This is my first post on here, it's the first chapter of the novel I'm currently working on. It's a second draft, although it's still nowhere near as polished as I would like it to be. All constructive criticism appreciated and I shall return the favour
Dante sprinted down the narrow alleyway. His feet pounded off the wet, black ground. Rain, sweat and mascara joined forces to impair his eyesight. The adrenaline was doing a poor job of hiding the blinding pain surging from the weeping gash in his side. None of this mattered; Dante knew that stopping for a rest was the same as slitting his own throat. Stumbling out of the end of the alley, he noticed a derelict petrol station. With his energy drained and no sign of his pursuers, he decided to find a hiding place. After quickly scanning the surrounding area with his dark eyes, he slumped against the petrol pumps. His trembling frame lacked the energy to grip his sword properly. It fell to the ground with the sickening noise of steel scraping concrete. Dante fought a losing battle against his rapidly closing eyelids and eventually passed out.
He was awoken by a savage grip around his thin neck. His eyes snapped open as his face twisted into an expression of raw terror. With his eyes still in REM he caught broken glances of a large man wearing a red plaid shirt and faded jeans. His face was as worn and creased as his clothes, instantly betraying his age. To his left stood a smaller man wearing a tracksuit which was covered in disgusting, crusted stains. His nose was a deep shade of scarlet and his eyes were glazed over. It seemed he was present in only the most physical sense of the word. Behind them, sparks flew as a frail looking girl messed around with some kind of generator. The smaller man leaned closer to Dante, as if inspecting him. The sides of his mouth curled in disgust as he spoke in a calm, gravelly tone.
“Jesus, It's another one of those vampire freaks. They're as bad as the cannibals. Better kill him before he causes any more trouble.”
As he spoke, the foul odour of stale whiskey swept over Dante. The man raised his weapon, which looked like the cruel love child of an axe and a hammer. Plaid shirt firmly lowered the weapon with his free hand.
“Not yet! He might be able to tell us something about the Deviants. Grab his sword; we're taking him back to base.”
The smaller man sighed in disappointment and picked up the sword. Plaid shirt spoke once more, this time in a slower, relaxed tone, “Can we use the generator Treats?”
The girl (presumably Treats) replied,
“Yeah. It's too heavy for me though, you'll have to carry it.”
Plaid shirt released his grip on Dante and turned towards Treats. “No Problem,” he then glanced towards Dante and said, “Keep an eye on him, Duncan.” Dante was passing in and out of consciousness as Duncan roughly hauled him to his feet. Duncan had a sneering grin on his face; he was obviously enjoying Dante's pain a great deal.
“Start walking Dracula,” Duncan commanded. He pulled Dante towards him with a jerk of his arm and whispered, “I can't wait to get some information out of you. I really hope you don't co-operate. Fun is pretty hard to come by these days.” Dante's world began to spin. The lighting was becoming dimmer and brighter in sporadic, surreal patterns. He noticed that Treats was keeping a watchful eye over the exchange. Her forehead was furrowed with concern. Dante's mouth curled into a crooked smile.
“What the hell do you have to smile about?!” Duncan spat. His outburst caused Dante's smile to spread even further across his pale face.
“Just taking comfort in the thought that you're all as screwed as I am.” The blow from Duncan's skeletal fist was too quick for Dante to see. It collided with his chin, causing a nauseating crunch. He instantly blacked out.
Dante sluggishly stirred into consciousness. Before his sight kicked in, he could hear several different voices, becoming increasingly loud as he came to. His retinas slowly began to take in his surroundings. He was in the back of a truck. Three mattresses were squeezed against the far wall and several candles littered the floor. Treats, Duncan and Plaid Shirt were sat around him, engaged in discussion.
“It could be worse, at least we're definitely the good guys!” Treats said optimistically.
“That is probably the faggiest thing I've ever heard,” Duncan retorted.
“It's important to stay upbeat in this kind of situation,” She replied.
“Christ, how did we get stuck with this kid?” Duncan complained.
“At least she's not as reckless as you,” said Plaid Shirt.
“Exactly. Thanks Fyfe!” said Treats, as her eyes lit up gratefully.
“Can't we put a gag on her or something?” Duncan sighed.
“That's a bit kinky,” Fyfe smirked.
“You guys act as if you're not one bad decision away from being eaten alive,” said Dante, as his brain finally kicked into action.
“Hey, you're awake! At least Goth kids never change. They still know how to suck the life out of a room,” said Duncan as he approached Dante and knelt down beside him. He took a long swig from a bottle of whiskey. He seemed to be contemplating the right question to ask.
“So, what's your story kid? You don't seem as screwed up as the other Deviants. How come we found you alone? We've only ever seen your type hunting in packs,” he asked, in a much kinder tone than usual.
Dante thought back on the events of the last 24 hours. Remembering it was painful but he realised he had no other choice if he wanted to stay alive.
“I'm Dante. I used to run with a group but they turned on me. I tried to stop them from doing something terrible. Guess they thought I had too much of a conscience to be trusted,” he replied thoughtfully, “They've reached the same stage of hysteria as the cannibals now.”
Duncan drank deeply from his bottle once more, seemingly deep in thought.
“Dante? Even for a goth, that's pretty pathetic,” Duncan chuckled, “Hell, at least you know when to stop. I saw a bunch of those freaks torturing a couple in Raigmore, beside the Hospital. Had 'em chained to a bus stop. One of them was setting the chick's clothes on fire with an aerosol and lighter. You don't even want to know what they did to the guy.” Treats squirmed uncomfortably on the mattress. Fyfe opened his mouth to speak but before he could, there was a loud knock on the side of the truck. The vibrations shook Dante's slender arms.
“Damn, we'll have to leave this until later. Can you fight kid?” Fyfe whispered.
“Sure,” Dante said eagerly, “But wouldn't it be safer to stay in here?”
“No. Sounds like there's only one of them out there. If we don't kill it quickly, others will come,” Fyfe replied ominously. He handed the sword to Dante and opened the shutter as quietly as possible. Dante hopped silently onto the ground behind the truck. Fyfe lowered himself down afterwards, gesturing to Dante that he should take point. Peering around the corner, Dante could see nothing but the oppressive darkness which engulfed the battered grey truck. Fyfe had a puzzled look on his face but remained vigilant, slowly scanning the environment with his shotgun raised. Suddenly, there was movement near the cab of the truck. Dante could hear footsteps increasing in pace, but could see nothing. He raised his sword and began walking towards the sound. A face, completely twisted with rage and torment emerged from the sooty night. Dante reflexively slashed at the creature's neck. Waves of crimson waste erupted from the ragged stump as the severed head hit the ground with a hollow thump. Fyfe recoiled as his eyes burned from droplets of blood hitting his retinas at high velocity.
“Christ's sake, did you have to decapitate it?!” he whispered angrily.
“I... I didn't exactly have a lot of time on my hands to think it through,” Dante stuttered defensively, “Let's just head back in.” As Fyfe locked the truck's shutter, Dante sat down on the mattress beside Treats. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't stop a nostalgic smile from creeping across his blood-stained face.
“Umm...why are you smiling, Dante?” Treats asked apprehensively as she passed him a towel. Dante turned to face her.
“Oh, sorry, it must look pretty creepy. That cannibal was my headmaster at high school. I never thought I'd get the chance to do that to him,” he joked. Fyfe paced the trailer nervously.
“Alright guys, we should probably get some sleep. We're going to need to move camp tomorrow. There have been too many attacks in the past few days,” he said. As if on auto-pilot, Duncan began to extinguish the candles. As the last few flickered out, jagged shadows waltzed along the dented metal. Dante shared a mattress with Treats. As soon as he lay down, his exhausted body succumbed to sleep.
Dante's rest was invaded by several uncomfortable dreams. Some of life before the crisis broke, some of what may have happened were he not so fortunate. The most pronounced was the memory of life just after the crisis had exploded in the sleepy Highland town. He remembered reading about the sudden, brutal attacks carried out by previously upstanding members of society in the local newspaper. Before long, the town centre was a desolate waste with a morbid carpet of corpses soaked with congealing blood. At the time the situation had reached fever pitch, Dante was at his friend Shade's house. A few hours earlier, they had been looking at conspiracy theories on her outdated computer. The most popular theory involved the compulsory cancer suppressant that the government had issued 2 years before the outbreak.
“That doesn't make any sense. How can this be good for the government?” Dante asked skeptically.
Shade ran her fingers through her jet black hair, apparently deep in thought. Her black lips formed a ridiculous pout as she responded, “Maybe they didn't realise until it was too late. I remember those psychologists kept babbling about the possibility of brain damage. Haven't you wondered why we aren't turning into raging cannibals?” Dante was distracted by a scraping sound coming from the window. As he pulled the curtains back, he saw the headless figure of his headmaster, clawing furiously at the filthy glass.
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