Young Writers Society

VII Visitors

That’s when it began. It was sudden. A thud. I was snatched midway of my third read-through and everyone was suddenly on their feet, even bloody Mike Fisken, who looked wily and wild as ever. He had taken off his spoilt shirt, now he wore a white tank top. His biceps sat like cannonballs, and his chest protruded like a tumour; he may well have been an NFL player himself if he wasn’t so short. The thud came again; no one could see where it had come from. An empty heart-lurching thud.

“There, someone’s out there!” The boy of the couple said and we all followed his finger.

A man with scraggy wisps of hair. The fog was so thick his head seemed to be suspended in it, close to the glass. His eyes, like Rafa’s, moved about in red where it should be white. Another thud came as a hand with spread fingers slapped and stayed for a second then drew back. The black fog lit up with a bright flash as we all watched. Again I couldn’t contain my emotions, I was angry.

The man stayed, palming the window like a drum, and his eyes not quite human. Mike Fisken seemed to be moving slowly toward the door, or perhaps toward the discarded shotgun. The thuds came louder and a woman with a bloody nose was outside of the glass as well. She thudded more regularly. She was clad like any young woman, a nice white floral dress and her hair was in a high ponytail, but it was her red eyes and the way her mouth gnashed, as though she was toothless and gobbing prunes. The drumming got louder, faster. It got so loud I could barely here Mike asking what the hell they were. I could barely hear Janey’s screams.

The woman was at the cracked window and it started to move, it was ready to go. The crack slithered slowly, approaching the bottom corner.

“If that window goes, that fog will fill this place in no time!”

The girl of the couple was sobbing and the boy held her. It felt like everybody turned to me, synced. Everybody except Mike, who moved to the door with gun in hand he kicked it open and craned his neck out. The two outside stopped, their heads sharply cocked and suddenly their eyes were on him. Through the fog, they found him and in unison, they charged.

Mike must not have seen them through the fog until it was too late. They crashed into the door. The force sent Mike carting back on to the floor where the trucker had pinned him. The two frenzied. The door had closed on them but they couldn’t open it. It was unlocked but they stood bashing it instead of pulling it. They kicked and threw their heads at it. It was still too loud but I could have sworn Mike had laughed. He was back on his feet now holding the shotgun in two hands.

“What the hell is going on?”
“It’s the fog, I’m telling you, I read something in Sabre’s case. They were testing chemicals, probably to sell to the military. He mentioned something about how he was going to buy up all the land.” I found my voice getting loud, barely loud enough to overcome the rolling thuds. Patches of blood were appearing on the glass as the man rocked his head hard into the panel; they would crack soon just how the other had cracked with the docile birds strike.

“Claire,” I began, and for the first time she looked concerned, “Can you take the kids out back, is there an office back there Joe?”
“Yeah just put them in the staff room.” He said gruffly, keeping his eyes fixed on the door.

Claire carried her youngest son, and took Janey and her elder son by the hand, leading them through the kitchen.

There were more thuds, louder thuds. More faces lingered, suspended in the fog, an old man. And a boy, no older than 11 or 12. They beat their hands against the glass. It was all about to come down, the building everything. The stale coffee air was hot and thick, and my heart was throwing itself against my chest.

The young couple moved away from the window, walking backwards afraid to turn away from the fist-falls, which came on like thunder. A new truckers announced his arrival with a bone jarring thud which made the crack branch out and splinter.

“That windows going to go, we need to get them back!” I said.

The manic trucker moved along the window outside, towards the two at the door. It was sickening, how he attacked. He snatched the other man by the hair and crunched down on his neck between bloody teeth. He pulled back, tearing. A jet of blood hit the glass. His throat was gaping and surging. The young girl screamed and turned away.

The attackers red eyes found mine, fixed in a stare. He seemed to smile, chin steeped in blood, fingers spread in the dead man’s hair.

The manic trucker dropped the body and took his place next to the woman bashing at the door. The crack in the glass had almost reached the corner.

“Mike we need to get them away, we can’t let that window go. How many shots you got?”
Mike counted them up.
“Seven.”
“Okay I will force this door back; you need to get these two, then the others. It’s something in the fog, it makes you act savage.” Mike gave me that look of doubt, the one I could see him giving his wife all their marriage and one day he would give it to his kids. That I’m right you’re wrong but I won’t bother explaining why look.
“Why don’t I open the door and you do the shooting.”

I snatched the gun from his grip and walked to the door. I had never killed anyone, I didn't want to but they were dead already. It would get us if I didn't do it. As we approached, the thuds outside got harder, faster.
“On three.”

The two outside stumbled back as Mike shoved the door. I got one off and the gun thumped against my shoulder. My teenage seasons duck hunting had barely prepared me for this. I Pumped again then squeezed out the second. The fog was already burning me up inside but we needed the others. I charged forward, holding my breath; I got the old man in the face then the kid, who was thrown as if I fired a truck and not a shot. I couldn't move back inside. It was like a shift in gravity. I eyed the boy, dead on the ground. I still held my breath out there but I couldn't leave, I had killed the boy. Mike's call from the door snapped my trance, I turned and ran.

Inside, the two truckers were looking on, with faces contorted as though they were watching a foreign film without subtitles, eating olives and drinking wine, instead of beer and peanuts. I gasped for the safe air and pressed my back against the closed door. The boys helpless eyes, manic then fearful.

Even with a crew cut and puffy jacket, the younger trucker was still just a boy. The only part of him that was old was his weary eyes looped in dark bruise. He looked like the type that had the hubris and bluster amongst his friends, but when death ambled along his path he was the little boy again.

“It’s not safe here, not in this fog, I’m going. I’m taking my truck; I’m going to take the 54 until I’m out of this fog. I mean we have more of a chance driving out there, than waiting here for more of those things.”

He wasn’t entirely convinced himself, but he may have been right. How vast had the fog spread? And, would he be safe moving to the truck? I wasn’t ready to ask these questions, I still found the shotgun clutched to my chest. Then Joe spoke up.

“No you stay, you stay and defend. Whatever is going on out there, it doesn’t matter. You all stay to defend.” He was serious. His cook held his waiter behind him in the kitchen. The young couple were shaking and sobbing together. No one was of any use.
“Joe, that’s unreasonable.” I began but he simply raised a hand and turned his head.

I dropped the shotgun on a table and found a booth away from the windows.
Joe slyly moved towards me, and before he arrived, he had snatched it.

“That’s right,” he began, his black eyes wild and his hands shaking around the gun, “No one’s going anywhere.”

So, a few things just to start out in general. Ross seems to be the one taking predominate control of the whole situation in this chapter I see. Perhaps he's a little too all-over things. The rest of the people seem to be quiet and dumbfounded. In certain ways Ross is not. It only makes me wonder why Ross is the only one with any mind to think in the situation. It has nothing to do with his knowledge of what he knows must be going on I'm sure, and I'm quite aware he's the protagonist of the story, but I'd like to see you be a little more subtle with him maybe.

For other minor things I'll just amble along down the list here:

“Can you take the kids out back, is there an office back there(,) Joe?”

“Yeah(,) just put them in the staff room(,)” he said gruffly, keeping his eyes fixed on the door.

A new truckers announced his arrival with a bone jarring thud which made the crack branch out and splinter.

Remove the 's' here.

The attacker(')s red eyes found mine, fixed in a stare.

“Okay(,) I'll will force this door back; you need to get these two, then the others. It’s something in the fog, it makes you act savage.”

I snatched the gun from his grip and walked to the door. I had never killed anyone, I didn't want to but they were dead already.

This seems like a pretty bold conclusion here for him to say he knows these people are all dead already. How could he not hesitate mentally in the slightest given the circumstances? All of this has been shoved on him all at once. These people were once innocent and normal like any of them. I know even in The Exorcist (forgive my ancient reference) when the daughter's body got taken over and was all evil and disgusting and all hope seemed lost, no one considered killing the girl. I know the circumstances are obviously different, but I mean the morals in Ross's head are what bring me to think of this. I might've at least liked to have seen a bit more explanation on his internal reasoning for thinking the way that he is. That's probably my own real tiff I suppose. I get the part about "It would get us if I didn't do it." Though my first instinct would probably be to run and hide.

Anyway, moving on. I do respect how you made his conscience still present about killing the boy. Way to be a good Samaritan, JP. ;] From the atmosphere I picked up from your writing though, it almost came off like --don't be offended-- you were enjoying the action of your words and the almost heroic scene you were trying to paint. I might compare it to a young teenager relishing in their romance story and enjoying all the lovey-dovey scenes to satisfy what they want their story to be like. This was probably due largely to Ross stepping up to the plate in such an almost non-hesitant way. As in 'Heck yeah, it's my time to shine.' I hope you don't knock me for comparing you to a teen girl. xD I really don't mean this offensively in the least. It's good to take a step back and really look at every angle of your writing in whole. I think Ross may have seemed a little too the obvious protagonist here. But that's just me.

In some of your dialogue I think I happen to miss you clarifying who's saying what. Like when one of the trucker's wanted to leave. I think you could have nudged a little better narration in that way, but it's not really a large issue with your writing. Just something small I noticed in this chapter.

“Joe, that’s unreasonable(,)” I began(,) but he simply raised a hand and turned his head.

You don't explain why he thinks this is unreasonable in Ross's opinion in any form of undertone.

I continue to love how you end off each chapter. You've done a really good job in keeping things moving along I think, which for some can be a decent struggle. I have the impression now that Joe may either be affected somehow by this fog, or he's simply showing a very ugly darker side. Perhaps this other side of him is just now unraveling due to the circumstances of the situation. In either case, I think it will make for an interesting situation.

Well, I'm gonna try and keep things moving here. Almost there, but not quite. ;]

-Smylin'

“There, someone’s out there!” The boy of the couple said and we all followed his finger.

Should be a small letter on “the” and “the boy of the couple” reads very awkwardly.

The woman was at the cracked window and it started to move, it was ready to go. The crack slithered slowly, approaching the bottom corner.

I feel like they should have done something about the crazy people outside before the window started breaking. So far everyone’s been pretty active, and now crazy people turn up and they just sit there gawping.

Everybody except Mike, who moved to the door with gun in hand he kicked it open and craned his neck out.

If they’re concerned about the fog coming in, why’d they let him open the door?

Mike must not have seen them through the fog until it was too late. They crashed into the door. The force sent Mike carting back on to the floor where the trucker had pinned him. The two frenzied. The door had closed on them but they couldn’t open it. It was unlocked but they stood bashing it instead of pulling it. They kicked and threw their heads at it. It was still too loud but I could have sworn Mike had laughed. He was back on his feet now holding the shotgun in two hands.

I’m not sure what happened here. Mike went outside, the crazy people charged him—and then what? Who ends up inside and who’s left outside? Where did the trucker come from?

“Claire,” I began, and for the first time she looked concerned, “Can you take the kids out back, is there an office back there Joe?”

Again with the sagging dialogue sentence, and that bolded comma should be a full stop.

“Yeah just put them in the staff room.” He said gruffly, keeping his eyes fixed on the door.

Hopefully you can see what’s wrong here.

And a boy, no older than 11 or 12.

Write out numbers.

They beat their hands against the glass. It was all about to come down, the building everything.

Seems a bit of a leap, unless this is panicked paranoia. They’re just banging on the window—why would the building collapse?

A new truckers announced his arrival with a bone jarring thud which made the crack branch out and splinter.

Bolded bit makes no sense.

Mike counted them up.
“Seven.”

Keep each person in their own paragraph, action and dialogue together.

I had never killed anyone, I didn't want to but they were dead already.

How does he know that?

I Pumped again then squeezed out the second.

Unnecessary capitalisation.

---
I felt that Ross made many leaps of judgement here that seem unrealistic. Like, you as the author know these things, like the youngest trucker’s character, but there’s no reason for Ross to know them. Unrealistic insight. If you were in third person this might not matter so much, but you’re in first, so everything is limited to the amount that Ross knows. How could he know that the crazy people outside are dead and want to kill them? I mean, yes, crazy people outside is never a good sign and it’s a good idea to stay away from them, but maybe they don’t want to kill them; maybe they want to kidnap them and take them to the head zombie to harvest their organs. Maybe they only want the children. Maybe they only want the women. Maybe, maybe, maybe—there’s a lot that could happen. And how does he know that they’re dead, reanimated flesh?

-twit

Who is Ross? I'm starting to think I don't even know.

I don't know if you want Ross to be the all knowing, leader-in-time-of-crisis type person, because I see that a lot in him, especially in this chapter. However, even more I see Ross as doormat who feebly tries to communicate information but ends up just getting pushed around and ignored and doesn't really put up much of a fight. The was more prominent in earlier chapters. So, exactly which one is Ross?

You're really going to have to decide. I'm getting a mixed message right now, and I would at least like to know the personality of the narrator. Do you think he should lean more towards the passionate former? Then have him follow through with his attempts to educate people of the fog, have him be more aggressive, less verbally bumbling. Or is he of the latter temperament? In this case, make him more clumsy, more shy, more reluctant. On a highway, one should drive in one direction or the other, instead of dwelling undecidedly on the center line; likewise, one should decide that a character should have a distinct personality, instead of swaying erratically between two. Except you probably won't get hit and die. Don't you love my metaphors?

“It’s the fog, I’m telling you, I read something in Sabre’s case. They were testing chemicals, probably to sell to the military. He mentioned something about how he was going to buy up all the land.”

I think I know why no one ever believes Ross when he does his little speeches; it's a good thing he's not a writer, because he's about as convincing as a piece of wood (clever, right?). All he does is provide a tenuous thesis statement, lunge awkwardly into supporting evidence, and finish off with a piece or two of almost completely irrelevant information; to top things off, his appeal is laden with "I think"s and "something"s and "probably"s. Quite frankly, he sounds ridiculous.

Mike gave me that look of doubt, the one I could see him giving his wife all their marriage and one day he would give it to his kids. That I’m right you’re wrong but I won’t bother explaining why look.

But this is bizarre. Why does everyone, for reasons I cannot hope to comprehend, refuse to believe Ross in whatever he says? Why is Mike so adamant in his refusal to accept Ross's explanation? It makes no sense.

Also, Mike, in the look he gave Ross, claimed that he was right and that Ross was wrong. But what was he claiming to be right about? Ross being wrong does not automatically make Mike right.

Again I couldn’t contain my emotions, I was angry.

What do you mean by this? That Ross is angry, and consequentially must not be able to control his emotions? Or vice-versa: that Ross cannot seem to control his emotions, and is thus angry (though I'll admit that this is something of a contradiction; however, one must think a bit to stumble upon the contradiction that should, supposedly, determine that the former is the correct meaning, and one should not have to think to grasp just the surface meaning of a sentence)? And it strikes me as odd that he would even notice his lack of control over his emotions. Saying that he noticed it makes his emotions seem superficial, as if they were nothing more than a herd animal that should be contained. I think it would be much better if you did not refer to his mental degeneration as something that should be conquered, but instead as something that is conquering him.

Finally, I'd like to quote something from last chapter.

Act entirely on instincts.

This I found funny, because banging one's head against a window does not strike me as instinctive. You suggest in the last chapter that the fog turns people into animals, but what you suggest in this chapter is that it turns people into nothing short of cannibalistic zombies. Here are important two equations you seemed to have ignored:



Try taking these into account, and you'll be golden.

Keep writing.

-Kafka

Fix the Rhythm

Whooo dramatic scene! Alright so we have action which means lets have lots of choppy short sentences, yes? Well uh... kind of. But the rhythm isn't quite right. You're doing good with the short dramatic ones cutting in, but your longer ones need to have more flow and you could do with a couple more of them. The trick is to slide them in there, either right before or right after a very short one. I'm going to pick out an example and try to show you what I mean:

The black fog lit up with a bright flash as we all watched. Again I couldn’t contain my emotions, I was angry.

This would work better if it was broken down and you don't need that 'again' or the 'all'. Stay in the present time and behind your narrator's eyes. So: 'The black fog lit up with a bright flash as we watched. I couldn't contain my emotions. I was angry.' Then what you're missing from the end is a long sentence to describe that anger in full detail, followed by another short one. I'm going to just throw stuff in here so you can see what effect it would have

The black fog lit up with a bright flash as we watched. I couldn't contain my emotions. I was angry. I could feel it chugging through my veins like a steam engine, rushing through the tunnels to my fists until they swelled like hammers and I wanted to punch someone, smack them right in the gob. Anyone. I didn't care who.

Awkwardness

As we get closer to the finale, I think I'm going to start picking at your writing style more, just a head's up

Anyway, there are some lines that are just far too awkward and they make you read them two or three times before you've got a clear idea of what they are saying, by which time, any effect that might have had is gone. I find it easier to teach with example so again I'll pick one out:

I was snatched midway of my third read-through and everyone was suddenly on their feet, even bloody Mike Fisken, who looked wily and wild as ever.

First there's that use of 'snatched' and what with the chapter titled the visitors, I'm thinking, what? Did a UFO just beam him up? Did he get grabbed from behind? Then you've got 'midway of my third read-through' which is very poor phrasing. It took me far too long to realise you meant 'midway through my third reading of the text' which isn't the most dramatic phrasing but it's clear so start there and then edit it to your liking but do not lose the clarity. It's an awkward enough thing already to get our heads around.

Background Characters

Everyone is doing what Ross says and not much else. Where's the panic? Where are the other personalities rising through ths dust? At the moment, the only ones which scream out are Ross and whoever he's talking to at that moment. It seems that if Ross isn't paying them any attention, they just shut up and slink back. I want to see more voices in there and less control. You have a cook and a waitress who have been given little flesh other than those titles. You have children and a mother. You've got truckers. But at the moment the only people who seem to have much of a voice are Mike, Ross and Joe. Try to spare a few lines for some of your other characters or if you're struggling to handle having so many in one room at a time, give some of them a side plot. Sending the mother and kids to the office was a good start, but maybe some others could go to check the back door or decide to go and try to get signal with their phones elsewhere in the building. I'm not sure, but try to avoid having so many silent characters.

Zombies?

They're zombies of a form but Ross decides they're dead when all the evidence says otherwise! He's read for himself that this is a scientific experiment and he's already suspecting that these people are being reduced to instinct. That's not the same as being a dead zombie though! Ross seems too rational a man to be jumping to those sort of conclusions. I wouldn't. I'd be thinking: science experiment, therefore cure? Plus. Where's the evidence of dead bodies getting back up? You haven't given us that so... yeah. We're a little stuck between humans acting on instinct and zombies now. You need to decide which it is and correct the evidence and actions to support that.

Overall

Lots of fun and it's great to see the pure energy of this chapter. I can really tell that you loved writing it. However, you need to take a step back and decide a few things for yourself as your readers are feeling so lost right about now and this far in, we should have a clear idea of at least a few of the characters. I honestly couldn't say I know anyone. Ross keeps surprising me, Joe is vague and then something else and then vague all over again. Maybe Mike. Oh and Mick I guess. It's a little bad though when your most developed characters are either dead or the typically unreliable, bad husband type.

In general though, you've got some great short lines going on here and I do really like the plot. I was loving seeing how the fog affects people until uh... they started acting like standard zombies. You might want to look into that because the idea of them running on instinct was far more interesting!

Heather xxx