Post by Ethan on Sept 10, 2007 16:55:39 GMT -5
ok, my computer went retarded and I lost all of the new infected I had written, so, after being pissed for a few hours, I decided it was a good oppertunity to go through and change stuff to fit the new ideas that I have in my head (they have changed considerably)
I am not quite done the first chapter, but will post the four pages I have (i kept the prologue because I liked it a fair amount...)m anyways, give constructive critisism, because I want to know what readers think (even if its harsh, just tell me how I can improve)
Chapter 1: Impatience
November 21st, 2002
The storm grew worse as the messenger made his way towards the bunker, set strategically, in the middle of nowhere, but at the same time, in plain sight for such an important building. He pulled his collar closer around his neck, and grasped his jacket pockets, trying to warm his chilled body. His vision was blurred, and could hardly see any of the terrain in his line of sight; the stormed blocked most of the surroundings from his view. It was a shame he had to walk, but the nearest helipad sat a few miles from the bunker, and the only transportation available to him was his own two feet.
His heartbeat grew in intensity from the excitement of the warmth to come, the bunker mere feet from him now. He approached the thick steel doors, examined the red button that appeared to act as a doorbell, and pressed it cautiously. He could hear the loud buzz from the inside, and shook slightly as he heard multiple locks click open, and the door move slowly sideways, revealing armed guards, dressed in military uniforms and carrying formidable firearms, all pointed towards the young man’s face. He could feel his knees grow weak, and fainted girlishly; his body shook from the strong blizzard wind, casing itself in the small frame of the messenger’s body.
Sven woke up in, what was obviously, an empty room, except for a bland white collapsible table, two chairs on opposite sides, and a painfully bright lamp shining directly into his eyes. Overcoming the cliché feel of the room, he realized there was someone sitting in the chair opposite him, but could not make out any discernable features due to the fact the light from the lamp was far too bright.
“I feel I should…welcome you,” said the man in fluent Russian, although his accent screamed otherwise.
“What is this place?” Sven asked, anxious and afraid.
“If I told you, I’d have to have you shot,” the man said, his voice expressionless.
“What?!”
The man chuckled, but it was slightly cold, “I’m only kidding,” he said, then, “Do you speak English?”
“Y-yes,” Sven stuttered in English.
“Good,” the man said cheerfully, switching languages, “I just hate the way you Ruskies talk. It sounds so…suspicious.” He laughed, his accent now obviously American.
Sven laughed nervously, and then sat in awkward silence until the man said, “I believe you have a message for me? I would like to get it.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” Sven fumbled in his jacket, removing an envelope and pushing it across the table, “m-may I leave now?”
“Don’t you need some sort of signature?”
Sven paused, finding the words; his English was not perfect, “No, my boss said this was…off the records…no paper trail. Only he even knows I am here,” he laughed nervously, “he said that secrecy was important.”
The man laughed, “That’s good, that’s really good.”
“So,” he said, averting his gaze from the direction of the voice, “may I…go now?”
“I don’t really think you should be leaving.”
“Why not?” he asked, feeling frightened.
“That’s a nasty bump you have on your head.”
“What bump?” he asked, feeling his head for a sore spot, but finding none.
“This one,” the man said, nodding behind Sven.
Sven was knocked out instantly, as the guard rammed the butt of his rifle into the back of the young Russian’s head.
“Take him to a holding cell, and try to keep him moderately comfortable,” he opened the envelope, glanced at the paper, and grinned toothily, “we wouldn’t want to violate the Geneva Convention, now would we?” he laughed.
***
September 4th, 2007
Ryan rapped his fingers on his desk, the beat growing in intensity with each passing moment. Where was his dad? He should have been back hours before, and Ryan’s anxiety was rising. It had been five hours since his father had embarked upon the food run, and after four, they were declared missing in action. He knew, or at least hoped, though, that his father was safe, and just running a little late.
But why did Ryan care if his father came back or not? Gary Fox had never been there for his son. He had never supported Ryan’s choices, and had never believed in his child, yet the younger Mr. Fox could not lose the man, even if he had never shown love. His mother had passed away during childbirth, and the only other immediate family he had, growing up, was his sister, but even she was taken from him.
Ryan shook himself from his thoughts; before they strayed too far into a topic he had forced himself not to think about.
He stood to his 6’2 height, and ran his long bony fingers through his scruffy hair, pushing his bang out of his green eyes. Ryan was lean and muscular, with a large nose, thin lips, a tan complexion, and a well past five O’clock shadow.
He stomped his foot, and was fed up of waiting. He had to do something…anything.
That was Ryan’s biggest problem, his impulsive nature, and it had constantly gotten him into various trouble that only lowered himself in his father’s eyes. Before April 13th, 2006 (otherwise knows as the ‘incident’), the latest of Ryan’s felonies involved underage drinking, breaking and entering, and a case of aggravated assault that was, fortunately, dropped.
Gary always made it a point to bring up all of these crimes when yelling at Ryan. One of his favourite phrases happened to be “You aren’t even eighteen yet, and your criminal record is already beyond that of most deviants much older than you are,” his other favourite involved him looking up to the heavens, cursing god for giving him such a terrible child in exchange for his wife’s life. But despite all of these harsh comments, Ryan could not help but feel that he had a duty to do something, so he made his way out of his shelter, and towards that of the leader’s.
John Stevens was the founder of a massive pharmaceutical chain known as Pharmatech Incorporated. After it’s launch, it boomed with success, becoming the countries top pharmacy with stores stationed in almost every city, coast to coast. John had moved his headquarters out into the middle of nowhere, and built the town of Linsberg around the massive Pharmatech command center. Within the city, he also launched the largest of his factories, which drew many people to Linsberg, finding stable jobs. As people continued to movie into the town, two high schools, and two public schools were also built. A few local businesses had also been set up, and Linsberg became a slice of heaven for many families seeking to duck out of their hectic lives in the cities. This all changed though on April 13th, 2006.
On that day, the town was under siege by an enemy only referred to, ominously, as ‘them’. ‘They’ were quick with their takeover of the small town, taking hold of the Pharmatech headquarters first (John being one of the few survivors who had went on to create a safe haven for refugees of the attack), then spreading out to the rest of the small town. They were resourceful, and had the element of surprise on their side. They made sure no one got in, or out, of the city. Another advantage ‘they’ had was the fact that there were many different types if them, each serving different purposes that allowed them to work efficiently. Lastly, and the greatest advantage the opposing side owned was that a certain type of them, and not surprisingly the most common, were able to infect, and essentially transform anyone below the age of forty (a ball park figure never quite confirmed) into one of them, who could, in turn, infect others causing the virus to spread to the citizens not fighting their mid life crisis’s, like a cold. The way the infection took root was through a wound. The creatures’ claws and teeth were, theoretically, laced with the substance that caused the infection.
Mr. Fox looked around. It was a dump, and quite literally so. The Alliance was built inside of the relatively spacious wasteland of Linsberg, due to the fact that it was on the outskirts of town, roughly one hundred meters away from the houses, and easily defended, with barbed wire and medium voltage electric fences, that would give even the toughest of intruders a nasty shock. The Alliance was set up much like the town, with Stevens in the center, with the largest shelter, and all of the other ‘homes’ encircling it.
The quality of living was bearable at the best of times. With the two hundred or so citizens of the safe haven, land was scarce, and people salvaged anything they could get their hands on to live in.
Food was also one of the things that The Alliance lacked. Stevens’ remedy for the predicament was to implement weekly food runs where he would send teams of men, over the age of forty, to retrieve sustenance from any place they could find it. This was, in essence, a suicide mission, seeing as the men were not equipped with weapons or any means of defense because any and all weapons were reserved for the protection of the dump.
I am not quite done the first chapter, but will post the four pages I have (i kept the prologue because I liked it a fair amount...)m anyways, give constructive critisism, because I want to know what readers think (even if its harsh, just tell me how I can improve)
Chapter 1: Impatience
November 21st, 2002
The storm grew worse as the messenger made his way towards the bunker, set strategically, in the middle of nowhere, but at the same time, in plain sight for such an important building. He pulled his collar closer around his neck, and grasped his jacket pockets, trying to warm his chilled body. His vision was blurred, and could hardly see any of the terrain in his line of sight; the stormed blocked most of the surroundings from his view. It was a shame he had to walk, but the nearest helipad sat a few miles from the bunker, and the only transportation available to him was his own two feet.
His heartbeat grew in intensity from the excitement of the warmth to come, the bunker mere feet from him now. He approached the thick steel doors, examined the red button that appeared to act as a doorbell, and pressed it cautiously. He could hear the loud buzz from the inside, and shook slightly as he heard multiple locks click open, and the door move slowly sideways, revealing armed guards, dressed in military uniforms and carrying formidable firearms, all pointed towards the young man’s face. He could feel his knees grow weak, and fainted girlishly; his body shook from the strong blizzard wind, casing itself in the small frame of the messenger’s body.
Sven woke up in, what was obviously, an empty room, except for a bland white collapsible table, two chairs on opposite sides, and a painfully bright lamp shining directly into his eyes. Overcoming the cliché feel of the room, he realized there was someone sitting in the chair opposite him, but could not make out any discernable features due to the fact the light from the lamp was far too bright.
“I feel I should…welcome you,” said the man in fluent Russian, although his accent screamed otherwise.
“What is this place?” Sven asked, anxious and afraid.
“If I told you, I’d have to have you shot,” the man said, his voice expressionless.
“What?!”
The man chuckled, but it was slightly cold, “I’m only kidding,” he said, then, “Do you speak English?”
“Y-yes,” Sven stuttered in English.
“Good,” the man said cheerfully, switching languages, “I just hate the way you Ruskies talk. It sounds so…suspicious.” He laughed, his accent now obviously American.
Sven laughed nervously, and then sat in awkward silence until the man said, “I believe you have a message for me? I would like to get it.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” Sven fumbled in his jacket, removing an envelope and pushing it across the table, “m-may I leave now?”
“Don’t you need some sort of signature?”
Sven paused, finding the words; his English was not perfect, “No, my boss said this was…off the records…no paper trail. Only he even knows I am here,” he laughed nervously, “he said that secrecy was important.”
The man laughed, “That’s good, that’s really good.”
“So,” he said, averting his gaze from the direction of the voice, “may I…go now?”
“I don’t really think you should be leaving.”
“Why not?” he asked, feeling frightened.
“That’s a nasty bump you have on your head.”
“What bump?” he asked, feeling his head for a sore spot, but finding none.
“This one,” the man said, nodding behind Sven.
Sven was knocked out instantly, as the guard rammed the butt of his rifle into the back of the young Russian’s head.
“Take him to a holding cell, and try to keep him moderately comfortable,” he opened the envelope, glanced at the paper, and grinned toothily, “we wouldn’t want to violate the Geneva Convention, now would we?” he laughed.
***
September 4th, 2007
Ryan rapped his fingers on his desk, the beat growing in intensity with each passing moment. Where was his dad? He should have been back hours before, and Ryan’s anxiety was rising. It had been five hours since his father had embarked upon the food run, and after four, they were declared missing in action. He knew, or at least hoped, though, that his father was safe, and just running a little late.
But why did Ryan care if his father came back or not? Gary Fox had never been there for his son. He had never supported Ryan’s choices, and had never believed in his child, yet the younger Mr. Fox could not lose the man, even if he had never shown love. His mother had passed away during childbirth, and the only other immediate family he had, growing up, was his sister, but even she was taken from him.
Ryan shook himself from his thoughts; before they strayed too far into a topic he had forced himself not to think about.
He stood to his 6’2 height, and ran his long bony fingers through his scruffy hair, pushing his bang out of his green eyes. Ryan was lean and muscular, with a large nose, thin lips, a tan complexion, and a well past five O’clock shadow.
He stomped his foot, and was fed up of waiting. He had to do something…anything.
That was Ryan’s biggest problem, his impulsive nature, and it had constantly gotten him into various trouble that only lowered himself in his father’s eyes. Before April 13th, 2006 (otherwise knows as the ‘incident’), the latest of Ryan’s felonies involved underage drinking, breaking and entering, and a case of aggravated assault that was, fortunately, dropped.
Gary always made it a point to bring up all of these crimes when yelling at Ryan. One of his favourite phrases happened to be “You aren’t even eighteen yet, and your criminal record is already beyond that of most deviants much older than you are,” his other favourite involved him looking up to the heavens, cursing god for giving him such a terrible child in exchange for his wife’s life. But despite all of these harsh comments, Ryan could not help but feel that he had a duty to do something, so he made his way out of his shelter, and towards that of the leader’s.
John Stevens was the founder of a massive pharmaceutical chain known as Pharmatech Incorporated. After it’s launch, it boomed with success, becoming the countries top pharmacy with stores stationed in almost every city, coast to coast. John had moved his headquarters out into the middle of nowhere, and built the town of Linsberg around the massive Pharmatech command center. Within the city, he also launched the largest of his factories, which drew many people to Linsberg, finding stable jobs. As people continued to movie into the town, two high schools, and two public schools were also built. A few local businesses had also been set up, and Linsberg became a slice of heaven for many families seeking to duck out of their hectic lives in the cities. This all changed though on April 13th, 2006.
On that day, the town was under siege by an enemy only referred to, ominously, as ‘them’. ‘They’ were quick with their takeover of the small town, taking hold of the Pharmatech headquarters first (John being one of the few survivors who had went on to create a safe haven for refugees of the attack), then spreading out to the rest of the small town. They were resourceful, and had the element of surprise on their side. They made sure no one got in, or out, of the city. Another advantage ‘they’ had was the fact that there were many different types if them, each serving different purposes that allowed them to work efficiently. Lastly, and the greatest advantage the opposing side owned was that a certain type of them, and not surprisingly the most common, were able to infect, and essentially transform anyone below the age of forty (a ball park figure never quite confirmed) into one of them, who could, in turn, infect others causing the virus to spread to the citizens not fighting their mid life crisis’s, like a cold. The way the infection took root was through a wound. The creatures’ claws and teeth were, theoretically, laced with the substance that caused the infection.
Mr. Fox looked around. It was a dump, and quite literally so. The Alliance was built inside of the relatively spacious wasteland of Linsberg, due to the fact that it was on the outskirts of town, roughly one hundred meters away from the houses, and easily defended, with barbed wire and medium voltage electric fences, that would give even the toughest of intruders a nasty shock. The Alliance was set up much like the town, with Stevens in the center, with the largest shelter, and all of the other ‘homes’ encircling it.
The quality of living was bearable at the best of times. With the two hundred or so citizens of the safe haven, land was scarce, and people salvaged anything they could get their hands on to live in.
Food was also one of the things that The Alliance lacked. Stevens’ remedy for the predicament was to implement weekly food runs where he would send teams of men, over the age of forty, to retrieve sustenance from any place they could find it. This was, in essence, a suicide mission, seeing as the men were not equipped with weapons or any means of defense because any and all weapons were reserved for the protection of the dump.
