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Addict
Join Date: Nov 2005
Posts: 118
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Hey, this is a new twist on the above chapter. Changed the personality of the protagonist completely. He's kind of a potty mouth, so kids with sensitive ears, cover your eyes.
Chapter One
The dead city lay silent beneath the sun's glare. Andrew knelt down onto the broken concrete, motioning for his two men to do the same. While he took a few breaths, he pressed his shoulder against the skeleton of an ancient car and leaned out, studying the landscape before him. The afternoon lull was deceptive. Only the warbling of bluebirds sounded as they flew back and forth above the empty street, oblivious to the Earth's afflictions.
World just keeps on goin', the young major shrugged to himself as his dark eyes scanned the street. Nothing new, so no use cryin', right?
Right.
Hundreds more of the ruined cars lay before them, creating a maze of steel and rust. At the end of the street, a black, crumbling mansion loomed in the distance like some fallen giant. The landscape rippled in the sun's heat. Andrew ran a hand through dark, sweaty hair as his eyes lit with humor.
Almost looks like some Poe shit, he thought with a smile. Glad Eli isn't here, or I'd be hearing sonnets and quatrains to set the mood until I felt like clipping her one.
Or shooting that damn librarian who keeps giving her books.
Andrew gripped his assault rifle and raised it, wiping sweat from his face with the back of a gloved hand. He squinted out again before signaling for his two men to move forward, pointing to their destinations. Each nodded and proceeded, almost like beasts, running as close to the ground as possible. Once both of his men were well behind cover on either side of him, Andrew darted forward, hiding behind another vehicle, this one a van.
The air smelled sharp, acidic, metallic. Bloody. Andrew took a deep breath of it, closing his eyes and letting it violate his nostrils. He didn't mind the odor. He had grown up with it and it only meant one thing, in his experience. He was alive. More than he can say for the others. His eyes opened.
But this damn sure wasn't the time for deep introspection.
Keep movin'.
He adjusted his vest and started to move, but paused as a flash of sunlight reflected in his eyes from one of the mansion's windows; he quickly crouched and raised his rifle, peeking around the side of the back.
For a moment, nothing. Andrew waited for a few seconds, examining the house. He had seen the flash, no doubt in his mind. He noticed that the man to the right some meters away, Ed he called him, on account of his horse teeth, stared at him questioningly. Andrew chuckled a bit at the clueless look on Ed's face and nodded up toward the large house, indicating a hostile target. Ed raised an eyebrow, unhitched their only pair of binoculars left and poked his head over the hood of a rusted pick-up truck, to see for himself.
Andrew almost flinched as the shot sounded through the lonely street, but raised his rifle instead, to locate the target. It was in the house, he knew, but he was also much too far to do any damage. Not with just a rifle anyway. He wasn't that good. His breath sounded harsh and foreign, almost deafening in his ears as he scanned the building through the rifle’s cross-hairs. The shot's echo was a dying laugh, fading back into the day's nothing.
Come on princess, he willed as he gripped the rifle. He licked his dried lips as he searched. Flash again for me darling.
But no more flashing. Nothing, but warm silence. Summer. The young major glanced to Ed's body, slumped against the truck, to find that his head had disappeared. The binoculars lay mangled on the ground beside him. Andrew did nothing but sigh with a soft curse, turning toward his other man, Mason, who was now sitting in the front doorway of one of the broken houses lining the street.
Andrew shut his eyes tightly before opening them again. It had to be a mistake, a trick, a fucking heat mirage!
The large, bald man's legs shook as his eyes darted to and fro, sometimes resting on his former comrade's body before continuing their frantic wandering. He was new, fresh from the masses into the life of a soldier, and so far he wasn't doing very well, in Andrew's opinion. The young major tried desperately to motion to him, but the man wouldn't look toward him. His eyes scanned the mansion with a rifle that seemed to shake more than his legs. Despite the situation, a small part of Andrew wondered if the man would shit his pants. The rest of him was screaming for him to formulate a plan, so that he could get back home and not have to worry about stupid, stupid people.
"Mason!" he whispered as loud as possible. "Mason, what in the name of God's asshole are you doing? Are you really this dumb or do you have some kind of mental fuck-up you didn't tell us about!"
No response. Nothing but shaking.
"Mason!" he whispered again, getting extremely irked. "If you don't get your stupid, egg-head ass over here right now, I'll have you cleaning the toilets back home with your tongue, I swear it!"
Mason's fearful eyes glanced to Andrew, and for a moment, the young major's hope rose. Maybe he had gotten through to the bastard after all. Maybe his natural leadership skills had wakened the poor boy from his addled state.
Maybe not.
That hope, which had been soaring upwards towards blue skies, plummeted when Mason proceeded to put his face in his hands, cry, and mumble, all in one swift, pathetic motion. Andrew shook his head in frank amazement, not because Mason had freaked out. He had seen that before, sometimes felt like doing it himself. No, he was amazed at the fact that the poor bastard hadn't had his head popped off yet by the sniper watching.
Must be laughing his ass of right now. Or waiting for me to show myself.
"Mason!" the young major tried once more, half-heartedly. "You're gonna die..."
If he heard, he didn't care.
Fucking peachy, Andrew glowered as he spat onto the hot concrete and slid toward the hood of the van, poking his head out as much as he could. There had to be some way to save both their asses.
Now, whoever is in that house could have already picked Mason off, Andrew thought as dozens of plans and ideas spun in his mind. So does that mean-
The blast of a shotgun interrupted his thoughts, echoing throughout the street and startling a flock of ravens from their roost before allowing silence to reign once more. For a few moments, the young major was still. He then crept toward the back of the van and looked out, to the doorway where Mason once sat. And he felt hot, frantic fear rise from his balls to his throat.
Shit.
Standing in the doorway, over the mangled corpse of a once, very-much alive solider, stood a child clad in a dark, violet bodysuit. Andrew almost ran, but then the mental flash of Ed’s headless body convinced him otherwise, and he pressed his back against the van. He noticed his hands trembling and drew a long, shaky breath.
Calm. Calm. They're not invincible.
He exhaled.
Just damn near impossible.
He turned his attention back toward the doorway. The child was reloading the shotgun over her kill with unsettling serenity, while her dark, eyes scanned the area. Her hair, equally dark and shoulder-length, swayed in the dusty wind. She looked to be about twelve.
Andrew licked his lips again, his finger tapping the trigger of the rifle as sweat ran down his face, into his eyes. He shifted position with great care, his knee digging into the ground.
Engage? While she's distracted...? Or run?
For a few seconds he sat immobile, unsure of what to do next. Images and memories of the marionettes flickered through his mind like the quickest movies in a dark theatre. It wasn't a good show.
Do somethin' dammit, he screamed inwardly.
He decided to act and tensed, either to run or attack, he actually had no idea which, but hesitated when the child looked toward the mansion where the sniper waited, dark eyes focusing. Andrew held his breath, crouching as low as he could.
He forgot to exhale as the eyes shifted toward his direction. Andrew quickly pulled his head back, closing his eyes.
Fuck.
Calm, measured footsteps sounded as the girl began to walk down the stairs, toward him. She cocked the shotgun.
Shit. Act. Now.
He opened his eyes and threw himself forward in a fear inspired sprint, only looking back to shoot at the approaching girl with one hand. Concrete chips flew around her in a flurry as she raised the shotgun up, never flinching even as one of the bullets grazed her cheek. He jumped over the hood of a car just as the slugs riddled the other side. Without looking, he raised his gun over the hood and sprayed bullets, hoping to buy some time. The sniper hadn't shot at him, thank God, but who knew what could happen in a few seconds?
Andrew then spotted a dark narrow, little alley, between houses, leading into the backyard and other streets. He rose quickly to his feet and ran, spraying the walking girl and diving in between two of the houses. In one motion, he rolled into a crouch staring at the corner, where she would appear. After a few seconds, he got quickly to his feet and ran to the end of the alley, climbing over the broken, wooden fence. He stayed low as he darted through a backyard, occasionally looking back in case the girl was following.
Into the house. Wait.
He ran into the small house through the back door and into an abandoned kitchen, closing it behind him. Then, with a crooked smile, Andrew turned and looked out the door's small window, toward the fence, gun ready. His hands no longer shook. He had seen only one of the things destroyed in his life, but one was enough to convince him. As soon as the little girl appeared, he'd shoot her in the face. It was perfect. Brilliant. Nothing could stop it.
His grin widened.
And then, God or Life or Fate decided to play a small joke.
They began crawling over the gate like ants, every face blank. Each carried an automatic rifle in unfeeling hands, and each marked him with eyes as empty as the abandoned house he hid in. The smile dropped from Andrew's face and if his bladder were full, he imagined he'd have wet himself. He stumbled back, mouth dry as he turned tail and ran through the house toward the front door, not looking back. With a cry, he threw his lithe frame through the door, splintering it to pieces as he dived and landing onto the hot ground. And that's how he found himself staring at a pair of small, black boots.
What the fuck?
He looked up to find a boy standing over him, wrapped in a tattered, brown sheet. The boy's face was an empty slate, like the others, but what made Andrew hesitate were the eyes. They were gray, almost silver, and stared at him from behind strands of dark hair. It wasn't the color that deterred the young major however, but the life they exuded. This wasn't one of the soulless things following him.
But then what is it? Not a kid, that's for damn sure. Not walking around out here like he's at the fucking fair...
A crash sounded from inside the house behind them and both looked back. The marionettes had reached the back door and were most likely sweeping every room. Andrew knew he only had less than a minute to either formulate a plan, or run screaming like a little girl.
Running part's sounding pretty tempting, besides the cowardliness...
"You should probably get going," the boy spoke, his voice soft. With that, he began walking toward the house, the brown cloth trailing behind him.
What the fuck?
Andrew stood to his feet with a grunt and a small chuckle, wiping a bit of blood from his scraped chin. "And you're just gonna fight all those things by yourself? A kid wrapped in a blankie?"
"Something like that," the boy answered without looking back.
For a moment, Andrew was still. Fight? Or flight? Engaging that many of the things was a death sentence, he knew, and running would give him enough time to save his beloved ass while the kid got mauled. But running wasn't a part of his nature, especially when there was a boy who probably didn't even have eight pubic hairs walking into the fight with nothing but a blanket and a prayer.
Plus, if he does somehow kill them by himself, which I'm sure will happen along with a blue moon and flying horsies, I won't have any stories to tell Eli when I get back. Except how I ran like my ass was on fire.
He lingered a few moments longer before shaking his head and jogging toward the house, rifle cocked.
Fuck, I'm stupid.
Last edited by Serenade : 04-18-2007 at 03:23 PM.
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<--- me writing
