Post by Scifishocks on Jul 24, 2007 23:01:34 GMT 1
I AM working on a new sequel to 'The War of The Worlds:Aftermath' as you might see in the relevant section.
But, whilst I'm doing that I'm also tinkering with another story.
This is to be a Zombie story, set in the North East of England, with a bit of a twist (which I won't give away for now!)
As this is my first 'modern' work (and therfore, quite a departure for me), I'd like opinions, etc, of these frst draft parts, if you'd care to offer them.
BE WARNED. THIS SEGMENT CONTAINS LANGUAGE AND HORROR SCENES!!!
Stiffs
By Tony Wright
Chapter 1. A World Gone Mad.
On the morning after the disaster, the sun rose as it had for millions of mornings before.
Red tinged clouds scudded across the sky like so many boats as the yellow star slowly fought the frosty air in an attempt to warm the dew covered cities and towns of the North East of England.
Unlike the mornings previous to this one, however, there was no early morning activity. On mornings such as this, there should be a growing tide of people running for trains or joining ever-growing queues on the A1 road that snaked through the area. People were most definitely not trudging the streets on their way to whatever form of employment put bread on their tables.
The cause of this extraordinary turn of events lay in a valley deep in the Northumberland countryside. A smoking ruin now, with girders blackened and pointing to the sky like burnt fingers and roof wide open to the elements.
A dense cloud of yellow gas still hovered in patches around the huge complex like a Victorian London pea-souper. On the periphery of the compound, fire engines stood still and unattended, their lights flashing, all but one with motors having long given up the ghost and stopped. Soon, that engine’s motor would splutter and cough, then finally die as the last of the fuel in it’s tank was exhausted.
Around these vehicles, the would-be saviours of the Chemical works lay grey and stiff, some with terrible burns or with protective suits torn and smoke smudged. All had faces horribly twisted and foam-flecked, as they had died in unimaginable agony from the yellow gas that had entered their lungs.
Further afield, anyone walking the quiet fields surrounding the compound would see many bird and small animals lying here and there on the frosty ground, unmoving. Not a sound, no bird song nor distant traffic noise, pierced the deathly quiet that had settled on this damned place.
A short way away, lay the quiet hamlet of Burstow. Ordinarily, there was a market on this day and, at this hour, there would stall holders putting out their wares, there would be traffic winding through it’s narrow main street and mothers accompanying their offspring to school. No happy children’s laughter or calls offering fresh local produce echoed through these streets today.
A milkfloat had crashed into the War Memorial in the centre of the town, it’s driver lay, head broken and bloody half out of the cab and a pool of milk trailed away from the rear of the vehicle. A police car stood to one side, it’s occupants, a WPC and a Sergeant, also lying dead on the cold ground as they had arrived too late to warn the inhabitants of the cloud of death that approached this sleepy town.
But still, despite the trail of destruction, there were, slowly and more evident as the sun rose higher in the clear sky, signs of life.
Shuffling and banging sounds could be heard coming from some of the houses that lined the High Street of Burstow. Once or twice, screams and moans tore through the air.
As these ominous sounds grew more and more common around the Town, the milkman fell out of his cab and, slowly and painfully, stood up, blood leaking anew from his damaged skull. The man’s neck gave a series of sickening cracks as he tried, instinctively, to hold his smashed head upright. Soon, he gave up and shuffled away groaning, his head flopping loosely on his left shoulder.
On the ground near the police car, the prone WPC’s eyes flickered open.
Chapter 2. Death in a Big City.
Newcastle was placed under martial law.
The authorities had, at first, been confounded by events and the response had been slow.
As the great yellow cloud had drifted, slowly and inexorably, into Tyne and Wear, the police and local authorities had tried, ineffectually to start with, to head off any public panic. It was already too late, the news of the disaster and the cloud drifting unstoppably toward them had been broadcast by the rolling news channels and astounded citizens of the City had gaped at their televisions leaving breakfast untouched, all thoughts of another day at work forgotten. Then the panic had begun.
Calls for calm had gone unheeded and soon, the A1 heading south was totally blocked. White-faced, frightened occupants of the vehicles stuck on this road had thumped their horns at the cars in front, and shouted at their crying children, to no avail. Tempers flared and road rage incidents broke out along the stretch of the road, as normally upright citizens had taken out their terror and frustration on others, people just like themselves, who’s only crime was being in their way.
The Territorial Army was mustered as best as could be on short notice and all exits out of the City were blocked by armed men who had been issued with protective suits. Police struggled vainly to contain incidents as they cropped up, as fights and public disorder or every kind broke out all over the city.
Then the cloud drifted slowly over from the Northern horizon and normally sceptical people prayed for some kind of redemption from a God that they had not previously believed in.
Soon, deathly quiet set in as the yellow cloud covered the great sprawling city in a noxious blanket of death. People fell as they ran, twitching, vomiting and screaming. White froth flecked their lips and their eyes turned up in their sockets. Their skin took on a grey hue and they stopped struggling and lay still. This pattern of death was repeated across the whole of Newcastle.
But not everyone died.
Some members of the authorities had made it to old Cold War era bunkers that had, unknown to the citizens of the country, been mothballed and were quickly reactivated.
Fresh, scrubbed air filled the lungs of police and army men and women and members of local government as they sat, in somewhat cramped conditions, in the bunkers and waited for the danger to pass.
Monitoring devices on the surface took samples of the deadly outside air and sent back readings to machinery that was manned by uniformed men.
It was three days before the cloud had been blown completely away and it was safe to emerge from underground.
Eyes dazzled by bright sunshine, the occupants of these shelters nervously took their first steps into the world of the dead.
Chapter 3. The World of the Dead.
Bruce Robson sniffed at the air and waited in the cool darkness of the Eldon Square Shopping Centre for the shuffling crowd of Stiffs to pass. He checked the ammunition was snugly in his shotgun once more to make sure it was fully loaded. You couldn’t be too careful with those dead fuckers about.
Bruce had seen his best mate taken down by a group of those bastards just a few days back. He’d warned his friend time and time again to make sure his weapon was loaded and in good order. Instead, John, full of bravado and adrenalin, had faced off some of the Stiffs and his gleeful smile had dropped from his face as the hammer had clicked down on an empty chamber. The stiffs were on him as quick as lightning and, despite Bruce taking a few of them down before fleeing, they had set upon John and literally torn him to shreds. One or two of them glared at Bruce greedily as they fed on the steaming flesh. It was as if they had all the time in the world and they would be looking to him for seconds. Bruce had run away screaming angry obscenities over his shoulder at the feasting corpses.
Soon the Stiffs were gone and, after a good look around, Bruce thought that it would be a good time to make tracks.
He cautiously made his way down the street. Litter blew in a brisk breeze and pools of blood lay here and there. It seemed as if the city itself was bleeding.
The wind ruffled his sandy coloured hair as he carefully made his way across the pavement toward the Monument Metro station.
A white and orange painted bus lay smashed and blackened across the entrance to the subway, underneath its body was a Ford Ka that had been squashed flat by the larger vehicle. A pool of congealed black blood spoke of the fate of the car’s occupants. Dismembered body parts, a chewed leg here, a gnawed arm there, lay scattered near the bus as if the Stiffs had looted the bus like a live man might loot a supermarket. As, in fact, Bruce had done himself on several occasions.
He made it as far as the monument when he heard a questioning groan from behind him.
‘Shit!’ Bruce breathed and raised his weapon. Slowly, he turned to the source of the sound.
A girl stood there behind him. Pretty too, or at least had been. A ripped pink t-shirt struggled to cover large breasts (the t-shirt, Bruce could just about make out through the rips and bloodstains, ironically said ‘Drop Dead Gorgeous’) and a short, blood-spattered denim skirt and fishnets covered her shapely legs. Under different circumstances, she would have been just the type Bruce would have gone after in one of the Bigg Market clubs after a few bevies.
The girl stood stood, slightly lopsidedly due to having lost one shoe, and glared at him with milky white eyes, her dirty blonde hair waving above her head in the breeze, making her look like some sort of fucked up Medusa. Congealed blood was smeared around her mouth like drunkenly applied make-up. Drool came in a silver trail from her slack jaw as she gazed at him. She obviously saw him as dinner.
Shuffling up behind her came two men. One was a huge bear of a man with a barrel chest and long, matted hair. Part of his scalp had been torn away and white skull showed beneath torn muscle and flesh. His ‘Jack Daniels’ t-shirt was covered in congealed gore and he clutched some unfortunate persons intestines in one huge hand. The Stiff’s companion was a small weasly man with no arms. He gnashed discoloured teeth at Bruce and looked as deadly as his accomplice, despite the size difference. They made to move forward.
‘Ladies first,’ said Bruce as he raised his weapon. There was a boom as his shotgun discharged and the girl rocked backwards on her feet, half of her head blown away. The bear-man, who was stood close behind her now, had his t-shirt further dirtied with flecks of grey matter that spewed, in a fine cloud of blood spray, from the girl’s ruined head. The girl fell, twitching, to the floor in a crumpled heap.
Weasly stepped forward menacingly as Bear gazed curiously at his messy chest. Bruce swung his weapon around again and fired off a quick shot. Weasly’s lower jaw was blown off and his teeth clattered to the pavement, but he stepped forward again.
Bruce slung the shotgun over his shoulder and dug into his jacket pocket, bring out a Desert Eagle pistol in one smooth movement. He quickly squeezed off two shots and Weasly fell over onto his female companion.
‘Just you and me then, big fella,’ Bruce said to Bear and pointed his pistol at the big guy’s head. The first shot went a little off and the man’s throat exploded and the Stiff staggered back gurgling. Before he could start forward again, another shot smashed it’s way through his skull and he dropped to the floor, dead. Again.
‘Easy peasy,’ Bruce breathed and shoved the pistol back into his pocket. ‘Now I’d better make tracks’.
Bruce turned just in time to see another crowd of Stiffs heading his way, too many, the only choice was to run for it.
He ran up the road until his lungs ached and soon he had lost the crowd far behind.
‘Lucky escape there, Brucie,’ he said to himself as he leaned against a wall getting his breath back.
There was a sudden noise that he couldn’t place, sort of a screaming noise. Like an engine being over-revved. He placed the noise and it’s origin too late, the Capri smashed into his waist at 40 miles per hour, pinning him to the wall, and a gout of black blood erupted from his mouth as his innards were crushed.
The door of the Capri swung open and Bruce, his vision swimming and in immense pain, still found time to be curious as to who had done this to him.
The sound of the engine ticking and steam escaping was all Bruce could hear, but he saw a Stiff girl standing looking at him curiously, blood ran in rivulets down her face from a long cut in her forehead. She gazed blankly at him for a few moments then, as all for Bruce Robson faded to black, she shambled away.
But, whilst I'm doing that I'm also tinkering with another story.
This is to be a Zombie story, set in the North East of England, with a bit of a twist (which I won't give away for now!)
As this is my first 'modern' work (and therfore, quite a departure for me), I'd like opinions, etc, of these frst draft parts, if you'd care to offer them.
BE WARNED. THIS SEGMENT CONTAINS LANGUAGE AND HORROR SCENES!!!
Stiffs
By Tony Wright
Chapter 1. A World Gone Mad.
On the morning after the disaster, the sun rose as it had for millions of mornings before.
Red tinged clouds scudded across the sky like so many boats as the yellow star slowly fought the frosty air in an attempt to warm the dew covered cities and towns of the North East of England.
Unlike the mornings previous to this one, however, there was no early morning activity. On mornings such as this, there should be a growing tide of people running for trains or joining ever-growing queues on the A1 road that snaked through the area. People were most definitely not trudging the streets on their way to whatever form of employment put bread on their tables.
The cause of this extraordinary turn of events lay in a valley deep in the Northumberland countryside. A smoking ruin now, with girders blackened and pointing to the sky like burnt fingers and roof wide open to the elements.
A dense cloud of yellow gas still hovered in patches around the huge complex like a Victorian London pea-souper. On the periphery of the compound, fire engines stood still and unattended, their lights flashing, all but one with motors having long given up the ghost and stopped. Soon, that engine’s motor would splutter and cough, then finally die as the last of the fuel in it’s tank was exhausted.
Around these vehicles, the would-be saviours of the Chemical works lay grey and stiff, some with terrible burns or with protective suits torn and smoke smudged. All had faces horribly twisted and foam-flecked, as they had died in unimaginable agony from the yellow gas that had entered their lungs.
Further afield, anyone walking the quiet fields surrounding the compound would see many bird and small animals lying here and there on the frosty ground, unmoving. Not a sound, no bird song nor distant traffic noise, pierced the deathly quiet that had settled on this damned place.
A short way away, lay the quiet hamlet of Burstow. Ordinarily, there was a market on this day and, at this hour, there would stall holders putting out their wares, there would be traffic winding through it’s narrow main street and mothers accompanying their offspring to school. No happy children’s laughter or calls offering fresh local produce echoed through these streets today.
A milkfloat had crashed into the War Memorial in the centre of the town, it’s driver lay, head broken and bloody half out of the cab and a pool of milk trailed away from the rear of the vehicle. A police car stood to one side, it’s occupants, a WPC and a Sergeant, also lying dead on the cold ground as they had arrived too late to warn the inhabitants of the cloud of death that approached this sleepy town.
But still, despite the trail of destruction, there were, slowly and more evident as the sun rose higher in the clear sky, signs of life.
Shuffling and banging sounds could be heard coming from some of the houses that lined the High Street of Burstow. Once or twice, screams and moans tore through the air.
As these ominous sounds grew more and more common around the Town, the milkman fell out of his cab and, slowly and painfully, stood up, blood leaking anew from his damaged skull. The man’s neck gave a series of sickening cracks as he tried, instinctively, to hold his smashed head upright. Soon, he gave up and shuffled away groaning, his head flopping loosely on his left shoulder.
On the ground near the police car, the prone WPC’s eyes flickered open.
Chapter 2. Death in a Big City.
Newcastle was placed under martial law.
The authorities had, at first, been confounded by events and the response had been slow.
As the great yellow cloud had drifted, slowly and inexorably, into Tyne and Wear, the police and local authorities had tried, ineffectually to start with, to head off any public panic. It was already too late, the news of the disaster and the cloud drifting unstoppably toward them had been broadcast by the rolling news channels and astounded citizens of the City had gaped at their televisions leaving breakfast untouched, all thoughts of another day at work forgotten. Then the panic had begun.
Calls for calm had gone unheeded and soon, the A1 heading south was totally blocked. White-faced, frightened occupants of the vehicles stuck on this road had thumped their horns at the cars in front, and shouted at their crying children, to no avail. Tempers flared and road rage incidents broke out along the stretch of the road, as normally upright citizens had taken out their terror and frustration on others, people just like themselves, who’s only crime was being in their way.
The Territorial Army was mustered as best as could be on short notice and all exits out of the City were blocked by armed men who had been issued with protective suits. Police struggled vainly to contain incidents as they cropped up, as fights and public disorder or every kind broke out all over the city.
Then the cloud drifted slowly over from the Northern horizon and normally sceptical people prayed for some kind of redemption from a God that they had not previously believed in.
Soon, deathly quiet set in as the yellow cloud covered the great sprawling city in a noxious blanket of death. People fell as they ran, twitching, vomiting and screaming. White froth flecked their lips and their eyes turned up in their sockets. Their skin took on a grey hue and they stopped struggling and lay still. This pattern of death was repeated across the whole of Newcastle.
But not everyone died.
Some members of the authorities had made it to old Cold War era bunkers that had, unknown to the citizens of the country, been mothballed and were quickly reactivated.
Fresh, scrubbed air filled the lungs of police and army men and women and members of local government as they sat, in somewhat cramped conditions, in the bunkers and waited for the danger to pass.
Monitoring devices on the surface took samples of the deadly outside air and sent back readings to machinery that was manned by uniformed men.
It was three days before the cloud had been blown completely away and it was safe to emerge from underground.
Eyes dazzled by bright sunshine, the occupants of these shelters nervously took their first steps into the world of the dead.
Chapter 3. The World of the Dead.
Bruce Robson sniffed at the air and waited in the cool darkness of the Eldon Square Shopping Centre for the shuffling crowd of Stiffs to pass. He checked the ammunition was snugly in his shotgun once more to make sure it was fully loaded. You couldn’t be too careful with those dead fuckers about.
Bruce had seen his best mate taken down by a group of those bastards just a few days back. He’d warned his friend time and time again to make sure his weapon was loaded and in good order. Instead, John, full of bravado and adrenalin, had faced off some of the Stiffs and his gleeful smile had dropped from his face as the hammer had clicked down on an empty chamber. The stiffs were on him as quick as lightning and, despite Bruce taking a few of them down before fleeing, they had set upon John and literally torn him to shreds. One or two of them glared at Bruce greedily as they fed on the steaming flesh. It was as if they had all the time in the world and they would be looking to him for seconds. Bruce had run away screaming angry obscenities over his shoulder at the feasting corpses.
Soon the Stiffs were gone and, after a good look around, Bruce thought that it would be a good time to make tracks.
He cautiously made his way down the street. Litter blew in a brisk breeze and pools of blood lay here and there. It seemed as if the city itself was bleeding.
The wind ruffled his sandy coloured hair as he carefully made his way across the pavement toward the Monument Metro station.
A white and orange painted bus lay smashed and blackened across the entrance to the subway, underneath its body was a Ford Ka that had been squashed flat by the larger vehicle. A pool of congealed black blood spoke of the fate of the car’s occupants. Dismembered body parts, a chewed leg here, a gnawed arm there, lay scattered near the bus as if the Stiffs had looted the bus like a live man might loot a supermarket. As, in fact, Bruce had done himself on several occasions.
He made it as far as the monument when he heard a questioning groan from behind him.
‘Shit!’ Bruce breathed and raised his weapon. Slowly, he turned to the source of the sound.
A girl stood there behind him. Pretty too, or at least had been. A ripped pink t-shirt struggled to cover large breasts (the t-shirt, Bruce could just about make out through the rips and bloodstains, ironically said ‘Drop Dead Gorgeous’) and a short, blood-spattered denim skirt and fishnets covered her shapely legs. Under different circumstances, she would have been just the type Bruce would have gone after in one of the Bigg Market clubs after a few bevies.
The girl stood stood, slightly lopsidedly due to having lost one shoe, and glared at him with milky white eyes, her dirty blonde hair waving above her head in the breeze, making her look like some sort of fucked up Medusa. Congealed blood was smeared around her mouth like drunkenly applied make-up. Drool came in a silver trail from her slack jaw as she gazed at him. She obviously saw him as dinner.
Shuffling up behind her came two men. One was a huge bear of a man with a barrel chest and long, matted hair. Part of his scalp had been torn away and white skull showed beneath torn muscle and flesh. His ‘Jack Daniels’ t-shirt was covered in congealed gore and he clutched some unfortunate persons intestines in one huge hand. The Stiff’s companion was a small weasly man with no arms. He gnashed discoloured teeth at Bruce and looked as deadly as his accomplice, despite the size difference. They made to move forward.
‘Ladies first,’ said Bruce as he raised his weapon. There was a boom as his shotgun discharged and the girl rocked backwards on her feet, half of her head blown away. The bear-man, who was stood close behind her now, had his t-shirt further dirtied with flecks of grey matter that spewed, in a fine cloud of blood spray, from the girl’s ruined head. The girl fell, twitching, to the floor in a crumpled heap.
Weasly stepped forward menacingly as Bear gazed curiously at his messy chest. Bruce swung his weapon around again and fired off a quick shot. Weasly’s lower jaw was blown off and his teeth clattered to the pavement, but he stepped forward again.
Bruce slung the shotgun over his shoulder and dug into his jacket pocket, bring out a Desert Eagle pistol in one smooth movement. He quickly squeezed off two shots and Weasly fell over onto his female companion.
‘Just you and me then, big fella,’ Bruce said to Bear and pointed his pistol at the big guy’s head. The first shot went a little off and the man’s throat exploded and the Stiff staggered back gurgling. Before he could start forward again, another shot smashed it’s way through his skull and he dropped to the floor, dead. Again.
‘Easy peasy,’ Bruce breathed and shoved the pistol back into his pocket. ‘Now I’d better make tracks’.
Bruce turned just in time to see another crowd of Stiffs heading his way, too many, the only choice was to run for it.
He ran up the road until his lungs ached and soon he had lost the crowd far behind.
‘Lucky escape there, Brucie,’ he said to himself as he leaned against a wall getting his breath back.
There was a sudden noise that he couldn’t place, sort of a screaming noise. Like an engine being over-revved. He placed the noise and it’s origin too late, the Capri smashed into his waist at 40 miles per hour, pinning him to the wall, and a gout of black blood erupted from his mouth as his innards were crushed.
The door of the Capri swung open and Bruce, his vision swimming and in immense pain, still found time to be curious as to who had done this to him.
The sound of the engine ticking and steam escaping was all Bruce could hear, but he saw a Stiff girl standing looking at him curiously, blood ran in rivulets down her face from a long cut in her forehead. She gazed blankly at him for a few moments then, as all for Bruce Robson faded to black, she shambled away.
, anyway, it was great and nice to read, it make me want to read more ;D ;D