said.
“I didn't...” Scott said, fiddling with the dashboard screen, attempting to regain control of the vehicle.
“You're doing it wrong.” she said, putting the laptop in the footwell and shooing him out the way.
The screen wasn't recognising their biometric signatures, wouldn't even let them change the air conditioning levels, let alone steer the car.
Their stomachs tied themselves into identical knots.
“Company car...” he said, turning to his wife with tears starting to form in his eyes.
She reached for her phone and spun through the contacts frantically, calling their daughter. The car began to speed up, crossing lanes on the North Circular, to the angry horns of other drivers around them.
“Hi, you've reached Sarah, leave a message.”
Scott and Jennifer looked at one another, both of them lost for final words. The car was doing eighty, eighty five, then ninety. They held hands tightly.
“We love you, Sarah.” they said together.
The car was up to a hundred, a hundred and five, pushing towards a hundred and ten. The phone beeped. A disconnection. The service was blocked. They wondered if their message made it through, wondered if any of their scheming and plotting mattered in the end. What should have mattered was their daughter. Blowing the whistle was certainly right, but now they were realising all too late that some right things aren't as important as others.
The car took a curve too sharply and nuzzled up to the crash cushion, wheels catching, throwing the car up and over itself. The moment seemed to last forever, eyes locked, hands clasped, Scott and Jennifer no longer thought of doing the right thing, or of their own lives, or their revolution.
They thought of Sarah.
Then they had no thoughts at all.
Before the emergency services were on the scene, a white Bentley pulled up to the crash site, the driver getting out, as instructed by his passenger. He reached in to the smashed windows and checked the pulses of the accident victims. It was too late for them, but perhaps not too late for the partially smashed laptop that now lay between them. He reached in and took it, walking back to the car and handing it to his passenger, before returning to the driver's seat and continuing onwards. The passenger inspected the laptop. The screen was smashed, but the hard drives would be retrievable. She was more interested in the USB drive.
The whistle.
She had made certain, this time at least, that it was not to be blown.
About ABAM.INFO
ABAM, or 'A Book A Month', is a terrible experiment to see how long a former screenwriter can produce an original novella every month (along with companion audiobook) before he goes insane.
Alternating between dramatic and comedic prose, the books will be released on the first Monday of every month.
If you've enjoyed this story in any capacity, do please review it on GoodReads – I read them all and will no doubt veer towards writing more of what you like.
More information about future releases can be found at https://ABAM.info
Thank you kindly for being an observer to my mental deterioration.
The Whistle is a sidequel to the first ABAM, '@', and a prequel to a new novel, 'NLI-10', which comes out March 7th 2016.
synopsis
Sarah is a burn-out. After her parent's death, her twenties have been wasted in a psychedelic haze. Now she wants to be sober, avoid temptation, so she joins a clinical trial to be sequestered away from the world.
Paranoia flows as weird experiments are carried out on their waking and sleeping bodies. The subjects realize the trial is changing them. Programming them. Installing false memories and removing emotions.
If they don't do something before their tenure ends, they might not be human when they leave.
Full length titles available now:
@
At 21, Cassie’s life sucks. So on a whim, she starts farming her decisions out to Twitter.
Before she knows it, the lives of her family and friends hang in the balance, and she’s racing against the clock to discover who’s pulling her strings.
Dead City
Jon Gilligan is the only living man in a city of the undead. He narrates his daily routine in the style of a noir detective, casting himself as a hero to all those around him.
When he stumbles on to a conspiracy, it's time for him to be a hero for real, break out of the city and his noir fantasy to save London's Dead City from itself.
About The Author
Lee Isserow is an award-winning screenwriter and filmmaker, with over fifteen years spent trawling the back streets and dark alleys of the 'entertainment' industry.
He's pretty sure he has some traits of autism, because he's been constantly working and obscenely prolific for the entire duration, writing over a hundred screenplays, many of which he's adapting into forthcoming BAMs, because very few people are willing to turn them into movies. For now.
He lives in Liverpool, England because he accidentally bought a house there. He's not quite sure how that happened – but assumes part of that is because he used to drink a lot.
If you'd like to watch the pretty things he makes, you may find them at LeeIsserow.com.
You may also interact, call him names, and read his awful jokes and observations on Twitter: @Lee_Isserow.
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