Start Wearing Purple written as a Novel-in-a-Day START WEARING PURPLE Originally published: 2017 Copyright © 2017 Various Authors Patrick Edmonds, Mark Rothwell, Elizabeth Mead Kaide Li, Michael Bywater, Eric Christiansen Sam Pynes, B. Morris Allen, Mathieu Nicolas Adela Torres, Keith Blount, Owen Garner Aiden Dunfield, Sue Cowling, LG Red Lee Powell, Waleed Ovase, Jaysen O’Dell R. Dale Guthrie, Heather Lovelace-Gilpin Story by: Tim Rogers The moral rights of the authors have been asserted. All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental, and more than just a little bit scary. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution - NonCommercial - NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. You are free to share (to copy, distribute and transmit the work) under the following conditions: Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work). Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes. No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work. For more details, visit: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ Original cover photograph by Tim Rogers www.novelinaday.com In Memoriam I was incredibly saddened to learn recently that our good friend Montrée Whiles passed away earlier this year, after her car was struck by a drunk driver. Montrée was one of the most enthusiastic members of the NiaD family, and her passion (and chasing) certainly helped keep the event running this long! The more I’ve learnt over the past few weeks about this remarkable woman, the more and more respect I have for her. I won’t share specific details here since she deliberately chose to use a pen name for her writing, but trust me — she was one of the good ones. Taken far too young. We’ll miss you. Also by Novel-in-a-Day: The Dark Lunar520 Made Man Section7 Marshal Law 3 Ghosts www.novelinaday.com sponsored by Literature & Latte, creators of Scrivener Time is no substitute for talent There is a well-known saying that if you give a monkey a typewriter and an infinite amount of time then it will eventually produce the complete works of Shakespeare. In 2003, the staff at Paignton Zoo gave a computer to six crested macaques and categorically proved that what you actually get is five pages of the letter ‘S’ and a broken keyboard. Time, it seems, is no substitute for talent. But can talent substitute for time…? The book you are about to read was written over the course of a single day in October 2017. For those unfamiliar with the concept of Novel-in- a-Day, it’s simple: - A skeleton of a plot is worked out in advance of the day - That plot is broken into sections, which are divided amongst the participants randomly - The writers have most of the rest of the day to write and return their chapters, working with no knowledge of the wider story or their place in it. I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as we loved putting it together. Tim October 28, 2017 Start Wearing Purple chapter one Patrick Edmonds AUGUST 2005 Alcatraz Island. The formidable military installation turned penitentiary that had imprisoned the most notorious villains of our time. Terrordon gazed on it without wonder. There was no surprise why the Sleepwalker had chosen to take it hostage. It was the perfect hideaway sprawled in the middle of the San Francisco Bay with practically no means of ambush, no means of escape. Practically. Everyone knew the island´s infamous escape artists Frank Morris and the Anglin Brothers. But few knew of the other failed attempts that ended with the bodies of convicts frozen by the icy waters being washed up on the shores of the bay. Some were carried away to sea by the current, only to be accidentally recovered by fishermen a hundred miles away. Even the strongest swimmers would succumb before reaching the shore less than a mile and a half away. A few escapees— while never found—were believed to have been dragged to the depths of the ocean and devoured by sharks—though there 1 were no man-eating sharks in the bay. Yes, people knew of the escape artists and would be escapees; the island thrived on such tales which garnered the city millions of dollars in annual tourist revenue. No one really knew of attempts to infiltrate Alcatraz, though. There was that once rumored time in 1996, back when he was just a boy, but no one remembers. Some megalomaniac had taken Alcatraz hostage then, too, but the subsequent siege had been led by a crack military outfit and ex-Alcatraz inmate. Terrordon was on his own. He would have to be careful, yet quick. The bombs were ticking. Terrordon put on his slim magnifying goggles and surveyed the circumference of the 3-story prison, which looked, ironically, more like a summer house. Henchmen were stationed along the perimeter and in the lighthouse, the guard tower, even on the defunct water tower. Over two dozen, paired in twos and sometimes threes, not a lone gunman among them. Sleepwalker, for all his diabolism, was smart. Hell, were megalomaniacs ever not smart? The easiest criminals to apprehend were always the ones who were passionate about their crimes, led by uncontrolled anger, greed, or insanity; the kind that cackled at others distress and made longwinded speeches because their purpose was not to be free, but to be remembered. Their emotions were a detriment and caused needless mistakes, like sending all their henchmen at once to take out Terrordon—or gathering them all in once convenient location—only to have those minions obliterated with one swell swoop. This is why I must stop you, Terrordon mused. You are a threat because you have no emotions. Of course, this detachment, while perhaps a strength for Sleepwalker, was also his Achilles heel. The lunatics, while 2 easier to apprehend, were infinitely more unpredictable. They would just as soon toss their hostage off a building in a tantrum without realizing they’d just tossed away any bargaining power. Or they’d detonate every bomb at once just for the hell of it, even if it killed them, too. And they were notoriously difficult to find, never hiding in the one place you assumed they would. Sleepwalker, on the other hand, was no average maniac. His lunacy had logic. He didn’t just want to cause havoc, he wanted to cause suffering. He wanted not only to be remembered, but free as well. Which meant he would predictably hide himself in an area of Alcatraz that was both easy to escape and easy to defend from all angles, no corners, no blind spots. The warden’s house. Or, at least, what was left it. The ruins were perfect a perfect command station to see everything and everyone coming from above, from ahead, from beyond, so long as you had enough eyes to cover you. Terrordon trained his gaze north again to the lighthouse, where three armed guards formed a triangle in the booth. He shifted his view down to the adjacent mansion, gutted by fire and time, but its large windows still solid and overlooking the bay and, nearby, the . heliport. You gave yourself a front row seat to the carnage! Not today, my friend. Not ever. A flash of purple skirted across his vision as other guards on the ground walked into view, clustered around something or someone as they entered the ruins of the warden’s house. Terrordon slipped off the goggles and started the Jet Ski he’d stolen from the harbor. There was no other way to confront Sleepwalker but head-on: no stealth maneuvers, no element of surprise except the surprise of an open ambush. There was no 3 time for strategic planning; the clocks were ticking. He’d have to expose himself as he came up the flank and entered at the Dock Tower. Terrordon gunned the ski and shot off across the bay, his cape waving behind him as both a beacon of hope and a shield against the water sprayed by the powerful machine slicing the rough currents. As he neared the island he raised a miniature gun and shot it towards the lighthouse in quick succession. Two guards were hit and fell moments later. The third turned and started shooting rounds from a machine gun as Terrordon raced up the path the short distance towards the ruins. Henchmen lined the road like centurions, and as he passed through, they, too, opened fire. He could do little more than duck as the bullets flailed, hitting other henchmen and whizzing past his ears. He stopped short and dropped to his knees as guards assailed him from ahead. Throwing the cape around his body, he activated the electromagnetic bulletproof shield on his utility belt. The force of the bullets pushed him back and he dug his heels into the ground with spiked cleats. In moments, if he didn’t move, the barrage of bullets would deactivate the field and he’d be a dead man. He could think of only one thing to do. Daringly, Terrordon snatched a grenade from his belt as he plugged his ears with one swift motion and with the next threw off the cape and tossed the grenade in front of him. It detonated immediately, and, though it didn’t kill his adversaries, the sonic blast deafened and immobilized them.