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The Collapse - Part 1

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posted on Jun, 22 2012 @ 02:04 PM
Running through the filth of the city he loved was not the way he thought he would die.

He had been moving continuously since the riots had begun. The news had said that it was a race riot, but they had no clue.
The Internet was abuzz with the news but there were so many different theories that you couldn't possibly prepare for them all.
Most people had said to just wait it out inside and the police would subdue the rioters and everything would return to normal.

He decided to get to his fathers, make sure he was okay. That was a good or maybe lucky decision. His father's apartment was south, away from downtown.

As he left his house he noticed the TV. The feed was dead, just static.
He closed his door not bothering to lock it. If someone wants in to steal something that crappy lock isn't going to stop them he thought to himself. He turned down the hall headed to the elevator. When he rounded the corner he heard the elevator door-ajar alarm. Maybe someone heard him coming and was holding the door for him was his first thought. He started to jog to be polite.

"Hold it, I'm coming." he yelled down the hall. There was no reply.

He got within thirty feet and stumbled to a stop. He could see someones legs sticking out from the elevator recess. A woman judging by the heels. He hesitated momentarily then thinking himself foolish rushed to attempt to aid the fallen woman. He came to a sudden halt again this time accompanied by a rush of nausea. The woman lied half in half out of the elevator, her head smashed in. He attempted to hold down his lunch of tuna salad and apples. Then he noticed the object that was used to crush the womans skull. It was a blue bowling ball. A ball he knew well. He had purchased it as a Christmas present for the man that owned it. It belonged to Harry. Harry Stanson had taken it upon himself to look after the young man when he arrived in the building. He had often invited him to dinner and had even taught him to bowl. He couldn't hold it down, he turned and vomited in the faux plant next to the elevator. He leaned back against the wall with his hands on his knees and the world still spinning. Have to focus he thought. Harry wouldn't have done this he thought. Who then? A rioter he assumed trying to rob the woman. The woman. Who was the woman he wondered. He forced him self to look again. Oh #. It was Doris from 405. She must have caught him getting off the elevator. The next question was obvious. Where was Harry?
He looked down the hallway in the direction of Harry's apartment. 407 right next door to his victim Doris Vehem. Okay he thought I have to go that way to get to the stairwell anyhow. He swallowed the last of the bile in his mouth and shaking began towards Harry's apartment. 407 was the last apartment on the right, the stairwell was about ten feet closer on the left.

"Harry would check on me" he said out loud. Almost wishing Doris would encourage him.

As he came to within reach of the open door to apartment 407 he lost his nerve. He turned and almost bolted through the door to the stairwell. He stood on the fourth floor landing shaking. Cursing himself for being a coward. Then he heard a scream. It came form above him, maybe sixth or seventh floor. It came again more pronounced. Not a scream of pain but a scream of rage, bloody hatred. As the primal scream subsided the foot falls began. Someone coming down the stairs.

The young man took off running down the stairs, skipping two or three at a time. Third floor landing and he could hear the footfalls louder now, someone was jumping the flights of stairs. He reached the turn between the third and second floor and stopped. Looking down at him from the third floor landing he just came from was Harry.

He looked down at the next landing and saw the door was open. Propped by a child's firetruck. He looked back up at Harry, or rather the image of what was once Harry. His shirt was covered in blood, and from there the sight only grew more gruesome. He was not wearing pants or underwear and blood was flowing from his crotch. Rather where his crotch should be. There was now only mangled flesh and drying blood. The first thing that popped into the young mans head was "Zombie".
That thought quickly faded when Harry spoke.

"You little piece of #!!!!" Harry smiled. "I am going to eat your heart while you watch." The first statement was shouted but it was the second that got him moving. Harry said it with love almost reverence.

He looked again at the door to the second floor. No time to try for the first he thought. He jumped over the flight of eight stairs. He landed hard spraining his ankle. He dropped in pain but rolled into the doorway to keep his momentum going. He rolled over the firetruck and turned to dislodge it from the door, just as Harry made the leap from the stairwell down the eight steps to the second floor landing. Unlike the young man the sixty five year old Harry landed with the grace of a jungle cat. As the door closed Harry grinned. He could have stopped the door before it closed thought the young man. Why didn't he?

He swiveled where he sat as someone came around the corner to his left. It was a woman, and she was carrying a knife. She looked at him and smiled. Though she was covered in blood he was almost tempted to smile back. Then she plunged the knife into her stomach, removed it then proceeded to plunge it into her chest. He heard her ribs crack and the sickening slurp as she pulled it back out. She stabbed her self at least ten more times before she fell. Smiling the whole time.

He sat there stunned. The world spun and his stomach churned. He had already emptied his stomach into the plant upstairs. Now his bowls just clenched in pain as the dry heaves came upon him. He fought to regain control. As the world settled he noticed the pain in his own rib. He lifted his shirt to inspect it. Bruised a nasty purple and inflamed but it was probably only a small fracture. When I rolled over that damn firetruck he thought. He attempted to stand then immediately remembered his ankle. He fell back to the ground. He removed his shoe. The ankle was swollen but again probably not a break. He removed his shirt and tore a piece off of the bottom. Wrapping his ankle with the improvised ace bandage for support he was able to stand. It hurt like hell but better than sitting here to see what comes around the corner next.

He had to get out of the building. But how? He wasn't going back into the stairwell and unless someone moved Doris the elevator wasn't going anywhere. He tried to think. Jump from a window and probably break his already injured ankle. Wait! The awning in front of the building over the main entrance. If he could get to that he could drop down from there. He knew the apartment that was directly over the entrance was vacant. With some effort he hobbled down the hallway. He edged around the fallen woman, trying his best to avoid stepping in the expanding pool of blood. He continued to room 215 right above the front entrance. He grabbed the door knob and turned. It stopped immediately. Locked. Of course he thought.

"#" he yelled to himself. "How am I gonna get in?" he wondered aloud. Then it hit him. There was an Axe next to the fire extinguisher on every floor. He went back to the stairwell, the compartment holding the extinguisher and Axe was there. He broke the glass and grabbed the Axe. He took the Axe back to the locked door. Bitting his lip at the wave of pain that came from bracing his ankle for the force, he swung the Axe at the door. 'Crack' The Axe stuck in the door but the door didn't budge. He heaved back pulling the Axe from the door with such force he threw himself back against the wall behind him. I cant get a good swing with my bad ankle he thought. Then he noticed the lock. If he could strike it properly it should break. He walked back over to the door. He stood off to the left side with his left shoulder touching the wall. He gripped the Axe at the midway point, he aimed for the point where the lock met the door. He brought the Axe over his right shoulder and down hitting the lock perfectly. The lock didn't pose as big a deterrent to the path of the Axe as he thought it would and he had to dodge it on the downswing to avoid hitting himself in the leg. The lock hit the floor. He released a sigh of relief. The young man reached for the handle again. This time it opened. He rushed to the first window and looked out. Yes! the awning was right there. A simple drop out of the window onto the awning and then down to the ground and he would be on his way. He busted the window with the Axe and cleared the broken pieces from the frame. As soon as he broke the window he heard the sirens. Not just sirens but screams and explosions off in the distance.

"Race riots my arse" he muttered to himself. The city was being devastated. He still had no clue what was happening, but it seemed to be everywhere at once. Okay focus he thought. He carefully stepped out of the window onto the ledge. Only two or three feet to the awning. He set the Axe down on his right and lowered himself slowly down to the awning. He grabbed the Axe and dropped to a crouch. The awning was unstable so he moved slow. He crouch walked to the edge to get a better view of the drop to the ground. And there smiling up at him was Harry.

"I am going to eat your heart while you watch" said a grinning Harry. "Thump-thump, Thump-thump" he mocked.

The young man didn't even have time to think about an escape option. From the intersecting road in front of the building came a blaring horn. He looked up to see a garbage truck barrelling strait for the building. Harry heard it and spun. He had no time to move, and oddly thought the young man it didn't appear he even considered it. The truck drove right through the grinning Harry from apartment 407. It narrowly missed the awning support pole and smashed into the building. Some the brick facade crumbled upon impact and the bracket holding the awning to the building gave way. The corner of the awning collapsed and the young man and his Axe fell to the ground unceremoniously. As he lay there thanking whatever force had kept him alive to this point he heard th door to the garbage truck open. He could see under the truck as two little feet landed on the pavement on the other side of the truck. He was just sitting up as the driver came around the back of the mangled vehicle. A little girl in a red checkered dress came skipping around the truck. Paying him no mind she continued to skip down the street whistling what he thought was Mary had a little lamb.

The young man sat on the front stoop of the building he had lived in for over a year now. The city he grew up him becoming a virtual war zone around him.

"Well I'm out of the building" he lamented. "Now just another six miles through the city to get to my dads" He put his head in his lap and half laughed half cried.

posted on Jun, 22 2012 @ 02:59 PM
reply to post by coven83

wow. thats well written. expertly done. i hope theres more.

posted on Jun, 22 2012 @ 11:00 PM
reply to post by coven83

Nice. Looking forward to Part II.

Don't get discouraged by writers block as it happens to all of us.

posted on Jun, 23 2012 @ 08:13 PM
reply to post by TDawgRex

Nah no writers block just wanted to post it. This was my first draft with only 1 edit. I have a cleaner version I can post. But Part 2 will be coming shortly.

And Im glad u liked it.

posted on Jun, 23 2012 @ 08:32 PM
reply to post by coven83

I write profusely but when I try to reason as to why something is happening, that is when I stumble across writers block.

It's hard to come across a original idea when it comes to writing, ya know? But I guess the idea is to keep the reader entertained in the long run.

Take Brad Thor or Vince Flynn for example. Their first couple of books were ok, but they turned into a generic version of Tom Clancy in their later books.

posted on Jun, 23 2012 @ 09:27 PM
reply to post by TDawgRex

Thats very true. It seems that all artists in any art form are subject to degradation of their work. (an old bands music was better when they were young) But every thing is cyclical and what's popular will fade then re emerge later, fashion being the biggest example of that I think. Its the rare writer who's change comes not from external pressure but from internal growth that creates the best works IMO.

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