Matt Lyons – Imaginative Piece (yr 10 Eng)

*click*

 

A locked door, a wooden frame separating myself from a horde of crazed people. They begin to thump their palms, pale as the moon, upon the door. As an extra precaution, I drag a wardrobe over to fortify the entrance, though I can’t say I’m brimming with confidence.

 

I lay my back against the wall, checking my handgun’s magazine. Twelve rounds left, and no remaining stock to reload. I curse quietly, for I’d already spent four several minutes before on two men. However, they can’t really be called men, nor any of the others that are after me. They’re more animals than humans now, but of course, my briefing a month ago said nothing of the sort…

 

Many children would leap at the chance to become a spy or a secret agent. The reality is a five-figure sum salary for either trying to keep a principle alive or going on a crazy mission like this. At least, that’s how I, Dante, U.S Secret Agent, thinks of it.

 

There’s a motto that the Secret Service follows. The less the agents know, the less they have to feel guilty about. I was ordered to fly to an island off the coast of Venice with Ryan, my fellow agent, and investigate any suspicious activity. I was also informed I could expect hostility from the ‘locals’. What the report lacked was letting me know that the term ‘locals’ no longer applied to these…monsters. Their eyes glow crimson, and they run at speeds which would shame an Olympian. Not exactly an ideal opposition.

 

I remember writing the story of one of my previous missions on my laptop in my New York apartment, when my phone rang to offer me this undertaking. Of course, I could’ve continued typing how I’d managed to raid a house used as a heroin mill without backup. But, as a secret service agent for the U.S government, I made a pledge like all the others to serve this country. And so, I picked up the phone. Not a good idea.

 

However, logic wouldn’t save me here. Several arms rotted with decay puncture the door, while their owners spit colorful curses at me. One of them is armed with a hunting knife, and I experience a moment of weakness. That knife had sat in a sheath owned by Ryan. He was a loyal friend, and we had shared over 10 campaigns together in our careers. Unfortunately, when we arrived here, we were ambushed by them, and Ryan was killed.

 

 

 

However, mourning would not bring him back, and so I run up the stairs of the house and into the building’s master bedroom. I swiftly pull a dresser over to block the door, and then creep to the room’s window. With care, I look over the sill.

 

The monsters are still attempting to break through the door, and I feel some relief that I might live a bit longer. However, the feeling is extinguished, when two others come running, both armed with medieval crossbows. I retreat from the sill, cursing the lack of detail in my briefing.

 

From my documents, I was told the ‘locals’ had been altered, that their physique had been improved at the cost of intelligent thought. What it should have also said was that they would attack on sight with the same fervor sharks employ to kill their prey. I clutch my handgun tighter. Another reason these abominations need to be sorted out.

 

CLUNK! A crossbow bolt embeds itself into the window sill. A rope is attached to it, and it bends with the weight of the same monster with Ryan’s knife. It climbs into the room, and the crossbow bolt falls from its perch. It sees me, and snarls, knife at the ready.

 

Not hesitating, I fire three shots, two to the chest and one to the head. The chest shots seem to do nothing, yet the head shot blows it clean off. The body crumples to the ground. Breathing deeply, I retrieve the knife. Then, the body decomposes into a foul liquid smelling of rotten flesh, before being absorbed into the tartan rug.

 

I judge my situation. From the groans outside, I am faced by many monsters, with a gun with only 9 rounds left, and a serrated hunting knife. At that point, if I were a betting man, my money would remain in my pockets. I walk to the window sill, and face the horde.

 

They’d killed Ryan, and looked and fought as though they were from a depraved nightmare in a horror movie. Now, this was no longer a mission. This was a time for fighting for a friend’s memory.

 

I leap through the window, landing onto the cobblestones. I turn and face what is most likely my end. Saliva drips from the maws of them as they stare hungrily at me. I look at them calmly, yet my heart is a motor, pumping adrenaline through my body.

 

Even if I fall to them, I’ll make sure it will only be so if they work damn hard for that outcome.

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One thought on “Matt Lyons – Imaginative Piece (yr 10 Eng)”

  1. Crazy people who are very hard to kill? The zombies cometh!These are zombies pretty much right? A short piece, not that that’s bad or anything. If Ryan was killed by zombies then will Ryan rise as a zombie? Just something to think about if you ever decide to continue the story.

    I think that the second sentence of the second paragraph might need further clarification that the four he spent on two men are bullets.Also, can they really be called men if they’re monsters? Overall it’s a good piece of writing about zombies in my opinion. A like from me.

    Like

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