It's a good start. School assignment or something?
Anyway, I'd definitely like to see more, it's a great idea you have there. Though I'm not a fan of the 2nd person format.
It's certainly better than anything I could write at the moment, at any rate.
Thanks, Fortyk. It was mainly just a homework task, but it's really inspired me to keep writing again
I chose second-person because I feel it really works for this style of story, and it's a real challenge to write
That's another thing I liked, how you had no specific character, just You. You your self are locked in there.
Glad to see SOMEONE cares
Yeah, that's what I was really aiming for. It helps draw in the reader and add a sense of immersion
Anyway, after a couple of hours of writing, I have a continuation of the story for you! The story above was really just a prelude, showing what happened to the city - now we get into the real guts of the story
You never thought you’d have to kill a man for food in your own city. But you did. He lies at your feet, blood pooling around his torso, a bullet wound in his chest. His glazed-over eyes stare at the sky, and an expression of surprise is plastered across his features. You’d found him the night before – he’d been careless with his fire, and like the smell of blood, it had attracted a predator. He was easy to overcome – all he had to defend himself with was a small-calibre pistol and a switchblade, and you had dispatched him with ease using your scavenged assault rifle. He hadn’t even been able to fire off a shot before you broke his arm, and his death was swift and painless after that...
As you sit by the remains of the dead man’s campfire, you look around his makeshift shelter. It was, by many survivor’s standards, well constructed – built in the remains of two-story building, the basic shape of the rooms was still easily recognisable. A piece of corrugated iron protected a small table from the elements, and a bookcase had been converted for use as a storage area for cans of food and bottled water. A sleeping bag and pillow lay in one corner of the building, and sandbags and wooden planks cordoned off the windows and doorways. Un-slinging your rifle and laying it on the table, you begin searching the desk that occupies the other corner of the room.
A picture frame occupies one corner of the table, and the faded photograph inside shows a man and a woman on their wedding day – presumably the man who now lies several blocks away under a pile of plastic rubbish bags. A diary lays open on the desk, a pen nearby it – surprisingly, it has a date marked on the last entry. You had seldom time for dates after the incident, and days and weeks are only marked by the events that occurred. Finally, you look inside one of the draws. A Bible and a wooden cross lie near the front of the desk, along with two spare clips of ammunition and a flashlight. Grabbing the ammunition and stripping the torch for batteries and the bulb, you take one last look at the religious remnants of a time long gone, and decide to take them along as well. Might make for a good fire starter, you think, tucking them into your backpack. Just as you prepare to search the rest of the building, something underneath the desk catches your eye. Moving the sturdy wooden chair out of the way, you reach under the desk and withdraw a child’s teddy bear, a ribbon tied around its neck..."Come on," a woman to your right screams, "we won't make it to the quarantine zone in time!" Taking one last glimpse inside your home, you shut the door and run to the car parked in the garage. A young, blonde-haired woman - your wife - is at one of the rear doors, strapping a young boy into a booster seat. Your son is no more than three years old, and you smile fondly at him as you open the driver's door and clamber in, fastening a seatbelt across your chest. Your wife climbs into the passenger seat, shuts the door, and you stamp down on the accelerator.
Driving through the city streets, you look out at the people running down the roads, calling you to stop. "Leave them," your wife says, "we have to look after ourselves." You nod grimly, and cast a fleeting glance over your shoulder. Your son is sleeping, a teddy bear wrapped in his arms, and a smile lights up your features for a brief second. Turning back to the road, you keep driving ever onwards, down stretch after stretch of city street...
Looking at the bear in your arms, you pause for a few moments, before tucking it into your bag with the other meagre possessions the man had left. Stopping to grab a few cans of food from the shelf as you head to the doorway, you grab your rifle and exit the building, making for the city streets. The pale light cast by the sunset illuminates the streets as the sun dips below the horizon. An orange glow lights the city, drawing your eye to the broken vehicles and houses, and the remnants of a barricade up ahead..."All this appears to be in order, sir. We've got an evacuation vehicle up ahead for officers and their families. If you'll just follow this man..." the sergeant in charge of the command post says, waving to a soldier who had been standing by, rifle pointed down the street. The men stationed at the checkpoint are dressed in combat armour, and carry the same standard-issue military assault rifles that you have slung over one shoulder. Helmets with visors obscure their features, with the exception of the sergeant at the gates and the radioman. The sergeant looks around thirty years old, and has a determined glint in his eyes. The radioman, however, is barely over twenty, and has a wild and panicked look easily visible on his features. The sergeant snaps you a smart salute as you pass him, and you return it casually, not betraying your inward concern.
As you and your wife - your son in her arms - follow after the soldier, you glance around at the checkpoint. The barricade at the front is made from heavy-duty concrete and barbed surrounds the entrance. Large chain-link fences surround the checkpoint, and soldiers manning mounted machine guns survey the area. As you move down the street, soldiers glance at you, and look away, focussed on their task. You finally reach the landing pad and gaze up at the helicopter stationed there. Soldiers surround the landing pad, and industrial floodlights hold the darkness at bay. A small group of people cluster to one side of the pad, three soldiers standing guard over them. As you approach, the lead soldier notices the rank on your uniform and nods at you, gesturing for you to climb aboard the helicopter. As you help your wife and child aboard, the group gathered to the side begin to move over towards the helicopter, only for the soldiers to force them back. “What’s going on?” your wife asks, strapping herself into a seat in the helicopter.
"We're higher priority candidates," you reply, fastening your own harness and signalling the pilot to take off. "They have to wait for the next helicopter, if there is one. Now sit tight - we're headed to one of the bunkers up north." As you finish speaking, the helicopter's blades begin to whirl, and after a few moments, the craft lifts off the ground and heads northwards over the city...
Edited by Grombrindal, 25 February 2009 - 10:11 PM.