Young Writers Society

Mark was a musician. He aspired to be the best trumpet player in the entire underground city, and practiced at least an hour a day. In fact, with only ten trumpet players in the city, he figured his chances at accomplishing this goal were high. However, his efforts to become the best were constantly stymied by his main adversary, Bill, with whom he shared a mutual hate relationship. It seemed that for every hour Mark practiced, Bill practiced an hour and ten minutes. Regardless of this fact, they were still required to share a class together in school, and attempted to keep relations between each other minimal.
The underground city was a massive fallout shelter, built to house seven hundred refugees. In actuality it held eight hundred. The lights were all a dull yellow, and the entire complex consisted of snaking metal tunnels that led to each and every place. There was a storeroom, from where all of the resources they needed came, a large mess hall for meals, personal rooms for four roommates, a gym, a music room, several classrooms and an executive room, from where the president worked.
Mark had lived here all his life, and was raised by the community, just like every other child. He turned eighteen during the year 2010, and shared a room with three of his closest friends. He knew every passageway in his sleep, and was good at memorizing things, like the radiation leak protocol, which was a sort of fire drill for radiation leaks.
You see, in the 50's, during The Cold War, things had gotten pretty out of hand with other countries, and the United States fired nuclear missiles upon Cuba and the Soviet Union, who responded with their own. The entire civilized world had been wiped out, and was undergoing a nuclear winter. The only survivors had been those who stayed in the shelters. Mark and all of the other residents of the underground city were the descendents of these survivors. No one had left the city in almost sixty years, as it would be fatal to do so. At least, that's what he had learned in history.
The president sat in his comfortable recliner, and surveyed the status reports on all of the citizens. He wasn't the President of the United States, but he was an important man, being the research director of a top secret government experiment. He made sure to stay in his office, and keep up the illusion that he was the mysterious and reclusive ruler of the underground city, who kept everyone safe by making important political decisions. No one in the city ever saw him, which was good, because it allowed him to spend half the time in his office, and the other half above ground in his villa, with no one wondering where he had gone. Since all the citizens had been raised by professional actors, they were kept ignorant of the truth that there had been no nuclear war, and that the Cuban missile crisis had ended peacefully.
Finally, he thought to himself, the experiment was almost ready to commence. Having been transferred to this experiment in 2009, the president wondered why on earth anyone would spend so much time and energy just to test pharmaceutical drugs. Regardless, it seemed about to pay off, and the government was convinced that free of those pesky scruples, they would make the necessary breakthrough to cure cancer.
Mark sat glumly, as he ate his dehydrated food halfheartedly. Wondering briefly how there was over sixty years of food in the store room, Mark went back to the line and requested another helping of food to quell the melancholy feeling that racked his body. He had just lost another competition to Bill, and was running out of drive to keep trying.
When he returned to his room, his three other roommates were already there, having skipped dinner. "Why didn't I see you guys at dinner?" Mark asked.
"It's weird, all three of us have headaches," responded Roger, who was cradling his head in his hands. "I've never had one this bad before."
"Maybe your should go to the physician and get that checked out, it's probably some strain of flu."
"Ok, I'll go tomorrow, but right now, I'm going to sleep."
"Alright, good night," said Mark.
The next day, Mark's suspicions were confirmed, when the president came over the intercom and announced not to be concerned about the mild flu outbreak. It seemed that almost half of the citizens of the city had contracted it and were suffering massive headaches. Counting his blessing that he still felt fine, Mark proceeded to the practice room, which was empty, except for one person. This person Mark identified as Ryan, a boy who Mark had met but never talked to.
"Hi Ryan," Mark said cheerfully, his attitude having much improved due to the fact that he found the practice room free of Bill.
Ryan stared into space, saxophone in hand, ignoring Mark completely.
"Ryan?"
Turning his head slowly, as if in a trance, Ryan looked at Mark quizzically.
"Are you ok?"
No response. Ryan stared into Mark's eyes as if trying to recognize a familiar face. Abruptly, he took three slow steps forward, forcing Mark to step back. This seemed to enrage Ryan, who suddenly looked very hungry. His eyes blazed with fire, and he grinned an animal grin, one of a predator.
Ryan swung his saxophone at Mark's head, still grinning as Mark blocked it with his trumpet. Rapidly, Ryan continued to bludgeon Mark until his trumpet was a twisted heap of metal. When Mark's arms gave way under the crazed onslaught of the deranged boy, he closed his eyes, hoping to die quickly, and was surprised to feel no finishing blow. When he opened his eyes, Bill and one of his friends were restraining Ryan, who was spitting and biting at their hands. Mark soon lost consciousness and was carried to the physician's office.
The office was a crowded place, packed full with headache victims. The only Physician in the shelter, Doc Johnson, was hurriedly dashing back and forth from patient to patient, muttering to himself about new strains. When he got to Mark he looked him over for about ten seconds and said, "What happened to you?"
"I don't know, this boy attacked me out of nowhere," responded Mark.
"You're fine," Doc Johnson said, and returned to his other patients.
Mark returned immediately to his dorm, wanting to tell his roommates what had happened, when he heard screams in the hallway outside. He rushed out to see what was going on, and found a horrific sight. The first thing he saw was a girl he knew, named Cara, staring dumbfounded ahead. As his eyes followed the path of hers, he saw what she was staring at. A man of about nineteen was crouching over the corpse of a woman, who was about eighteen, and was probably one of Cara's friends. At first Mark could not be sure what the man was doing, but when he realized it, he became sick to his stomach and resisted the strong urge to vomit. The man had his teeth clamped down on the woman's neck, and blood ran down his face. As Mark and Cara watched, he lifted his head, taking some of her flesh with him. At this point Mark screamed, and they both ran in the opposite direction.
"Sir, this is very bad."
"What is it?" replied the president.
"The drugs we tested, particularly Climousine, had extremely... unpleasant effects on the subjects."
"Like what?"
"It seems that some of the subjects have reverted back to a very primal stage, as if we induced some sort of survival instinct in them."
"How bad?" The president said, thinking of his villa.
"They're killing the other subjects," the scientist said, reluctant to call them people, lest he be forced to face the atrocities he had committed.
"Seal the doors."
"But-"
"Seal them. We can't afford to let these things loose in the city. Also, we're both facing criminal charges if this gets out."
"Yes sir."
Mark huddled in the corner of a dorm, which was also occupied with Cara, Bill, and Mark's three other roommates. All of them were in a state of shock, but only Roger seemed to keep a level head despite it.
"We need a plan," he said.
"We're all gonna' die!" shouted Phillip, another of Mark's roommates.
"Shut up Phil!" shouted the third roommate angrily.
"Roger's right, we need to focus," Cara said, suddenly coming to her senses.
"What do we know?" asked Roger.
"There are psychopaths everywhere and their gonna kill us!"
"Shut up Phil!"
"Ok, how many do you think there are?" asked Roger.
"I saw one," said Cara.
"I saw two," inputed Mark.
"There have to be a lot, because I saw four," Bill added.
"There are too many to fight, I say we make a break for the airlock and go above ground," Cara proposed.
"But what if it's like they say, and it's flooded with radiation up there?"
"That's a chance we'll have to take."
As they prepared to break for the door to the aboveground, Mark felt the need to do something he would never have done under other circumstances. Approaching Bill, he said, "Bill, look, I'm sorry I hated you before, and thanks for saving me earlier."
"If we die, just know that I only ever hated you because I was afraid you would beat me. I'm sorry."
Bill clasped Mark in a hug with a passion only seen in men serving together. If they were to live, they would become the closest of friends.
Mark had never run that fast in his life. He could hear the animal growls of insane people behind him, wanting only to devour him. This thought drove him on faster with ever second he heard them. Finally they reached the doors at the end of the snaking passageways.
"It's sealed shut."
Mark's stomach seemed to be filled with bricks. His entire body shuddered, and his mind was bombarded with panicked thoughts.
"In here!" Cara yelled.
They all crouched on the floor of the music room, with looks on their faces frequented by those on their way to the electric chair. Most of them cried. Some stared into space with blank expressions. Soon, the noises started. Slowly at first, but gaining in volume and frequency, they began to hear thumping on the thin metal door, reinforced by one flimsy lock. Of all of the sturdy doors in the shelter, the music room was designed to reflect sound, and for that they needed an expensive material. Because of this, the walls and door were very thin. The few survivors soon came to realize that the hoards of flesh eating animals just outside the door would soon break through. And so they waited.
There can never be a greater bonding experience than sharing a room with the survivors of an attack like this. The group was now the closest of friends, and was glad that the last moments of their life would be spent in the company of their closest friends. There was just one problem.

Mark woke two days later, and despite the rations they had found in the music room, felt hungry. By the time he realized what was happening, it was already too late. The reason he hadn't had a headache was because he was one of them. Only those who were immune had headaches. When he came to the full realization, it was the morning of the second day, and only Cara was awake.
"Morning Mark," she said drowsily.
"Get away!" He managed to get out in a garbled voice.
"What?"
He tried as hard as he could to restrain himself, but it got harder by the second. Her confused face was the last thing he saw before being overtaken by his hunger for her flesh and blood.

I really enjoyed it . I like how the tension builds after Mark fights the first kid and you handle the action really well. It's not overly described.

There's a few nitpicks i've highlighted in pink, and i thought the description of the nuclear war and the president was a bit unnecessary(in green). I think it draws away from the immediate story too much and it would flow better without it. The fact the story is called 'The Underground City' is description enough, and the reader works out what is going on when they read about the dehydrated food, the store cupboard that has enough food for sixty years and the radiation leak protocol. (Nice touch by the way )

I also love the sub plot of Mark being a musician and his rivalry: excellent!

psudiname wrote:Mark was a musician. He aspired to be the best trumpet player in the entire underground city, and practiced at least an hour a day. If (In) fact, with only ten trumpet players in the city, he figured his chances at accomplishing this goal were high. However, his efforts to become the best were constantly stymied by his main adversary, Bill, with whom he shared a mutual hate relationship. It seemed that for every hour Mark practiced, Bill practiced an hour and ten minutes. Regardless of this fact, they were still required to share a class together in school, and attempted to keep relations between each other at a minimal.(between each other minimal.)
The underground city was a massive fallout shelter, built to house seven hundred refugees. In actuality it held eight hundred. The lights were all a dull yellow, and the entire complex consisted of snaking metal tunnels that led to each and every place. There was an (a) storeroom, from where all of the resources they needed came, a large mess hall for meals, personal rooms for four roommates, a gym, a music room, several classrooms and an executive room, from where the president worked.
Mark had lived here all his life, and was raised by the community, just like every other child. He turned eighteen during the year 2010, and shared a room with three of his closest friends. He knew every passageway in his sleep, and was good at memorizing things, like the radiation leak protocol, which was a sort of fire drill for radiation leaks.
You see, in the 50's, during the cold war, things had gotten pretty out of hand with other countries, and the United States fired nuclear missiles upon Cuba and the Soviet Union, who in turn responded with their own. The entire civilized world had been wiped out, and was undergoing a nuclear winter. The only survivors had been those who stayed in the shelters. Mark and all of the other residents of the underground city were the descendents of these survivors. No one had left the city in almost sixty years, as it would be fatal to do so. At least, that's he learned in history.
The president sat in his comfortable recliner, and surveyed the status reports on all of the citizens. He wasn't the president of the United States, but he was an important man, being the research director of a top secret government experiment. He made sure to stay in his office, and keep up the illusion that he was the mysterious and reclusive ruler of the underground city, who kept everyone safe by making important political decisions. No one in the city ever saw him, which was good, because it allowed him to spend half the time in his office, and the other half above ground in his villa, with no one wondering where he had gone. Since all the citizens had been raised by professional actors, they were kept ignorant of the truth that there had been no nuclear war, and that the Cuban missile crisis had ended peacefully.
Finally, he thought to himself, the experiment was almost ready to commence. Having been transferred to this experiment in 2009, the president wondered why on earth anyone would spend so much time and energy just to test pharmaceutical drugs. Regardless, it seemed about to pay off, and the government was convinced that free of those pesky scruples, they would make the necessary breakthrough to cure cancer. Mark sat glumly, as he ate his dehydrated food halfheartedly. Wondering briefly how there was over sixty years of food in the store room, Mark went back to the line and requested another helping of food to quell the melancholy feeling that racked his body. He had just lost another competition to Bill, and was running out of drive to keep trying.
When he returned to his room, his other three roommates were already there, having skipped dinner. "Why didn't I see you guys at dinner?" Mark asked.
"It's weird, all three of us have headaches," responded Roger, who was cradling his head in his hands. "I've never had one this bad before."
"Maybe your should go to the physician and get that checked out, if you all have it, then it's probably some strain of flu."
"Ok, I'll go tomorrow, but right now, I sleep."
"Alright, good night," said Mark.
The next day, Mark's suspicions were confirmed, when the president came over the intercom and announced not to be concerned about the mild flu outbreak. It seemed that almost half of the citizens of the city had contracted it and were suffering massive headaches. Counting his blessing that he still felt fine, Mark proceeded to the practice room, which was empty, (unecessary comma) except for one person. This person Mark identified as Ryan, a boy who Mark had met but never talked to.
"Hi Ryan," Mark said cheerfully, his attitude having much improved due to the fact that he found the practice room free of Bill.
Ryan stared into space, saxophone in hand, ignoring Mark completely.
"Ryan?"
Turning his head slowly, as if in a trance, Ryan looked at Mark quizzically.
"Are you ok?"
No response. Ryan stared into Mark's eyes as if trying to recognize a familiar face. Abruptly, he took three slow steps forward, forcing Mark to step back. This seemed to enrage Ryan, who suddenly looked very hungry. His eyes blazed with fire, and he grinned an animal grin, one of a predator.
Ryan swung his saxophone at Mark's head, still grinning as Mark blocked it with his trumpet. Rapidly, Ryan continued to bludgeon Mark until his trumpet was a twisted heap of metal. When Mark's arms gave way under the crazed onslaught of the deranged boy, he closed his eyes, hoping to die quickly, and was surprised to feel no finishing blow. When he opened his eyes, Bill and one of his friends were restraining Ryan, who was spitting and biting at their hands. Mark soon lost consciousness and was carried to the physician's office.
The office was a crowded place, packed full with headache victims. The only Physician in the shelter, Doc Johnson, was hurriedly dashing back and forth from patient to patient, muttering to himself about new strains. When he got to Mark he looked him over for about ten seconds and said, "What happened to you?"
"I don't know, this boy attacked me out of nowhere," responded Mark.
"You're fine," Doc Johnson said, and returned to his other patients.
Mark returned immediately to his dorm, wanting to tell his roommates what had happened, when he heard screams in the hallway outside. He rushed out to see what was going on, and found a horrific sight. The first thing he saw was a girl he knew, named Cara, staring dumbfounded ahead. As his eyes followed the path of hers, he saw what she was staring at. A man of about nineteen was crouching over the corpse of a woman, who was about eighteen, and was probably one of Cara's friends. At first Mark could not be sure what the man was doing, but when he realized it, he became sick to his stomach and resisted the strong urge to vomit. The man had his teeth clamped down on the woman's neck, and blood ran down his face. As Mark and Cara watched, he lifted his head, taking some of her flesh with him. At this point Mark screamed, and they both ran in the opposite direction.
"Sir, this is very bad."
"What is it?" Replied the president.
"The drugs we tested, particularly Climousine, had extremely... unpleasant effects on the subjects."
"Like what?"
"It seems that some of the subjects have reverted back to a very primal stage, as if we induced some sort of survival instinct in them."
"How bad?" The president said, thinking of his villa.
"They're killing the other subjects," the scientist said, reluctant to call them people, lest he be forced to face the atrocities he had committed.
"Seal the doors."
"but-" (Captal letters for 'But', 'Seal' and 'Yes sir'
"seal them. We can't afford to let these things loose in the city. Also, we're both facing criminal charges if this gets out."
"yes sir."
Mark huddled in the corner of a dorm, which was also occupied with Cara, Bill, and Mark's three other roommates. All of them were in a state of shock, but only Roger seemed to keep a level head despite it.
"We need a plan," he said.
"We're all gonna' die!" Shouted Phillip, another of Mark's roommates.
"Shut up Phil!" Shouted the third roommate angrily.
"Roger's right, we need to focus," Cara said, suddenly coming to her senses.
"What do we know?" Asked Roger.
"There are psychopaths everywhere and their gonna kill us!"
"Shut up Phil!"
"Ok how many do you think there are?" Asked Roger.
"I saw one," said Cara.
"I saw two," imputed Mark.
"There have to be a lot, because I saw four," Bill added.
"There are too many to fight, I say we make a break for the airlock and go aboveground," Cara proposed.
"But what if it's like they say, and it's flooded with radiation up there?"
"That's a chance we'll have to take."
As they prepared to break for the door to the aboveground, Mark felt the need to do something he would never have done under other circumstances. Approaching Bill, he said, "Bill, look, I'm sorry I hated you before, and thanks for saving me earlier."
"If we die, just know that I only ever hated you because I was afraid you would beat me. I'm sorry."
Bill clasped Mark in a hug with a passion only seen in men serving together. If they were to live, they would become the closest of friends.
Mark had never run that fast in his life. He could hear the animal growls of insane people behind him, wanting only to devour him. This thought drove him on faster with ever second he heard them. Finally they reached the doors at the end of the snaking passageways.
"It's sealed shut."
Mark's stomach seemed to be filled with bricks. His entire body shuddered, and his mind was bombarded with panicked thoughts.
"In here!" Cara yelled.
They all crouched on the floor of the music room, with looks on their faces frequented by those on their way to the electric chair. Most of them cried. Some stared into space with blank expressions. Soon, the noises started. Slowly at first, but gaining in volume and frequency, they began to hear thumping on the thin metal door, reinforced by one flimsy lock. Of all of the sturdy doors in the shelter, the music room was designed to reflect sound, and for that they needed an expensive material. Because of this, the walls and door were very thin. The few survivors soon came to realize that the hoards of flesh eating animals just outside the door would soon break through. And so they waited.
There can never be a greater bonding experience than sharing a room with the survivors of an attack like this. The group was now the closest of friends, and was glad that the last moments of their life would be spent in the company of their closest friends. There was just one problem. Mark woke two days later, and despite the rations they had found in the music room, felt hungry. By the time he realized what was happening, it was already too late. The reason he hadn't had a headache was because he was one of them. Only those who were immune had headaches. When he came to the full realization, it was the morning of the second day, and only Cara was awake.
"Morning Mark," she said drowsily.
"Get away!" He managed to get out in a garbled voice.
"What?"
He tried as hard as he could to restrain himself, but it got harder by the second. Her confused face was the last thing he saw before being overtaken by his hunger for her flesh and blood.

Your description of the underground city reminds me of the book The City of Ember. Does your city have a name? Pharmaceutical drugs? Can you give us a reason why they would need people in an underground city to be the people tested on? Why couldn't they do it in the open? What kind of drugs were they testing? What pesky scruples? I loved your fight scene. I think you should make your transitions from scene to scene smoother. This is good, though. I left me with a bunch of questions, as you can see, and I hope you continue this.

Hi! My name's skutter11 and I shall be your reviewer for the day! Green is my comments and red is grammar things I've picked up, alright?
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Mark was a musician. He aspired to be the best trumpet player in the entire underground city, and practiced at least an hour a day. In fact, with only ten trumpet players in the city, he figured his chances at accomplishing this goal were high. However, his efforts to become the best were constantly stymied I don't believe that I've come across this word before, do you mean something else, or is it me? by his main adversary, Bill, with whom he shared a mutual hate relationship. It seemed that for every hour Mark practiced, Bill practiced an hour and ten minutes. Regardless of this fact, they were still required to share a class together in school, and attempted to keep relations between each other minimal.

The underground city was a massive Fallout shelter, built to house seven hundred refugees. In actuality it held eight hundred. The lights were all a dull yellow, and the entire complex consisted of snaking metal tunnels that led to each and every place. There was a storeroom, from where all of the resources they needed came, a large mess hall for meals, personal rooms for four roommates, a gym, a music room, several classrooms and an executive room, from where the president worked.

Mark had lived here all his life, and was raised by the community, just like every other child. He turned eighteen during the year 2010, and shared a room with three of his closest friends. He knew every passageway in his sleep, and was good at memorizing things, like the radiation leak protocol, which was a sort of fire drill for radiation leaks.

You see, in the 50's, during The Cold War, things had gotten pretty I would get rid of "pretty" in this sentence, it dumbs down the blow too much. out of hand with other countries, and the United States fired nuclear missiles upon Cuba and the Soviet Union, who in turn this isn't needed. responded with their own. The entire civilized world had been wiped out, and was undergoing a nuclear winter. The only survivors had been those who stayed in the shelters. Mark and all of the other residents of the underground city were the descendents of these survivors. No one had left the city in almost sixty years, as it would be fatal to do so. At least, that's what he had learned in history.

The president sat in his comfortable recliner, and surveyed the status reports on all of the citizens. He wasn't the P this has to be capital because it is a title.resident of the United States, but he was an important man, being the research director of a top secret government experiment. He made sure to stay. This dosen't flow well with the syntax. Try "he stayed" instead. in his office, and keep up the illusion that he was the mysterious and reclusive ruler of the underground city, who kept everyone safe by making important political decisions. No one in the city ever saw him, which was good, because it allowed him to spend half the time in his office, and the other half above ground in his villa, with no one wondering where he had gone. Since all the citizens had been raised by professional actors, they were kept ignorant of the truth that there had been no nuclear war, and that the Cuban missile crisis had ended peacefully.

Finally, he thought to himself, the experiment was almost ready to commence. Having been transferred to this experiment in 2009, the president wondered why on earth anyone would spend so much time and energy just to test pharmaceutical drugs. Regardless, it seemed about to pay off, and the government was convinced that free of those pesky scruples, they would make the necessary break-through to cure C. This is a noun, so it has to be capitalised.ancer.

Mark sat glumly, as he ate his dehydrated food halfheartedly. Wondering briefly how there was over sixty years of food in the store room, Mark went back to the line and requested another helping of food to quell the melancholy feeling that racked his body. He had just lost another competition to Bill, and was running out of drive to keep trying.

When he returned to his room, his other three. Try "three other" instead.roommates were already there, having skipped dinner. "Why didn't I see you guys at dinner?" Mark asked.

"It's weird, all three of us have headaches," responded Roger, who was cradling his head in his hands. "I've never had one this bad before."

"Maybe your should go to the physician and get that checked out, if you all have it, then I don't think this is needed, but it's up to you to choose whether to use it or not. it's probably some strain of flu."

"Ok, I'll go tomorrow, but right now, I sleep This piece of dialogue doesn't really fit, so I would get rid.."

"Alright, good night," said Mark.

The next day, Mark's suspicions were confirmed, when the president came over the intercom and announced not to be concerned about the mild flu outbreak. It seemed that almost half of the citizens of the city had contracted it and were suffering massive headaches. Counting his blessings that he still felt fine, Mark proceeded to the practice room, which was empty, except for one person. This person Mark identified as Ryan, a boy who Mark had met but never talked to.

"Hi Ryan," Mark said cheerfully, his attitude having much improved due to the fact that he found the practice room free of Bill.

Ryan stared into space, saxophone in hand, ignoring Mark completely.

"Ryan?"

Turning his head slowly, as if in a trance, Ryan looked at Mark quizzically.

"Are you ok?"

No response. Ryan stared into Mark's eyes as if trying to recognize a familiar face. Abruptly, he took three slow steps forward, forcing Mark to step back. This seemed to enrage Ryan, who suddenly looked very hungry. His eyes blazed with fire, and he grinned an animal grin, one of a predator.

Ryan swung his saxophone at Mark's head, still grinning as Mark blocked it with his trumpet. Rapidly, Ryan continued to bludgeon Mark until his trumpet was a twisted heap of metal. When Mark's arms gave way under the crazed onslaught of the deranged boy, he closed his eyes, hoping to die quickly, and was surprised to feel no finishing blow. When he opened his eyes, Bill and one of his friends were restraining Ryan, who was spitting and biting at their hands. Mark soon lost consciousness and was carried to the physician's office.

The office was a crowded place, packed full with headache victims. The only Physician in the shelter, Doc Johnson, was hurriedly dashing back and forth from patient to patient, muttering to himself about new strains. When he got to Mark he looked him over for about ten seconds and said, "What happened to you?"

"I don't know, this boy attacked me out of nowhere," responded Mark.

"You're fine," Doc Johnson said, and returned to his other patients.

Mark returned immediately to his dorm, wanting to tell his roommates what had happened, when he heard screams in the hallway outside. He rushed out to see what was going on, and found a horrific sight. The first thing he saw was a girl he knew, named Cara, staring dumbfounded ahead. As his eyes followed the path of hers, he saw what she was staring at. A man of about nineteen was crouching over the corpse of a woman, who was about eighteen, and was probably one of Cara's friends. At first Mark could not be sure what the man was doing, but when he realized it, he became sick to his stomach and resisted the strong urge to vomit. The man had his teeth clamped down on the woman's neck, and blood ran down his face. As Mark and Cara watched, he lifted his head, taking some of her flesh with him. At this point Mark screamed, and they both ran in the opposite direction.

"Sir, this is very bad."

"What is it?" replied the president.

"The drugs we tested, particularly Climousine, had extremely... unpleasant effects on the subjects."

"Like what?"

"It seems that some of the subjects have reverted back to a very primal stage, as if we induced some sort of survival instinct in them."

"How bad?" The president said, thinking of his villa.

"They're killing the other subjects," the scientist said, reluctant to call them people, lest he be forced to face the atrocities he had committed.

"Seal the doors."

"But-"

"Seal them. We can't afford to let these things loose in the city. Also, we're both facing criminal charges if this gets out."

"Yes sir."

Mark huddled in the corner of a dorm, which was also occupied with Cara, Bill, and Mark's three other roommates. All of them were in a state of shock, but only Roger seemed to keep a level head despite it.

"We need a plan," he said.

"We're all gonna' die!" shouted Phillip, another of Mark's roommates.

"Shut up Phil!" shouted the third roommate angrily.

"Roger's right, we need to focus," Cara said, suddenly coming to her senses.

"What do we know?" asked Roger.

"There are psychopaths everywhere and their gonna kill us!"

"Shut up Phil!"

"Ok, how many do you think there are?" asked Roger.

"I saw one," said Cara.

"I saw two," inputed Mark.

"There have to be a lot, because I saw four," Bill added.

"There are too many to fight, I say we make a break for the airlock and go above ground," Cara proposed.

"But what if it's like they say, and it's flooded with radiation up there?"

"That's a chance we'll have to take."

As they prepared to break for the door to the aboveground, Mark felt the need to do something he would never have done under other circumstances. Approaching Bill, he said, "Bill, look, I'm sorry I hated you before, and thanks for saving me earlier."

"If we die, just know that I only ever hated you because I was afraid you would beat me. I'm sorry."

Bill clasped Mark in a hug with a passion only seen in men serving together. If they were to live, they would become the closest of friends.

Mark had never run that fast in his life. He could hear the animal growls of insane people behind him, wanting only to devour him. This thought drove him on faster with ever second he heard them. Finally they reached the doors at the end of the snaking passageways.

"It's sealed shut."

Mark's stomach seemed to be filled with bricks. His entire body shuddered, and his mind was bombarded with panicked thoughts.

"In here!" Cara yelled.

They all crouched on the floor of the music room, with looks on their faces frequented by those on their way to the electric chair. Most of them cried. Some stared into space with blank expressions. Soon, the noises started. Slowly at first, but gaining in volume and frequency, they began to hear thumping on the thin metal door, reinforced by one flimsy lock. Of all of the sturdy doors in the shelter, the music room was designed to reflect sound, and for that they needed an expensive material. Because of this, the walls and door were very thin. The few survivors soon came to realize that the hoards of flesh eating animals just outside the door would soon break through. And so they waited.

There can never be a greater bonding experience than sharing a room with the survivors of an attack like this. The group was now the closest of friends, and was glad that the last moments of their life would be spent in the company of their closest friends. There was just one problem.
I think that this could be a neew paragraph.
Mark woke two days later, and despite the rations they had found in the music room, felt hungry. By the time he realized what was happening, it was already too late. The reason he hadn't had a headache was because he was one of them. Only those who were immune had headaches. When he came to the full realization, it was the morning of the second day, and only Cara was awake.

"Morning Mark," she said drowsily.

"Get away!" He managed to get out in a garbled voice.

"What?"

He tried as hard as he could to restrain himself, but it got harder by the second. Her confused face was the last thing he saw before being overtaken by his hunger for her flesh and blood.

This was a good story! The twist at the end was done well and the whole thing was really atmospheric! Good job and I hope to read more of your work in future!

skutter11

Yellow! T here! Thanks for your message! I thought it was very interesting and like another reviewer said, it was like the book The City Of Ember, but it also reminded me of Gregor the Overlander. The twist at the end was captivating but while reading it I had a hard time. It was mostly because in some area's you over described the city and in others you under described it. I believe you should leave an era of mystery of the outside world. As in not saying that the president has a villa above the underground city. It will give the illusion that the reader is there and what they would do in that situation. Also I believe if you do a story like this, do a sort of Prologue in the beginning instead of trying to throw it in in other parts of the story. It will give the reader a background knowledge on the underground city before jumping into the story, making it seem a bit creepier. I also suggest that instead of saying

However, his efforts to become the best were constantly stymied by his main adversary, Bill, with whom he shared a mutual hate relationship

Try to show another way that he hated Bill as in something he comments to a friend like "Bill? I hate that guy", and then Mark could fill in why he hates Bill. Then one last nitpick, try using other nouns to describe the characters instead of saying their name as in "The one that Mark shared mutual hate for (Yes you can use this statement but I suggest after you describe his hate in a indirect way) and his friend held back the attacker". But otherwise it was very interesting and the last two-three paragraphs were written delicately which satisfied my reading appetite. Keep writing!

Nice work man, the atmosphere fitted the circumstances and what was going on. Although I would have liked to get in scene more (for the most part I felt as if I was hovering over the action rather than participating). Also some more description would have helped my minds eye more. All in all solid effort

Holy crap this was freaky! It was like part of a movie I watched (can't remember the name) where they had clones and lied to them about the rest of the world being unable to sustain life, and thus the clones only knew and lived in a big factory place. This reminded me a LOT from that...which isn't necessarily bad, it just didn't seem as original. It was very catching and something you couldn't not finish reading. I didn't like it simply because it isn't my taste, but well done.