Post by King_Smitty on Nov 18, 2008 18:09:41 GMT -5
Still need to finish it. I might rework a lot of it. I started this a long time ago for an idea of a cheap zombie film. now its just a thriller story. maybe a book?
Details need to be re-done.
Bit too flashy. But whatev.
No Title
Topping off that 12 gauge you slink into a dark corner to catch your breath. After a long night of relentless slaughter you begin to shake and your mind wanders. It's then that you realize that you're covered in blood. Is it yours, or someone else’s? You check the magazine in the pistol attached to your thigh. 6 left. Not good. You've got a pain in your leg and it’s starting to drizzle. Peering out from the alleyway, you make your way to an abandoned hotel to rest. Locking the door you check the window...long drop. Barricading yourself in you find it a little easier to breathe.
After a short rest you wake up, understanding that it’s impossible to go back to sleep. Seeing the .40 caliber Glock semi-auto against your wrist you realize why. What on Earth happened? Your life ended on that quiet August day...but you can’t think about that. You need to clean your guns and have a little snack. But then it happened. The noise you have grown to fear and know all to well. You hear foot steps. Instinctively you get that shotgun out and you're prepared to take as many of them as you can. A heroic end to a sad sad story...
“I don’t care that it’s your job,” she said in a commanding tone, “it’s just too damn far away!”
She certainly had a way to make you feel guilty. You didn’t mind, she never knew that you didn’t exactly go away on business meetings, a agent for the CIA, you were always risking your neck here and there.
“And on my birthday! I can’t stand this sometimes, well at least you’ll be here for the party.”
Giving a slight smile, you know there really wasn’t anything to say. Going home that night, you realized that this job could end the relationship between the two of you. God Damn! She didn’t realize how pissed off you were. Five steady and wonderful years of dating that woman, even if it was plagued with lies and untruths, you were finally prepared, going to spring the question in front of everyone at the party. Couldn’t do it now, seeing as you’ll be gone for who knows how long afterwards.
All packed up you try to head to her house to say goodbye, finding that she had gone to town. It stung, but you knew she wasn’t angry with you. I’ll call her when the plane lands, you decided quietly to yourself.
At the terminal you met with the partners in this mission, it seemed that they were just as annoyed at this last minute call as you were. These were good people, John had several times saved you from a bullet or two in the back, and the young gun Mitchell, well he was to say while holding back a great deal, brilliant.
The plane small and the space uncomfortable, you got into the jet and found your way to your seats. Having little sleep from the night before, you somehow find it relaxing to be on the cramped plane. Refusing breakfast, you slept from take-off to landing. While grabbing the bags and the gear, you listen as the phone rings and rings, no answer. Hmm. She’s probably at her parents’, I’ll call later.
After checking in to the hotel and contacting your supervisors, you set up all the equipment, and start surveillance. This habitual process takes only a few minutes, when you finish you find yourself laying on the cot listening to the phone ring some more, this time you leave a message, a rarity because you feel messages aren’t very effective.
Like always, the folder is left in the room before your team reaches it. This target’s background, like all others, is unknown to you. All you do is take them out. As you watch the clock tick by, you lay there waiting and waiting.
The next morning you go over everything with the other two.
“Since this is your first time, I want you keeping watch outside.” You mention to Mitchell. Killing a person isn’t the prettiest part of the job, so you figured you’d get him used to it at first. Only nodding, he understood.
Continuing, you went over the objective, Victor White, showed his picture, a late 30’s man, not very tall, 5’8” it said on his sheet. They were to be silent, knives and silenced pistols only, though Mitchell was to carry the shotgun, only to be used in an emergency. It was hardly ever used, John used to joke that instead of firing a bullet, a little flag with the word “Bang!” would pop out of the barrel.
Watching the news, the power suddenly goes out. Switching on the radio, you are informed of a city wide black out. Mitchell asks if that means the mission is over, and you assure him that by no means can we deviate from the plan, black out or none. But being the experienced man you are, you phone the boss to tell them that you are proceeding with the mission, and that there was a blackout in the city.
You make your way to the destination, a small building off the road a little bit, the side walk is between the park and the woods. Its getting dark outside and you wished that you had a little light to work with.
After a few hours, and after the perimeter is inspected and all points of escape are carefully watched, you motion to Mitchell to make his way into the woods a little and keep watch. John follows you to the front of the building, and you shake his hand, a common practice between you two, for after 15 years, the two of you have seen many strange things and have cheated death several times.
But you had never experienced anything as strange as this.
As you enter the building, or what seems to be a stairwell, you notice a light and don’t hear a generator, the power must be back on. Silently down the steps you cautiously make your way to the bottom. There, strewn amongst the floor, is what looks like parts of Victor White. A little nauseated, and party worried, you secure the floor. What the hell? This is a problem. You call Mitchell, and tell him to come in.
Your job is over, but curiosity gets the better of you. Looking around, you find stacks and stacks of notes, its Russian, you can’t read it. There’s a huge window with a room on the other side. It seems someone smashed it. Inside that room you find blood splashed up all over the place, with what looks like, body parts all over the floor. What is going on in this place? Feeling very uncomfortable, you call in to HQ. No answer. This happens sometimes when shifts change; you’ll call back in a couple minutes. Calling Mitchell in here a second time, you get no answer.
Frank Mitchell turned quickly and glanced behind him. He could see next to nothing in the alarmingly dark night. There was a rustling in the bushes. A scratch, a thud. A temporary trickle of sweat flowed down between his eyes. He leveled the shotgun towards the bush. The movement caused the lamp that was hanging from the shotgun barrel to swing wildly. The shadows danced and retreated from the swinging light.
The bushes convulsed from movement within. A blur darted behind the leaves, just out of the light's range. Frank twitched nervously. Frank saw a whooshing movement. Something struck his head. He reeled backward.
Dampness soaked his back and his heart was pounding rapidly; each beat made him painfully aware of the spot on his head where he was hit. Opening his eyes and looked out, he was on his back on the ground. The grass cushioned him. Cold and reassuring.
It must have been a bird that hit him. Yeah, that must be it, Mitchell thought. Just a bird, just a bird. Through the careful manipulation of his leg muscles, he regained his standing position. They didn't seem too agreeable. He tried taking deep cleansing breaths. In with the good, out with the bad. In with the good, out with the bad. In, out. Deep breaths.
At the local BookBuy, Tim Davids reluctantly started re-organizing the shelves; dusting the books off one by one was never a fun task. Mindlessly doing his work, his mind strayed on the recent events of his day. It's never a good time to have to go to court. The repeated appearances were draining, more emotionally than physically.
Watership Down, his favorite book, seemed to have more dust on it than usual. That's not surprising, being a book about talking rabbits. As he picked up the collection of papers and ink, he couldn't help but drop it on the floor. Screams like that mean only one thing. Problems. Rushing to the doors, he saw masses of people running away from something. Taking some courage, he peered outside. The sight was unbearable. There were people, hunched over and covered in...blood. He felt compelled to help them, but what he realized is that these people were eating other people. In a hideous fashion, they tore at their victims. Their necks, their arms, whatever they could get a hold of.
To his left someone was on their hands and knees slowly crawling toward him. He yelled out to them to hurry inside the store.
The girl was in her mid twenties, somewhat attractive; Out of Tim's league by any standard. As she made her way to him he called out again, and the look in her eyes was that of desperation. Rushing out to help her, he managed to drag her into the store. She told him her name and what had happened. She was attacked by some strange man who scratched her and bit her shoulder. The wound was fresh and bled pretty bad. He ripped a curtain to help cover the wound before he could take her to the hospital, but she was getting weaker by the minute.
Collapsing on the floor, Tim dialed the emergency services. Busy. No doubt with the mayhem in the streets. He wondered if this was going on city wide. Rushing to the girl as she lay on the floor, motionless and cold to the touch, he feared the worst. The girl had died.
Deciding that it would be in his best interest to lock the door, he got up and went to the glass doors and pulled them shut, wasting no time locking them in the process. Whoever those people are, they aren't getting in. Returning to the girl, he realized she was moving. Relaxing a little, he tried to help her up.
Details need to be re-done.
Bit too flashy. But whatev.
No Title
Topping off that 12 gauge you slink into a dark corner to catch your breath. After a long night of relentless slaughter you begin to shake and your mind wanders. It's then that you realize that you're covered in blood. Is it yours, or someone else’s? You check the magazine in the pistol attached to your thigh. 6 left. Not good. You've got a pain in your leg and it’s starting to drizzle. Peering out from the alleyway, you make your way to an abandoned hotel to rest. Locking the door you check the window...long drop. Barricading yourself in you find it a little easier to breathe.
After a short rest you wake up, understanding that it’s impossible to go back to sleep. Seeing the .40 caliber Glock semi-auto against your wrist you realize why. What on Earth happened? Your life ended on that quiet August day...but you can’t think about that. You need to clean your guns and have a little snack. But then it happened. The noise you have grown to fear and know all to well. You hear foot steps. Instinctively you get that shotgun out and you're prepared to take as many of them as you can. A heroic end to a sad sad story...
“I don’t care that it’s your job,” she said in a commanding tone, “it’s just too damn far away!”
She certainly had a way to make you feel guilty. You didn’t mind, she never knew that you didn’t exactly go away on business meetings, a agent for the CIA, you were always risking your neck here and there.
“And on my birthday! I can’t stand this sometimes, well at least you’ll be here for the party.”
Giving a slight smile, you know there really wasn’t anything to say. Going home that night, you realized that this job could end the relationship between the two of you. God Damn! She didn’t realize how pissed off you were. Five steady and wonderful years of dating that woman, even if it was plagued with lies and untruths, you were finally prepared, going to spring the question in front of everyone at the party. Couldn’t do it now, seeing as you’ll be gone for who knows how long afterwards.
All packed up you try to head to her house to say goodbye, finding that she had gone to town. It stung, but you knew she wasn’t angry with you. I’ll call her when the plane lands, you decided quietly to yourself.
At the terminal you met with the partners in this mission, it seemed that they were just as annoyed at this last minute call as you were. These were good people, John had several times saved you from a bullet or two in the back, and the young gun Mitchell, well he was to say while holding back a great deal, brilliant.
The plane small and the space uncomfortable, you got into the jet and found your way to your seats. Having little sleep from the night before, you somehow find it relaxing to be on the cramped plane. Refusing breakfast, you slept from take-off to landing. While grabbing the bags and the gear, you listen as the phone rings and rings, no answer. Hmm. She’s probably at her parents’, I’ll call later.
After checking in to the hotel and contacting your supervisors, you set up all the equipment, and start surveillance. This habitual process takes only a few minutes, when you finish you find yourself laying on the cot listening to the phone ring some more, this time you leave a message, a rarity because you feel messages aren’t very effective.
Like always, the folder is left in the room before your team reaches it. This target’s background, like all others, is unknown to you. All you do is take them out. As you watch the clock tick by, you lay there waiting and waiting.
The next morning you go over everything with the other two.
“Since this is your first time, I want you keeping watch outside.” You mention to Mitchell. Killing a person isn’t the prettiest part of the job, so you figured you’d get him used to it at first. Only nodding, he understood.
Continuing, you went over the objective, Victor White, showed his picture, a late 30’s man, not very tall, 5’8” it said on his sheet. They were to be silent, knives and silenced pistols only, though Mitchell was to carry the shotgun, only to be used in an emergency. It was hardly ever used, John used to joke that instead of firing a bullet, a little flag with the word “Bang!” would pop out of the barrel.
Watching the news, the power suddenly goes out. Switching on the radio, you are informed of a city wide black out. Mitchell asks if that means the mission is over, and you assure him that by no means can we deviate from the plan, black out or none. But being the experienced man you are, you phone the boss to tell them that you are proceeding with the mission, and that there was a blackout in the city.
You make your way to the destination, a small building off the road a little bit, the side walk is between the park and the woods. Its getting dark outside and you wished that you had a little light to work with.
After a few hours, and after the perimeter is inspected and all points of escape are carefully watched, you motion to Mitchell to make his way into the woods a little and keep watch. John follows you to the front of the building, and you shake his hand, a common practice between you two, for after 15 years, the two of you have seen many strange things and have cheated death several times.
But you had never experienced anything as strange as this.
As you enter the building, or what seems to be a stairwell, you notice a light and don’t hear a generator, the power must be back on. Silently down the steps you cautiously make your way to the bottom. There, strewn amongst the floor, is what looks like parts of Victor White. A little nauseated, and party worried, you secure the floor. What the hell? This is a problem. You call Mitchell, and tell him to come in.
Your job is over, but curiosity gets the better of you. Looking around, you find stacks and stacks of notes, its Russian, you can’t read it. There’s a huge window with a room on the other side. It seems someone smashed it. Inside that room you find blood splashed up all over the place, with what looks like, body parts all over the floor. What is going on in this place? Feeling very uncomfortable, you call in to HQ. No answer. This happens sometimes when shifts change; you’ll call back in a couple minutes. Calling Mitchell in here a second time, you get no answer.
Frank Mitchell turned quickly and glanced behind him. He could see next to nothing in the alarmingly dark night. There was a rustling in the bushes. A scratch, a thud. A temporary trickle of sweat flowed down between his eyes. He leveled the shotgun towards the bush. The movement caused the lamp that was hanging from the shotgun barrel to swing wildly. The shadows danced and retreated from the swinging light.
The bushes convulsed from movement within. A blur darted behind the leaves, just out of the light's range. Frank twitched nervously. Frank saw a whooshing movement. Something struck his head. He reeled backward.
Dampness soaked his back and his heart was pounding rapidly; each beat made him painfully aware of the spot on his head where he was hit. Opening his eyes and looked out, he was on his back on the ground. The grass cushioned him. Cold and reassuring.
It must have been a bird that hit him. Yeah, that must be it, Mitchell thought. Just a bird, just a bird. Through the careful manipulation of his leg muscles, he regained his standing position. They didn't seem too agreeable. He tried taking deep cleansing breaths. In with the good, out with the bad. In with the good, out with the bad. In, out. Deep breaths.
At the local BookBuy, Tim Davids reluctantly started re-organizing the shelves; dusting the books off one by one was never a fun task. Mindlessly doing his work, his mind strayed on the recent events of his day. It's never a good time to have to go to court. The repeated appearances were draining, more emotionally than physically.
Watership Down, his favorite book, seemed to have more dust on it than usual. That's not surprising, being a book about talking rabbits. As he picked up the collection of papers and ink, he couldn't help but drop it on the floor. Screams like that mean only one thing. Problems. Rushing to the doors, he saw masses of people running away from something. Taking some courage, he peered outside. The sight was unbearable. There were people, hunched over and covered in...blood. He felt compelled to help them, but what he realized is that these people were eating other people. In a hideous fashion, they tore at their victims. Their necks, their arms, whatever they could get a hold of.
To his left someone was on their hands and knees slowly crawling toward him. He yelled out to them to hurry inside the store.
The girl was in her mid twenties, somewhat attractive; Out of Tim's league by any standard. As she made her way to him he called out again, and the look in her eyes was that of desperation. Rushing out to help her, he managed to drag her into the store. She told him her name and what had happened. She was attacked by some strange man who scratched her and bit her shoulder. The wound was fresh and bled pretty bad. He ripped a curtain to help cover the wound before he could take her to the hospital, but she was getting weaker by the minute.
Collapsing on the floor, Tim dialed the emergency services. Busy. No doubt with the mayhem in the streets. He wondered if this was going on city wide. Rushing to the girl as she lay on the floor, motionless and cold to the touch, he feared the worst. The girl had died.
Deciding that it would be in his best interest to lock the door, he got up and went to the glass doors and pulled them shut, wasting no time locking them in the process. Whoever those people are, they aren't getting in. Returning to the girl, he realized she was moving. Relaxing a little, he tried to help her up.