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Post by J Jack on Feb 17, 2009 14:49:14 GMT -5
I would like some input on two pieces. I have begun the first rewrite of my manuscript, and I've made two introductions, I would like your opinion on them.
DISCLAIMER! MAKE SURE YOU READ THIS FIRST!!! The next piece of work is filled with violence, gore, and some language, these men are hardened soldiers and act as such. It is a lot softer than it would really be, but still, be warned! This is of course a Christian novel, built around the personal journey of a man to God. The second piece is much lighter. DISCLAIMER!
Leaning against the muddy trench wall, he took deep breaths, the rain beating down heavily on his helmet. The steady drumming helped drown out the heavy pounding of his heart, and the much heavier artillery shell explosions. The creeping barrage was moving towards his shelter, and the others packed in the trench prayed or closed their eyes and hoped. A shell fell close to the trench, showering him with mud and water, both cascading off the steel helmet and onto the trench floor. The next shell was much closer, just a few meters to his right and behind. That was where the front line trench was. This time there were body parts in the mud and water was red, he found himself retching into the swampy stew at his feet. Then the air was still and silent, only broken by the wounded screaming, bloodcurdling screams of pain. He heard something over it though, past the dying calls of the unfortunate survivors. Chancing a glimpse along with another man from his platoon, he raised his head just over the lip of the trench and glimpsed thousands of soldiers clad in black and red charging, crying their bloodlust. Several rounds tore up the earth near his face, and he was back down in the trench taking cover. The other man wasn't lucky enough to make it down alive, his head snapped back and blood sprayed the men in the trench. His body ended up in an awkward sitting position with gore leaking from the hole in his forehead. “Prepare for maximum resistance against Sector forces!” the Sergeant was yelling, then he blew his whistle, signaling the men over the top. Along with the other Coalition forces the young man pulled himself over the lip of the trench, into the hell of battle. Bayonets glistening in the rain they counter charged the Sector soldiers. Instantly he was caught up sprinting and yelling with the others, and then, in a glorious moment where all seemed to freeze in place for just a moment before they clashed like two tidal waves, it all made sense. He's stabbing and shooting, blood is thick and screams many, it is a frenzied slaughter. He kills without hesitation, lest he be killed. A shell lands too close, tossing him like a rag doll into a nearby crater. He lands, hard, in the muddy and water logged hole, spluttering and dragging himself above the waterline. He propped himself on his elbows, then saw him. A Sector soldier. The two men stared at each other, then the Sector soldier lunged. A knife flashed, the Sector soldier bringing it down like lighting. He brought up his arm to block, the two men's forearms locking together. The Sector soldier pushed, trying to drive the knife point into his chest. They fought, arms shaking as each tried to overpower the other. The Sector began to win, the knife point pressing into his armor, he shook violently, free arm scrabbling for something to fight with. His hand closed around a metal fragment, and with great force he drove it into the Sector soldier's neck, the man screaming as the jagged metal punched a hole. Blood was gushing out over the metal, tinting the murky water but the Sector man tried to attack again. This time he was ready, grabbing the Sector man by the collar and thrusting his head beneath the water. Thrashing and choking the Sector man tried to resurface, but his grip was too strong, and soon the Sector man was still. Another shell landed, throwing up a curtain of mud and throwing him back into the muddy crater wall. Then it was dark. He's in Ottawa, fighting the fires that are ravaging the formerly beautiful city. Smoke shoots into the air, thick and heavy, clogging his nostrils and making the air too heavy to breathe. With tears in his eyes he orders his men and the police and firefighters with them away from the city, letting it burn. He turns and looks one last time, the sight of the city burning imprinted forever in his mind. Hundreds of officials leave, but thousands stay behind and die valiantly trying to save those they could, burning with their beloved city. He holds a broken girl's body in his arms, her blood fresh and warm. Tears flow and the sounds of combat ring, the heat of the fires real, the nausea real, and the body lifelike yet lifeless. Master Sergeant Hunter Coleman bolted upright in bed, cold sweat drenching his body, and heart pounding hard and fast. His breaths were shallow and fast, the pain of loss and death so real, his body trying to relax again. Muscles aching from being so tense and every heartbeat sending a throbbing pain through his head, he swung his legs off the bed and glared at the green light on the nearby clock. “Two fifty three, I've slept for three hours. Great, I guess it was time to get up anyway.” He sighed, rubbing a hand on his slick forehead, trying to ease the pain. Opening the bedside table he shifted the nine millimeter pistol and faded and worn bible to get at the painkillers. Swallowing two and shaking his head slowly to get rid of the cobwebs he tried standing, but a violent blood rush forced him down again. After a minute he tried again, this time succeeding, although wobbling on his feet. He waited a moment, rocking on his heels until his head cleared enough to allow him to walk straight. Grabbing the towel hanging from his door and a small green shower kit he started the short walk out the room and down the hallway towards the showers and toilets. He found himself standing in front of a cracked mirror in the overwhelmingly white bathroom, the only color some old movie posters taped up haphazardly on the walls behind him. There in the light, wearing only pajama pants he dunked his face into cold water swishing in his cupped hands. He ran his hands with the last bits of water through his short brown hair, then raised his face too stare back at the face in the mirror. Thirty eight years had taken their toll on his body, and most of those years weren't easy either. His green eyes no longer had their shine, they had seen too much death and carnage. A knife wound had left a scar down his right cheek just below the ear and down to his jawline, the only visible scar of the many he had earned. The short brown stubble along his jaw and chin betrayed his age with the salting of gray mixed in. He didn't consider himself handsome but he knew there were some who wouldn't agree with him on that. “How much longer will this all last?” he said quietly, shaking the last droplets off, “Too much fighting for too long.” Showering with leisurely speed he let himself enter a thoughtless state where nothing mattered and the pain didn't exist. The only place he could do that was in the shower, and it wouldn't last forever, he knew that, but at least it was some solace in the never ending violence. After a long shower that still felt too short, he ended up back in his small room. Sitting at the steel desk with a cloth layed out he slowly arranged a line of sidearms. The repetitive oiling and cleaning had the same effect the shower did, it allowed him to clear his mind of all the troubles and emotional turmoil. Pulling on a gray tee emblazoned with Coleman on the right breast pocket and Master Sergeant on the left, Coalition Forces across the back he covered his scarred and muscular torso. Tucking the shirt into loose green fatigue pants he pulled on a leather belt with a holster on the right hip. He slid a nine millimeter Sig Sauer P226 Tactical into the holster and some spare magazines into their cases. He buckled on a second holster, this one around his thigh, dropping a Heckler and Koch Mark 23 into it and closing the buckle over the pistol grip. He glanced the remaining three sidearms and their holsters and decided to leave those behind, wouldn't need them on base anyway. He slipped a serrated combat knife into his black combat boots, paranoid, maybe just a bit. He'd lived too long through too much not to be a bit concerned about his safety, even in the middle of one of the world's most secure military installation. “You don't sleep enough.” A voice came from the doorway, his heart sped up instantly and with adrenaline flooding his system he pulled the Sig Sauer from it's holster and in a heartbeat had it leveled at the forehead of a shadowy figure. “Relax, it's just me.” The man stepped into the room, he was wearing the same outfit, with his weapons in different spots of course. “d**n it Ty, don't sneak up on me like that. No, I don't sleep enough, can't with the d**n nightmares plaguing every moment when my eyes aren't open.” Coleman relaxed, returning the weapon to it's holster. “I know, the blood is still so real, the smell of death so thick. We're just two old dogs, been around too d**n long and seen too many good men die for nothing.” “Ain't that the truth, war never changes.” Coleman sighed, rubbing his eyes, feeling the exhaustion creeping into every bone. “I'm so tired of it Ty, it's been going on too long. You and I both know that better than most.” “Too many battles where we didn't know what we were fighting for. Still don't know I suppose. Every scrap of earth costing us blood and friends, it's time for it all to end.” Olsen, looking as weary as Coleman felt, leaned against the wall shaking his head. “I've got a bad feeling Hunter, I think we've got something coming that will give us the rest we've prayed for.” He said quietly to his friend of twenty years, with a somber sigh. “I wish I was afraid of dying, but honest to God I don't think I'll mind when it comes time.” Coleman said, tears welling as a rush of emotions welled up inside him. Everything, every loss and battle so fresh and clear in his mind. “None of us will, it's time. I think this is how our end begins my old friend, today is the day we learn how we die. I'm sure of it.” Sergeant Tyler Olsen said, and he was never wrong. “It's about d**n time.” Coleman returned, cracking his stiff neck. “Let's wake the boys, cause I know I'm not going out without something they'll always remember me for.”
Here I sit, soaking in my own warm, fresh blood, dying slowly. Three gunshot wounds, a popped shoulder, couple of broken ribs, not sure what else, God knows it hurts. God. That's a new one for me, I'd never really considered the possibility of an all knowing and ever present being. I had always thought that no caring being would ever let all this happen. Not me specifically or this whole stituation, but the war that I suppose did cause this situation. I know you can't hear it, but a cluster bomb just went off, and a lot of people just died. I write this to tell you my story, I don't have much time left, but someone needs to know about the corruption. Someone needs to know what he did, and what He did. You'll understand what I mean later, I'll start from the start, it makes sense to do that. It's only been two weeks at the most, but it feels like a year. It was fall at the time, cold and unforgiving, as is the Canadian weather, it's always some extreme there. We were in the boondocks, some small Ontario town, who knows what it was before. Anyway, the story.
Canada, 2065
“LT, wakey wakey, it's time to get moving again.” “Olsen, go away, I'm tired and we're in a very nice town that's very quiet.” “I know, but we really can't just disappear, the Colonel will begin to wonder.” “Alright,” Coleman swung out of the bed, moaning with every move. “You're like a lazy teenager, it's already nine in the morning, shoulda been up hours ago,” Tyler Olsen grinned, handing Coleman a steaming cup of black coffee. “This is the first town no one tried to kill us, they gave us food and shelter, and we met some civilizen people, give me a break,” Coleman waved his Team Sergeant off, taking a gulp of hot coffee. “Welcome to small town life LT, everyone loves you and they all own a rifle.” Olsen said, leaning against the wall, sipping his own coffee. “Any word from command?” Coleman set the coffee down, twisting his head to pop his neck. “St. Claire hasn't heard anything, says it's been dead quiet. He also mentioned that since command didn't call we should stick around until we get further orders,” Olsen let silence settle in the room as Coleman pondered that statement. “I'm with him, it's too nice here to pass up, no word from command means we stay put.” Coleman said, shaking his head at his friend's sudden and massive grin. “They'll love you for this, you can tell them yourself. Breakfast is being served in the diner downstairs.” Coleman headed for the bathroom, talking to Olsen as he walked away. “I'll meet you there, if we're staying put I'm having a nice warm shower and changing into some clean clothes.” “Good plan, you look like hell, smell worse.” Olsen made his exit before Coleman could react.
The crew was in high spirits, laughing and enjoying a warm meal for the first time in a long time. The small town was one of the few surviving and intact hamlets around the world, and one of the even fewer with warm and friendly people. Once they had arrived the crew had been welcomed by a group armed to the teeth, thinking another band of raiders had come. After explaining who they were, they were welcomed as saviours and liberators to the fortified town. They had been escorted past the gate guarding the main road, just past a large concrete bridge. Two squat towers flanked the gate, and the whole town was surrounded by a tall sheet metal wall. Inside were a handful of buildings, a town hall, three or four two story houses, and a restaurant with several hotel floors overhead. There were only thirty or forty people left in the town, the ones that were left were survivors though, tough and hardened by the atrocities of the wastelands. The mayor of the town was a large man, formerly a carpenter who had been in the Canadian reserves, a Sergeant. He had welcomed the Coalition forces with a strong handshake and a wide grin, fellow soldiers. They bunked the soldiers in the hotel rooms, comfortable beds and hot showers, and the promise of a hearty meal in the morning. Coleman had thanked the mayor and the town had gone to sleep, aside from the nightly patrols. Morning had brought a bright sun and crisp, cold air. The crew had woken up from the best sleep in months, the smell of warm food waking them. “This is the first real food we've had in months,” Reilly “Gunny” Gunnerson moaned through a massive mouthful of pancake and bacon. “Good grief, close your mouth, that was one thing I could go without seeing before I die,” Chris Evans said, turning away in disgust. “Just cause,” Gunny paused to swallow, “I am the only one still eating, and I don't know why you all stopped, doesn't mean you can bring me down by smack talking how I eat.” The sentence was followed by another forkful of syrup dripping pancake. “Eat more? Man, I'm done for the rest of my life,” Sean St. Claire was leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, trying to ease the massive churning in his stomach. “Too much, too fast. You'll be eating again in two hours though, so it doesn't matter,” Richard Avery laughed at the youngest team member, who didn't reply, knowing that the statement was true. The nine members of the unit were enjoying themselves, bright sunshine through the big plate windows, friendly townsfolk and a waitress who doted on them like nothing else. “Can we stay LT?” Jonathan Stiles said to Coleman, who had just joined them after his shower. “For now, another day or two until we get comms back up with HQ.” Everyone grinned, someone even let out a small cheer. “So, who bought me breakfast?” Coleman said, whistling softly as a heaping plate of steak and eggs appeared in front of him, beside a steaming cup of coffee. “That looks fantastic.” “Tastes even better hon,” the waitress laughed, moving on to other patrons. Coleman dug in with gusto, the first real food he could remember having in a long time. “So, what do we do while we're taking some R and R?” Paul Bridger piped up from the end of the table. Coleman glanced around at his motley unit of Coalition Brigade soldiers. Nine other misfit career special forces soldiers, specializing in death, trained in war, bred to be part of the killing. Staff Sergeant Tyler Olsen, the team's Sergeant, a thirty two year old from the United States Army. Jet black hair contrasted the bright, sparkling blue eyes. He was the only short member, a few inches shy of six feet, but powerfully built, like a truck. Specialized in close quarter brawling as he called it. Sergeant Reilly “Gunny” Gunnerson, thirty one year old Marine. Towered over the six foot two Coleman, but both men had the short brown hair and brown eyes. Gunny was a fit fighting machine, a man with ropy arms and much more muscle than Olsen. Corporal Michelle LaRouche, twenty nine French Canadian sniper. Lithe, athletic, beautiful, dangerous, she was the whole package. That package was wrapped in a blonde haired, green eyed, and a perfect figure and face. Corporal Richard Avery, thirty six year old Navy Corpsman. Most of the world didn't see the exterior; short black hair, approachable brown eyes, a quality sense of duty and loyalty, they saw a black man. Not Coleman's unit, they owed him their lives many times over. Corporal Sean MacDermot, twenty two communications and tech expert. Sean was clearly Irish, bright red hair and a smart attitude, always a sarcastic comment to be made with him. He was handy around the equipment though, if slightly less in shape than the rest of the crew. Corporal Jonathan Stiles, thirty two year old rifleman. He was a last minute addition, Coleman had noted his file included several commendations for bravery and heroism, but so far the man hadn't had a chance to prove himself. Corporal Paul Bridger, a forty year old engineering genius. Given thirty minutes and some supplies he could “MacGyver” anything you needed. No one knew what he meant when he said that, but he was handy to have around in a pinch. Good shot with a pistol too. Corporal Chris Evans, twenty five year old Aussie, great with stealth work and a blade. He was the ladies man of the unit, hands down. Charming, attractive, well built, the man could sweep any woman off her feet with ease. Corporal Sergei Fedorov, the seemingly always angry thirty six year old Russian. The only man in the unit bigger than Gunny, Fedorov was a Russian through and through, any problem could be solved with enough brute force in his mind. The man had no accuracy however, hence why he carried the M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, or SAW. The more rounds he could put out, the more likely he was to actually hit something. Once things got up close and messy, then he and Olsen were the leaders in that field. The mismatched crew, his family. Lieutenant Hunter Coleman, forty one years old, tall and fit. Old and tired. “We'll kick around here for a while, do what we can to help out around, payment for their hospitality as it were.” “Gotcha, then we'll leave you alone, I'm going to see a mayor about some roaming bandit troubles,” Gunny and Evans left together, joined in short order by the remnants of the team, leaving Coleman eating alone.
“So, you've been having problems bandits?” Pleasantries had been exchanged, it was down to business. “Yeah, we built the wall, but it's only going to solve the problem temporarily. There are about thirty of them, young punks, but they just have more guns. “They may have more guns, but we have more bullets and training. We'll take care of them.” The mayor's face was instantly split by a dumfounded grin, “You would? Oh, that's fantastic! If you take care of them we can finally start trading with other towns, the roads will be open again. It is truly providence you came here lads,” Avery stepped in, taking over once religion came in. “God provides for those in need, we'll take care of your problem, don't worry.”
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