Yes, done with Bad Connections. I'm even pretty happy with it. Needs a great deal of editing, and I think I'm going to be cutting out part of a subplot before I'm done with it -- but I like the story over all. Needs depth in some places. Needs some explanations in others where I made great mind-boggling leaps of logic. But.... It's there to work with later.
This will be the last Bad Connections entry. The Blog title will change (Likely to Darkness Falls/Bad Connections) when I start the next book. I think that's the one I'm going to work on. It will be considerably shorter than this novel, but I want to get the basic first draft done so I can work with it later. I'm having trouble working in viable subplots at this point.
Here is my final Bad Connections snippet. It's been fun! I hope the next one goes as well (but at 5k a day rather than 10k!):
Eli tried to grab for the dock and Nic as they went over the edge. He missed both. The gunfire came close to him, the percussion of the sound disorientating him as much as the cold slap of water and the utter darkness below the surface.
He lost St. Jude in the darkness. He couldn't tell if his partner had been shot or not. He couldn't tell anything at all in the dark --
Someone kicked him, almost squarely in the chest. He lost the half gasp of air he had made before he fell into the canal.
Metal brushed against his arm, cold and sharp. Wreckage or the dock? He tried to grab at it, to look around -- up. That had to be up. He thought he could see lights flickering -- too far. Too far to reach --
He broke through the surface, gasping as much water as air. He thought he heard O'Donnell yelling somewhere -- but he couldn't tell where. He still couldn't see --
And the tug of water pulled him downward again.
He felt the icy February water this time, and the tug of water pulling him toward the downhill slope of the dock. This time he couldn't get hold of anything at all.
Too cold. God, too cold and he couldn't find the surface again. Was that light? He tried to push that way, but his legs felt leaden. Should kick off the shoes. Get rid of... clothing. Weighing him down.
St. Jude....
He might have closed his eyes. Stupid. Lost direction again. Colors played before him, pretty bubbles --
Someone caught his arm, pulled him upward. Lights above. Brighter --
And he realized that whoever had him was too large to be St. Jude. He felt a welling of panic, and tried to pull away -- but the man dragged him upward and to the air. He gasped, coughed, tried to pull free --
"Stop fighting me, Singer!"
Hughes. He knew that voice, trusted the man. He stopped fighting long enough to get his breath back. Hughes had begun pulling him toward the dock. He could see a line of people there. Someone was using the crane to clear more space.
"St. --St. Jude," Eli said, coughing more than speaking.
"Takara went for him!"
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