Original stories are nicer than fanfic. [Chapter 5 now added - Comments will be liked and given points, please comment!]

[Mehmani]

This contains some foul language, so keep that in mind.

[spoiler=Prologue]
I wasn’t at home when it happened. Wherever you go, whoever you find...they each have a different story to tell, an exact, starkly visible series of events. The memory dulls when in a fight-or-flight, or so they say, but those who survive tend to be more philosophical about it. When such an incident occurs, those at its heart are said to see in monochrome because the brain recognizes that more power should be shifted to the other senses. Reality, or rather, our perception of it, is forgone in favour of the animal maxim – survival, at all costs.

Which, as it happens, is exactly what I thought when I started to recognize the “manifestations”, as some call them. Someone I would meet later on would decry that term as inaccurate, and refer to them as “muto-phenomena”. The more poetic gentleman, with whom I became very close, referred to them as “flavours”. Like quarks, he said. Because like quarks, he said, we don’t happen to know much of them and how they work, so why not take to opportunity to be less dour about it, cough...ack-hyack.

At that moment he would struggle forward and cough, bent-double, onto whatever lay before him, unthinking. The tobacco smoke had likely grown strong in his throat. He cared not for what, or often whom, he spluttered his throat-shavings on and he smoked for much the same reason. His laissez-faire approach to living was something that we all admired, in our many different ways, but we all disliked it as well. It reminded us that he didn’t have long, and insufferable as some found him, he was well-liked, and his long overdue passing was always hanging in the air, thick, like the low-lying mist of a swamp. His life-sapping, nihilistic ways only served as a constant reminder of his limited lifespan. But he offered much, and we supposed that he would die happy.

When you are in some foreign country, he said, and you drink the local tipple, you find it repugnant and often grow ill. However, upon drinking the fluid frequently and growing accustomed to it, you stop noticing the acid kick that you once found nauseating and you grow used to the bugs that they don’t have back home. It sits there in the background, biding its time, and eventually you may drink again one morning and once again notice the acid. But these occasions of realization grow few and far between, and eventually you just sit back and let it swill in your gullet. It stops mattering in the end, he said. You stop finding the acid kick nauseating.

It was again, his idea that we all partake in the creation of some kind of document or record, regarding the events. I have the most imperturbable mind of the group, I said, so might it be that I record the happenings, as I am able to write subjectively? My location at the start of these occurrences made my story a typical one. I can write in both French and English, and have the best grasp of English of anyone in our group. So it was agreed, and with their blessing I reproduced my story.[/spoiler]

[spoiler=Chapter 1: Initial Account]

Chapter 1
My name is Florent, and I was born to a Walloon Belgian father and a Swiss mother. At the time of writing, I am twenty years of age. I was on holiday in Bratislava when the events first transpired, over three years ago.
It began with several people lurching around. Some would fall to the ground, writhing, their eyes rolling back into their heads and shortly afterwards, a guttural, throaty scream emerging from their lips. All fell to the ground and twisted like wounded animals. Everyone in the convenience store I was in at the time fell to the ground. Struck with fear, I ran to our rented home and locked the door. Everyone on the street too, had fallen, captured by the writhing. I drew the curtains and peeped around the edge. They were setting upon each other now, like wild beasts mad with pain. At that point I ran to the kitchen, locked all the doors and sat motionless, paralyzed with fear. It was nearing darkness, being winter, so I had to act fast. I feared that the people would attack the house in the night, and that I would be torn apart. I filled my bag with food, a torch, a lighter and a knife. I removed the landlord’s rifle from its hiding place under the sink and after some searching in the cellar, found a handful of bullets. I stuffed them into my coat pockets and opened the back window, stumbling off into the evening light.

I had by then realized that if I was conscious and not somehow infected like the rest of them, there must be others like me. Skittering over the fence of our back garden, I made my way into Horský Park, seeking refuge. I could hear noises far in the distance, but at the north end of the park it was deserted. The air was cool, and tasted oddly clean. Everything around me seemed slightly sharper, altogether more focused. After some wandering, I spotted a small hole between a bush and a wooden fence, just about large enough for a person to fit in. I squeezed in and settled down to rest until morning. The little spot was small enough and judging by the lack of noise around, safe enough for me to settle until morning. I loaded the rifle and put on the safety before settling off to a troubled sleep.

I awoke to heavy breathing and loud screams. I found myself ready to jerk upright, but managed to stop myself, tightening my muscles and exhaling sharply through my teeth. My clothes felt as if they were clinging tightly to my skin. I could feel tiny strips of fabric pressing against my flesh on every clothed part of my body. I focused on my arms and ran my fingers across them. I could feel each pore and see the lumps on their surfaces. Each time one of my hairs touched another, I heard an audible noise. My arm looked no different, but everything seemed somehow heightened, somehow clearer. I picked this all up in around a second, when I heard more screams and heavy breathing. I focused and heard toes rubbing against the grass, feet pounding the earth, closer and closer. I reached for the rifle behind me, leaning against the fence. I heard another footstep. The breathing grew softer, more controlled. Whatever it was, it was about a metre away from my hiding place. I couldn’t aim the rifle without revealing myself. Maybe this thing, whatever it was, would lose interest. Could I bank on that? I certainly couldn’t. I was trapped in my own huddle, wracked by indecision. I held my breath. That was all, it seemed, I could do.

A split-second decision was required of me, and it was at that moment I decided that the only option was to fire on the creature and take flight. I focused again, this time as deeply as I could on my surroundings. It is said that humans have the innate ability to sense when they are being watched by something. I recalled a childhood memory, one of playing hide-and-seek. When you were in the same room as someone hiding, you could almost sense them. It seemed strange, so I asked my mother. She smiled briefly, fleetingly, her head craned over a book as if to devour its contents, before saying absent-mindedly that she too, and that likely all of man felt that same sense. It was again I felt this sense, but so much more accurately. It was as if all had been heightened somehow – the feeling of my individual pores, I could feel them then as I thought about feeling them...the soft, yet clearly audible bounce of each hair on my arm as my fingers stroked my skin. I had earlier gauged where the creature was, and it was advancing. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the breathing of the creature, the beast, whatever it was. In and out, throbbing, tolling like a bell. My heart drummed and my breath rattled through my teeth. I turned and fired.

Quick! An ecstasy of fumbling, then, a loud, insistent clunk. A human figure lay on its back, writhing hellishly. The pellet, a hollow-point, had entered through its left eye, which was now a bloody mess. It must have continued and burrowed into the brain. I stood transfixed, staring at the beast. It was a man, somewhere in middle-age, or rather, he had been. He writhed and snarled for a number of minutes, squealing and in tears, what remained of his clothes torn to mere scraps. I caught some breathing to my right behind, and then a voice. I turned towards and then once again away, rifle absent-mindedly swinging in my right hand. The man let out a death rattle and then, only silence.
[/spoiler]

[spoiler=Chapter 2: A Place of Refuge]

“Brother! Effendi!”

An echoing voice, with the hint of a Middle Eastern accent, resonated across the park. I turned, my trance cut off, to see an Asian man with thick, dark curls and a smooth face hollering at me. He was flanked by a young woman, whose smooth, pretty face was offset by her icy hair. She looked disinterested and stared faintly into the distance, perhaps on the pretence of a look-out.

“Sir, your name and your purpose, please!” I replied, twitchingly nervously.

“There is no time! The others will have heard your noise! You must move, come with us!” He shouted, urging me forward with a shaking arm.

I rushed forward, conscious of the grass crunching beneath my feet. I ambled towards him, still drunk with shock, but imbued with enough purpose to move with some urgency. As soon as I reached the man and his companion, they broke out into a sprint. I followed suit as we tore through the upper park, lolloping towards a solemn, steely gate. We reached the gate breathing heavily, our throats and legs ragged with effort. As we rested by the gate, the man spoke up.

“We have run almost a mile now. I know of a safe area on the outskirts of town. The river should protect us from any intruders. There is food and room for a fire there. Are we all in favour of this? I understand you may have your own arrangements.”

“I have nothing else to do. At least give me the honour of knowing my, ahem, saviours.” I coughed, politely smiling.

The man glanced wryly at the girl, who remained indifferent looking. The corner of his mouth rose in a half-smile and he quickly raised his eyebrows before returning to me.

“My name is Baibars. This is Bara.”

The young woman glanced up at him, somewhat fearfully, glowering. She opened her mouth to speak slightly but closed it shut.

“I represent a group who seek to help survivors and nurture those with any gifts who may help rebuild. I have worked for this group for little while. We are combing through cities looking for survivors. Bara was picked up from Ljubljana yesterday and transferred over here to help the group comb for survivors. She’s gifted.”

Bara snorted, but kept staring into the distance. She was still zoned out.

“This area is full of people. We should get out. The safe house is beyond the river. We can get there in under an hour, eat and then radio for a bus to be sent for us that can take us to a safer compound over the border. It’s just outside Vienna. Let’s get going.”

Baibars started walking briskly, almost on tiptoes. Bara shook her head as if waking from a dream and shot a glance at me before following. I brought up the rear, still confused by how quickly the conversation had gone.

“Might I ask a question about your group?”

“Well,” replied Baibars, lackadaisically. “We’re an independent scientific research and development body funded by several governments. They wanted solutions to be developed to a number of problems, but a few months ago saw what was coming. I’m talking about all the people. We still don’t know exactly what caused it, but we have noticed that those not affected by it have recessive genes or special gifts, both traits that indicate flaws in the genetic code. I’m not gifted, but I do have blue eyes. Very weird for a Syrian Arab, don’t you think?”

“Weird for any Arab, indeed.” I replied.

“That’s why my parents named me Baibars. The greatest military strategist of all time, according to some historians, was a Mamluk general and ruler named Baibars. He was different because he had blonde hair and blue eyes. Recessive traits from his Cilicean mother, probably. He was kidnapped as a child and turned into an elite warrior who was clever enough to overthrow his superiors and rule most of Arabia for himself. He was the only man who held the Mongols and defeated them in open battle. If he hadn’t, they probably would have conquered Europe.”

“That’s an interesting story, but I’m still curious about the group-”

“Shush! Effendi, be quiet. Bara! Silence!”

Baibars stood up tall, like a meerkat, craning his neck and listening intently.

“Nothing. Just a false alarm, okay?” Baibars clarified.

“There’s nothing at all wrong with being careful,” I replied. “In fact, in these times, being paranoid is probably an advantage.”

“I’m not paranoid,” Baibars grinned, wryly, like the Cheshire Cat. “I’d say she is though.”

Bara glanced up at Baibars’ grinning face and looked indifferent, before turning away, her expression now looking world-weary.

Baibars turned to me and said quietly: “She’s always been something of a nihilist, I think. This whole event just accentuated that.”

“Though when we talk about being careful, Florent, I must ask you what you were doing in a park early in the morning, hmm?”

“We can discuss that when we reach that safe house of yours, perhaps?” I replied.

“What he is trying to say, Florent, is that you’re an absolute idiot and you nearly got yourself killed,” Bara spoke up, flatly intoning what seemed to me like an insult. I cleared my throat to challenge her but Baibars put a hand on my chest.

“Please, Bara. This is someone who nearly got killed. He has left his family behind. Come, now. We are only a short run away from the safe house. Let us cease talking, follow me.”

We broke into a light run, and for the first time, thoughts of my family came into my mind. My mother had already flown out to Belgium that morning, but my father had gone by bus to Austria on a day trip. It’s funny, I thought, how certain things are shoved to the back of your mind in a tragedy. I presumed my mother would be safe, as she was visiting the EU, but my father was another story. What if they were struck down by this strange plague too?

“Look, Baibars, I still don’t know what this plague is, or even if it is a plague for that matter!”

“Effendi, please. Once we are settled in the safe house, we can reveal all you need to know.”[/spoiler]

[spoiler=Chapter 3: Gift Horse]


We had been walking for a number of hours now. The first thing that struck was the sheer scale of it – all the buildings with smashed windows, the shops with their fresh produce strewn on the floor. The occasional almost-person glancing gently in our direction before tearing towards us like a man possessed. In fact, I suppose they were men possessed! I smiled quietly and inwardly at my own joke, prompting a rotten glance from the girl, Bara, was it? The first thing I noticed about her was her prettiness, I’m not going to deny that, but there was something else deeper there. A whisper of coldness, a soft mist of indifference – those were the traits I picked up on. She had a visibly cold quality to her, like a living ice sculpture.

The first thing I do when I sense someone cold is to attempt to disarm them, to see if they are just making it up. Certainly in a situation like this, you’d need protection. Baibars mentioned her paranoia and I considered riffing on that, but another quick glance at her serious eyes made me quickly change my mind. She did not look like one to be messed with, even playfully.

“So, what do you, erm, do, I suppose?” The words sort of slipped out of my mouth. I was somewhat aware of how limp I sounded at the time, moreso in hindsight.

“Don’t talk. We need to move. I’m not in the mood for talking anyway. I’m never in the mood for talking.” She starting out speaking wistfully, with a hush-hush tone, like that of a parent to a child. Her voice hardened impatiently towards the end of the sentence, like a muscle tensing.

“Come on. Hear the death-defying fool out,” I retorted, almost apologetically.

She ignored me, sighing audibly and turning away. If I am to be honest, I looked at her ass briefly before scolding myself. Stop it, you sexist pig, I thought. It’s the end of the world and you’re calling it puppy love? f*** off. You should be thinking ahead, creating a plan. That’s what Dad always said. Think ahead or end up dead. I wonder if that happened to him-

“Shush. Hush, now! Psst!” Baibars shushed. “There is a group, coming towards us.” Quite tentatively, I suddenly thought. “Effendi, might you help us out?”

“What?” I replied, a little bemused.

“He means do your thing. Use your gift, idiot,” Bara chipped in, not particularly helpfully.

“I noticed a little something about you, effendi,” said Baibars. “You shot that bastard, excuse me, clean through the socket of his eye. You didn’t even take aim. How did you even know where it was? You must be able to do something. Besides, my gift is seeing the gifts of others. You have one. I just...you know, yes? Sort of know,” he shrugged exaggeratedly.

I took the hint and closed my eyes. I heard breathing from afar. Immediately a figure of twenty-five metres and forty-nine and a half centimetres sprung to mind. I could hear everything so clearly – the wind whistling through the curtain of an old shop front, the slightly hurried pant of Baibars and the calm, yielding breath of Bara. I focused once again on the group of almost-people. Now it was nineteen metres. They were moving slowly, but they started moving quickly. I picked out the breath of one, no, three, four more. The group had five members. Four were male; the one straggling behind them was female. I could tell by their breath – the one behind was breathing in a slightly higher tone. How did I know that? It just came to mind somehow.

“The group are fifteen metres away from us. Two are moving on all fours, the other three are walking. They will emerge from behind that dilapidated building in approximately two seconds, given their speed. They can smell us from around nineteen metres away. Give me your gun.”

I snatched the revolver from Bara’s hand.

“One...two.”

Four emerged from behind the shop front, screaming and flailing wildly. Four shots tolled like bells. Four bodies crumpled to the floor. Then the final almost-person emerged. It was moving slightly slower than the others. BANG! The last shot rang out, splitting clean through the nose of the final beast. It clattered to the floor before abruptly stopping.

“Dead, they are all dead.”

Baibars shot me a glance of wild shock and confusion. Bara raised her eyebrows briefly – I could hear the gentle scrunching of the hairs against her skin – before staring at the floor once more.

“You will be exceptional. That was exceptional, effendi! You will be much needed for us.” Baibars smiled and raved, before turning quickly. “Quickly, though. It is nearing dark, perhaps only two hours now. We have a little more ground to cover, not to mention a small lake to get across.”

I smiled happily to myself.

“I am glad to be of service to you, sir. I can only try my best to preserve, erm, the life of the group.” I stuttered politely.

We started walking again, although at a brisk pace set by Baibars. Once more we jolted passed the many ghostly houses of the far outskirts. Thank God our route didn’t go through a suburb, I thought. We are lucky to be in less-inhabited part of the country, what with all these picturesque rolling hills. Perhaps they would be matched by a picaresque gunslinger, no doubt? We continued to stroll quietly, although I noticed Bara was straggling a little. I slowed my pace subtly in a desperate attempt not to be overbearing before gradually pulling up to her.

“Are you erm-” was all I could say before a hand clasped around my mouth and a voice that cut like an ice pick spat into my ear.

“Baibars is a nice man and he was nice to you. You can be useful, but only when we are fortunate enough to have guns. And in case you haven’t noticed, world production has ended. That includes arms. You’re dead weight and a chirpy, bookish nuisance. You aren’t too bright else you wouldn’t have gone to sleep in a bush in a wide-open park! You’re weak, boring, nerdy and needy. We need fighters, not lovers, in case you didn’t think I noticed you being slimy,” Bara drilled into my ear.

She released her grip before briskly jogging away. I returned to my now usual pastime – examining the plants and occasionally, small buildings as we pass them, only this time with a little more fear in my mind. A fear that was exacerbated when I heard a roar from ahead:

“S***! S***! Bara, Florent, quick, arm yourselves or we die!”

I quickly focused. It was a shoal of them, the almost-people. A horde that numbered twenty-nine. They were only eighty metres away.
[/spoiler]

[spoiler=Chapter 4: Grave Men]

There was a lot of shouting, frantic fumbling. Baibars tore the pack off of his back like it was napalm and ripped it open like a carcass. He clenched a moderately impressive looking shotgun, although with my knowledge of guns, that was an untrustworthy guess. Bara inhaled deeply before pulling the large pistol off her belt and cocking it. She pulled what looked like a grenade on a stick from her belt and was about to tear off the bin, if not for a pained shout from Baibars.

“No, stop! No guns! No bombs! The noise draws them, and the last thing we want is a horde of those damn things an hour’s walk away from our camp for the night! Quiet weapons, please!”

He shoved the shotgun back into his backpack and pulled out a crossbow with a handle like a pistol. He smiled inwardly, as if at a personal in-joke or old memory before his face hardened and he set some bolts into the magazine. Bara pulled out a similar looking bow from her backpack and loaded with a cold expression, although, as I noticed, she didn’t seem particularly good at it. My train of thought was cut to pieces by a gentle whooshing sound as Baibars let loose a bolt. It rocketed through the head of one of the almost-people near the front of the pack.

“Oh, beautiful, I am! No wait, game face, as they say,” Baibars muttered to himself as he shot a couple more bull’s-eyes. He managed to take out another two before reloading again.

Bara, on the other hand, seemed to be more preoccupied with aiming the bow in the first place. She cursed angrily under her breath as her first shot hit one of the APs in the leg.

“Hurry, Bara, oh please!” said Baibars, the tension growing more palpable in his rising voice.

I thought that my actions in the next few moments would be something of a double-edged sword, but then again, I suppose I was doing the right thing. For the common good, perhaps, but certainly not for my crude red-bloodedness. I snatched the bow out of Bara’s hands, thanks to her admittedly time-consuming efforts, it was already loaded.

“What the f*** are you doing, you childish idiot?!” she hollered at me, frantically snatching at the bow in my hands. I barged into her to shake her off, although she clattered onto the floor.

“Erm, excuse me, please, I’m really sorry about that. I didn’t mean to-”

Fire lit up in her eyes so I did perhaps the stupidest possible thing – I ran towards the oncoming storm of APs (it was becoming a snappy name). I let off the entire magazine of five bolts in quick succession, just zoning out gently before each shot. 3[sup]rd[/sup] from left, first line is advancing, now only twenty metres away – whoosh! The first bolt was the only one I remembered, the others were just mechanical. It ripped through the eye socket of the AP and caught the one behind it on the forehead. I smirked to myself, letting the rhythm and adrenaline rush of combat flow through me. I was a medium for battle now.

My self-appreciating poetic thought-rant about “how brilliant I am” was sharply interrupted by the sudden realization that I had no bolts left in the bow, and that, according to my calculations, the horde had moved forward another ten metres and was very close to swamping us. Oh s***, I thought. I’m probably going to die now. I searched my well-educated, profoundly intellectual (in my humble opinion) mind for something interesting to contemplate before my violent death.

“What are you doing? You’re a bloody joke, aren’t you? If you do live, by some miracle, cut the arrogance and be done with it. Oh yes, and there are weapons besides that bow you stole from me,” Bara curtly vocalized whatever epiphany I would have had before tossing me a pistol. “You’re a fool, but unless we help each other out now we’ll all die, so let’s
just get it over with.”

We had managed to cut the numbers by fifteen, thanks to the efforts of Baibars and I, the former now desperately fumbling around in his backpack having run out of bolts, but the damn things were now hurtling towards us, still fourteen in number. Bara and I unleashed our pistols, each shot punching into the dusky air. One, two, three, four – but it was not at all fast enough. The final ten APs, now right upon us, broke into an animal dash for the kill.

“Oh, f***ing hell no,” Bara mouthed, rabidly emptying her gun at the horde ready to consume us. One, two down, but it was clearly not going to be enough. Now’s the time for a final quip, I thought.

“How’s about a deus ex machina now?”

“YOU TWO!” Baibars screamed at the top of his lungs. “GET DOWN, RIGHT NOW! DUCK FOR YOUR BLOODY LIVES!”

In what I thought was my last move, I threw myself to the floor, as did Bara. We put our hands on our heads. A volley of fire even I could tell came from a machine gun soared over our heads, slicing into the APs ready to feast on us. The air was humming as the fire continued. A second later, it stopped. I inhaled sharply and pushed the body of the AP dead on top of me away like a waiter hurling a plate. I glanced at the shaken Baibars, who smiled weakly before staring at the ground. Bara! I thought, turning around and offering her help to her feet.

“I think you need a hand,” I said in my best heroic bass. She pushed my hand away and rose to her feet, throwing knives at me with her eyes.

“I saved your sorry skin,” she spat.

“Why, thank you. That was terribly kind of you,” I replied sweetly.

“I would have happily left you if I didn’t need you alive to help us out of this mess,” she said in a blank, matter-of-fact way, her delivery of the sentence sending me into quite visible shock.

“Now, *AHEM*, excuse me. Now is the time to move, fast. The noise will attract every single one for miles upon miles around. If that was how we dealt with a small group of them, we are done for if any more come near us.” Baibars intoned, a well of defeat, oddly, in his voice. “We lost ammo then. Help me remove the bolts from these things, you too, effendi. I am sorry for having to swear and shout.” He sounded more like a parent apologizing for losing it with a child.

“Now that we are talking about how we nearly got killed, let us explore how and why that scenario nearly panned out.” Bara spoke, dull anger in her voice.

“Actually,” I butted in, cutting off Bara. “I think it’s fair to ask why I wasn’t given a weapon. I am an idiot savant at this shooting lark, after all.”

“You’re definitely the first part of that,” Bara replied deftly, now staring dead at me like a one-man lynch mob.

“Bara, please, infighting will make everything worse,” Baibars tried to freeze the conflict.

“Yes, I’m wrong, sorry,” Bara smiled wryly. “You’re just an arrogant c***, Florent.”

“Now, come on, please. This is getting ridiculous. Can’t you two actually act your age, for once? You are adults, stop flirting and arguing like overgrown kids!” Baibars seemed to have lost his temper a little, for the first time. Judging by the reaction his anger elicited from Bara, it seemed to be a rather rare occurrence.

“Oh lose it, please, you stupid woman,” I spat at her. “You have acted like a pole has been stuck up your arse since we first met. Grow up and stop being such a girl.”

“My family are gone, you pig!” She replied.

“So have mine. So have everyone else’s. We live in a world where there is no time for grief. From now on, life shall be lived, not allowed to fester like an ancient wound.” Baibars intoned, slowly but powerfully. “Let that be the last word.”
We performed our allotted duties of collecting bolts from bodies and searching the dead for anything of use.

“Here, you’re right. Take this,” grunted Baibars, quietly passing me my rifle back. “Be responsible and don’t make a fuss. Leave the girl alone for now. It’s nice to see you open up a little more, effendi, but the wisecracks must be put away, especially around her. She’s a very intense person. Humour does not disarm her the way it would less serious people.” He glanced around, pursing his lips in thought. "You were right. You have had a weapon in the first place. But people make mistakes when things happen quickly, no? You understand that, effendi, sleeping in a hedge."

I gave him a nod of approval before joining my comrades once again in the slow trudge forward. Baibars’ words seemed a little strained, although that was due to the exertions of the skirmish, it seemed. However, I had a gag that was, at least in my mind, too good to resist.

“Just so you know,” I murmured to Bara. “I think you’ve lost your chance.”

Bara sighed, although I did notice a suppressed smile across her lips. However, given what she was about to say, I think that was my imagination playing up to my expectations.

“You’re a philistine,” She smiled wearily. “Where do your attitudes to women come from? It seems to me like the 1950s. What are you, Florent? You seemed like a sap when we found you crawling out of that bush, and that was annoying. But even that could not compare to the vastly ugly personality that has emerged throughout the day. You’re a wry, clever-clever, point-scoring gadabout with the mind of an ageing playboy and the mouth of a pub-frequenting hooligan. You’ve made the transition from simpering to sarcastic, though, which makes me think that underneath it all, you’re a sad, stunted child of a man who is desperately afraid of losing his masculinity.”

“Sorry, was your mouth moving just then? I was looking at-”

“Oh for God’s sake, I'm just going to cut off your bloody joke. What do you really think of me? I’m not some kind of stuck-up, man-hating ice queen. I’m not a prim Bond girl who will be turned into a Stepford Wife when machine-gunned with ugly flirting and patronizing platitudes. And you are definitely not James Bond, for that matter, although you do seem to be rather keen on carrying a gun, which leads me to increasingly deduce that you are overcompensating. Unless you want to treat me like a normal person, then don’t speak to me.”

I smiled oddly to myself and trudged gently away, before my head again.

“That was an impressive little speech. Maybe when this is all over I’ll buy you a new dishwasher,” I simpered at her, lolloping away with a quiet scowl plastered on my face. I was trapped in a nightmare of a reality and I didn’t even have someone to bounce witticisms off. As I continued to amble along with the group, my mind was gently lifted to an old memory. It was a simple one, really. I could have been about five, or maybe six. It was at the family home, just after dinner. Winter was coming – there was that warm, fading smell of damp freshness in the air, like dew in the morning breeze, yielding, soft. I remembered the gentle scratch of steel wool on pan as my parents cleaned the room by the garden after dinner.

“Come on, do speed up a tad. It’s getting awfully cold out, dear; I can’t keep this door open. Bloody draughts, you see,” my father smirked in his clipped accent. His voice was always smug, like it was laughing a joke that you didn’t know, but in a good kind of way. It seemed like no matter what the situation was, he’d always find some humour out of it.

“Please dear, I’m dealing with this bloody pan. But of course, you don’t know how hard it is to keep up because you haven’t cooking a thing in your life,” my mother shot back with a half-smile.

“You’re not scrubbing it properly. You need more passion, a little fire. I’m happy to help,” he smirked again, kissing her neck. She scowled but hid a smile. In hindsight, I imagine they had some fun when I was sent upstairs to practise guitar. But at this point, père turned to me and smiled a knowing smirk.

“My good son, you know the secret of staying calm, do you not?”

I searched my small mind and puffed out my chest a little.

“No,” I huffed, trying my best to appear above it, but still a little eager to listen. He was a little distant, and his great intellect and sharp wit meant he probably wasn’t too fond of dealing with children or particularly good at it, but he gave good advice.

“Humour is everything, son. You see, when I face death, I’ll say something smart. I’ll make a little joke about seeing women on the other side. I’ll say that it’s best if we get over it. People like that, son. It leaves both parties satisfied. People remember the smart ones long after they’re gone. So be a card and a cad. It went down well with your mother, after all,” he flashed a knowing smile again and supped whatever spirit he was drinking. I could never make out the smell.

I never had much experience with women, other than my mother, who was charmed by her well-spoken little boy and the schoolteachers, who too were charmed by the effortless and smooth-talking sonofadiplomat. Arrogance is ugly unless you are likeable, and I was sharp-tongued enough to be likeable. Maybe I was just pandering to an audience with a taste for that kind of wit. I went to rich schools, mixed with rich people. My humour and tone was bred for the rich – the people who are at the finish line before the race even starts, the people who don’t need to take things seriously because they can afford to. The people who can brag because they own the right. The people who turn into cowards when night finally comes. The people who hide in bushes rather than form a barricade in a safe home. The people who are lucky to be alive.

“There we are, it seems,” Baibars said with little fanfare. “It’s got all the supplies we need for tonight and tomorrow. The attaché with our group said there were weapons and some barricades we could put up, but only enough to hold off a hundred of them. Not to mention the fact that we would have to start moving again if we open fire. The noise pulls them from miles around, you see, no, you already know. Let’s set up.”

The house was a sturdy looking building, make of stone like a Mediterranean house. Those whitewashed walls would not be broken through by APs. There were windows at the top, but the lower ones were boarded up from the inside, and hopefully reinforced. I inhaled sharply and followed the other two inside.[/spoiler]

[spoiler=Chapter 5: Coup de Grace]

It was close to nightfall as we entered the building, still caught up in our last encounter with the bloody things. Why don’t you refer to them as zombies? I thought. They act the part, certainly, although they don’t look the part. They aren’t pallid and clammy like the undead, though. They still have blood pumping like Greek fire in them. They don’t seem to decompose.

I continued to wander around the topic while the other two set about categorizing the supplies we were left. The electricity was down in the house, but there was still some water left running through the taps. We’d been left what looked a little like a soldier’s ration pack each, although we found that there wasn’t much inside each one except some plain biscuits, dried fruit, chocolate and a boil-in-a-bag meal. Baibars had brought some tea along with him, so we set about boiling the water and cooking our meals on the camping stove.

“We’ve been given some panels to block the windows upstairs, but we can’t nail them up. Too much noise, yes?” Baibars began discussing the practical side of things. There’s a garden out back with some high fences, so if worse comes to worst, we can call a helicopter from our base camp in Vienna, but even then, that’s going to take an hour to arrive. And they won’t be happy about it ‘cause those damn creatures will be attracted to base camp by the noise. And from what I have heard, they’re going to evacuate the Vienna outpost and move us to England anyway. So get moving with those panels,” ordered Baibars, handing over some wood glue, sealant and wood to me and Bara. I pulled a face as if to ask him when he would tell me, but Baibars made it clear.

“When you finish upstairs, I’ll tell you over supper. You clear, effendi?”

I nodded gruffly and trudged up the stairs. Baibars’ eyes in my back prevented me from irritating Bara any further, so we trudged upstairs and got on with the job. The downstairs area was all one room, with a lounge area overlooking the now boarded-up windows. Behind it was a kitchen cut off like a fortress by a work surface. You could comfortably hide behind the work-top and open fire should APs burst through the windows, so it was tactically sound. The back door, behind the kitchen, led to a garden surrounding by high, Mediterranean-style whitewashed walls that looked tough enough to make a garden a very safe area. Upstairs was a plain, unfurnished room with only the windows as a feature. We set to work sticking the panels over the upstairs windows, leaving small peepholes to give us a vantage point. We worked quickly and without fuss, and we were done within half an hour.

“Dinner is served,” Baibars called from downstairs. To my surprise, the boil-in-a-bag curry that looked military issue smelled quite tasty. I then remembered that I hadn’t eaten in a day. It’s funny how things pass you by when your mind is occupied.

“Hey. Downstairs,” Bara said, halfway down already, snapping me out of my trance. I followed her downstairs to see the gently smiling Baibars plating up a stodgy but hearty-looking lamb stew.

“There was some rice as well, so your stew isn’t too rich and boring,” Baibars smiled, handing me a plate.

“It’s hardly haute cuisine, but thanks for this,” I replied. “I’m so hungry I probably eat the box it came in!”

Bara prodded the food around her plate with her plastic fork, pausing only occasionally to put a cube of meat in her mouth. I realized then that watching someone eat is probably a weird thing to do and broke the silence.


“So, sir, can you please tell me about what your group do,” I put it bluntly. Baibars glanced at me and finished his mouthful.

“I’ll explain, don’t worry,” he smiled warmly, grunting at the bored-looking Bara to get her attention.

“We were set up as a collaborative effort by the main governments of the world,” Baibars began. “We have at least one outpost per country, although that’s only in Europe. We have many more in America and China. In 1992, after the Soviet Union collapsed, they sent us some confidential information about a base they had in the Caspian Sea. It was where they stored all their biological weapons. As you can probably deduce, effendi, this included the virus that has broken out now and turned all these people. But let me get back to how this actually happened, you see. The collapsing USSR also sent this data to the UK, China, Japan and Germany, so as you can guess, everybody wanted a piece. China and Germany wanted it wiped off the face of the planet, but at a secret meeting in Kiev, Ukraine, they were outvoted by Japan, America and Britain. We call that the Kiev Protocol. In the end, every country got a piece of it. China, the UK and Japan immediately destroyed their supplies after a minor outbreak in the Biological Weapons Department of China, but the Germans kept theirs, for whatever reason.”

“Helmut bloody Kohl. That’s the reason,” Bara scowled, prompting a suppressed smirk from Baibars and I.

“Anyway,” continued Baibars. “During the decommissioning of the Biological Weapons Centre in Bavaria, some of the virus got out and spread like wildfire. It was unpredictable, staying dormant for a long but wildly variable incubation period. This meant that it got spread around the world quickly. The good news is that the Kiev Protocol included a clause involving the set-up of this organization to plan ahead in the event of an outbreak. You know why the US only spends 0.15% of its GDP on aid? Because the other 0.85% is spent on us. Every Kiev Protocol country has to spend 0.85% of its GDP on the Kiev Protocol Outbreak Control Commission, or Kay-Pock for short. KPOCC funds are off-record, of course. We can’t have all the conspiracy nuts panicking about a secret like that, eh, effendi?”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” I replied. “But you still haven’t answered the question of why we appear to have mutated strange abilities.”

“That means you have a gene that makes you immune to the virus. Instead of turning you fully, it acts like a cancer and mutates your cells in a beneficial manner. I like to see it as nature giving us a chance.”

“How did I get it?” I asked, exasperated. “Is it airborne? Does every survivor have powers?”

“No, no, not at all, effendi. The virus is waterborne, not airborne. You must have had some water from the taps, yes? They are contaminated badly in most of Europe now. We’ve sent out radio broadcasts advising people against using any leftover tap water. Most of the survivors don’t have powers, actually.”

Suddenly, I was struck by a quite sudden realization of horror. My eyes widened and my skin crawled.

“Baibars, we cooked the stew with tap water. What about her?”

Bara sniggered and Baibars patted me on the shoulder.

“Don’t you remember what I said? She’s gifted,” smiled Baibars reassuringly. “Her gift isn’t an obvious one though.”
I glanced back at him, then to Bara quizzically.

“I can change behaviour,” Bara stated flatly.

“Well,” I replied. “Why didn’t you help us out with that horde then? Couldn’t you have ordered them away?”

“Christ, you’re so impatient!” Bara sighed. “Does everything you say have to be a dig at me? I was getting to that. I have a kind of limit to what I can do. I can’t do too much – forcing someone to do something, particularly permanently, means I can’t do anything for a number of hours. With groups all I can do is send out a blanket signal, and even that must be basic. Why did you think that horde was not running at us at full speed? Did it occur to you that they weren’t sprinting like they usually do?”

“Bara, you cannot hold not focusing on something like that against him,” Baibars interrupted diplomatically, attempting to cool matters down. “It was the heat of the moment. He could just as easily pull you up for freezing and not loading your bow quickly enough.”

“Yes, I could,” I interrupted, not so diplomatically.

“Urgh,” Bara groaned quietly. “We’re ignoring the point. I can only do so much in a day. After I sleep for a few hours, my powers are back again.”

She glanced around the room before continuing.

“I have enough supply left to do very little after today,” she smiled in a way that made me a little uneasy. “I can do a party trick. Like that chair over there.”

I looked over my shoulder at the chair in the kitchen and it was floating in the air.

“I thought you could control people, not objects,” I retorted, the sight of her smiling riling me. “You aren’t telekinetic as well, are you?”
I meant the comment in jest, but part of me thought she was hiding something.

“The chair is not doing anything, Bara. Effendi, the chair isn’t doing anything. Why are you staring at it?” Baibars looked bemused before his mind clicked. “Ah, yes, I see,” Baibars put his hand on my shoulder. “She is making you think the chair is floating. You see effendi, if I get up and touch the chair...”

Baibars stood up and padded over to the still floating chair, however, as soon as he reached out to touch it the illusion was gone.

“Hey, come on! What was that for?” Bara shot daggers at him.

“You see, it’s too much effort for her to make an illusion with a complex variable like a human after all she’s done today,” explained Baibars. “Her batteries have run out, you could say.”

The amicable banter was broken up by an audible thud at the door. The mood changed completely, eyes widened and fingers trembled towards our weapons.

“Bara, look through the peephole to check what it is. Florent, grab the crossbow in my backpack, it’s in the cupboard by the oven,” Baibars hissed at us.

I treaded lightly to the cupboard and pulled out the bow from Baibars’ bag. I found it relatively easy to load a couple of bolts but decided not to make a comment as I padded over to the door.

“Yes, it’s a turned person. Just the one,” Bara glanced back at Baibars.

“When you open the door, Bara, hide behind it. Florent, I want to aim for the chest, then the head. If you miss the head as it rushes in, it might take one of us out. The chest is a bigger target and will incapacitate it prior to the coup de grace,” Baibars paused in thought before inhaling sharply.

“Open the door now.”[/spoiler]

[Catterjune]

Chapters need to be at least 2 pages in length.

I haven't read it yet, but I intend to at some point... maybe. I prefer original stories over fan-ones for some reason.

[Hydra of Ages]

Indeed. Two pages is the minimum content for a chapter.

Get in touch with Rinne or I if you plan on expanding it.

[Mehmani]

Yeah, I was writing it at size 11 in MS Word with a large font. Cambria I think. Oh well, screw it, I might come back to it at some point.

[Mehmani]

I've updated the damn thing so it conforms to the regulations. I'm working on the second chapter and I have much more time on my hands.

[Mehmani]

Come on. Reviews? Even passing comments? I'm even going for the bribery option.

[Catterjune]

Prologue:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Purple_prose

Nah but seriously, I couldn't make heads or tails of it. From as near as I can tell, the protagonist tells us there's something called manifestations or something or muto-phenomena or flavours or some other random crap. It doesn't help add to the story and only further serves to confuse

[i]in my opinion[/i]

Chapter 1:

So we begin with a guy named Florent, born somewhere to some people and he's was on vacation 3 years ago. Three years ago, a bunch of random people all over the place got sick and collapsed onto the ground, writhing in... I assume pain? And then Florent was paralyzed with fear, not because he thought the whatever-the-hell-just-happened would effect him, but because he was afraid that the people who he had seen collapsed would get up, come to his house and "attack the house in the night" and afraid that he "would be torn apart".

I assume it's something similar to a zombie onslaught except without like... anything showing they were zombies. As far as I can tell they all just passed out and rather then administer first aid he just ran home. He mentions a few other people ("I ran to our rented home", our typically meaning it belongs to more then one person) and yet we don't really hear much about these other people who live in the rented home. Seems odd to imply they'd be there and yet... not have them there.

So anyway, Florent grabs some supplies and rushed towards a wide open park instead of a fortified house. IDK, maybe he was looking for people? He said "seeking refuge", but he had a refuge in his rented house. Whatever.

So anyway, he leaves the relative safety of his home and rather then check the news, call on friends, or turn on the radio he bolts to the park, finds a nice "hole between a bush and a wooden fense, just about large enough for a person to fit in" and goes to sleep inside of it? Just strikes me as illogical at best and downright suicidal at the worst.

So to the surprise of no one, he wakes up in the middle of the night and hears a zombie or something nearby. He panicks, as men often do when confronted with zombies, but he eventually manages to shoot it in the eye.

Overall, I think the problem is the story doesn't really present anything new or present old things in a new and interesting way. The protagonist is just some guy, devoid of personality. Or he seems rather stuffy and kind of bookish, but that's most likely just your own personality. He doesn't seem to be all that interesting, is what I'm trying to say. And if Florent's the protagonist then it seems we're in for a bit of a dull journey... with zombies.

I mean, not for nothing but the idea of "meek quiet librarian fights zombies" doesn't strike me as all that engaging.

[i]in my opinion[/i]

[Mehmani]

Yeah, prose is show-offy. Very show-offy. But then again I have only written a couple of chapters. Florent's bad decisions are actually going to be discussed in the next chapter (when we meet some other characters).

EDIT: I've posted the next chapter.

[Mehmani]

Comments? Pretty please?

[DARKPLANT RISING]

I like the concept of Zombie Apocalypses
/yesyoudo

OT: When writing stories, an important aspect is to understand what makes that genre of story so fascinating, and take it into your piece of work (and if you don’t think that genre of story is fascinating, don’t write it). Well, it’s one of those “duh” advices, but frankly a majority of non-published works don’t follow it.

Now, as far as I know, ZAs should always maintain an atmosphere of constant threat and tension. Its main theme revolves around the fear of the protagonist, and thus, the reader/player as well. In video games and such, this can be done rather easily by having the player shooting zombies that spray blood CG and moan and groan all the time. These video games often cut out all scenes except fighting, so the player can constantly be submerged in the violence and cruelty of the video game world. It can be noted that gore and fear are much easier to explain with moving pictures and sounds than with simple words, and thus it requires much thinking, as well as vivid (and quite possibly, overly done) explanations to create a ZA literature piece enjoyable. Looking at it another way, character feelings in literature can be described AMAZING if done right, so it’s all up to the writer to determine how well he/she can create a world of terror and blood.

I say you did a brilliant job with Chapter 1 on this. I could imagine myself as the main character, readying my weapons for the nearing threat. I especially loved the part about the hide-and-seek and stuff. Where the day-to-day example of hide-and-seek and the definitely-not-day-to-day example of shooting zombies is combined, it resulted in a very amusing and also easily comprehensible description that well served its purpose. But, coulda worked better with [i]smell[/i]. The stench of rotting flesh, blood, etc. It could also give the main character assurance that it was a Zombie, and not a normal man trying to meet him.

You could work on Chapter 2 a lot more, though. Maybe you were going for a “time of rest for the main character” by not having him encounter any zombies, but I personally feel the zombies need to be constantly everywhere on the path. After all, the main concept is fear, which Chapter 2 doesn’t emit at all. And given it seems like you’re going to have the characters jump into the happy dreamy refuge of flowers and smiley-faces in Chapter 3, Chapter 2 needs DOUBLE the zombies. Okay, maybe not double, but it still needs at least [i]some[/i] of them chasing after the main-character group with rotting bodies and the stench of death. Which would definitely make the main characters hurry even more towards the refuge and build up the “THERE’S NO ESCAPE” tension required in ZA stories.

Hope I helped.

[Mehmani]

[quote name='Darkplant - VENOM' timestamp='1342576404' post='5981499']
I like the concept of Zombie Apocalypses
/yesyoudo

OT: When writing stories, an important aspect is to understand what makes that genre of story so fascinating, and take it into your piece of work (and if you don’t think that genre of story is fascinating, don’t write it). Well, it’s one of those “duh” advices, but frankly a majority of non-published works don’t follow it.

Now, as far as I know, ZAs should always maintain an atmosphere of constant threat and tension. Its main theme revolves around the fear of the protagonist, and thus, the reader/player as well. In video games and such, this can be done rather easily by having the player shooting zombies that spray blood CG and moan and groan all the time. These video games often cut out all scenes except fighting, so the player can constantly be submerged in the violence and cruelty of the video game world. It can be noted that gore and fear are much easier to explain with moving pictures and sounds than with simple words, and thus it requires much thinking, as well as vivid (and quite possibly, overly done) explanations to create a ZA literature piece enjoyable. Looking at it another way, character feelings in literature can be described AMAZING if done right, so it’s all up to the writer to determine how well he/she can create a world of terror and blood.

I say you did a brilliant job with Chapter 1 on this. I could imagine myself as the main character, readying my weapons for the nearing threat. I especially loved the part about the hide-and-seek and stuff. Where the day-to-day example of hide-and-seek and the definitely-not-day-to-day example of shooting zombies is combined, it resulted in a very amusing and also easily comprehensible description that well served its purpose. But, coulda worked better with [i]smell[/i]. The stench of rotting flesh, blood, etc. It could also give the main character assurance that it was a Zombie, and not a normal man trying to meet him.

You could work on Chapter 2 a lot more, though. Maybe you were going for a “time of rest for the main character” by not having him encounter any zombies, but I personally feel the zombies need to be constantly everywhere on the path. After all, the main concept is fear, which Chapter 2 doesn’t emit at all. And given it seems like you’re going to have the characters jump into the happy dreamy refuge of flowers and smiley-faces in Chapter 3, Chapter 2 needs DOUBLE the zombies. Okay, maybe not double, but it still needs at least [i]some[/i] of them chasing after the main-character group with rotting bodies and the stench of death. Which would definitely make the main characters hurry even more towards the refuge and build up the “THERE’S NO ESCAPE” tension required in ZA stories.

Hope I helped.
[/quote]

Come on, you know your zombie apocalypse tropes. Chapter 3 is in the "safe" house. In horror, whenever something is supposed to be safe, it isn't, obviously. I promise you some nice exposition and rollicking action.

[DARKPLANT RISING]

Well, technically, but I meant about Chapter 2. Maybe a bit more? If you're going for the Silence Before the Storm, that's fine, but.

[Mehmani]

Though Slovakia is pretty rural, particularly in out of town Bratislava. Once they cross the border, things will get way more up-tempo.

[Mehmani]

Updated with a new, very long chapter.

[Darth Revan of the Sith]

I really like this. Not only did you innovate your plot and increase it's length while adding the necessary detail, you kept core components of your work that had been the best parts of your story.

Also... Bara X Florent
SHIPPED!

[Mehmani]

[quote name='Mr. A.' timestamp='1352332268' post='6063451']
I really like this. Not only did you innovate your plot and increase it's length while adding the necessary detail, you kept core components of your work that had been the best parts of your story.

Also... Bara X Florent
SHIPPED!
[/quote]

Hmm...you'd be surprised. It seems like the obvious path, and I am certainly considering it, but I think perhaps it's just too obvious. And you forgot the other character, he might play a part (no, not a threes-up, you childish people. I can see a "that's what she said" from a mile off. I mean in the arc).

[Darth Revan of the Sith]

[quote name='Mihails Tāls' timestamp='1352332972' post='6063460']
Hmm...you'd be surprised. It seems like the obvious path, and I am certainly considering it, but I think perhaps it's just too obvious. And you forgot the other character, he might play a part (no, not a threes-up, you childish people. I can see a "that's what she said" from a mile off. I mean in the arc).
[/quote]
That's what she sa-
Dammit...

And Baibars is meh with me. I like his leadership skills but he can get annoying sometimes. He also seems extra fearful than the rest.

Also I think you forgot to finish the spoiler in Chapter 4.

[Mehmani]

Thanks for that, I dealt with it. Walls of text from MS Word don't import terribly well. Twists coming up soon, haha.

[Darth Revan of the Sith]

When should Chapter 5 be up?

[Mehmani]

After tonight, UK time. I'm still working on it.

[Mehmani]

Sorry for the delays. Chapter 5 is up, I'll try and eat my way through Chapter 6 quickly.

[Darth Revan of the Sith]

WHAT A CLIFFHANGER! Your abilities in writing are amazing and I love your extensive vocabulary. I am beginning to like the little banter between the protagonist and Bara. It is quite humorous.

One complaint I have is making the fighting organization a government conglomerate as I had pictured it more of a resistance movement, however you pieced it all together well and the plot held together and created an interesting chapter.

Can't wait for 6