Anne Martin
bathed in subliminal luminosity
- Joined
- Mar 30, 2011
- Messages
- 367
This is about 60% of chapter one. I couldn't squeeze the whole chapter under the word limit, and the logical place to stop would have left a cliffhanger, which is not the purpose of asking for a critique, so it will seem unresolved at the end.
Out of the Frying Pan
Lena Carthage crouched behind a filing cabinet. It was the only item of furniture in the office that hadn't been riddled with bullets. Shards of glass had flown everywhere, making crawling along the floor treacherous … and then there was the blood and the bodies, littering the floor of the main open plan work area.
Where was Bruce Willis when you needed him?
She had miraculously survived the initial onslaught, having crawled under her desk to retrieve a pencil just as the … she didn't know what, who or how many they were … opened fire from the doorway with AK-47s. Bullets flew, ricocheted, killed and maimed for at least ten minutes as she hid under her desk. When it fell silent, she dared not breathe as the attackers combed the room, looking for survivors. One of the walls of her cubicle had fallen across her desk in the melee, saving her from closer scrutiny.
The few that remained alive were shot through the head as they pleaded for mercy.
“She's not here,” complained a vaguely familiar voice.
“You said she was always here at this time,” accused the leader. “She is the only one who can cross through, you imbecile.” A shot rang out, and a body thumped to the floor. “Find her,” he growled. “Kill everyone in the building if you have to. No one must leave here, especially not her.”
At once, they were out the door. Not daring to move, Lena listened as women screamed and more shots rang out in the distance, as the killers checked individual offices, conference rooms, and toilets looking for this mysterious woman. Not having heard anyone nearby in ten minutes, she peaked out to see if anyone remained to guard the room.
No one. Careful to avoid the shattered glass, Lena had crawled out from under her desk silently. By the door, she found a body dressed in all black sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. His balaclava was torn where a bullet had shattered his skull: Dean Tracer, or what was left of him – he was the voice she'd recognized. He'd worked in the office for only three weeks, and in that time he'd hit on her at least four times. She wasn't interested. Her instincts detected a sliminess about him that she couldn't explain, in spite of his rakish looks and smart dress sense. Her friend Shona fancied him, but he wouldn't give her the time of day.
Shona was dead now.
An AK-47 hung over Dean's shoulder, but Lena dared not touch it. The pistol in his hand looked more straightforward to use, although she had never shot a gun before. As she picked it up, she heard footsteps approaching in the hallway.
“She must be here!” the leader snarled from the top of the steps.
Lena ran into a side office to the relative safety of the filing cabinet. The acrid smoke from the weapons' fire was the only thing that kept her together. She couldn't cry now. A room full of corpses, and she was likely to be next.
Not now!
Crouched with the gun against her cheek, she peered out into the office, where they had turned their attentions to a specific desk: hers.
S**t!
She was the only one who could cross through. Cross through what? They had killed the inhabitants of an entire office complex, just to kill her.
“Footprints!” someone hissed.
Lena groaned. She had stepped through the puddle of Dean's blood, and the prints would lead right to her. How much ammunition did she have? Not enough against their arsenal. She didn't even know how to check.
“In there!” another shouted.
Lena wasn't going to die without a fight. Steadying herself, she took a deep breath, half-pulled the trigger, and shouted, “Hell-fire!” taking a step around the corner and squeezing the trigger.
Pffffft.
Startled, Lena found herself standing in the middle of a mirror-like lake. The repeat of her shot seemed so anticlimactic, as if it had disappeared before it left the gun. Her attackers were gone, as was the office … and the stench, worse than before, more like rotting flesh than dust and fresh blood. The sun burned black in a sky devoid of stars. In the distance her lake, which was only an inch deep where she stood, was lit by 12 pyres, each 144 feet high. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did, from deep in her being.
The lake itself wasn't water. It reminded her of mercury, and her movements left no waves. It stuck to her toes like an opaque chrome paint, as if she had mirror-plated her feet. If that weren't strange enough, it had dissolved her shoes and stockings on contact, yet it left her untouched. Dazzled by the pyres, she couldn't see past the surface, just the black sun in the black sky and herself. Still confused, she reached down and dipped her hand in. Like her feet, the liquid coated her fingers, dissolving the fine hair on the back of her hand. It was odourless, so the stench had to come from beyond the pyres.
She dabbed her finger on her tongue: no taste, or rather, it tasted like her … like her after a hard night with Ben, her ex-boyfriend, salty and sweet at the same time, like a light post-coital sweat. She couldn't feel the silver dot on her tongue, yet she knew it was there, confirmed as she bent over to look at her reflection in the pool. Not thinking, she wiped her hand on her skirt, which dissolved almost before she touched it.
Out of the Frying Pan
Lena Carthage crouched behind a filing cabinet. It was the only item of furniture in the office that hadn't been riddled with bullets. Shards of glass had flown everywhere, making crawling along the floor treacherous … and then there was the blood and the bodies, littering the floor of the main open plan work area.
Where was Bruce Willis when you needed him?
She had miraculously survived the initial onslaught, having crawled under her desk to retrieve a pencil just as the … she didn't know what, who or how many they were … opened fire from the doorway with AK-47s. Bullets flew, ricocheted, killed and maimed for at least ten minutes as she hid under her desk. When it fell silent, she dared not breathe as the attackers combed the room, looking for survivors. One of the walls of her cubicle had fallen across her desk in the melee, saving her from closer scrutiny.
The few that remained alive were shot through the head as they pleaded for mercy.
“She's not here,” complained a vaguely familiar voice.
“You said she was always here at this time,” accused the leader. “She is the only one who can cross through, you imbecile.” A shot rang out, and a body thumped to the floor. “Find her,” he growled. “Kill everyone in the building if you have to. No one must leave here, especially not her.”
At once, they were out the door. Not daring to move, Lena listened as women screamed and more shots rang out in the distance, as the killers checked individual offices, conference rooms, and toilets looking for this mysterious woman. Not having heard anyone nearby in ten minutes, she peaked out to see if anyone remained to guard the room.
No one. Careful to avoid the shattered glass, Lena had crawled out from under her desk silently. By the door, she found a body dressed in all black sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. His balaclava was torn where a bullet had shattered his skull: Dean Tracer, or what was left of him – he was the voice she'd recognized. He'd worked in the office for only three weeks, and in that time he'd hit on her at least four times. She wasn't interested. Her instincts detected a sliminess about him that she couldn't explain, in spite of his rakish looks and smart dress sense. Her friend Shona fancied him, but he wouldn't give her the time of day.
Shona was dead now.
An AK-47 hung over Dean's shoulder, but Lena dared not touch it. The pistol in his hand looked more straightforward to use, although she had never shot a gun before. As she picked it up, she heard footsteps approaching in the hallway.
“She must be here!” the leader snarled from the top of the steps.
Lena ran into a side office to the relative safety of the filing cabinet. The acrid smoke from the weapons' fire was the only thing that kept her together. She couldn't cry now. A room full of corpses, and she was likely to be next.
Not now!
Crouched with the gun against her cheek, she peered out into the office, where they had turned their attentions to a specific desk: hers.
S**t!
She was the only one who could cross through. Cross through what? They had killed the inhabitants of an entire office complex, just to kill her.
“Footprints!” someone hissed.
Lena groaned. She had stepped through the puddle of Dean's blood, and the prints would lead right to her. How much ammunition did she have? Not enough against their arsenal. She didn't even know how to check.
“In there!” another shouted.
Lena wasn't going to die without a fight. Steadying herself, she took a deep breath, half-pulled the trigger, and shouted, “Hell-fire!” taking a step around the corner and squeezing the trigger.
Pffffft.
Startled, Lena found herself standing in the middle of a mirror-like lake. The repeat of her shot seemed so anticlimactic, as if it had disappeared before it left the gun. Her attackers were gone, as was the office … and the stench, worse than before, more like rotting flesh than dust and fresh blood. The sun burned black in a sky devoid of stars. In the distance her lake, which was only an inch deep where she stood, was lit by 12 pyres, each 144 feet high. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did, from deep in her being.
The lake itself wasn't water. It reminded her of mercury, and her movements left no waves. It stuck to her toes like an opaque chrome paint, as if she had mirror-plated her feet. If that weren't strange enough, it had dissolved her shoes and stockings on contact, yet it left her untouched. Dazzled by the pyres, she couldn't see past the surface, just the black sun in the black sky and herself. Still confused, she reached down and dipped her hand in. Like her feet, the liquid coated her fingers, dissolving the fine hair on the back of her hand. It was odourless, so the stench had to come from beyond the pyres.
She dabbed her finger on her tongue: no taste, or rather, it tasted like her … like her after a hard night with Ben, her ex-boyfriend, salty and sweet at the same time, like a light post-coital sweat. She couldn't feel the silver dot on her tongue, yet she knew it was there, confirmed as she bent over to look at her reflection in the pool. Not thinking, she wiped her hand on her skirt, which dissolved almost before she touched it.
