Gentleman v7's Writing Samples

[Sir Zeta II]

Here are a few samples of writing I have done. They're not the best, but I do what I can to improve.
 

[Sir Zeta II]

The inspector leaned over the corpse, his mouth tightly shut, his teeth grinding pensively. “Give me a sitrep officer,” he called over his shoulder, his icy blue eyes never leaving the grizzly scene in front of him. A short, fat officer with a mustache of equal appearance shuffled forward, his brow soaked in sweat and trembling like he about to explode. His large, red-rimmed eyes darted to the corpse, then to the inspector.

“W-well detective. We-er-I mean I, I guess, that is to say,” he stammered, his face etched with fear and shock.

The detective wheeled around and slammed his foot onto the pavement, earning an alarmed squeak from the officer. “Enough!” he said forcefully, his bright blue eyes now fixed on the helpless form in front of him. “Tell me what happened, or I'll have you demoted as unfit for duty!”

The small, round policeman audibly swallowed, still vibrating on the spot. “Okay detective,” he squeaked again. “I'll try.”

At the sight of the frightened man in front of him, the inspector's demeanor changed completely. His eyes seemed to soften to a deep, calm azure, and he straightened his back. “Thank you. Please start from the beginning.”

The policeman nodded before dabbing his brow with his sleeve. “Well, I was just out on patrol, driving down Gangley Avenue, when I heard this shriek coming from an alley off Harving Street. It was really high-pitched, like a woman's ya know, so I turned into some man's driveway, I don't know who the guy was, then ran down there just as fast as I could.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, I skidded into the alleyway, didn't even have my gun at the ready, and all of a sudden, I see...” He trailed off, his scared, puppy-like eyes fixed on the body behind the detective.

The inspector nodded slowly, his head tilted to the graying sky. “Thank you officer. Get back to the PD and file a report.”

The small officer nodded quickly, then half ran, half waddled out of the alley.

The detective turned slowly, his eyes returning to their ice cold hue. He moved carefully over the wet blood stains and broken glass, over to the sight of the body. He crouched down above the victim's head and proceeded to slip on a pair of medical gloves, the latex slapping loudly against his skin as he pulled them tight. “What have we got?” he said to the medical examiner, who had been chatting with another police officer across the alley for the past few minutes. He quickly snapped back to attention and adjusted his spectacles.

“Vic is an approximately twenty-four year old female, Caucasian, with green eyes and blonde hair. We don't have an ID yet though. Died from a blow to the head. Initial diagnostics show a fractured skull, but we'll know more after the autopsy.”

The detective pulled the woman's jacket open as the examiner was talking, checking the pockets. He moved to business suit she was wearing. Nothing. He stood and adjusted his fedora in disappointment as a clap of thunder sounded above him. He ignored it, turning her over. Nothing but blood. Frustrated, the detective flipped her on her stomach and stood to let the blood flow back into his aching legs. Suddenly, he noticed something strange.

He bent down again, lifting the girl's voluminous golden hair off her back. There was a symbol branded onto the back of her neck. It was a straight line intersected by several circles, a diamond shape connecting the lines together. The detective put his finger to the wound. It was cold. Whatever this was, it was done to her a long time before her murder.

The inspector stood, rubbing his hands together anxiously. This case just got a little more interesting.  

[Sir Zeta II]

It was dark. Impossibly dark. William clicked on his flashlight, but the feeble beam of light seemed to be swallowed by the harsh blackness. Each step he took led to a loud clack on the hard tiles of the hallway, and he could feel his heart hammering underneath his maroon polo. The words “Rosewood Asylum” were etched in frail golden letters, and an identification badge dangled lazily from the lapel of his collar.

The power had gone out. The inmates had been freed. Now, the cells were empty, nothing but the faint sound of chains rattling, and the distant cackles of the newly freed patients. Blood splattered the floors, the blood of the doctors and of the orderlies, and William spied a severed arm hanging limply, dripping blood as it dangled from an overhanging chain.

William gasped and stumbled backward, his shoes slipping on the fresh blood. He hit the ground, knocking the flashlight from his hand. The batteries fell out, and the light died instantly. At precisely the same moment, lightning lit up the dark hallway, and an earth-shattering crack of thunder followed.

He struggle to his feet, trying to calm himself. There were no sounds except for the soft clanking of chains and the steady patter of rain hitting the windows. Another flash of lightning. This time, William saw a figure standing at the far end of hallway. It was a dark haired, wild-eyed man with bloodied arms, a scalpel held lazily in his dripping hand. Deep cut marks lined the man's body, and he let out a blood curdling laugh that sounded like a mixture of a wild animal's howl and a choking sound.

William froze on the spot, his eyes wide, unable to move. It was all darkness now. He could hear nothing but his panicked breathing and the wild beating of his heart. He moved back slowly, shuffling his feet to prevent noise. He suddenly heard slapping noises, like that of wet feet, moving towards him. He moved faster, his fear steadily rising. Suddenly, a chain rattled roughly fifteen feet from where he was. He turned and sprinted, no longer caring about noise. The slapping of wet feet became faster and faster, and he heard a harrowing chant as he ran. “Run run run little doggy! I will get you!”

William took a hard left and kept running, not stopping until he reached a door leading to Cell Block 2-C. He grabbed hold of the door's handle and pulled, but it was locked with a passcode, and with no electricity, he was trapped. He whirled around, pressing his body to the door. The slapping sound was gone, replaced by the steady pounding of the rain. William slid down onto the floor, trying to calm himself.

Suddenly, he felt breathing on the right side of his face.

“Gotcha.”

William's scream echoed through the bloodstained hallways, signifying the end of all hope...  

[Sir Zeta II]

“GRENADE!”

The word reverberated up Kingley's spine, sending his body into the dirt as an earth-shattering blast sprayed dirt and body parts over his back and head.

Exhausted, with a broken arm and ringing ears, Kingsley scrambled to his feet and made a dash for his squad as they provided cover fire from an overturned flaming pickup truck. He jumped behind the twisted scrap of metal, landing on his fractured arm and screaming in pain. Captain Hughes grabbed his collar and pulled him up. “Fall back!” his baritone voice bellowed out, and the group of six fell back, tearing across the dust laden street away from the truck as another grenade exploded underneath it, sending the giant steel vehicle airborne.

Kingsley sprinted alongside Johnson, the medic, clutching his arm and fighting back tears. The pain was surreal, burning from his shoulder all the way to the tips of his fingers. Gunshots erupted from a second story window, and the soldier farthest behind, a kid named Matt, crumpled to the ground, the blood from his new neck wound splattering onto the dust, staining it crimson.

“Keep running!” Hughes shouted, jumping over the remains of a small platoon of troops sent in prior to the operation. “The Green Zone is only two kliks away!” The squad picked up the pace, pounding across the bloody, dusty roadways. More gunfire erupted from above, and the group dove for cover, with Kingsley landing on his other arm this time.

Struggling to breathe as dust and the smell of decay filled his lungs, Kingsley pulled his pistol from its holster and pulled the hammer back. He fired in the direction of the enemy's gunfire, and was surprised to find a scantily clad young man fall from the roof, gun and all, and hit the ground with a sickening crack. Kingsley had just killed that man.

Clutching his pistol, Kingsley crouched into a fetal position, letting the tears flow freely now. Hughes, who had been unloading clip after clip at the enemy, grabbed Kingsley and pushed him out of cover without looking at him. “Run! Get out of here!” he cried through clenched teeth. Kingsley happily obliged, sprinting and diving for cover behind a chest-high wall. He peeked his head out just in time to see Hughes become engulfed in an ear-splitting explosion.

Shouting in terror, in rage, in pain, Kingsley felt a strong hand pull him backwards, and as the reinforcements pulled him back into the Humvee, he gave in to the pain, to the exhaustion.

His mother would be so proud of him...