Sequel to Battle for Tomorrow
I have just started the sequel to Battle for Tomorrow, which came out last April and won a 2011 NABE Pinnacle Achievement Award.
In the sequel (which doesn't have a title yet), Ange is 17. She has just left Occupy Wall Street and is squatting in a vacant commercial building in Brooklyn with some homeless teenagers.
This is from Chapter 1:
Ange’s skin crawled the first time Phillip put the M16 in her arms. She felt herself recoil at the cold , unnatural smoothness of the metal and the sour, burnt smell. He left her alone with Roger, a middle age pot bellied man who wore large square framed glasses, an olive drab down vest and a red checked hunting cap. The rifle was heavy, and Ange cradled it in both arms as he showed her a YouTube video of a twenty year old girl disassembling an M16/A2. He pointed to something on his laptop screen.
“You see the time on that? One point one three minutes.” He showed the video again. The woman, pretty as opposed to glamorous, had wavy shoulder length black hair. She was dressed in jeans and a plain white tee shirt. She looked white, though there were two mixed race men in uniform shirts on either side. Ange assumed they were local police or sheriffs. The woman looked up at one of them triumphantly as she laid the last part on the table. It was clear they were timing her.
Roger put a large glossy black and white on the table in front of her. It showed all the parts, obviously in the order in which they were removed. “You start by removing the magazine.” He had her turn the gun over and showed her how to undo the catch that released it. “Put it on the table now, like the photo.” He gestured with his head. He started the video again and paused it. “Watch how she releases the upper receiver to remove the charging handle and BCG.” He started the video again. “Now watch how she disassembles the BCG.” Copying the woman on the video, Ange laid out all the parts and looked up at Roger.
“Now put them back in. In the same order you removed them.”
After repeating the disassembly and reassembly five times, he had her practice, loading, unloading, clearing the chamber, and operating the safety. After an hour, Phillip came back with a pair of ear protectors and took her to the firing area. Tall, mixed race and in his early forties, Phillip wore his hair in dreds and wore faded jeans and a heavy woolen pee jacket like the ones they sold in army surplus stores. He showed her exactly where to put her feet and how to position her left arm and right hand to center the weight against her left shoulder.
“Did you ever play tennis?” he asked. Phillip, who grew up in Haiti spoke fluent English with a marked French accent. She nodded. “Playing tennis well isn't merely about hitting the ball, is it? The first thing you learn is to position your legs and body. This is no different.”
In the sequel (which doesn't have a title yet), Ange is 17. She has just left Occupy Wall Street and is squatting in a vacant commercial building in Brooklyn with some homeless teenagers.
This is from Chapter 1:
Ange’s skin crawled the first time Phillip put the M16 in her arms. She felt herself recoil at the cold , unnatural smoothness of the metal and the sour, burnt smell. He left her alone with Roger, a middle age pot bellied man who wore large square framed glasses, an olive drab down vest and a red checked hunting cap. The rifle was heavy, and Ange cradled it in both arms as he showed her a YouTube video of a twenty year old girl disassembling an M16/A2. He pointed to something on his laptop screen.
“You see the time on that? One point one three minutes.” He showed the video again. The woman, pretty as opposed to glamorous, had wavy shoulder length black hair. She was dressed in jeans and a plain white tee shirt. She looked white, though there were two mixed race men in uniform shirts on either side. Ange assumed they were local police or sheriffs. The woman looked up at one of them triumphantly as she laid the last part on the table. It was clear they were timing her.
Roger put a large glossy black and white on the table in front of her. It showed all the parts, obviously in the order in which they were removed. “You start by removing the magazine.” He had her turn the gun over and showed her how to undo the catch that released it. “Put it on the table now, like the photo.” He gestured with his head. He started the video again and paused it. “Watch how she releases the upper receiver to remove the charging handle and BCG.” He started the video again. “Now watch how she disassembles the BCG.” Copying the woman on the video, Ange laid out all the parts and looked up at Roger.
“Now put them back in. In the same order you removed them.”
After repeating the disassembly and reassembly five times, he had her practice, loading, unloading, clearing the chamber, and operating the safety. After an hour, Phillip came back with a pair of ear protectors and took her to the firing area. Tall, mixed race and in his early forties, Phillip wore his hair in dreds and wore faded jeans and a heavy woolen pee jacket like the ones they sold in army surplus stores. He showed her exactly where to put her feet and how to position her left arm and right hand to center the weight against her left shoulder.
“Did you ever play tennis?” he asked. Phillip, who grew up in Haiti spoke fluent English with a marked French accent. She nodded. “Playing tennis well isn't merely about hitting the ball, is it? The first thing you learn is to position your legs and body. This is no different.”
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