Hwo Thumb
04-13-2014, 08:28 PM
Okay, so the edit button completely screwed up this post
In any case, looking for criticism on this excerpt, particularly on word choice and flow, but anything else that sticks out.
Everything had gone horribly wrong.
John flew up the metal staircase as quickly as his legs could carry him, angry shouts echoing from below. His right leg screamed in agony with every step, still recovering from the shock of his fall. His pursuers were catching up.
John didn't have time to reflect on exactly when everything had gone horribly wrong, but it was probably somewhere around the time he had fallen down a flight of broken stairs and suddenly found himself separated from Harold, and fleeing three angry bandits.
The blast of a gun sounded from somewhere in the stairs below him, and a bullet ricocheted off of the metal steps, narrowly missing him. He somehow forced himself to run even faster as another bullet zipped by his ear. He didn't have enough breath left to swear.
The door came out of nowhere, and John slammed into it without even slowing down. The lock had long since been broken or stolen, however, so it open with little resistance. John shut the door behind him and surveyed his location.
The sixteen year old boy stood on the roof of that half-collapsed apartment building, clutching a sawn off double-barreled shotgun. It was smoking and one barrel had been fired. A stolen, once-colorful backpack was slung over his shoulder. He wore a threadbare light blue dress shirt stained with brown blotches of dried blood. Some of the blood was his, some of it was not. The knees of his tan dress pants were torn and stained with dirt and mud. A large brown overcoat, far too big for him, kept him safe from the biting cold winds of the destroyed atmosphere. A belt hung loosely around his waist. Strapped to it was a dull bowie knife, a handful of small tools, and a .22 revolver, as well as an ammo pocket that was almost empty. He was down to eight pistol shots and one shotgun shell.
Filthy and emaciated as John was, he was in much better condition than his surroundings. Hardly any buildings over fifteen floors tall were left standing, and a layer of grime and dust coated everything. A passing glance around the roof found empty candy wrappers, a few expended shotgun shells, and other garbage that told of travelers, long since dead or gone, who had found themselves on this same roof.
John ran his fingers through his filthy blond hair, falling back against the door as he looked for an escape route. Besides falling, of course. That kind of escape was of questionable usefulness to him. The shouts and footsteps behind him grew louder as his pursuers made their way up the stairs after him.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He was trapped. A loud metal bang and a push from behind startled him as one of his pursuers slammed into the door. Whether they were trying to break it down or simply didn't know he was blocking the other side, it sounded like they had run into the metal door pretty hard.
“Goddammit!” A deep voice swore from the other side. Acting on instinct, John rolled to the right, away from the door. It was a good idea. A few seconds later, there were three sharp cracks as the man on the other side put three rounds through it, trying to shoot John through the metal.
Standing out of sight, the boy drew a bead on the door with his shotgun, waiting for the man on the other side to come out. It didn't take long. The door creaked open and the bandit's arms became visible, holding his gun in front of him.
It was a very stupid mistake.
John saw his chance and leaped forward, grabbing the bandit's hands and letting his momentum carry him, slamming his target's arm into the door frame, by chance slashing it against a piece of rusted metal jutting out of the wall. The jagged iron sliced into the bandit's left arm, and he let out a cry of pain and jerked away, dragging the rusty knife of scrap metal down his arm. His cry became a scream, and John took advantage of his pain and surprise to yank his pistol out of his hands.
Turning to face the bleeding man, John got a grip on the handgun, pushed it up against the bandit's chest, and shot him point blank. The bandit tumbled down a few steps and rolled to a stop against the railing.
“****!” The profanity echoed up the stairs as one of his companions watched him fall from someplace out of John's sight. “Charlie, are you alright?”
Hearing the shuffles of the other two bandits making their way up the stairs, John called, “Hey, keep back! You take one step out here and I'll blow your friend's head off!”
There was a moment of hesitation. The bleeding man John had kicked down the stairs groaned in pain, holding his left arm, smearing crimson all over his hands. Surprisingly, the laceration on his arm looked worse than the gunshot wound in his chest.
“Charlie, Jesus, what did that kid do to you?” One of the men whispered, his voice carrying up to John.
“Got my gun!” Charlie hissed through gritted teeth. “Got my gun and sliced my goddamn arm open! Christ, there's blood all over the damn place!”
“Hey!” One of the bandits hiding around the corner called up to John. “Can we treat our guy?”
“Counter offer,” John replied, keeping the gun trained on Charlie. “How about no?”
Another voice, presumably the third bandit, called out, “Come on, man, you shot him! And I think you cut an artery or something!”
“Not my problem.” John did feel a twinge of guilt, but in fairness, these men were here to kill him. If one of them died, that was one less murderer running around. He couldn't afford to risk himself to save somebody who had pulled a gun on him seconds ago.
“*******!”
Slightly irritated, John snapped back, “And I suppose if our positions were reversed, compassion would be your first instinct too?”
“Hey, this ain't funny!” Something caught John's eye. One of the men was trying to peek around the corner. John fired a warning shot down the stairs and the man hid his head again.
“Do I sound like I'm laughing?” He shouted down the men, firing another shot to ensure they didn't try anything. Keeping the gun trained, he thought for a moment. “Okay, here's my proposal; Toss your guns out where I can see them, drag your buddy away, and get the hell out of here.”
“What?” One of the men shouted back, shocked. “We're not letting go of our guns! How d'we know you won't just kill us?”
“You don't. Say goodbye to your guns or to Charles.”
Throughout this exchange, Charlie was moaning and grasping his arm, trying unsuccessfully to keep his blood from spilling out unto the ground. He had hardly moved from the spot where John had kicked him, though whether that was because John had ordered him not to or because he simply couldn't move at all was unclear. He had landed hard when he had fallen down the stairs, and he might have hurt his head or back.
“Please...” He mumbled, though it was unclear who he was addressing. “Don' wanna die.”
“You're not gunna die, Charlie.” One of the men said, though he didn't sound so sure. “Alex, toss your gun out.”
“We're giving that skinny piece of **** what he wants?”
“Don't argue, just do it.”
A small pistol was slid along the ground out where John could see it. He breathed a small sigh of relief. They were giving up. The bandits tossed over two more guns, a shotgun and a rifle.
“Is that all?” John called, though he didn't expect an honest answer.
“Yeah,” One of the bandits replied impatiently. “Can we get Charlie?”
John took a step back into a crouch, setting the pistol on his knee.
“Come on up.” He ordered. “Keep your hands where I can see them, move slowly, and don't take one more step towards me than you have to, or I'll paste your skull to the wall.”
The two bandits appeared from around the corner, dressed almost as poorly as John, their hands held above their head. One of them had a small box.
“Is that a first aid kit?” John asked, indicating the box. The bandit nodded, slowly opening it and sorting through the contents before pulling out a roll of gauze.
He knelt down beside his comrade, casting a nervous glance at John. “I'm right here, Charlie. I'm going to put a tourniquet 'round your arm and see what we can do 'bout that bullet in you. We can clean it up and stitch it when we get back home. You might even keep your arm. You're going to be fine.”
“Alex, get the kid.” The injured man said, a sense of urgency in his voice. “Kill 'im.”
“No, Charlie.” The third man, standing off to the side was eying John nervously. “We're getting out of here. The kid's keeping the backpack.”
“But it's our food!” Charlie protested. “How come he gets it?”
“Because you went and got yourself shot and sliced up!” Alex spat.
John watched the man treat his injured comrade, keeping alert for any tricks. In a few minutes, these bandits would be on their way. He would have his backpack of food – Which was, in fact, his – and he could be on his way.
Charlie probably wouldn't make it. He had already lost quite a bit of blood, and the hole in his chest wasn't doing him any favors. Even if he didn't bleed out, the tourniquet wrapped around his shoulder would likely cost him his arm. It was a harsh, but the man had been trying to kill John and steal his stuff, so he didn't exactly feel bad about it.
Screw him. John thought. He had it coming.
The man with the first aid kit finished bandaging Charlie's injuries. He stood up, addressing John. “Ok, I think we're ready to-”
He cut off suddenly as he glanced over John's shoulder. His jaw dropped. A bright light from behind cast John's shadow on the three men below. John turned around to follow their gaze, catching only a flash of light and the slightest glimpse of something hurtling towards him at an incredible speed before it landed on the roof.
A split second later, the world exploded with brilliant noise and a percussive sound that blasted John backwards against the doorframe.
That, he would decide later, was the exact moment where everything had gone horribly wrong.
In any case, looking for criticism on this excerpt, particularly on word choice and flow, but anything else that sticks out.
Everything had gone horribly wrong.
John flew up the metal staircase as quickly as his legs could carry him, angry shouts echoing from below. His right leg screamed in agony with every step, still recovering from the shock of his fall. His pursuers were catching up.
John didn't have time to reflect on exactly when everything had gone horribly wrong, but it was probably somewhere around the time he had fallen down a flight of broken stairs and suddenly found himself separated from Harold, and fleeing three angry bandits.
The blast of a gun sounded from somewhere in the stairs below him, and a bullet ricocheted off of the metal steps, narrowly missing him. He somehow forced himself to run even faster as another bullet zipped by his ear. He didn't have enough breath left to swear.
The door came out of nowhere, and John slammed into it without even slowing down. The lock had long since been broken or stolen, however, so it open with little resistance. John shut the door behind him and surveyed his location.
The sixteen year old boy stood on the roof of that half-collapsed apartment building, clutching a sawn off double-barreled shotgun. It was smoking and one barrel had been fired. A stolen, once-colorful backpack was slung over his shoulder. He wore a threadbare light blue dress shirt stained with brown blotches of dried blood. Some of the blood was his, some of it was not. The knees of his tan dress pants were torn and stained with dirt and mud. A large brown overcoat, far too big for him, kept him safe from the biting cold winds of the destroyed atmosphere. A belt hung loosely around his waist. Strapped to it was a dull bowie knife, a handful of small tools, and a .22 revolver, as well as an ammo pocket that was almost empty. He was down to eight pistol shots and one shotgun shell.
Filthy and emaciated as John was, he was in much better condition than his surroundings. Hardly any buildings over fifteen floors tall were left standing, and a layer of grime and dust coated everything. A passing glance around the roof found empty candy wrappers, a few expended shotgun shells, and other garbage that told of travelers, long since dead or gone, who had found themselves on this same roof.
John ran his fingers through his filthy blond hair, falling back against the door as he looked for an escape route. Besides falling, of course. That kind of escape was of questionable usefulness to him. The shouts and footsteps behind him grew louder as his pursuers made their way up the stairs after him.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He was trapped. A loud metal bang and a push from behind startled him as one of his pursuers slammed into the door. Whether they were trying to break it down or simply didn't know he was blocking the other side, it sounded like they had run into the metal door pretty hard.
“Goddammit!” A deep voice swore from the other side. Acting on instinct, John rolled to the right, away from the door. It was a good idea. A few seconds later, there were three sharp cracks as the man on the other side put three rounds through it, trying to shoot John through the metal.
Standing out of sight, the boy drew a bead on the door with his shotgun, waiting for the man on the other side to come out. It didn't take long. The door creaked open and the bandit's arms became visible, holding his gun in front of him.
It was a very stupid mistake.
John saw his chance and leaped forward, grabbing the bandit's hands and letting his momentum carry him, slamming his target's arm into the door frame, by chance slashing it against a piece of rusted metal jutting out of the wall. The jagged iron sliced into the bandit's left arm, and he let out a cry of pain and jerked away, dragging the rusty knife of scrap metal down his arm. His cry became a scream, and John took advantage of his pain and surprise to yank his pistol out of his hands.
Turning to face the bleeding man, John got a grip on the handgun, pushed it up against the bandit's chest, and shot him point blank. The bandit tumbled down a few steps and rolled to a stop against the railing.
“****!” The profanity echoed up the stairs as one of his companions watched him fall from someplace out of John's sight. “Charlie, are you alright?”
Hearing the shuffles of the other two bandits making their way up the stairs, John called, “Hey, keep back! You take one step out here and I'll blow your friend's head off!”
There was a moment of hesitation. The bleeding man John had kicked down the stairs groaned in pain, holding his left arm, smearing crimson all over his hands. Surprisingly, the laceration on his arm looked worse than the gunshot wound in his chest.
“Charlie, Jesus, what did that kid do to you?” One of the men whispered, his voice carrying up to John.
“Got my gun!” Charlie hissed through gritted teeth. “Got my gun and sliced my goddamn arm open! Christ, there's blood all over the damn place!”
“Hey!” One of the bandits hiding around the corner called up to John. “Can we treat our guy?”
“Counter offer,” John replied, keeping the gun trained on Charlie. “How about no?”
Another voice, presumably the third bandit, called out, “Come on, man, you shot him! And I think you cut an artery or something!”
“Not my problem.” John did feel a twinge of guilt, but in fairness, these men were here to kill him. If one of them died, that was one less murderer running around. He couldn't afford to risk himself to save somebody who had pulled a gun on him seconds ago.
“*******!”
Slightly irritated, John snapped back, “And I suppose if our positions were reversed, compassion would be your first instinct too?”
“Hey, this ain't funny!” Something caught John's eye. One of the men was trying to peek around the corner. John fired a warning shot down the stairs and the man hid his head again.
“Do I sound like I'm laughing?” He shouted down the men, firing another shot to ensure they didn't try anything. Keeping the gun trained, he thought for a moment. “Okay, here's my proposal; Toss your guns out where I can see them, drag your buddy away, and get the hell out of here.”
“What?” One of the men shouted back, shocked. “We're not letting go of our guns! How d'we know you won't just kill us?”
“You don't. Say goodbye to your guns or to Charles.”
Throughout this exchange, Charlie was moaning and grasping his arm, trying unsuccessfully to keep his blood from spilling out unto the ground. He had hardly moved from the spot where John had kicked him, though whether that was because John had ordered him not to or because he simply couldn't move at all was unclear. He had landed hard when he had fallen down the stairs, and he might have hurt his head or back.
“Please...” He mumbled, though it was unclear who he was addressing. “Don' wanna die.”
“You're not gunna die, Charlie.” One of the men said, though he didn't sound so sure. “Alex, toss your gun out.”
“We're giving that skinny piece of **** what he wants?”
“Don't argue, just do it.”
A small pistol was slid along the ground out where John could see it. He breathed a small sigh of relief. They were giving up. The bandits tossed over two more guns, a shotgun and a rifle.
“Is that all?” John called, though he didn't expect an honest answer.
“Yeah,” One of the bandits replied impatiently. “Can we get Charlie?”
John took a step back into a crouch, setting the pistol on his knee.
“Come on up.” He ordered. “Keep your hands where I can see them, move slowly, and don't take one more step towards me than you have to, or I'll paste your skull to the wall.”
The two bandits appeared from around the corner, dressed almost as poorly as John, their hands held above their head. One of them had a small box.
“Is that a first aid kit?” John asked, indicating the box. The bandit nodded, slowly opening it and sorting through the contents before pulling out a roll of gauze.
He knelt down beside his comrade, casting a nervous glance at John. “I'm right here, Charlie. I'm going to put a tourniquet 'round your arm and see what we can do 'bout that bullet in you. We can clean it up and stitch it when we get back home. You might even keep your arm. You're going to be fine.”
“Alex, get the kid.” The injured man said, a sense of urgency in his voice. “Kill 'im.”
“No, Charlie.” The third man, standing off to the side was eying John nervously. “We're getting out of here. The kid's keeping the backpack.”
“But it's our food!” Charlie protested. “How come he gets it?”
“Because you went and got yourself shot and sliced up!” Alex spat.
John watched the man treat his injured comrade, keeping alert for any tricks. In a few minutes, these bandits would be on their way. He would have his backpack of food – Which was, in fact, his – and he could be on his way.
Charlie probably wouldn't make it. He had already lost quite a bit of blood, and the hole in his chest wasn't doing him any favors. Even if he didn't bleed out, the tourniquet wrapped around his shoulder would likely cost him his arm. It was a harsh, but the man had been trying to kill John and steal his stuff, so he didn't exactly feel bad about it.
Screw him. John thought. He had it coming.
The man with the first aid kit finished bandaging Charlie's injuries. He stood up, addressing John. “Ok, I think we're ready to-”
He cut off suddenly as he glanced over John's shoulder. His jaw dropped. A bright light from behind cast John's shadow on the three men below. John turned around to follow their gaze, catching only a flash of light and the slightest glimpse of something hurtling towards him at an incredible speed before it landed on the roof.
A split second later, the world exploded with brilliant noise and a percussive sound that blasted John backwards against the doorframe.
That, he would decide later, was the exact moment where everything had gone horribly wrong.