Revolution: Prologue
It had been an easy night for Jack Hester. He had arrived at the house only to find that the kids were all already asleep and the parents already gone, having left some food out for him. Most importantly, the TV, taking up a generous portion of the wall, had cable. He collapsed back onto the leather couch, scooping up the remote and switching it on. He smiled wanly to himself. He was being paid seventy bucks to watch TV and eat their food for a couple of hours. Babysitting was such a scam.
Down the road, about the length of two football fields, the tyres of a white sedan squealed in protest as the car sped down the street. The sound carried to Jack, who snorted with derision. Whatever that guy was doing, he wouldn’t be doing it for much longer. One way or another. “What is he doing,” Jack wondered, “Why is he in such a hurry at one in the morning?” The low roar of a second engine answered him. “Ah, drag racers then,” Jack thought. He settled back on the couch and returned his attention to the TV.
The little row of houses was built on one side of a fence which separated them from the local sports field, used mostly by kids playing Saturday morning games. For the (night-time) fixtures, floodlights would illuminate the entire field. It was odd that the local Council would be willing to spend so much money on a field that wasn’t used for anything bigger than a state competition, but then Ridgewell Park was an affluent suburb, and liked holding festivals and the like where they could show off their wealth on that field.
On this particular night, however, there were no floodlights on whatsoever. Oddly, the streetlights in the immediate area weren’t on either, leaving the entire field hidden beneath a blanket of darkness. The only light issued from the living room where Jack was watching TV. Had he looked out the window, he would have noticed nothing out of the ordinary, except maybe the absence of the streetlights. If they, or the floodlights, had been on, he would have been perplexed by the sight of a lone man, dressed in black, walking quickly across the field, coming from the clubhouse.
James Avery gritted his teeth in frustration, running a hand through his greasy, black hair as he waited. His superiors would not be happy, not at all, and chances were that he’d be the one they’d take it out on. He’d have to convince them somehow to give him more time. Their ‘compatriots’, if they could be called that, weren’t exactly forthcoming with their information. He was beginning to think that they might renege on their side of the bargain altogether, unless given the proper ‘motivation’, as they called it. “Oh, I’d like to give them some motivation,” Avery fumed, “Just give me that chance.” A white sedan pulled up in front of him, the door popping open as it slid to a stop. The silhouette inside kept it’s gaze fixed on the road as it waited for him.
“Get in.”
