1. Eóin

    Eóin New Member

    Jul 1, 2007
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    The Storm

    Discussion in 'Image Story Contest' started by Eóin, Jul 25, 2007.

    Well, I should of polished this, but I didn't. Anyway, without further ado, 1374 words for (hopefully) your voting pleasure.


    The guns sounded from all around. Great explosions, piercing his eardrums, hammering into his mind. He turned, wheeling round, looking for a place to run. His eyes fell upon the stairs, the bricks, the walls, he glimpsed the sky tearing and cracking above him, great peals of thunder rolling over the ground. Lightning streaked down, striking cars and buildings, leaving smoking trees and streets. He barely noticed this, straining his ears to hear the cries of the guns above the howling wind. They were closing.

    He ducked, the wind throwing a green bin over his head to smash into the wall behind him. Rain began to fall, hammering itself into his clothes, drenching him in thick dark globules, pounding him towards the ground. He shook his head, water sailing out horizontally, the wind whipping through his clothes, forcing it’s way down his throat, threatening to lift him of his feet. The guns sounded again, nearer this time.

    He ran.

    His feet slapped against the wet concrete, unheard above the thunder and the wind and the pouring rain. He vaulted a brick wall, something sharp cutting his hand. The wind caught him as he jumped, hurling him forwards. The ground slammed into his shoulder, eliciting a sharp hiss. He gasped, rainwater flooding his mouth, and gagged, water spluttering back out. Quickly pulling himself back to his feet he turned and ran down the alley. The sky lit up ahead of him, illuminating two soldiers, guns raised, and lead flying down the street opposite.

    He froze, feet sliding along the ground. He looked left and right frantically, but he knew there were no turnings off the alley. He stumbled backwards, and turned, fleeing away. He blinked, and once again saw the silhouettes, guns flaming death. He knew who was on the receiving end, he had seen it before, when they first came, and he knew he would see it again.

    He turned left, feet slipping, and crashed into the wall, knocking all the air from his lungs. Behind him he could hear more gunshots, even a scream. He ran faster, almost tripping, his breath ragged. Visions of fear tugged at the edges of his mind, calling for him to stop fighting, to give in, to despair. He shook his head and growled slightly, even fear slid like ice down his back, through his stomach, making him want to throw-up.

    He continued, vision blurring, almost falling forwards. Suddenly he realised he was coming to the end of the alley, onto a main road. He prepared to turn right, hoping he would be able to make it to the police station. To the armoury.

    He turned into the main road. The wind knocked him of his feet. His chest went down and backwards, the force of the wind hurling it back, and his feet went up and forwards. His back slammed into the ground. The air fled from his lungs. His head smashed against the concrete, his vision blackening. He struggled up, rolling onto his front and pushing up.

    The wind almost swept him off his feet again.

    His shoes gripped hard against the concrete as he forced himself forwards. He saw a figure step into the street in front of him. A dark figure, swathed in shadow and black material, explosions and one orange streetlamp lighting the soldier from behind. A gun was held loosely. It rose towards him.

    He dived backwards. The wind caught him, and he flew backwards, even as the bullets chattered past. He smashed into something, and fell; the wind relinquishing its grasp. He struggled up and turned, seeing another gun raising, another soldier sprawled across the floor. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t hide.

    His fist smashed forwards, breaking through the helmet’s visor. Another hit took the soldier in the knee and then the groin. As the soldier writhed on the floor, a boot crushed it’s throat. He bent down and grabbed the machine-gun from the unresisting hands. He turned, hair whipping back in the wind, eyes falling upon the advancing shadow.

    Bullets flashed past and he pulled the trigger. Even as he fought for his life he could remember the beginning, remember when they had first arrived. The clear sky as they had approached the city, the booming voice that carried over the city; the fear, the inhabitants disbelief. Only he had known that they could do it, that they would do it. He, he had run. He hadn’t thought that they would make it here so quickly. He had been slightly surprised. Not anymore.

    Shingles flew from the roofs around as he moved through the torrential rain. He reached the soldier, and kicked it, once, twice. He smiled grimly, it was dead. Removing the grenades from the soldier’s belt, the words echoed through his head.

    “We are the Clonic Army. We come for our creator, Seamus Gregorivitch. Hand him over or you are wiped out in one night.”

    He shook his head, bringing his mind back to the rain pattering over his face, the wind whipping down the street. He stood, looking at the curb. Gunfire chattered in the distance. He turned. And then he saw them. Two of them, guns blazing down onto some unfortunates. The bodies of three children fell to the ground. The clones turned on him.

    He dived to the side, firing frantically. A bullet pierced the lead clones’ left knee; and it fell forwards. Another two pierced it’s chest as it collapsed forwards. He rolled, standing up, a bullet piercing his shoulder. He bit down, the pain almost unbearable, and tasted blood in his mouth. He almost screamed as another bullet pierced his abdomen. The clone in front of him collapsed backwards, bullet through the skull.

    Turning, he began to run. The wind constantly slowed him, but still he pressed on, inch by inch, body continually growing closer to the ground. He felt his feet slipping, then a car flew past, and he was in the air. His back smashed into a wall. His chest shrunk, all the air knocked out. Breathing in the cold air, and feeling his lungs almost collapse in on themselves, he struggled to turn himself around. One hand in front of the over, he clawed his way down the brick wall, towards the ground, feeling the wind attempting to crush his body flat. Fingernails scratched against the granite.

    He reached the bottom even as more cars flew past, and grabbed hold of the next wall. A bin collided with the bricks above his head and shattered, plastic spraying. Broken glass cut against him as a shop window was drawn into the street. He inched his way up street, glaring at the lights. He turned into another side street, and saw them standing there, almost as immediately as he felt the wind ease.

    He stood up straight, facing into the glaring spotlights, which didn’t do anything to illuminate the rain. In front of him stood a line; before the lights, of three soldiers; armed and swathed in black as the rest. The middle one, nearest him, held something to his mouth. The loudhailer spoke, twisting it’s users voice into a harsh replica.

    “Drop all weapons!” The words cut through him as the ones that fateful night had done, rekindling the spark of fear. He tried to work out how many clones stood behind the spotlights.

    “You, Seamus Gregorivitch, are an outlaw, and are to be held accountable. Come peacefully, and you shall not die tonight.”

    He heard of the ominous click-clacking of machine-gun barrels. He knew there were more guns pointed at him then the two he could see. His whole life stretched out behind him, leading to this final moment of truth. He knew he couldn’t go with them, for whatever happened, it would be a fate far worse then death. He looked up, and saw a car flying past in the storm far overhead.

    “What do you say?” The voice boomed out.

    He smiled slightly, dropping the gun.

    “Well, I say this…” His hands went to the grenades at his side.

    “Au revoir.”

    With that he leapt back, throwing the grenades towards them, before the wind sucked him away. As he flew past the streets and away, he was laughing.

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