Anyways, I'd finished part 1 of another story I'm writing. I'll use the name "Silver: the Apocalypse for now for lack and laziness of another name.
I am a high school freshmen, and during a substitute, we had to make up a story(the assignment was add at least ten shitty idions...) anyways, I made the premise for this. The character D'ante is based on someone I know, although I;m just using his name. His character is too happy and innocent and annoyingly other stuff to make him the main character, but I'll use his name for the main character, and his personality for someone else later on. I took me a couple days to write this, minus some of the major procrastination.
For the weird way it's made, I made it on notepad. For some reason, I've been leaning to notepad recently. It might be indented weird or whatnot.
Silver- The Apocalypse
A story by Daxisheart
Part 1: The fate of a dozen years
The moon rose and so did they. And as they rose, so did the hunters, an endless cycle that has existed for over a decade.
"Twelve years," Arshen panted, glancing around. "A dozen full years this has been going on." Arshen hiked up the gun over his shoulder, certain that the path was safe, if only for a moment. He turned around for the briefest of glances, and signaled. The three others came with him, the eyes warily searching.
Arshen caught the eye of the girl, the young girl that held the same heavy gun as he did. He sighed, seeing such determined eyes, and such wasted youth.
A howl came up ahead, and once again, everybody cringed. Their fingers just a moment away from pulling the trigger, the hunters crept forward, their feet swift and light. The unpreyed vermin roamed the streets with them, but the hunters are loath to step on them; the element of surprise is a fatal weapon in this game, and any chance to lose it, especially by such vermin, must be cast away. As a result, vermin crowd their feet, the hunters unable to even show their distaste.
A swift movement to the left of the small band tensed the hunters. Slowly turning, the glanced to the figure in the shadows. Knocking a loose can aside, the dark cat climbed out, dancing gracefully. For a moment, the gaze of the feline bore into the small band's eyes... and then it left, the unpreyed moving so deftly in the dark, the hunters just a bit envious.
Arshen breathed a sigh of relief. A scuttle behind him took him by surprise as the mutant leaped onto him, sinking its teeth deep into his neck. Unable to keep it down, Arshen's scream echoed, drawing more of the mutants, the vampires.
Dean carried heavy weaponry for the small band, as his large stature allowed him to. Also, he carried the supplies. Arshen had been the scout, swift and quick, but the cat had drawn his attention for just a moment, just the right, crucial moment. Dean had no chance of killing the thing, his weaponry and equipment did not allow it. Aila, however, had great alacrity, and drew her gun. Cocking it for just moment, and pulling the trigger. The silver bullet shot out twisting in the air, passing Arshen's wide eyes for just a moment, and blasted the vampire's entire head off. Chunks of gore sprayed out, splattering Arshen's whitening face as the body of the mutant stumbled back, releasing his hold, and falling to the ground, sick sounds emerging from the apparent loss of vocal cords. Red hurried forward, and fired two quick consecutive shots, one to the collar bone area and the other to the heart. Soon enough, the being became nothing more and freed soul cage, now nothing but a dead shell.
Arshen clutched at his neck, screaming and screaming and screaming, the blood pouring down as if out of a tankard, happily spilling forth down his hand, his body, his legs, seeping into the ground. Stumbling back, he groaned, not for the pain, but for what he now was, what was needed to be done, and who would do it. It was his fault, for trusting himself too much, for letting down his guard just for that one freaking moment...
"Don't," Aila said, taking a step forward. Uncaring now, her steps were heavy, echoing across the city. Not that it mattered anymore, what with the screaming.
Arshen, leaning on the alleyway wall behind him, took out his own gun, a non silver, and pointed it to his head. Too much, there was way too much contamination, he thought. There was no choice left for him. Even as he his hand held the gun, he could feel his body stiffening, about to become one of them...
Arshen pulled the trigger, ending his own life. His brains splattered over the wall and onto the ground. Aila widened her eyes, and winced, turning away. Red came forward, and methodically retrieved the equipment that Arshen had carried, putting them in his own back pack. Dean, glancing around at the eerie silence, brought his large weaponry out, ready to fight.
"One down," Red said, his voice wavering, "for both the unchanged and one down for the mutants." Red glanced back up to Aila's face. "Humanity's going to die at this rate."
Wiping the continual tears from her eyes, Aila cocked her gun, ready. "We'll take them down with us!" She retorted, adrenaline rushing through her. She glanced around, anger making her careless.
"If you'd rather mind," Dean said, his own voice cool and unchanged, "I'd rather just take them down, period." There was a click as he finished setting up his shotgun, almost considered heavy weaponry. He came over to where Aila and Red stood. "We have to go, now."
Red slowly nodded. "This alleyway could easily let them get us like they got Arshen. We need a place that has a good advantage." Aila nodded, tears falling down to the cold ground.
Somewhere in the distance, something large is annihilated.
Dr. Reeves smiled for a moment as he left the building. The experiment... Phase two was almost over. Just a couple more trials, a month, maybe a year or two at most. He considered laughing like those old evil genius villain maniac guys he used to read in comics, but he thought better of it. Seriously, who goes Mwah ha ha ha ha? That's just stupid.
He stopped for a moment, and smacked his head.
"I'm such an idiot," he said, despite all evidence to the contrary. Chuckling, he opened the worn out briefcase, and took out the remove. Pressing and series of buttons, he smiled.
Behind him, the building exploded in a symphony of fire, an ever rising inferno. The walls were as if a thin piece of paper against the wind, blasted back, an eruption all over, shattering windows, mortar, metal, everything. In the night sky, the mushroom cloud rose ever higher and ever darker, becoming one with the darkness beneath the clouded moon. Where the building was just moments ago, nothingness existence.
The glare of the flames bounced off of Dr. Reeves's glasses for just a moment as he left. Happily swinging his briefcase, Dr. Elrond Reeves waltzed away into the ever darkening night. He hummed to himself.
The three living people were stunned for just a moment. Their bodies tensed, the trigger finger itching, the three stood still, without a clue to what was going on. Rushing to an area where the horizon was not overshadowed by the decadent buildings, an exceedingly large intersection from when the roads were still normally used.
The horizon revealed itself, flames dancing in the wind, a blazing cyclone. Somewhere in the distant horizon, something exploded. Even worse, maybe something was detonated. It was so much deeper into the city, into the deep dark city that was once filled with light even in the consuming darkness. Now, there was nothing but danger there, nothing but living death, the dead that should be dead but aren't, a void of nothingness, where nothing can live. Even at the outskirts of the city, the troupe had lost an ally. For them, trained, guarded, and alert, these small alleyways were a danger.
What could have possibly happened? Did the mutants set something off? No, in twelve years, they would have set it off by then. The only possible idea is that someone set up something, and destroyed something, maybe even a minor nuclear bomb of a sort...
Yet what madness could persuade any group large enough to traverse into the cesspit that was this fallen city? No one could have done this...
"Go!" Red suddenly yelled out, and immediately, the entire group sidestepped into a different direction, a phantom movement. Aila skidded to a halt, and immediately cocked her gun, completely ready. Two figures landed exactly where the group was just a moment before. They had shot down with so much force from so balcony that cracks spread from where they fell, the concrete breaking beneath their feet. Mostly naked, they roared, inhuman screams in the night.
Aila's fingers pulled the trigger, a silver bullet bursting forward. Dean's shotgun blasted at the group, letting loose a plethora of silver shards. One of the mutants danced and dodged, and came forward at Red. Though he had no gun ready, Red's knife slipped out of its small scabbard, the blade biting at the approaching mutant. Its momentum carrying itself, the mutant could not dodge the blade, and a large rip appeared from its left ribcage to past its shoulder, putrid blood spewing forth. Screaming, almost unaffected by the wound, the mutant swarmed Red, cornering him into the side of the building, until Aila once again pulled the trigger. The bullet passed through the air, and slammed into the mutant's side midsection, creating an exit wound as it left. The mutant screamed horribly, clutching itself. It fell down, twitching as if in seizure, its body moving over and over, erratic twitches. Its hands came forward to the two wounds on its body, scratching at it, pulling at it, attacking its own body so hard that it actually tore off its own skin and meat. Red rushed over, and stabbed his dagger into the vampire's throat, and retreated just as quick. Clutching itself, the movement slowly subsided as it finally died. A single twitch spread from its body.
The other mutant clutched itself as the loose silver shards embedded itself into its skin. Pulsing dead blood, the mutant screamed raw, but it was not dead yet, it was supposed to be undying anyhow, and it leaped at Dean, its untended nails weapons as it slashed at Dean's tough leather armor. Dean slammed his shotgun into the thing's head, knocking it backwards for a moment as he loaded his shotgun again. Aila came forward, withdrawing a gun that used no silver bullets, and shot at the mutant. Its eyes, raw and insane, widened, and saw Aila for what she was, a threat. It came forward again, its leg's muscles moving faster than humanly possible, and slammed straight into her. Aila screamed, but only for the quick blow, not for fear or terror. Aila's gun blasted into the thing again, more and more and more, no silver bullets needed after Dean's shotgun, just pulsing into the thing's unfeeling body, over and over and over and over, maybe another time, and another, until the gun went click click click signaling it was out, no more shots, no more shots. The thing bent over her, the countless bullets and exit wounds in its body. It looked at Aila, opened its decaying mouth, and howled at her, its face just inches away from her, raising its hand to pierce her throat, kill kill kill kill kill
And then it died(again), falling down, twitches rushing throughout its body. Aila lay there for a moment, panting, her eyes wide yet prepared, waiting for the thing to kill her, it felt like her heart was about to burst...
"We were lucky," Red said, kicking the corpse off Aila. The girl still lay there, panting and sweating. Red's hand pulled hers up, and she went, monotonously, her mind still in shock. "We killed them before they could do all the stuff they normally did." Red's own voice was dead and cracking, his mind rushing just as much as Aila. Slowly, ever so slowly, Aila regained herself, arising. She stared off into the horizon.
"Let's go," Dean said, wiping off the sweat on his head with his sleeve. The places where the mutant tore into his leather were obvious, even in the dark. "We got three. Time to go."
"Three would normally be a good number if one of us wasn't dead," Red deadpanned. Aila continued to stare off into the horizon.
"What do you think," Aila slowly annunciated, "was that explosion was in the distance?"
Red, breathing through mouth and nose, looked at the dissipating cloud of destruction in the distance, and shrugged. "The best I can say is that the vamps did something, maybe a generator or something. Anyways, the blood here would probably distract the vamps enough for-"
It came. The ever commanding voice, the need that burned deep within your heart, ice cold yet burning hot. Out of nowhere, it came.
COME, the voice said, and Aila raced off, running towards destiny.
"Huh?" Red muttered as he saw Aila run off for no reason, towards where that whatever exploded. She ran off, pocketing her weapons, straight down the street where she could easily be attacked by more and more vamps. It was the equivalent of suicide.
Red looked to Dean. He stared at her just as wonderingly as Red was. "What's wrong now?"
"Dean!" Red said, exasperated. "We've got to... we've got to get her back! I mean... This is suicide!" Dean seemed to sigh, and then slowly packed up his arsenal.
"Red," Dean said, "You know she won't be listening." And Dean jogged after her.
Red looked back and forth. "Shit," he said, and pocketed his weapons, hurrying after the two.
Who is this? Aila thought, as the body that was no longer hers ran down the street.
Nothing answered her, only a calling, a tremendous calling to move, keep moving, to get there, that single spot somewhere in the city. This force incarnated itself as a need in her body, a perfect need to get there, to move there now and fast, her destiny calling her. Even as she closed in, the need didn't dissipate, this need only grew stronger, her body moving on its own as if a doll. This need, to reach someplace.
The worse thing was that it didn't even feel that weird to her mind. In her own mind, she was calm, although somewhat freaked out, realizing this need yet unable to do something about it, to feel anything about it. She needed to keep moving. Even as she realized how wrong everything was, she could not force herself, her very being, into realizing that. Neither body nor mind was completely hers.
The need burned in her. She went, her footsteps echoing around her.
His last memory was so long ago, although, obviously, it wasn't that way to him. To him, they were just an evanescent moment ago, hardly anything to get worried over.
He awoke, and at first thought that it was a dream, all just another freaking dream.
But it wasn't. In real life, you don't feel such weakness, such stinging pain in your gut, such sorrowful premonitions enticing your mind.
"What," he slowly said, his voice weak from not being used in so long, "is going on?"
He slowly crawled to the window, sometimes using his hands to drag himself there. Straining, he pulled himself up, and looked at outside.
It looked like the Apocalypse had come and went, leaving him behind.
D'ante leaned over and heaved. He crawled back, his stomach refusing to stay in its place. D'ante retched some more, spewing the bile over himself, as his arms dragged him away, his eyes crying, his voice moaning and screaming to get himself out of there. Now, as his mind restored and shattered itself simultaneously, he looked around, and saw before him hell embodied, the bodies, the freaking bodies his eyes had glazed over. The stains on the walls became blood before his eyes, the shapes in rags becoming corpses, the skin rotting beneath his eyes, the night becoming death.
"What..." D'ante's voice, cracking out unused, echoed across the void that was now the world. "Is... going on?"
He crawled, crawled, and crawled away, he huddled into a corner, shivering. His hands cooled, the small splattering of his spew still sticking. Madness embraced him as tears were drawn from his eyes. D'ante wept.
Fire swarmed, licked at the edges of the building. Aila stood there for a moment, relishing the feel of freedom as the heated wind blew past her. Her eyes widened as she stared into the flames that danced there. Slowly, she knelt down, clutching herself.
It was not exactly an out of body experience. It was as if you had an amnesia so complete and encompassing that you did not realize you forgot anything. During that trance, even as she realized the truth, even as she had realized she had lost her body, she could not realize herself. Knowing the consequences, the death that loomed in the horizon, her legs had run.
Aila grasped herself, confusion prominent on her face. Her eyes wild, she looked at her feet, straining to understand. The voice in her head, the run that was not hers, the feeling of being her body, yet not... yet not being herself. To lose yourself.
"What," she gasped, the exact same moment as D'ante said his words, "is going on?"
Does anyone ever answer in the silent night?
"They're fucking coming!" Red yelled, drawing out his gun. Dean silently did likewise. They both ran on, down the street, down to Aila, to the explosion, to the possibility of the ever welcoming hand of a cold, bloody death. Their footsteps echoed on the hard, concrete earth. The howls came, howls that were once human.
What's happening? Red thought. That explosion... Aila and whatever happened to her... What is going on?
The first mutants came. Red aimed, hoped, and shot.
Why did I do this? Aila thought again. Behind her, shots echoed, blasts that would easily disarray a normal person. What's happening.
"Help," someone gasped, and Aila jerked up, looking around. The flames were dying, the winds blowing the tidal flames away. As the heat was cleared, the voice came out again. "Help... Anybody..."
Someone was there. Victim? Maybe the progenitor of the flames and chaos? Even worse, maybe it was what ever single sane human had feared... maybe a sentient vampire, a mutant that could think, bait, trap...
The moan came again. As the winds changed, the sound was muffled, but when Aila perked up her eyes, she heard it. Moaning, pain, in agony, maybe a tinge of surprise and sorrow, of incomprehension. Whatever it was, it didn't seem like a trap...
Another shot was blasted behind her, and forced Aila to think of Arshen, who had died so pitifully, so sad, pulling the trigger to his own life. Of course, that was the way he would have wanted to go. No, not bitten then dead, but Aila knew, simply knew, that if he had to be killed, Aila knew that Arshen would have wanted to end his own life. It was a task they all faced, sooner or later. In this business, Arshen had told her, your life is forfeit. Every day was nothing but a bonus, a fluke, death's becoming forgetful with all the other work so that he forgot you. Bitten, especially in vulnerable areas and major bloodstreams, like the neck, it was better to end your own life, have YOUR finger pull the trigger than become another of the brainless and the so called undead, become them. They were already lucky enough to become partially immune to the disease, but that was all they had. If you were bitten, chances you, probably 99 to 1, that you were another mutant. Pulling the trigger to your own head wasn't suicide; it was suicide when you signed up.
"You asshole," Aila had said, and leaped forward.
Sorry, Dean, sorry, Red, she pleaded in her mind. I have to do something. I need to know what is going on, what was the commanding voice in my head, and understand. Maybe if I rescue this person, things will become clear.
It wasn't suicide to help someone like this, Arshen's voice echoed in her mind, lovingly yet commandingly. It was suicide the moment you signed up.
"Help," D'ante gasped again, screaming out there, his voice broken.
He couldn't understand anything at all. He had rested himself on the wall, so terribly weak he was. He had stared out the window, at the sky, at the city, at the very freaking dead world. He did not understand.
Last he remembered, the world was living.
Glancing across the room, his eyes once again rested on the blood and the corpses. Two dead bodies, the once designer clothes now nothing but rags. D'ante even recognized the jeans as Levi's, that was how messed up everything was.
"Help," D'ante gasped, uncomprehending. Why was he so tired, so weak? Why was his voice nothing but a whisper, the throat so weak and dry? Why was his mind so tried, how could the mind even be tried? What happened?
D'ante stared out the window again. A small, little itty bitty thought occurred to him, and almost forced a bit of laughing. He had always been a bit into the occult, and was pretty smart. He remembered things, like how Nostradamus's prophecy was that the world would end at 2012.
A small, hysterical chuckle echoed across the room as D'ante laughed. Last he remembered, the world was 2012.
So the apocalypse had come, the thought rattled in D'ante's mind, and left me behind. How more messed up could the world be?
D'ante didn't care anymore. Nothing mattered. From the look at the room, the corpses that lay fragmented and scarred on the other side of the room, from the look of the very city throughout the window, nothing mattered. Probably nothing lived anymore to matter. There was nothing to care for anymore, death was the only eventuality now.
Clouds unveiled the moon, the eerie light casting a luminescent glow across the room. D'ante's head down, he cried, wishing for everyone back. When was his last memory? He remembered so much, yet so little. Where were his parents, his parents that never listened to a thing he said? Where was Maya, his little sister who loved and hated him so very much? Where was Vincent, the trash mouthed jackass for whom the detention room was like another home?
Dead, probably, D'ante's brain thought. He realized he had spoken aloud. Bringing himself up, he rested his head against the wall. His reddened eyes couldn't cry anymore.
"They're all dead," he screamed, wishing tears could flow. "They're all fucking dead, dead and dead and dead!"
Why couldn't I join them, he thought. Why couldn't I die with them?
The door slid opened, ever so slowly as the being slowly came into the room. Moonlight slowly revealed the tattered clothing, the clothes that were once a black, elegant suit. It revealed the watch that had probably once cost as much as someone's mortgage. It revealed the teeth, the teeth that are yellow and rotting, bloodstained with bits of meat, meat that was undoubtedly human meat, stuck between the fangs. It revealed the feral eyes, eyes that once laughed and loved, eyes that could behold art and truth, beauty and hate, despair and enjoyment. The eyes that are nothing but hungry, forever and ever hungry. The skin was pale and dead, the color of gray clay.
"I want to die," D'ante mouthed, rational thought annihilated as he stared at the monstrosity before him. "Join my family, my friends, just get me out of hell," D'ante said.
The thing launched itself at D'ante.
I
WANT
TO
DIE
(just get me out of this hell)
"You're an idiot," Dr. Reeves said, smiling amiably. He lay on the roof of some abandoned building, a skyscraper that certainly did scrape the sky. His white lab coat flowed around him, the ever flowing wind a cold hand. Above him, he said past the thin veil of clouds and into the starry horizon, an endless array of stars.
"You can't die," Reeves said once again. He took a cigar, and lit it up. Inhaling for a good long time, the doctor released the gas into the horizon, the smoke disappearing in but a moment.
"You think I'd give you permission to die?"
The thing's head was blasted off, a shower of gore before D'ante's eyes. The thing, dead yet not dead, dying yet not dying, clutched at the shattered head, screaming and screaming, reminding D'ante of the sound of maggots and the sound of dying, hell, the very essence of death seemed to embody the thing before its head was fucking blown off its head. Turning around, another round of slugs embedded itself into the thing's abdomen, bullet holes appearing immediately. No exit wounds to give it leave of pain either. More shots were fired, some missing and some hitting, but that didn't matter because that thing entered death again and again and lived again and again, it was so freaking undying, die die!
Aila entered, and finished it off, the thing a dead dead dead dead thing, again and again. Black blood flowed.
It died, again.
He stared. D'ante stared, into the fiery ember hair, the gun that blew up the dead thing, the eyes that burned like the sun, and, maybe, for just a moment, forgot that he wanted to die.
Twenty five ironic hours before the start of the years 2013, a deadly virus was unleashed upon the world. It wreaked havoc on the internal organs of humanity, changing the very genetic structure of humanity. The ones that got infected changed after a period of three days, and soon became insane, malevolent beings that lusted after the flesh and blood of humanity. They were W1, the first wave of the mutants, called vampires by the ones with religion. They were vulnerable to sunlight, however, and died soon enough. Then, however, came W2, W3, and the current W4.
It didn't matter how much you prayed, there was no heaven. It didn't matter how much you studied and experimented, their hearts didn't beat. The apocalypse came, went, and left humanity behind. There was no savior of the good, no punisher of the bad, there was only the ever indiscriminate death.
And so, as these beings evolved, so did humanity.
End Part 1