
his torn shirt to show he was white and respectable, but fully prepared to leg
it back into the trees if necessary.
A huge, white
blond head emerged from the open back window. “Need a lift, old chap? We’re
going into LA. Quite safe now. California has capitulated and joined the President’s
American States Association, and my friend in here has cleared all the greasy foreign
buggers off the streets.”
The voice was over-English
and instantly recognisable. Dan nodded, but said nothing.
“Budge up, Vlad,”
boomed the infamous Englishman turning to his companion. “Plenty of room for one
of us.”
Dan gaped then grinned
like a loon. Stuff the next assignment, this would get him a golden handshake,
and the silver vintage Aston Martin he’d hankered after for so many years.
© J.G. Harlond
Did you guess the tune?
The James Bond theme!
Jane's website: http://jgharlond.com/
Secret agents and skulduggery, and romance that crosses continents
Author of page-turning historical novels set in the 17th and early 20th centuries, Jane weaves fictional characters into real events. Creator of the charismatic rogue Ludo da Portovenere, her stories feature wicked crimes and almost impossible romance, and show how decisions made in high places can affect the lives of ordinary people. Jane’s novels have received ‘Discovered Diamond’ and Readers’ Favorite 5* awards. She is a member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and Society of Authors.
Originally from North Devon in the English West Country, Jane has travelled widely and is now settled in rural Andalucía, Spain.
Reviewed by Discovering Diamonds |
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The Full List of Authors
December
4th Helen Hollick Promises, Promises
5th Paul Marriner Memories
6th Pam Webber One Door Closing
8th Barbara Gaskell Denvil Sticks and Stones
9th Judith Arnopp Secrets
10th Erica Lainé Silk Stockings
11th Anna Belfrage Hold Me, Love Me, Leave Me?
12th Annie Whitehead Frozen
13th Tony Riches Alas, My Love
14th Clare Flynn, Zipless
15th J.G. Harlond The Last Assignment
16th Elizabeth St John Under The Clock
17th Alison Morton Honoria’s Battle
18th Jean Gill The Hunter
19th Patricia Bracewell Daddy's Gift
20th Debbie Young It Doesn't Feel Like Christmas
21st Ruth Downie Doing It Properly
23rd Elizabeth Chadwick The Cloak
24th / 25th CHRISTMAS BREAK
27th Barbara Gaskell Denvil Just The One... Or Maybe Two
28th Deborah Swift Just Another Day
30th Cryssa Bazos River Mud
31st HAPPY NEW YEAR
Note: There is copyright legislation for song lyrics
but no copyright in names, titles or ideas
Love this - and hate it because it's no longer a far-fetched scenario! Brilliant alternative history and so clever the way the 'song' tempo is used for the story structure.
ReplyDeleteLet's hope it is 'alternative history'!
ReplyDeleteBrilliant, just brilliant!
ReplyDeleteWe alternative history writers know how to deliver a good shock firmly rooted in the entirely possible. ;-)
And I'm thrilled that I actually guessed the music this time. Thank you, Jane!
Replied below - pressed wrong button!
DeleteI overlooked the (almost) obvious! Well done, Jane!!!
ReplyDeleteI was so tempted to include a cocktail in a casino!
DeleteSo glad you enjoyed it, Alison - you're the expert on this.
ReplyDeleteNot sure about that, but I love it when I read other 'what if' stories.
DeleteFabulous alternative history story - and great use of the music structure too. I did guess, but have been so bad at these I thought I must be wrong!
ReplyDeleteIt was a bit obvious, and it's a classic, but I did write while I was listening to the tune.
DeleteI found it hard to find a 'clue' image that didn't give the song away too easily ... certainly a challenge!
ReplyDeleteCracking story! Should be dystopian but increasingly feels like reportage! Brilliantly done
ReplyDeleteThanks Clare. I had no idea the British election would be held so close to the date for this story when I wrote it - but I did have a horrible sense of the way things are going.
DeleteWow! You had my eyes glued to the screen throughout. And YAY! I guessed the song! First time ever...
ReplyDeleteThe tune was in my head as I was writing - bit of a giveaway I suppose.
DeleteYikes! I thought I was reading CNN. AND I guessed the song! Great story!
ReplyDeleteThanks Liz!
ReplyDeleteExcellent story, thank you
ReplyDeleteThanks for retweeting, Judith. Glad you liked the story.
Delete