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Post by steppedonwolf on Jul 15, 2009 22:13:52 GMT
Hi all
Many thanks for the votes, I'm glad you enjoyed the tale. Still think Kinky Clawz shoulda won, though - KC, I voted for you!
OK, the next theme. I'd like to see stories with a historical background. Any period in history you like - medieval, Roman, First World War...anything you like, and set in any country you like.
But it must be a horror/supernatural tale set in the past.
Have fun, scribblers!
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Post by ian on Jul 15, 2009 22:41:02 GMT
Same rules as last time.
We all post a short story on here, once all the stories are in, i'll add a poll. whoever's story gets the most votes gets to pick the next theme.
Coolies. Ready?
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Post by TheWalkinDude on Jul 16, 2009 8:09:28 GMT
sweet, sweet, already an idea is forming. does it have to be a particular length?
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Post by steppedonwolf on Jul 16, 2009 12:06:12 GMT
Any length up to 3000.
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kinkyclawz
Cthugha
When the gibbous moon awakens, my golden eyes see ALL!
Posts: 39
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Post by kinkyclawz on Jul 16, 2009 22:06:38 GMT
Hi all Many thanks for the votes, I'm glad you enjoyed the tale. Still think Kinky Clawz shoulda won, though - KC, I voted for you! OK, the next theme. I'd like to see stories with a historical background. Any period in history you like - medieval, Roman, First World War...anything you like, and set in any country you like. But it must be a horror/supernatural tale set in the past. Have fun, scribblers! *blushes* Wow, thankyou for such a high accolade, hunny. It was just a rush job really so the best story won beyond a shadow of a doubt. ;D Congratulations, Steppedonwolf! *hugz*
Ooh, historical horror! Great choice! I love writing historical stuff! And so to work - 3000 words or less. Heh, now that's a challenge. KC
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kinkyclawz
Cthugha
When the gibbous moon awakens, my golden eyes see ALL!
Posts: 39
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Post by kinkyclawz on Jul 18, 2009 17:33:53 GMT
Hmm, I'm not sure how successfully this concept works but - worth a try, right? ^^ Enjoy folks! KC
To The Hilt by D. K. Earnshaw
“Oh my!” Her hands fluttered to her ample chest in a perfect parody of female consternation. The expression upon her pale-powdered features was one of the utmost distress as she sank back against the sea of red-and-gold cushions afforded her aboard the seat upon which she reclined. Her long, dark curls spread voluptuously across the red-and-gold and one hand raised to her brow dramatically as here eyelashes fluttered like butterflies in spring. He, standing impassively as he was in his neat black suit with the white ruffled shirt beneath, was not fooled. Even in the candle-lit gloom of the small but deceptively spacious drawing room, he saw the signs.
“My Lady,” He began in a rolling Scottish burr and in a tone one iota less respectful than he had previously used despite the implication of his words. “I fear to cast aspersions upon your character but I am in possession of the knowledge that this is not an unexpected turn of events to such a delicate ear as yours.” He pulled his dark jacket close.
“Indeed?” She deigned to reply after some time more, letting the hands fall to her lap, coming to rest in the folds of her voluminous pale green crinoline attire. “Yes. Indeed.” All pretence was now gone as she rose majestically from among the red-and-gold and was on her now-steady feet in an instant. “I play the part well, though, do I not?” She asked through lips as red as the finest rubies. Her green eyes flashed a warning as she superstitiously touched the cane she kept beside her at all times, it leant at present against the high side of the seat.
“My Lady.” He nodded. “Your part is played to the hilt and beyond.” He added, knowing the danger of that look despite her being at least a head shorter than he. And it was certainly true, a man other then he would have been quite taken by her act. A man other than he would have hastened to her side and held the delicate porcelain hand in his own in hopes of rousing the feeble female from her near-swoon. But he was not another man. He was Arthur McTavish of the Edinburgh McTavishes. Perhaps not a name well known here in England, and certainly not of this time. Perhaps his was not a name well known outside his home town, but infamy was beholden to that family name in certain circles and he was son and heir to that infamy. It was an inheritance he had received something more than a decade and a half ago, when he was still a relatively young man.
Pleased with his words, his Lady once more was seated. McTavish allowed his eyes to stray to the half-concealed bosom before him, but only for a moment. Beautiful though she undoubtedly was, he felt no attraction to the female charms on display. The firmly corseted waist, though attractive to the eye, could not hide from him the beast inside this womanly form. Her slender fingers and hands hung with the finest of jewels would not attract him with their caresses. Those alluring ankles which his Lady showed in a most unmaidenly way were not to turn his head. For Arthur McTavish knew there was no beating heart beneath those soft blooms of flesh upon her chest. He knew no life-blood flowed through the dark veins which on occasion showed upon them. A hunger certainly stirred inside the corseted waist but it was for no food to be taken by man or woman kind. The hands full of gentle caresses when in the care of a chosen one would not hesitate to wring the life from one or more forms in their deathly grip, or rend said forms with the talons which could only have been dredged from the very pits of the Abyss. Those desperately alluring ankles of the same pure ivory as the rest of her form could impel her at such speed that her prey would see and hear nothing before the tolling of their own bell.
“You seem distracted, Arthur.” She enquired in a tone only mildly less than haughty. It abruptly softened to a feminine coo as she then said, “Come, sit by me and tell me what is the matter.” Already she had shifted both her cushions and her personality. Once more the delightful hostess, the toast of the city, was in residence. The creature dwelling within was well hid. She smoothed her hand over the horsehair chaise-longue and patted it firmly twice, as if it were the muscular haunch of said equine beast. McTavish did as he was commanded. The things he knew of this, this “woman” should have prevented him, but there was something more. He did not, in fact, have anything more to fear from this creature. He served her and she would not, in any case, take him for prey, he believed. “Pray tell, my dear McTavish, what ails your mind.”
Staring at the fire, crackling high and merry in the grate and throwing sparks onto the stone place before it, McTavish thought over his response. His emotions were well tamped down and heavily lidded. “My Lady...” He began.
“Tsk. It has been eleven years. You know my name so speak it, as a friend.”
“As - a friend?” McTavish repeated, a little surprised. His Lady nodded once, lips held together firmly and redly. He hesitated. “My L... Miss Worne. I believe you already know the cause of my disquiet.”
She regarded him, blinking with a cat-like languidity. The green eyes strayed to the hands of the man beside her, a man whose fingers knotted together so tightly the blood was gone from them. “The condition?” She said at length.
“And your use of it.” He added candidly, looking to meet the somewhat feline gaze with his own dark one. “Why did you choose this time? Why her?” A flicker rose in Miss Worne's eyes. What the flicker was, Arthur McTavish was unable to say. Was it anger or fear, or perhaps, dare he think it, shame? Whatever the rise was, it was gone in such an instant he had no more recognition of it than of a single star in the sky.
“Ah. You speak of her.” There was no emotion on the precious, pale face. No hint of the machinations of the keen mind behind the emerald eyes. “I must admit to a mistake, dear Arthur.”
His fingers unclenched and released before coming back together with a sharp clap which was loud in the otherwise quiet drawing room. “My-Miss Worne, I beg to ask, was she not your intended?”
“Arthur, would I of all take from you the one you loved dearest in this world?” She enquired, sounding affronted.
McTavish stood abruptly, turning as he rose to hold his back to the fire, to warm his cold and weary bones. “I confess,” He said, “I do not know. My L... Miss Worne, I ask again. Did you intend for her to die?”
His Lady remained seated. She looked up through hooded eyes. “I did not. However, she tried to defend my intended meal. She chose to stand before me, to challenge me. The hunger took me and in my eagerness, I lost sight of my objective.”
Arthur took a deep, resonant breath which fully doubled the breadth of his breast giving him a barrel-chested appearance. This breath he let out in slow degrees, his eyes and temper darkening with each release. With the final exhalation, he breathed one word. “Liar.” He hissed. No, this demon in woman's guise could not fool him. “LIAR!” He all but howled. “You knew who she was, what I have done for her. You are neither shocked nor saddened by the events. You have no soul, no pity or remorse. You care not for the fortunes of others save those which serve your purpose! She was but a child of fifteen years, not yet full grown!”
There was a harsh edge to Miss Worne's next words. “My dear McTavish, I have told you the circumstance in which I found myself. I have no further need to explain, to you nor any other.”
Things happened quickly after this. His Lady rose to her feet and was before him in an instant, one minute there, the next here. Her green eyes were no longer green but a vivid and terrifying shade of red and, even now, almost double their size. Her lips parted to reveal a double row of long needle-like teeth, both upper and lower. The once-beautiful face, in order to accommodate these lethal prongs, expanded both wide and deep so much as to resemble a muzzle and the skin began to break away in feathery strips. Only a fool would fail to quake before this sight, and Arthur McTavish was hardly a fool else this creature would never have chosen him for her service.
However, the depth of his emotion over the untimely death of his beloved, and only, daughter, murdered the intent of self preservation within him. The ivory flesh was now almost completely stripped from all over her in shreds and revealed the grey-green bristles beneath, those desirous ankles cracked and twisted into a canine stance terminating in humanoid clawed feet. The newly clawed hands of Miss Worne strove toward his throat but she was not yet fast enough. Not for a man such as he.
The questing hands housing murderous and still-growing talons passed him by as he lunged forward. He, too, was changing but not in the body. The mind which had driven him here tonight to the door of His Lady was no longer loyal to her but to a greater purpose. From within his coat he drew a curved, silver blade. It glowed a dull red in the dancing firelight and had just the perfect balance in his hand. The demon in the green crinoline dress grinned her hideous grin as she met him, chest to chest. Those pure, soft breasts were no longer pure, nor soft. They protruded as sharp spikes. McTavish let out a cry as the twin spines impaled his breast, penetrating so deep as to all but emerge from his back. Miss Worne pushed him away with a hard, bitter laugh of a sufficiently low pitch as befit the monstrous, dead creature she truly was. Both of McTavishes lungs let out hot, living air simultaneously and she stooped to breathe these sustaining vapours. Only the internal breath of the living could hope to quench the hunger within her and while she was distracted by the aim, the already dying McTavish took the chance his family had been ever training him for.
“Begone, Ronwe!” McTavish wheezed airlessly as he plunged the silver dagger into the only remaining spot of soft, white flesh over the demon Ronwe's body, formerly His Lady Miss Worne. It was a small, apparently insignificant spot behind her neck which proved his greatest ally. The blade penetrated to the hilt and beyond. Ronwe's inhalation of his expelled air ceased and the she-demon screamed, the stolen air leaking from between her teeth like smoke. The low creature shuddered and roared, those questing talons, joined by the now visible prehensile tail she bore in demon form, were now only seeking the silver blade embedded in her neck. Black blood ran thickly like tar, shedding her greenish spines when it touched them and scattering itself and them all over the floor in her struggles. McTavish, as he sunk to the ground beside the fire with one hand clutched over one of his wounds, gloated that Ronwe would not succeed in gathering any more soldiers for her 19th Legion. She would not take the good soul of his daughter, nor the souls of the wicked he had selected for her over the past eleven years, for the armies of hell-spawned demons which even now infected this good, green Earth. With a shriek in some unintelligible language, Ronwe launched herself into the fire. The flames flared a vivid green around her, fading to a swirling corridor of orange at the end of which was a window into Hell which would remain for a few seconds only.
McTavish had expected such a move from His Lady and thrust out his free hand. His weakened fingers closed around the now truly unmaidenly ankle and was pierced in dozens of places by the spines he found there. But he held on grimly, his blood blending with the tar-like blood of the demon. She screamed in demonic rage and twisted, turning to tear at him and free herself. Unleashing the last of his strength, Arthur dove forward and using his other, bloodied hand to pull upon the powerful bespiked tail. In order to arrest the escape of the creature, McTavish allowed his own life to bubble redly from his heaving, ineffectual lungs. Ronwe's thrashing claws connected cleanly with his throat, severing the rapidly pulsing jugular of her former ally. Crimson life sprayed over Ronwe as the demon hunter's grip failed – alas it was too late. She was half in and half out of the Hell portal as it closed with an unexpectedly muted whumping sound.
The hind quarters of the demon Ronwe remained on Earth, crumbling to a pile of jaded spines and tarred and stinking liquid within the severed remains of the voluminous skirt of the green crinoline dress; the stomach and upper body disappeared into Hell. It would be exactly two centuries later, in the year of Our Lord, two thousand and twenty four, when the demon Ronwe was sufficiently recovered as to resume her work.
However, in the year eighteen hundred and twenty four, Arthur McTavish was not yet dead. As his heart still beat weakly, allowing his precious life-blood to continue dribbling from his throat to the floor, his dark eyes lit with pride. His dear, beloved daughter of whom he had not known Miss Worne had been aware, stood over him. She crouched with her tender smile and held out a hand. He had saved her and would take that proffered hand presently...
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Post by TheWalkinDude on Jul 21, 2009 15:52:14 GMT
Hi all, here a present a short story for this thread. i hope you all enjoy! ---------------------------
The Bunker
By Ian Latham
Berlin: August 1945
It was considered to be a stroke of luck when the soldiers of the 101st Company stumbled upon the bunker. They had received Intel from command that there was a hidden bunker in the vicinity and that there may be some Nazi leaders in hiding. So they had been ordered to check the buildings for any hidden doors or hatchways that might lead to this particular place. It was private Alain McGrath that had first spotted the panel in the floor, with further investigation he managed to find the mechanism that activated the hatch. It swung back silently on well oiled hinges revealing a ladder that led into the darkness below. “Sergeant!” he yelled, barely able to conceal his excitement. There was a clattering of running feet and Sergeant Miles appeared. “What is it Private?” he asked. His eyes drew to the square hole in the floor almost immediately. “I think I found it, sir,” McGrath said, “there was a hidden panel just here and it activated the hatch release. Those Germans are sneaky bastards. I’ll tell you that for free.” Sergeant Miles eyed the hatch with barely concealed distaste. He hated being here and could not wait to be discharged, until then he was stuck in this shit hole indefinitely. “Very good, Private.” He said, “Now lets get down there. I wanna get these scumbags out of there fast. If there’s anyone down there of course.” Sergeant miles turned and walked down the short hall of the building. When he reached the end he called the other members of the 101st Company. There were ten of them all in all. They had separated into two groups to quicken the search, though Sergeant Miles had specified that they make sure to search every building inside and out. When the five members of team Alpha had assembled Miles had given them their orders. McGrath and Johnson were on point, they were to go down and secure the immediate entryway. When that was done Shelton and Avarice were to follow and they would conduct a swift sweep of any adjoining rooms, keeping in mind that there may still be armed men down there. When that was completed and the threat level had been evaluated Sergeant Miles would contact command and advise of the situation. Understanding this, the soldiers of 101st Company set to work exactly as they had been ordered.
The entryway was deserted, leading on to a short hallway that had three doors. About halfway was the first two, they were positioned on each side of the hall and had a neglected look about them. The third door was right at the end of the hall, it looked pretty much the same but the was an inscription on it which read:
Thule Gellschaft
The first two doors opened on to a bunkroom that housed four sets of bunk beds, each of these were currently unoccupied. The second room was what appeared to be a file storage room, but the sets of shelves were empty save for cardboard cartons that smelled faintly of dust and decay. There was a great big pile of ash on the floor; this was obviously the remains of any files that had occupied the cartons on the shelves. The four men, feeling slightly downcast at this, approached the pile. Most of it was blackened ash, but there were a few scraps of paper here and there that had some writing still legible. Private McGrath nudged the pile with his foot in a thoughtful manner; he seemed to be miles away. “What was the point?” he asked the room in general. The other members of the team glanced at each other as if to say is he talking to you or me? “The point in what? Alain.” Asked Shelton, he was casting wary eyes around the room as if he was uncomfortable with the dark. “The point in burning all this stuff, I mean they knew they had lost its not like we were gonna get some Intel that would help us win.” “prob’ly had some ancient German secrets that they didn’t want in the hands of us Allies.” Johnson said, he had removed his helmet and was scratching his sweat damp hair. “Yeah your probably right,” McGrath said, “But still, seems a bit pointless to me. I’ll tell you that for free.” The other three rolled their eyes behind McGrath’s back, his way of talking annoyed them to no end. He seemed to think that someone was going to put a price on words or something. McGrath knelt and began picking up pieces of paper and reading them, he would toss one aside and pick up the next bit. Eventually he studied a piece for a long time before speaking again. “What do you think this means?” he asked holding the charred piece up, Shelton leaned forward, trained the beam of his torch onto it and examined the small square of paper. It was about three inches across and looked to have been part of a book or something. Written on it were four words in German:
Das Zusammenufen eines Portal
“What does it say?” asked Shelton. “It says ‘The Summoning of a Portal’.” The men quietly studied the piece of paper and then looked at each other. “That doesn’t sound too good.” Avarice said eventually. “Its nonsense,” Shelton said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “What’s a portal anyway?” McGrath asked. “Like a door or something, probably nothin’ though.” The men looked around the room for a bit longer, taking note of the shelf stacked with gas lanterns. There were lights overhead, which, meant there was power at one point, but obviously it was currently out. Most likely it wouldn’t be back on anytime soon so the gas lamps had been for if there was a time like this. Eventually the men satisfied themselves that there was no one hiding in the room they decided to check the last room. They filed down the corridor and stood outside the last door. “What’s that mean?” Shelton asked McGrath, indicating the words on the door. “The Thule Society.” “What’s that?” McGrath looked thoughtful for a minute and then said “Not sure, but it does ring familiar, prob’ly nothing though.” Shelton shrugged, reached out and tried the door. There was a squealing from the handle as it turned grudgingly but the door catch didn’t release. The door remained closed. The men looked at each other and shrugged, Avarice brought out his service pistol and nodded to the others to get back. They took a few steps back and plugged their ears with their fingers. Avarice aimed at the door handle, turned his head and fired. BOOM! The pistols report in the confines of the tunnel was deafening, Avarice felt splinters of wood hit his face and his ears felt like he had just inserted long, pointed needles into them and punctured his ear drums. There was an intense middle C ringing after a few seconds and he stood looking dumbly at the door. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to face McGrath who was saying something, but Avarice couldn’t hear him. “What?” he yelled. “I said, good show!” McGrath replied, “but the sergeant wants to know who was firing.” Avarice looked puzzled for a moment then grinned. “I’ll go up and talk to him then!” he yelled and turned and walked down the corridor. “That lad,” McGrath said, “Is a nut-job. I’ll tell you that for free.” He laughed, shook his head and pushed the door open, broken pieces of lock clattered to the floor and he door swung open on rusty hinges with a high pitched rasping sound. The room was just as empty as the others save for one thing. A hole. It was about eight foot across which was almost the size of the room. There were chalk lines around the edge of its circumference, which was rather odd. But then again it could have been measurements for digging the hole. McGrath peered into the darkness and shone his torch down the hole. It seemed to go on for a bit and he was starting to feel waves of vertigo sweep over him. “What the hells that?” he asked. “A hole.” Shelton replied with a grin. McGrath turned and looked at the young private with a look of annoyance. “You think your hilarious, don’t you.” He said, “but I’ll tell you something, sonny, I’m about twenty years your senior and I aint never seen a hole like this one.” McGrath was almost shouting in his anger and Shelton was shrinking back. “All right,” he said, “Keep your hair on! It was only a joke.” McGrath closed his eyes and took a deep breath; he seemed to have lost the plot there for no reason. “Sorry Shelton, just a bit stressed with bein in this dump. Nothin personal.” Johnson, who had insofar been quiet, now pointed his torch beam along the edge, he ran the beam along the circumference of the hole and pointed with his finger. “What are those symbols?” he asked. McGrath followed his finger and squinted, strange looking markings, all points and squiggles, adorned the outside of the chalked circle, but the didn’t look chalked. They looked burned into the concrete. “Not sure,” McGrath said eventually, “but I’ll tell you this. I don’t like the way they look. Maybe we should tell the Sergeant that this place isn’t what were looking for.” The other men thought about this and decided that this was a good idea, so they headed back up the hall and up the ladder to report to Sergeant Miles. But they were in for some disappointment.
Night fell and with it came the moon, like a bloated white skull grinning down at the broken city of Berlin. The Soldiers of 101st Companies Team Alpha had reported to their Sergeant that the hidden bunker was empty and it was unlikely that anyone would be returning at all. They told him about the burned files and the hole, Sergeant Miles had been unimpressed. They waited around while the Sergeant contacted command; he explained what the men had told him and listened to the replies with a blank expression on his face. Eventually he came back inside the building and looked at his men’s expectant faces. “We’re to remain here.” He said, keeping that blank expression on his face. The men regarded him with opened mouth surprise, they were hoping to be pulled out and sent home. “But! There’s nothing here!” McGrath almost shouted. “Yeah, Serge.” Shelton concurred, “It looks like they got out of here well bef—” “I don’t care!” Sergeant Miles overrode him, “We have orders, and we will follow them to the letter.” He looked at the team’s downcast expressions. “Am I understood?” he added. There was a muttering of ascent from the rest of the team, and he could feel the disappointment coming off them in waves. “Good!” he said, “I want two of you in that bunker at all times and two up here to guard the entrance. The hole may well lead to an escape tunnel, were to make sure no one comes back that way.” He looked at his men’s faces and felt a pang of guilt, he wanted out of here too so this was just as hard on him as it was them, but orders were orders so he had to be firm. Okay!” he said eventually, “Lets get to it!”
McGrath and Shelton were on first watch; the door with the hole behind it had been propped open. McGrath was sitting cross-legged at the holes edge with one of the gas lanterns at his side. He was peering into the ebony blackness that waited below feeling uneasy. He took a penny from his pocket and dropped it into the hole, counting under his breath for the ping that would announce it pennies descent had stopped. When nothing came he intuited that the hole must be very, very deep. He considered reporting this to Sergeant miles but then dismissed it, the Sergeant would probably just get mad and the last thing he wanted was Miles shouting at him, he could tell you that for free. So he remained at his post, idly smoking a roll up and thinking about home, Shelton was down the hall at the ladder leaning against the wall and trying not to fall asleep. After some time McGrath heard an odd sound. It sounded like the whistling, it wasn’t loud or anything but it was rather unsettling. He squinted into the dark and shined his torch into the hole. The weak beam did little to illuminate the blackness below and McGrath was about to dismiss it when a gust of wind blew up from the hole causing him to drop his torch into the hole and blowing out the gas lamp. “Shit!” he muttered as the room was plunged into darkness. He fumbled for the lamp, the gloom was only penetrated by the dim glow from Shelton’s lamp, but that was soon extinguished as the door swung shut with a clunk. McGrath fumbled a bit more and then dropped the lamp. It hit the edge of the hole and also tumbled in, leaving him with nothing to see by. He sat there for a moment wondering what to do, and then he heard another sound. It was a clattering sound, like pebbles being dislodged and tumbling down the hole. McGrath sat and listened while his heart began trip hammering in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears was almost loud enough to drown out any other sound. There was a scrabbling sound now, like something trying to get a good hold on the inside of the hole. McGrath decided to try and find the door so he turned and crawled away slowly, feeling with his hands in case he accidentally went over the edge and plunged into the bottomless darkness below. That scrabbling sound was getting louder and he could hear and odd mumbling sound with it, it sounded like something muttering and growling at the same time. And it was getting nearer to the edge. Eventually McGrath found the wall and hoped it was the right one, he didn’t want to be trapped in here any longer with that horrible noise which had now reached the edge of the hole. He heard a scraping sound, which sounded very familiar. It sounded like claws on stone. Burbling in his fear McGrath felt along the wall but couldn’t locate the door, in his panic he must have went the wrong way and ended up at the wrong wall, he thought himself lucky that he didn’t fall into the hole at all, if that was lucky. The mumbling began to get closer as whatever had climbed up had gained its feet, he could hear the sound of tough pads hitting the stone floor. “Please god! Oh please, please god!” he muttered over and over like some kind of mantra while he fumbled in his pocket for a lighter. The mumbling sound was so close now and he could feel some hot breath on his face, and he could smell a stench that was also so, so familiar. The Stench of death. When he finally located his lighter McGrath snapped open the cover and thumbed the flint, there was a spark but it didn’t light. He steadied his hand and tried again, the lighter fluid bloomed into a small orange flame, illuminating that darkness by just a fraction, but a fraction was enough. McGrath Screamed.
Shelton had been dozing when the door to the room with the hole slammed shut, he came awake at once and took hold of his rifle. There was no sound for a long time before he heard McGrath scream, and the scream froze his blood like liquid nitrogen in his veins. His bowels felt loose and he had to fight the urge to let his bladder go where he stood. “SERGEANT!” he screamed, not caring that his voice sounded terrified. There was a clattering of running feet and then the rest of Team Alpha peered over the edge of the hatchway. “What is it?” Sergeant Miles asked, he was squinting but could just make out that Shelton looked terrified. “Something… Something’s happened to McGrath!” he said, his voice was going up and down in pitch as he fought for control. “The door slammed shut and then he screamed. I think he’s hurt.” Sergeant Miles looked at Shelton for a long time trying to decide if someone was pulling his leg, but the tremor in Shelton’s voice convinced him otherwise. “You two,” he said to Avarice and Johnson, “Get down there and investigate, I’ll be right down after I contact command. If you see anything, anything, I want you to shoot first and ask questions later. Is that clear?” “Yes Serge!” Avarice and Johnson said simultaneously. They climbed down the ladder one at a time and took positions on either side of Shelton. “D’you think the Nazi’s are back?” Avarice whispered shouldering his rifle. “The way McGrath screamed? No I think something else is in there with him.” Shelton was visibly shaking and Avarice had to place a hand on his shoulder to try and calm him. “Easy there kid,” he said, “We’re all here now so try and stay calm. You don’t wanna go shooting one of us now do you?” Shelton shook his head and tried to smile, he took a deep breath and seemed to get some of his composure back “There’s a good lad.” “Okay!” Johnson said eventually, “I say we get down there, you two flank the door and I’ll kick it down, we go in one after the other and shoot whatever’s in there with McGrath.” “Sounds good, lets go.” The three soldiers made their way slowly down the hall, no sound but their breathing and the rushing of blood in their ears filled the air and the atmosphere was tense, young Shelton was still quivering like jelly but he seemed a bit more in control. They were about eight feet from the door when Johnson held up a hand and stopped them; he seemed to be straining to hear something. “Can you hear that?” he whispered. Avarice, who still had a ringing in his ears from shooting the lock off the door listened but could hear nothing… No he could hear something, it reminded him of his dog, buster, back home. When he wanted out he would claw at the door until someone took him for a walk. It was almost the same, an odd clawing sound that— The door suddenly creaked and burst out the way, flying down the hall towards them. Avarice and Johnson managed to get out the way but it collided with Shelton and knocked him flat on his back. It had hit him sideways and pulverised the left hand side of his chest, shattering his rib cage. Shelton was thrown back by the collision and landed on his back, cracking his head of the floor. The intense pain and the knock to the head leeched the world of colour and he was very close to passing out when Johnson spoke to him. “Jesus!” he said, “Shelton are you—” “What the f*ck is that!” Avarice screamed. Johnson looked up from Shelton and his eyes widened with fear. “What in gods name!” he shrieked and both him and Avarice began firing. There was a growling that sounded strangely like someone mumbling to themselves and Shelton, in the midst of his agony, managed to get up on one elbow. He felt bones grinding together inside of him and nearly blacked out. He squinted down the hall and saw something big, something with porcupine quills and teeth like broken glass. Something that looked hungry. Shelton screamed as it lumbered down the hallway under a hail of fire, the bullets did little to hamper it. He continued to scream as it took Johnson by the shoulders with its big, clawed hands and bit into his neck, spraying warm gouts of blood over the walls as his carotid arteries and his jugular veins all let go at once. He screamed as it turned to Avarice and swiped at him, ripping his belly open and letting his guts go in one warm gush. He continued to scream as it turned towards him. And scream. And scream. And scream.
When continued attempts at communication was not responded to by 101st Companies Team Alpha their counter part, Team Delta, were roused by command and sent to the location of the hidden bunker. They searched the place from top to bottom but the only thing they found was discarded helmets and weapons and blood. A lot of blood. It was pooled everywhere in great big congealing pools and trails of it led directly to the hole in the back room of the bunker. There they found a McGrath’s lighter lying in its own little swimming pool of blood. It caked the wall and had splattered the floor pretty much everywhere you looked from the hatchway to the bunker. Sergeant Markus, Team Delta’s commanding officer had raised command on his short wave radio to report their findings. Command was not happy, and had ordered the Sergeant to continue a vigil. They wanted the bastards that had taken Team Alpha and they wanted them punished. Sergeant Markus ordered his team to keep a vigil and retired to a room to make a report. That night, with the moon full and laughing overhead, the mumbling began again.
The End
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Post by ian on Jul 21, 2009 19:48:21 GMT
Ooh two already! cool! Now come on the rest of you, get your stories posted.
(I'll do mine in a couple of days time)
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Post by TheWalkinDude on Jul 22, 2009 12:21:44 GMT
come on folks, im dyin to read more!!!
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Post by TheWalkinDude on Jul 27, 2009 10:22:53 GMT
whats gonna happen if its only me and KC's story. do we have a sudden death story match? that'd be awesome!!! lol
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Post by steppedonwolf on Jul 27, 2009 10:52:40 GMT
whats gonna happen if its only me and KC's story. do we have a sudden death story match? that'd be awesome!!! lol Nice idea! ;D In that case, I think you two would have to battle it out in [glow=red,2,300]The Arena[/glow]...and the most imaginative, most gruesome death inflicted would win. However, I believe Ian is scribbling away at an entry for this one?
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Post by Dreadlocksmile on Jul 27, 2009 11:57:54 GMT
Because I'm a bit of a late joiner to the forum, I think I'll step back from this round for now. I'm well up for the next round though...
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Post by TheWalkinDude on Jul 27, 2009 12:50:33 GMT
if it was a sudden death story match it would have to be like kill as many characters as you can in only 150 words or somethin. now that i'd like to try.
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Post by ian on Jul 27, 2009 18:37:26 GMT
Get yer sen a story posted up for this one Mr. Smile.
I'm off work tomorrow so I'll put my thinking cap on and get one posted.
And as for you Mr. Chamberpot... Where the bloody hell is yours?
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Post by steppedonwolf on Jul 27, 2009 21:30:31 GMT
if it was a sudden death story match it would have to be like kill as many characters as you can in only 150 words or somethin. now that i'd like to try. Oi, this ain't COD4 online! Quality, not quantity please.
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