Inside Part One!
Inside Part One!
The explosion lit up the green in Turbine 7000 Dozer’s metal eyes. String 8000 Weaver was wide-eyed, reflecting the green back at him. Before the explosion finished, before screams followed a small and violent fissure, Turb kept her wrapped in his left arm as he swung her away from danger. His right hand reached for the hilt of his revolver, fingers hot with electric fire the moment they wrapped around it.
She gripped him tight, balancing her knees away from bending to gravity’s will, as her heart mechanical heart raced. But, unlike the other dancers, String’s lips kept any scream escaping into the dense air.
As Turb yanked a large revolver out of his leather shoulder holster, the steel of it refracted the disco lights as cursive name reflected from String’s eyes. Just one name, etched seamlessly on the thick barrel of the revolver: Marlowe.
He could feel the metal in his thumb creak as it bent, pressing against the hammer of the revolver as the roars of the Ak-47s spat armor-piercing rounds. Turb’s steel gaze met the hollow stares of the Russian gangsters, war welling back into his mind as robots fell to the swarm of bullets in front of him -- many falling to their knees or climbing on top of one another to find an escape. A sigh left his mouth as he took sulfuric life into his mechanical lungs, a life borne from the click of the hammer and the crank of the cylinder.
Pulling the trigger made his circuitry flow like a calm river. However, the flash of each shot made him glimpse an image of a smile. It was a smile that wasn’t just creepy, it was familiar in more ways than one. Despite the horrific vision, his aim was true: six thugs, each catching a bullet between their eyes.
Gray atmosphere still mired the large hole in the wall, made from the explosion. Turb opened the cylinder, letting the shell casings shimmer as they hit the floor, as the silhouette appeared within the smoke, running towards the crowd.
Quickly reloading the empty chambers, Turb heard someone yell, “Grenade!” He swung the cylinder back in place as the thug threw the grenade toward the ground. It wasn’t a hard aim, but he made sure to shoot the grenade at its highest point, reducing the amount of damage the explosion radius would cause.
While he was protecting himself and String from the debris of the explosion, as other robots were knocked to floor from the impact, he saw the Russian disappear. The bastard was making a run for it, and Turb was in the mood for a chase, but there was a crowd of robots between him and club’s new exit...
Just a large jump away.
Feeling the last bit of heaven gliding away from his arm as String and him parted the second he took flight, Turb entered a kaleidoscope of dark fury, of screams and smoke. He noticed two important details: first, he noticed Granite 1000 Fog was nowhere to be found; and he noticed the fat and golden robot was eyeing Turb as he arm acted as a barrier between Line and his need to act. Another thought gnawed at his head as he landed near the hole in the wall, and it quickly became the dominant thought in his head. Namely, the thought became a question: Why would the Russian mafia risk upsetting the Italian mafia, just to violently crash a party full of robots?
Mike Whitacre is a fiction writer, carving his own gruesome path through his work. He often mixes genres, but is primarily interested in the Crime/Mystery genre that utilizes the style of hard-boiled writers like Raymond Chandler. He lives in California, making too many damnable mistakes.
Catch Him At These Sites:
Donate Via PayPal: https://paypal.me/MikeWhitacre