Killer Disease

A Short thriller prologue, looking for critiques and compliments.

Something unsettling enters the atmosphere. A heavy, frigid feeling that stretches its grasp over every inch of the forest the boy was in. The icy cuts of the wind blow all around and through the boy as he runs. He feels the presence of what is near him and it raises his hairs and sends his core into a fearful shutter. His body screaming at itself to stop moving, to hide, but he has to run. Every hesitation sets him back, every second thinking about what is coming brings it even more closer to reality. He has to be fast. He trudges and throws his heavy feet over every branch he can see. Tossing his weighted legs over every bush he could feel in front of him. His eyes fixated on the faint, tan light through the black leaves of this tunneling forest. Sweat pouring over his eyelids, breathing out of rhythm, he is stumbling like a drunken marathon runner desperately fighting to keep moving. Quickly stomping along, until the gleam of the brass doorknob meets his gaze. The boy stops moving, no more crackling bushes and branches filling the silent forest. Just the heavy draws of air and his sweat falling onto the packed dirt.

Walking forward the man sees the faint, cream-colored light of the moon lighting the brass knob. He looks close to see a thin black line separating the left side of the wooden door from the rest of the frame, it was open. A slight jolt of panic before the reality of what’s coming snaps him into another adrenaline sprint. Quickly he’s over the front-yard and even quicker he’s through the entrance way, ignoring all the splintered wood and fallen pictures frames, frantically slapping walls around him for a light switch. He is breathing too fast now, he tries calling out for help but only feels the pain of his coarse breathes. He’s too exhausted. He feels the unsettling presence enter the house and stand at the front door, watching him. Another dose of overwhelming fear shoots through the boiling blood of the man. His vision goes blurry as complete panic takes over. Whipping his arms around him as if he is being attacked by hornets. Thrusting off each leg like a long jumper going for his furthest leap. The unsettling presence watches this mess of a fear filled man slam himself into countless walls until a light flicks on.

The man, who is now weeping in between his labored breaths, steps slowly towards a silver mirror. The mirror almost takes up the entire wall at the end of the hallway. The top half of the mirror is covered in cobwebs and slightly cracked. The bottom half over the mirror is lying shattered on the ground. Approaching the mirror in a horror-induced trance, the man is mustering out a quiet train of words, “I’m too late, I’m too late, Oh my God I’m too late.” He starts wiping up the snot from his nose and once his hand leaves his vision, he notices his predator standing behind him in the mirror. A floating, dark smoke seemingly spreading darkness and soaking up light. He can sense a faint outline of a human deep in the smokescreen. All sensation leaves his body. His tense hands go limp and his clenched jaw opens. The only thing he feels is a slight shaking in the back of his neck and the tears and sweat racing down his skin. He tells his body to move, to scream, to cry, to yell, to whip around like a wild dog, but he can’t. He gazes down at his feet, and a brown trinket with an ivory coin in the middle stick out from under a shard of glass. A symbol printed on the coin is known to the man as ‘Vaccine’. Oh how close he was to his precious goal, and how close he was to saving the others. As he returned his gaze to the reflection of the smoke his mind is with flooded with the faces of his friends. Now seeing the man broken down, the unsettling smoke floats into the man. A force which was never chasing the man, rather watching from a place inside of him. The man, now not as he was before, looks at himself in the mirror. Deeply he stares into his own eyes as if in disbelief. He wipes the tears and sweat away with the sleeves of his shirt. Cleans his snot covered chin and mouth with a nearby cloth. The trinket slowly brings itself up from the piles of glass. It slowly floats up and into the boy’s hand. Tightly grasped, a glowing light of red emits from the veins of the man’s arm, the light flows into his grasped hand with a quick whisp noise the light flashes and is gone. He holds his hand up to the mirror and opens his palm. Releasing a pile of ash from his hand, and while putting on a grin with cheerful eyes the man says, “We’re too late.”

Author's Note

A Short prologue I wrote, looking for critiques and compliments please!!! *Rough Draftish*

Reviews

[ImaginaryMight]

This kind of writing doesn't work. Play-by-play action scenes are more the role of a script for a movie, and not written word. Writing is much more effective when it's lore, not action. When writing a story, it's important to ask yourself the question 'What makes the story worth writing?" Is it about the monster, if so what's so clever about this particular villian? Whether it be a zombie or a werewolf. Is it about the feeling of terminal despair? The moment you realize the main character's last hope is removed. Describing the surroundings might be fun to write, but at some point it becomes combersome and it's almost all irrelevant to the story. It feels like I'm writing a work like this, you're trying to impress people with all the poetic ways you can describe an imaginary surrounding.

[Jacob Baca]

I don’t intend for the whole story to be written like this scene here, I do agree with you it is very play by play like, combersome... I wanted this to be more of a described, interesting event aimed at grabbing the attention of the reader. I appreciate the critiques but do you have any other suggestions on writing in a more lore type way? Thanks again!