View Full Version : My book, EXCELSIOR

04-13-2009, 08:15 AM
this is the first chapter of a book im writing. enjoy.




Max looked out his gunner’s window toward the night sky. There were yellow-orange explosions that then puffed into black clouds. His hands were clammy with the cold and rattle of the machine-gun handle, which he had to let go to flex his hands. There was a soldier, Jim Wasilla, right beside him, sitting on a bench. He was about to put his warming palms back on the triggers, when an explosion rocked him off his chair and onto the ground of the bomber. He was face-down on the cold steel surface that encased the airplane, when an arm grabbed the ruffle of the back of his coat, and pulled him up. It was the co-pilot, Lieutenant Davin Stacey. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get back on that gun!” yelled Stacey, pushing him towards his chair.
“Hey Stacey, Come over here, and bring Wasilla with you!” came a voice from the cockpit.
“Alright, Wasilla, get your lazy ass over here, Brown needs you!”
“Ye-Yes sir” was Wasilla’s shaky reply as he clambered into the cockpit. Max could hear voices on the other side of the door as Wasilla could be heard talking to the pilot. A minute later, Wasilla emerged from the cockpit with body armor, a helmet, and an M-20 automatic rifle. He sidestepped and leaned against one of the windows next to the cabin as Stacey walked out of the cockpit, with the same equipment.
“Alright people! We’re going hit these punks right where it hurts! All marine personnel prepare weapons, armor, and your chutes! We’re going to hit the bridge two clicks south from here. There are several SAM ports, and some RIPPERs. We don’t want to screw with those things, so we’ll drop you in the bush, put those stealth skills to the test, and meet the rest at this rendezvous point.” Stacey said, pressing a button on the roof of the aircraft that produced a three-dimensional map of the area, and the rendezvous point. He walked around, handing the squad leaders a tactical map, and moved on to his next point. “Do any of you have a question?”
The four squads, adding up to twenty men total, sat silently on the steel benches protruding out of the airplane’s inner chassis. They began to unhook their heavy flak vests and M-20 rifles from the hooks on the walls, when a voice piped up. “Sir, are we going to parachute down to the LZ under anti-air fire?”
“Yeah, got any better ideas, private?” was Stacey’s reply as he checked the ammunition in his rifle.
“Are the RIPPERs are going to target us?” The RIPPER was a larger, anti-air version of the Vulcan chain gun, only worse. The RIPPER had thrice the rate of fire, half the recoil, and could shed aircraft like a wet handkerchief. What it could do to soft targets, people, was indescribable.
“Yeah, spice it up.”
“What if I don’t make it to the LZ?”
There was a quiet pause. Stacey cocked his rifle loudly, and replied, “Well then, it sucks to be you.”

It was time. The marines were all standing, death and hatred painted on their faces. The chutes were ready, safeties were turned off, and helmets strapped on. Max and the rest of the flight crew had been ordered by Stacey to stop firing, to ensure that the stealth of the craft was maintained. Except for the slow rumble of the engines, the craft was silent. The back door opened slowly, exposing an ever-vengeful battlefield every second that it opened. The door eventually stopped with a mechanic chime, and that indicated one thing: Time to kick ass. The ground seemed to come to life with hundreds of yellow flashes in the horizon, and more on the ground below them. There was an odd, blinking red dot following them. It kept blinking, faster and faster, as it caught up with them.
It was a missile. “OH SHIT! ROCKET INBOUND! BRACE FOR IMPACT MARINES! WE’RE GONNA GET HIT!” then the missile exploded. Max’s world flashed to a red tail-spin as the plane careened out of the air towards the ground. The screams of men could be heard loudly as the aircraft got closer to the ground. The rebels had just landed the first strike.

When Max awoke, he had been cleared of the crash site by at least five meters. There were flaming corpses strewn across the ground, clearly killed by the impact. What Max didn’t see, however, was a group of eleven men jogging toward him, grabbing him, and pulling him away. He was about to start screaming, but he heard Stacey’s calm voice over the eerie silence.
“Get back to the crash site Mendez, take Pilla with you. If you can, tell our scouts to move back to the crash site.” It was almost methodical how Stacey did things. He was the first person to look for survivors, and the first person to scout out the surrounding region. Max wondered how he kept his cool. Max looked around and surveyed the area around the survivors. It could have had been worse.
The surrounding area was that of a moderately thick forest, but without the animals. The decent angle of the plane was clearly marked by the stumps that lined the side of the hill to the left of the wreck. There were giant roots protruding out of the ground, and then curving in again, forming little spaces were an unwary marine could get his foot stuck in, trip over, and shatter his leg. There were both thick bushes and big trees around the crash site, providing the survivors with some cover if they needed it. The highlight of it all though, was the plane.
The plane had landed at an angle, sliding downhill, probably saving their lives. The plane had rolled over at the last minute, shredding both wings, tearing the roof off, and detaching the cockpit. The fact that the plane was turned sideways provided perfect cover as some sort of long, makeshift hut where the wounded were placed. The combat radio aboard the plane was still intact, and Stacey could be seen standing near two of the surviving technicians. The radio sizzled to life and was set to the fourth COM channel, specifically meant for requisitioning air strikes and vehicles that could be towed in from the air.
“This is Lieutenant Davin Stacey, first strike force, aircraft serial E21-46-9978. We are requesting air-lift to Firebase Alpha.”
“How many craft will you need?”
“I’m not too sure, we have eleven battle-ready marines, and sixteen ones, seven are critical. I’m guessing about three choppers.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, very. Our GPA system was wrecked in the crash, and we can’t determine our position relative to our target. Could you please identify us?”
“Working on that, hold on a second, you’re right in front of your target!”
“Great.” Rumbled Stacey into the mike; he wasn’t too happy about going into combat with four-fifths of his team dead, and the other half of the survivors wounded. Before committing himself to an engagement however, he kept pressing. “Can we have the support though? Because we’re running out of- just ran out of medical supplies and we’ll need some reinforcements for this if we want to succeed.”
“There is another craft, serial tag E21-46-9984 passing over your position, I’ll send them a message to drop their men.”
With that, Stacey flicked off the mike. He stepped away from the machines and let the technicians resume their work. He patrolled the men, making sure they were actually looking out for the enemy, and not napping, when he saw Max. “Hey! You! Get up here and get a flak vest!” he shouted, pointing his finger at Max.
“Sir, yes sir!” replied Max, jogging to the supply cache that was recovered from the crashed aircraft. He dug in and grabbed a large MAC-4 combat armor chest plate on his first round, a MAC-4 combat helmet on his second round, and then the goggles to match on his third round.
Max shoved the armor down over his arms onto his chest, fastened it, and reached for the helmet. He put that on, and linked the built-in COM mike to the team’s frequency. He next got the goggles, put them over his helmet, and kept them perched on the helmet just in case he needed them. If he did, he would simply grab the goggles; stretch them out a bit, and then adjust them on his eyes. Besides, the goggles on his forehead gave him slightly thicker armor on his forehead.
The step was reaching in and recovering shoulder pads, each adhered to each other with their interlocking Velcro strips. He quickly separated them, put them on his shoulders, and then reached for a “cup”. The “cup” was basically armored underwear, except that it was worn on the outside. It reached to the point right were the chest plate ended, therefore closing the gap. The purpose of the “cup” was to prevent the many cases of men who had gotten their kidneys hit and died, or worse, hit the place where armor just didn’t cover.

After ten long minutes, Max was armed with everything he needed: a helmet, a chest plate, a “cup”, shoulder pads, kneepads, an M-20 automatic rifle, a sidearm, and two HE-3 combat grenades. Although trained as a pilot’s assistant, and not a marine, Max felt like he was a marine, and was proud. Although he was under Union command, a tiny American flag had been stencil-painted on the right shoulder of his armor, and Max loved it. Max was looking at the armor, when he heard a ruffle in the bushes.
“Who’s there? Expose yourself!” Commanded Stacey, apparently, he had heard it too.
“Hey Stacey, is that you?”
Not the answer Stacey wanted, but it was a friendly one. He put down his rifle and let out a sigh of relief.
Twenty-five Union marines, all in full combat gear, strode through the thick undergrowth, rifles at the ready. There was one, however, that stood above the rest. Max had a glimpse of the man’s helmet. SGT. LEE it said, in large, stenciled letters. Max’s helmet wasn’t stenciled, but he did have his dog tags, and hoped he would never have to use them.
“Hey Stacey, long time no see man!” shouted the monster enthusiastically, and ran up to his fellow soldier and gave him an emphatic bear-hug. Stacey was in a higher rank than Lee, but they apparently were friends, and Max was sure that the sarge could take Stacey in a fight and beat him. That’s when one of Stacey’s men, Private James Bourne, speed walked up to the two men and began socializing. “Hey sarge, he a friend of yours?” obviously, this was directed at Stacey.
Lee gave out a huge laugh. “Sergeant Stacey?” Lee laughed again. “Last time I checked, you were a lieutenant, unless you did what you did in Cairo again…”
Stacey cut him off. “For the love of god man, it wasn’t a nightclub, it was a café.”
“With poles sticking out of the ground,” finished Lee.
“It was the industrial-style architecture.” Max had a feeling that Stacey was losing the argument. Lee slapped both Bourne and Stacey on the back and began laughing. “I just love you guys so much. Anyways, what’s going down?”
“You’ll see.”
Stacey led him into the temporary base that had been established inside the plane, and laid out a plan to Lee. Max could see Stacey and Lee discussing apparently everything about the plan. “This is going to take a while.” Someone behind Max said, and they all chuckled a bit.

An hour later, they both emerged from the plane, and laid out the plan. It was a simple plan, with thirty-six men in total; they would split into two groups. One of the groups had ten men, armed with rocket launches and called fireteam Alpha, would attack from behind, draw the defender’s attention, and keep them busy while the other team of twenty-six moved in from the bridge and destroy the defenses. The bridge itself was littered with rubble from the bits of a destroyed chopper whose turret was still intact, and several wasted Union Messengers, an advanced, lighter version of the humvee that was once incredibly popular. This would provide fireteam Bravo with enough cover to advance safely.
After the men were informed, Lee pounded his fist into an open hand. “Does anybody know what time it is?”
“I DON’T KNOW SIR, WHAT TIME IS IT?” asked the marines. This was a standard cheer that all the marines knew by heart.
“Are you sure?” asked Lee, getting an even louder response.
“I DON’T KNOW SIR, WHAT TIME IS IT?” hollered the marines, sounding like some sort of drunken, crazed cheer gone wrong.
The entire platoon shouted and whooped as they rushed to their positions and readied for the eminent attack. No one had cared to check though, if the enemy had been listening. That would cost them dearly.

04-13-2009, 08:21 AM
Great job.
But you should complete most of the book and then Make it a e-book or just sell it.

But still, great job.

04-13-2009, 08:35 AM
Great job.
But you should complete most of the book and then Make it a e-book or just sell it.

But still, great job.

thanks, im halfway through the second chapter, but ill post it if you want

04-13-2009, 08:40 AM
No, don't.
Complete it first.

04-13-2009, 08:50 AM
its almost finished. page and a half. but if you insist...

04-13-2009, 09:31 AM

Max tread carefully on leaves, branches, plants, and basically anything that got in his way. He was fifth from the front of the formation, walking in a disorganized cloud. COM traffic had been reduced to a minimum, although one of the technicians made his own safe channel that the platoon had adjusted to. Fireteam Bravo had just stopped at the base of the bridge, the point where the bridge met land. Max was, along with his M-20 rifle, armed with a HPS long-range sniper rifle that he held with warm hands.
He looked in through the scope, and saw misty figures walking around the barricade on the other side of the wall. Strange, he thought, there weren’t supposed to be reinforcements. He quickly pushed that thought away when he heard the rattle of automatic weapon fire. A minute later, a green pillar of smoke rose from behind of the barricade, signaling the attack of fireteam Bravo. He could hear the snapping and cocking of weapons being reloaded and checked, and checked his own rifle. A copper round was neatly in its place, ready to take somebody’s life in the blink of an eye.
Max checked the scope once more. He was confused. The rebels were actually getting onto the 50 caliber machine guns, as if they were oblivious to the fact that a strike team of ten heavily-armed men were behind them, holding their own. Max thought that eventually they would leave, and with his sniper rifle, he could make those MGs vacant again. He got up and began running onto the bridge. Max could see what looked like the outline of a Magach 7 Israeli combat tank, barrel facing the bridge.
The Magach 7 was a formidable tank, old, but formidable nonetheless. The rebels seemed to like this breed of tank, with its intimidating design, and two passenger-operated 50 millimeter machineguns on its head. The problem with this tank though, was the fact that it was mostly outclassed by any of the Union’s more modern tanks.
Max thought that the tanks hadn’t spotted him, so he ushered the men behind him to advance. There were about ten marines in front of Max when the tank fired. The round flew towards the back of the formation and exploded loudly. Then the two recoilless cannons, two 50 millimeter machineguns, and a section of rebels fired upon the invading marines. The two machineguns on the tanks opened fire as well, and five of the marines on point were erased out of existence. Max sprinted up a bit, and slid behind a flipped Messenger, and shouted over the COM. “Get to cover! Now marines! We’ve got a tank!”
“I need a medic!” was one reply.
“Set up on that chopper Rick!” was another.
The COM was complete chaos, with men screaming in agony, others just swearing into the mikes, and some pleading helplessly into the COM for a medic. Max was in the process of shoving another clip of ammo into his rifle, when he realized that he hadn’t used any ammo yet. He shoved his original clip back into his pocket and stood up for a good shot. He brought his rifle up and fired in bursts of ten rounds, which left him out of ammo in four bursts, if he did it correctly.
He was in the process of reloading for the second time when he noticed something to his left. He turned and saw two marines, running up to the barricade in full flame-thrower armor, but never got there. One was hit directly by the recoilless cannon and exploded in a puff of fire and gore, and nothing was left of him. The other was hit by machine gun fire, but summoned the strength to jump into the barricade and explode. The sand bags flew into the air, launching one of the recoilless cannons off the bridge and into the water, destroying the other and one of the 50 caliber guns, and killing the gunner of the other machinegun. The battle seemed to stop when this happened, and the gunfire slowed to a stop. That’s when a maneuver team of three AT troopers ran out of cover, holding LE “boomstick” rocket launchers. They got on one knee, and aimed. One of the rebels in the barricade opened fire and nailed one of the AT soldiers in the kneecap, downing him. The other two fired successfully, and twin rockets slammed into the tank.
They popped, and a white haze began spreading onto the tank and the barricade, doing nothing to the tank or the enemy soldiers. Max began to wonder if the rocket launchers were any good, and then the white smoke ignited into a massive explosion that consumed the tank and half the barricade. The entire tank was lifted off the ground, encased with fire and missing its turret, and then slammed back onto the bridge. The turret flew into the air and landed in the water.
Then there were two more explosions, one right after each other, but behind the tank that fireteam Bravo just put out of commission. This boosted morale among the marines, and they charged into the flaming wreckage of the tank, shooting madly. A higher authority must have had found out, because the next thing that Max knew, a rebel Apache was circling around them, vomiting bullets sloppily as it ripped marines apart with it’s heavy duty machineguns. The ground seemed alive as dust flew into the sky in a line, up to a marine, and then moved on. Four men, including both of the AT troopers were killed within seconds.
The chopper flew down the bridge, towards fireteam Bravo, launching rockets and spitting out bullets. The helicopter downed three more marines when it reached the end of the bridge, spun, and was about to come in for another round when something smashed into it from the opposite side of the bridge. It produced a white haze which the helicopter couldn’t maneuver through, and exploded into a rose of fire and death. Bits and pieces of the helicopter landed onto the bridge, including the cockpit, which was in the middle of the bridge.
There were no high-fives or cheers, just a shuffle of feet as both the taskforces, Alpha and Bravo, met where the rebel barricade once stood. Sergeant Lee could be seen reloading his rocket launcher slowly, but Stacy was nowhere to be seen. The leading officer of fireteam Bravo, Corporal Jack Pilla, walked up to Lieutenant Lee and gave his casualty report.
“We lost seventeen guys on that raid sir, and five critical.”
“We lost six guys, and one is slightly wounded.”
“How wounded is he?”
“He lost his thumb and index when the chopper flew by. He won’t be able to operate a rifle for a while.”
The exchange was a miserable one. With twenty-three casualties total, only thirteen soldiers remained alive, but with five critical and one unable to fight, that meant that only seven marines could fight. The line of survivors was stretched as men roamed around, probing that battlefield for their friends and weapons. Max panicked for a couple minutes, trying to grasp Stacey’s death, when he heard a familiar voice. “Hey! Rookie! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
It was Stacey.
“Stacey! You’re alive…” Max’s words trailed off as he saw Stacey. Stacey had a big, black eye patch over his left eye, and his face was battered up. Stacey, however, was wearing a large grin that stretched from ear to ear. Stacey being around seemed to brighten up the situation, since the marines knew that if he was happy, something good was going to happen.
“So, marines, let me lay it straight! Uncle Sam was pretty happy with the show you all just put on, because he’s demanding an ENCORE!”
The crowd of marines was silent with sheer terror of what had just been asked of them. Although a battle raged overhead and around them, this was different. Stacey took a hint at the despair of the men, but continued.
“There is a rebel bunker half a kilometer from here, so that puts us real close. But we have two advantages. One, we have the higher ground, so that should put us at an advantage, Second, there are going to be three infantry battalions, a flight of bombers, and a company of tanks. Yeah, so we’re going to have to stay together, get over it. We have a new codename; Fireteam Hedgehog.
“But here’s that catch. We are not facing a simple bunker. This is the real shit boys. This bunker leads to others scattered throughout the forest, and is believed to contain WMDs, which is bad news, very bad news, so we have to go in, make space for our ten to twenty tanks, and kick some ass!” Stacey pounded his fist into an open palm and walked away, but he felt bad. He never told them that, according to their “sources”, an entire corps of rebel troops hid inside the tunnels, armed with determination, and Hedgehog were taking point.

04-13-2009, 12:35 PM
Omg, it's about Max.

04-13-2009, 02:23 PM
Well, you're good at writing.

That out of the way, I wouldn't buy it. I probably wouldn't even illegally download it.
Not because the writing sucks or anything, but because it's just shallow. It's just reading the thing and that's it. Nothing you really have to think about, nothing you could analyze and interpret. Just... shallow.

04-14-2009, 08:25 AM
thank you schall, that makes me feel better.

04-14-2009, 08:43 AM
actually, im going to throw aliens, robots, and zombies. thanks for the "supportive critism" though. really, i mean it.

04-18-2009, 06:05 AM
heres the third chapter. enjoy it punks.


Max gripped the machine gun now harder than he ever had. The Messenger was about to get to the “entrance” to the bunker that was just way too damn important. Fireteam Hedgehog, although cut down to seven guys at one point, had received eighteen more marines, boosting their numbers up to twenty-five. The Messenger could hold five guys; one driver, a gunner, and three passengers. This meant that there were five Messengers that were part of Hedgehog, but there were three tanks that belonged to Platypus. The first tank was at the front, and the other two were at the back, with the remaining thirty Platypus men in two APCs, and two Messengers.
The formation was clearing the forest, and getting to the bunker, when Max realized how huge the structure was.
It was a huge plate in what appeared to be a crater, with one side descending steeper than the rest into closed, steel doors. Max could see ripped-up chain fences around the bunker, and several destroyed guard towers as the crowd of Union soldiers and armor regrouped around the entrance. A voice spattered over the COM as the Diplomat heavy tank smashed out of the bush and into clear view.
“Please report your vehicles’ tags and the squads you belong to.”
“This is Hedgehog and Platypus squads reporting for the attack on the bunker,” was the static-filled reply of the lead tank man as machinery whined in the background. “Have we missed anything yet?”
“Not yet, but you came just in time. Glad to hear from you Steve.”
“Lucky me, Tell me Ray, how’s your wife?”
“None of your dammed business Steve, God, how’s the farm holding up?”
The conversation turned into a personal chat, talking about their families, their homes, and if they would make any plans once their tour was over. Max felt sorry for the two men: None of them would probably ever be getting back. Max found it strange how a human being could produce such anger, such rage, to kill another man. But before he could continue thinking, an explosion shook the ground as twenty-seven tanks opened fire on the door.
The half-meter-thick steel shattered inward as the impact ripped the gate to tatters. What was left of the once terrifying door was sprayed onto the ground, clearly marking where the shells had hit. The tanks and other vehicles then proceeded to enter the door in neat, tight lines. Different teams were assigned each their own COM, which meant that the rebels couldn’t track them all on one channel, but would have to check every channel.

Half an hour passed before Max’s section was cleared to go. The lead tank grumbled back to life, and the column started moving. Max eased his finger onto and off the trigger as Union forces moved unopposed inside the bunker. Something isn’t right, nagged Max’s conscience. We’d be ambushed by now. Max shrugged off the feeling. The convoy was approaching the opening, and Max needed all his concentration for what was about to happen inside. Blackness swallowed the main tank, then the Messenger in front of him, and soon, darkness washed over his head and he descended into the bunker.

OAS gunnery officer Eric Jackson sat down for a drink at his post, overlooking the South American continent. He sipped the coffee and reattached the cap onto the top of the mug. Although the station’s central section, the one that housed the Railgun’s operation staff, rotated, light objects still had a tendency to get up and start to float once in a while. The spinning section provided the crews a small center of gravity, which was enough to keep people on their legs and walking, which was far more convenient than floating in zero-gee. Jackson was about to unscrew the lid to take another sip when a female’s voice came in over the COM.
“Jackson, are you awake?” The voice was Captain Amy Wong, the lead officer onboard the UWS Pennsylvania, one of many Union combat space-stations. The stations were equipped with three Railguns, which could be aimed at the surface and fired upon ground targets from space. Anyways, Jackson grabbed the mike and muffled back a response.
“Yes ma’am, this is gunnery officer Jackson, reporting for duty. What seems to be the problem?”
“Nothing really, just contacting all the gunnery posts about the fire solution on Janeiro, but the task got switched of to the Nagasaki. Turns out they’ve got more shells than we do.”
“Oh, I thought we were actually going to talk.”
“Oh,” there was chuckling on the other side, and then Wong continued. “You know I wouldn’t do that.”
“Yeah, I would have had found out by now.” Jackson sighed.
“Anyhow, please patch the message onto your men Jackson, thank you, Wong out.”
With that, the conversation came to an abrupt halt as the COM line was severed. Jackson leaned back in his chair and thought about the Captain. He definitely had a certain liking towards her, but he wasn’t sure if she understood him. He pushed the thought back to the recesses of his mind as he straightened himself, and patched another message to his crew. “Hey everyone, The Nagasaki’s outfit is taking care of Rio for us. Stand down.”
“Oh, understood Jackson, un-loading Railguns.”
“Go ahead with that, and make sure that the targeting…” Jackson’s voice trailed off as he saw an object appear on the other side of the surface, facing him. “What the hell is that thing!” shouted Jackson as he jumped out of his chair for a better look. The space craft was huge, definitely not human, but huge. Jackson’s head went crazy as he saw the object move towards the Pennsylvania and the Nagasaki.
The craft looked like a giant shark, with massive ventilators where the gills would be and swept-back bubbles of alien craft where the fins would be. It had an incline where the mouth of the shark would be, but it was the “cockpit” of the ship. A massive clamp sat atop of the hull, spinning on a section of craft, slightly defined by a pale, dark line. Jackson would have had ordered a radiation check and re-armament when the alien craft opened fire.
A spear of light shot out of the cannon as if it were a giant welding torch, and sliced the Nagasaki in half. There was a clear line where the laser came out of the cannon and connected with the station, like a massive sword cleaving through a man. The Nagasaki’s hull echoed several small explosions, and then blew up in a fireball of sparkling lights and metal. This had never happened before. A Union space-station had never been lost, but this was different.
The bits of the vaporized multi-trillion dollar station floated towards the Earth, and then burned up in the atmosphere. The laser stopped, but the cannon was turning to face them. Then Jackson snapped to attention. “White, get your guys down to missile bays one through thirteen, and arm them. Ali, re-calibrate the target reticule right on that alien bastard.”
“Targeting reticule re-calibrated, missiles firing.”
The twenty-six missiles fired out of the holes along the round, outward-facing solar panels on the Pennsylvania’s hull, flying towards the ship. The missiles impacted, but the strength of the explosion and shrapnel flew away form the ship.
“Sir, the aliens seem to have some sort of super-magnetized barrier around them, which overrode the missile commands and made them explode.”
“Do we have anything we can throw at them?”
“No, we don’t. We’re defenseless.”
Jackson didn’t want to hear that. Being defenseless in space was the worst thing that could happen to him. He actually had thirty-seven more missile pods that he could launch at the alien craft, but he saved his breath. Then he thought about something else. He had fired the first salvo without consulting Wong, which he should have had done, seeing that she was the captain of the station. Well, thought Jackson, They can accuse me of treason when this tub rains out of the sky. Jackson gripped his seat harder than ever before as the alien craft took aim. The interior of the station remained silent as the barrel lighted up, and launched a spear of energy at the Pennsylvania. Jackson remained silent as the laser impacted, and the Pennsylvania exploded into a fiery blossom of red, and began its tumble back to Earth, back home.

04-21-2009, 09:07 AM
am i the only person posting in this thread? jesus christ. well, here's the next chapter. post about anything for God's sake.


Kevin Sanders hurriedly pushed his clothing into a large, black duffel bag and zipped it up. The first time it didn’t go the entire way, so he pulled the zipper back, and zipped it again. He hefted the bag and lifted it over his shoulder, and left his room. He silently reached the metal gate leading downstairs, and pulled it open. Here goes nothing, thought Kevin, as he walked down the wooden stairs.
It was four in the morning, roughly, as Kevin prepared his escape. He got to the drawer in the kitchen where the “long-term” food was kept, and filled yet another duffel bag with instant noodles, coffee, chocolates, cans, and other goodies. He closed the drawer, spun, and reached for his phone, charging on the wall. It disconnected with a satisfying click as it came loose and was laid on the table with an MP3, a Swiss army knife, a small game console… and a revolver. Kevin stared at the revolver as he set his phone next to it. It was his father’s gun, but he had “borrowed” it from him ten minutes ago, while he was asleep. Kevin heard shifting upstairs, so he knew it was time to hurry up and head to the next room.
Kevin left the revolver and other items on the table as he went to the office and proceeded to disconnect the laptop his family shared. Although both his parents had computers, this one was the most disposable, so they wouldn’t miss it. He stacked several CDs that he thought were important on top of it, and reached for the backpack that was resting on the chair facing the computer. Within thirty seconds, the laptop had silently slid inside, the CD case slid in without making a sound, and Kevin was busy wrapping the computer cable as he went through the plan in his mind.
Kevin would escape his house with two duffels bags, his backpack, $100, and his mother’s inexpensive jeep. Although he was too young to legally drive, 50 Kenyan Shillings would make him seem any age to the police officer who would pull him over. He then planned to drive to “The Mall”, an abandoned mall that was now a Rebel recruiting house. After that, he would be in, and well on his way to freeing countries from the Unionist pigs that controlled them for far too long. He went back to the kitchen, put in the other objects in his backpack, and headed towards the other two duffels that were waiting for him. There was a longer flight of stairs down to the main door, and then he would be free. He took the first step, and ran the rest of the way down.

The jeep gave off a satisfying grumble as he sped along the side roads that criss-crossed Nairobi, heading to “The Mall”. He chuckled at the thought of it, naming a mall “The Mall”, and thinking it was original. The Village Market, another mall, was also a Rebel recruiting house, until the “Space-Nazis” attacked and leveled it. Kevin was surprised at the amount of people heading to the recruiting house, Mini-vans filled with people taking the same roads he was. He just decided to follow them instead, and save himself the hassle of trying to navigate for his shoddy jeep, which smelled like someone had thrown a bag of trash in it and left it there for too long.
As he saw the tower of The Mall rising out of the horizon, Kevin sped up to feed his ever-growing excitement of playing with fire. He weaved through traffic at break-neck speeds as The Mall got closer and closer, that was, until, he got pulled over.

“What do you think you are doing?” Was the demand of the Kenyan police officer in broken and thickly-accented English, making obvious and annoying arm gestures.
“Going on a drive around town, why not?”
“How old are you?” There was an awkward silence as Kevin and the police officer stared at each other.
“Seventeen, now can I drive away from you?”
There another silence as the officer debated with his colleague whether seventeen was the legal driving age. It wasn’t. The legal driving age was twenty-one, another confinement of the freedom of the public by the Union.
“That is not legal my friend,” The officer began, when suddenly, a 50 Shilling bill found itself on the palm of his hand. “But I make an exception, just for you.”
“Thank you, I knew you would understand.” Kevin chuckled to himself as he restarted the engines, and sped off towards The Mall.

The jeep pulled into the main driveway, which was littered with debris from the empty building. Kevin turned off the ignition and began to step out of the vehicle when he heard something move inside the building. He quickly snapped to the noise and inspected the area. Nothing was there. Kevin sighed and pulled both duffels and his bag out of the passenger side window, which was cracked-half way down. He began walking towards the mall, eyeing the burned-out vehicles that lay dead in the parking lot. Maybe the Union found this place and ambushed them, thought Kevin, trying to reason with the silence. But then he felt someone nudge his shoulder, and heard a whisper. “This way, follow me.” Kevin followed.
There was a gang of six people around him, two females, and four males. They had thick jackets on that covered the huge bags full of essentials that they hid from any curious bystanders. One person approached Kevin from behind and slipped a jacket over his shoulders, obscuring his bag. “Thanks,” whispered Kevin, now following the loose group towards the mall. When they got inside, the glass doors had been knocked down and destroyed. There were papers of all kinds strewn across the entrance and the front desk, which was polka-dotted with bullets holes.
Kevin gingerly stepped among the rubble, though the noise of fourteen shoes on the ground gave them away. The shot-up table was in front of a glass handlebar that overlooked the lower floor, but the corridor itself which the table was on only had two paths, one to the right, and one to the left. The group walked out a distance to see both hallways, and since the left one was blocked with the wreckage of the overpass above the passage, they took the right.
The right walkway led to a small, connecting block between the walkways on opposing sides of the mall, with two staircases leading upwards and downwards. The seven, silent creatures slowly walked up the staircase to the second floor, where the grocery store was. They turned to the left, and walked towards the grocery store, the overpass that passed the store a heap of rubble one floor down. Kevin took a quick peek down at the wreckage and felt a slight hint of vertigo at the suddenly real possibility of falling to his death. He pulled out and followed the rest into the grocery store.
The “Nakumatt” sign was now tilted, and sloppily spattered with bullets holes. The food stands were facing the entrance, forming some sort of passageway where only two people could walk through at a time. Inside, Kevin could see through the windows that were facing the front parking lot, and saw his jeep, sitting silently in a field of dead vehicles.
The store was organized in a rectangle shape, going to the left. The hooded figures crossed yet another bottleneck, and then they got to the recruiting house.
There was a lone table, sitting in the middle of the room with the rest of the stands messily pushed away. There at the table, sat an elderly old man, with a faded, gray jacket that he wore over a dirty, white button-up shirt. He looked at the seven hooded figures, and the features on his dark face lit up as he began to smile. He got up, and offered the closest person a handshake. They took it. He sat down, and Kevin and the other recruits were forced to stand. The elderly, black man began to speak. “Do you need help?”
“Yeah, we’re here to sign up.”
“Sign up?” The old man asked, smiling now more than ever. “Come this way.”
Kevin shot one of the men next to him a confused glance, which was met with a similar look from the other man. The other man shrugged, and Kevin looked back at the curious man, who was already walking away with the other five hooded figures.
The group soon reached a large, steel door. The old man motioned for one of the group to knock on the door, and left back to his table. He walked through the twilight that the window provided, thick, grey smoke turning the slanted sunlight that eased into the building a magnificent white. He continued over broken boxes, torn bags, and other debris as he got to his lone chair and table, in the middle of the destruction. The door opened and Kevin stepped inside.
The room was small and cramped; the seven people barely fit inside. The room seemed to shake, and slowly float downwards. That’s when Kevin realized that he was in some sort of hidden elevator, and excitement grew in him. He checked his bags. They were still there, zipped tightly shut. The elevator continued to descend, and descend, and descend, until Kevin felt a pang of anxiety in his chest. Then the elevator cleared the cramped shaft.
The lift hissed to a stop and the front doors opened, and revealed a hidden, underground universe of Rebel activity. Three Rebel soldiers, called “Renegades”, rushed into the elevator and helped to carry luggage into the tunnels, where Kevin followed. He felt something underneath his jacket, and saw a man trying to remove his bag. “Hey, what’re you doing?”
“Taking your bags to a container, just follow the yellow brick road that the tour guide’s taking you on,” Kevin let go of his bags, and saw the man duck-tape them together, and slap a white sticker that had the number 89897 on it.
Kevin exhaled, and looked around. The base was located inside some sort of man-made tunnel, with support beams holding up the roof from caving in. Dim lights swung from the roof, blinking melancholically, as Rebel activity bubbled underneath. Kevin began walking down the “yellow brick road”, curious of where it would lead. He noticed his group of people and quickly jogged up to them, and blended in. The tunnel took all kinds of twists and turns, until it got to a section of blinding light. The leader motioned for them to jump, and jump they did. Kevin landed on the group with a muffled thump, and scanned the area.
It was a subway. There were tables set up along the cramped, white walls of the subway, laptops and radios on top of them. There were several Men and Women attending these, flicking switches and pressing buttons. The group stalked through the passage and into a huge, metal-grated staircase, leading downwards. Kevin sighed as he saw the depth of the stairs, and began to slowly, deliberately, walk down.

Kevin was panting when he got down. It must have had been half a kilometer deep when Kevin got to the bottom of the shaft. Then he looked up. He lifted his palms off his knees and stood up to straight to see what beheld him. It was the Train Station. High-speed trams slowed into their spots, lingered for a minute, and sped off towards the next station. Rebel soldiers were up on platforms, monitoring the crowd. Kevin searched for his group, and ran to speed up with them for the second time. The guide ushered them into an incoming tram with the label MALINDI screening past on a digital screen. Kevin stepped in, found a seat left of the door, and braced for the bang of the tram taking off. There wasn’t.
The tram bumped, started moving, and began speeding up. While the tram wasn’t like the ones in larger cities like London and Baltimore, it was good enough. The vehicle sped to a horrifying speed, and kept speeding up when it entered the rock tunnel. There was a moment of darkness as the vehicle roared past the rock tunnel as it kept accelerating. There was a bump as the tram angled upwards, and escaped the rock.
It anchored downwards again, and Kevin found himself speeding in the middle of flatlands at speeds of over 500 mph. There were small mountains scattered in the distance, out of place in a place like this. The tram came up to a road with two orange signs placed on both sides, and Rebels trying to slow people down. Kevin could barely see the face of a Rebel soldier with a bandana wrapped over his head, looking at the train. The man flew out of view, and Kevin began observing the inside of the tram.
It was a beautiful white, with blades of uncensored, African sunlight carving neat triangles on the floor of the passenger container. Kevin spun and sat comfortably in his seat, and began thinking. Not more than two hours ago, he had snuck out of his parent’s house, and now he was in the middle of nowhere flying by at hilarious speeds. He leaned his head back into a warm, sword of sun, and slept. He would need the rest.

04-22-2009, 03:57 PM

04-22-2009, 04:03 PM
Super powers are always a good idea.

04-22-2009, 06:19 PM
needs more tits and a love interest

04-24-2009, 11:07 AM
Yes Ampersand, everything you nigger. And Myself, I'm pretty sure that it'll include buubs later on. any C&C?

04-24-2009, 12:28 PM
Well I noticed a capitalised 'R' on a non proper noun in the seventh to last paragraph but apart from that it looks really good. Now add some time-traveling, arse-kicking, head-hunting, beer-drinking, Zed-shagging sexy aliens and you're half way there.

04-24-2009, 02:37 PM
i stopped when you said about a cold hard machine gun on his arm, cant you write about anything else?

04-24-2009, 10:52 PM
what part is that?

04-26-2009, 08:06 AM
somewhere at the beginning of chapter 1, i think i may have skipped through it a little and just read that one part.

04-26-2009, 09:51 AM
i still don't get it.

05-03-2009, 12:37 AM
new chapter is up.


Max didn’t like the way the Union had barged into the bunker. The bunker itself was massive, but the Union kept on pressing, not paying to attention to any kind of counter-attack. The two squads had stopped their vehicles, and continued the way walking when Stacey got an order from UNIONCOM to pull back vehicles, but not infantry. Max didn’t know why, but he wasn’t the one to question UNIONCOM. The squads stopped at an abandoned Rebel barricade, and took up residence there.
The fifty armed soldiers were spaced in a hallway about fifteen meters across, facing both directions. There were six 50 caliber machine guns, clips almost empty. The crowd of marines simply reloaded the guns and got comfortable. They had then spent around nine days sitting around, eating energy bars and snacking on hardened, instant noodles as they talked about everything and anything. Max was, for the first time, able to meet his fellow warriors.
Private Jack Pilla was a short, brown-haired man who had actually been on the same plane that Max was on, and was a pretty funny person. His hair was curled in all directions, making a pretty unique look that foretold his personality. He would always have a comeback line or wisecrack that he would pull on anyone. He was very attentive though, which was why he was one of Stacey’s favorite scouts.
Another soldier was Private Elroy Cannon, a “Chav”, according to himself. He was a lot like Pilla, except that his jokes were a lot more unintentional than Pilla’s. He was Pilla’s height, but lacked any muscle whatsoever. He had an extremely thick accent, so thick that some words were almost incomprehensible. There was one man, however, who could understand him.
That man was Private Jamal Quam, a tall, brown-skinned Indian who could understand Cannon’s dense English accent perfectly, and would reply with an accent of his own. Although his accent was permanent, it was more understandable than Cannon’s. He was a very also very patient, which was excellent in a sniper.
The last soldier in their “click” was Private Shannon Durand, who was a quiet, reserved girl would seem to fade into the background. She was talented with precision weapons, such as sniper rifles, but was slightly more curious in a way than Quam, whom was uncomfortable with being alone for too long. She always carried an E-book copy of H.G. Well’s epic, the “War of the Worlds”. She would sit on the edge of their circle, reading away. Max had a liking to her soft, blue eyes, and light brown hair that was nearly exceeding the limit of hair length. He felt like her eyes could simply cut into his mind, and into his heart.
There were twenty more men in Hedgehog, Linder, Burrow, Dull, Stacey, Cripps, Shilling, Isenberg, and several more. The small group was drinking out of cheap beer cans that didn’t taste anything like beer, when Stacey stood up. “Alright guys, we seem to have a small problem here,” he started, and an audible groan arose. “Marines, this looks bad. Very bad, we think that they have nukes, and have some sort of GPS jamming station here.”
He began to walk among the men, and continued. “There is a thick haze, conveniently, that blocks any visuals. Strangely, the two stations on patrol, the Nagasaki and the Pennsylvania, flicked off all radios, both within seconds of each other. Only nukes can do that shit, and with those missiles onboard, it should be impossible.” He grabbed his M-20, and pulled back the shaft in a satisfying clack. “Time to go head-hunting boys,” He started, and hopped over the sandbags, and immediately, everybody on Hedgehog followed.

Max carefully examined the area with his rifle. With him, he had Pilla, Cannon, Quam, Durand, and Linder. They silently jogged through the huge hallway, leading to the center of the EMP field. “Fireteam Charlie, remember to stay close, the EMP fields will screw with your COM equipment, Stacey out.”
“Confirm that Stacey, we’ll stay close,” said Linder, replying to the Lieutenant’s command. Max snapped at him, holding up a finger to where his mouth would be, now covered by a camouflaged rag. Linder nodded, and put his rifle up.
The group moved down what seemed to be an in-built monastery, with shattered glass and burned tiles on the group, strewn messily. Max slowly brought down his rifle when he approached the scorched bodies of the Renegades that were defending it. Their faces were charred, with huge, black burns on their bodies and heads. This was obviously some sort of laser weapon, all for all Max knew, the Union didn’t have those. He looked around, and saw an opening formed by an explosion. He holstered his rifle, and stepped through carefully.
The hole opened into a massive park that the Rebellion had built, but what was more terrifying was what was inside it. It was a ship.
The ship looked like a huge shark, with swept-back wings, and a large turret on top. It had several other turrets on the side, but Max was convinced that the one on top was the biggest threat. There were hundreds upon thousands of figures emerging from the ship, walking around aimlessly. There was a massive pile of dead Rebel soldiers, possibly the entire population of the bunker, and it was on fire. The rest of the team was with Max by now, surveying the carnage.
Someone reloaded their sniper rifle, which everyone carried, and tapped Max’s shoulder. “Hey, look, there’s that one guy in the red armor.”
“Yeah, I see him.”
“Looks pretty important, wouldn’t it be terrible if he just dropped dead?”
Max chuckled with the thought. He unhooked his sniper rifle, and took aim. Pretty soon, six sniper rifles were pointed at the alien’s head. He squeezed the trigger, and a muffled pop emerged from the rifle, and five more shots followed. The alien’s head exploded, and half of its chest was ripped away. Max pulled back, but the aliens somehow saw them. There was an audible anger in their voice as ten of the aliens ran at them with inhuman speed.
He began to panic for a minute as he fumbled with the thought that he had just engaged some alien commander without any clearance whatsoever. He stood up, and began backpedaling to the entrance of the chapel, when he saw the aliens. They had massive, polarized faceplates that obscured their faces, but there were giant jaws sticking out of each side of their masks. The lead one began shrieking, until bullets tore into its exposed body. There were two other warriors, which dove into the chapel and behind one of the benches when the other alien went down. One of them stood up, raised its rifle, and fired. A red-hot laser emitted from the rifle, and slammed into a pile of bricks next to Quam, which vaporized into a wet puddle of brown material.
Quam lunged behind cover, avoiding the second shot the alien fired at him. The other alien swept its weapon across the room, firing wildly. One laser impacted on Linder’s outstretched rifle, and burned it. The skin on his hands boiled, and popped. He cried out in pain as he dropped the rifle, and looked at his skinned hands, melting with the heat. Durand ran and tackled him behind one of the benches, as more lasers were fired at him.
Pilla and Cannon were at the left, hiding behind a broken wall. The alien weapons simply tore holes into their cover, but didn’t do much against solid objects, such as walls. Unfortunately, people aren’t solid objects. Max swapped to his M-20 rifle, and took aim. Then he saw his opportunity. The alien peered over the bench for a quick look, and Max squeezed the trigger.
The rifle gave out a series of bangs as the beast received the bullets, shuddered, and crumpled onto the ground. With two fingers, he pulled out his current clip, and with the other two he rammed in another. He flinched; he had barely used his previous clip. He shrugged it off and moved forward. He kept his rifle aimed at the door, but no more aliens came through.
Max poked his head out the door, and looked both ways. To the right, he had a wall, but to the left, there was a corridor, leading to the park. There were two more aliens there, lounging around. Max waved his arm forward, and the squad walked across the corridor into the hall they used to get into the chapel. Although Max wasn’t in command, he had a sense that he was in control. He rolled out, and opened fire on the alien on the left. The monster’s head exploded as explosive, armor-piercing rounds entered the back of its head. In half a second, the other spun, and opened fire. Max sidestepped back into the chapel as lasers burned where he once stood. He caught his breath but he heard the alien running for him. He rushed out the door as the alien came in, and swung his rifle to its face. It stepped back, stunned, as Max used the momentum of his rifle to swing to his upper-left, and brought it down onto the side of the alien’s head, spinning it around. He brought his rifle up for a shot at the alien’s back, when it turned around, its right arm flying to Max’s face.
Max stumbled drunkenly as he recovered from the blow, when a fist slammed into his solar plexus, sending him sliding onto the floor. He tried to get up, but he couldn’t. He could only watch in horror as the alien slowly walked up to him, and grabbed his neck. It lifted him off his feet with relative ease, and lifted him over his head. Max found himself smiling, and then he kicked the alien in the section where both jaws entered the mask as hard as he ever had. The alien dropped him, and fell onto its back. Max landed on his feet, and strode to the fallen alien. Max slowly removed a grenade from his belt as he stopped. He was standing next to it, and crouched. The alien swung a fist at him, which he grabbed, and placed a grenade into. He twisted the alien’s arm, and it went limp. He slowly placed the clenched, broken arm of the alien on its chest, and pulled the pin. He rose, and jogged to where the rest of Fireteam Charlie was. He snickered as he heard the loud explosion, and jogged a little faster. He reached Fireteam Charlie, and they waved at him.
“Hey, what happened to you?” Asked Cannon, examining him thoroughly, as he shouldered his shotgun, “got into a fight at school?”
Max looked at his chest. It was stained with both his and the alien’s blood. He looked back up at Cannon. “You think?”

05-03-2009, 04:52 PM
Pretty good, but remember to indent! >:(

05-03-2009, 05:03 PM
"When a fist slammed into his solar plexus"



Seriousely, that just sounds way too clean for a sentence that opens with the words "Max stumbled drunkenly".

05-04-2009, 08:18 AM
Pretty good, but remember to indent! >:(

when i post it here, it un-indents itself. only on the title post it did. meh, it's okay. And what does MD mean anyhow?

05-30-2009, 10:14 PM
Super *cough* cool!:Ohhhhh:

05-31-2009, 08:39 AM
stfu luxon!

But Guerrila, youve got some awsome ideas and its looking good.

Also i learned this, but it really helps if you know whats going to happen next in the story when you stop writing for the day.

eg. Start writing in the morning - stop 2 hours later (or however long) but make sure you know what your going to right next before you stop - while not writing brainstorm some ideas to improve what your going to write - then start writing again incorporating the ideas uve brainstormed.

07-02-2009, 02:05 PM
i actually stopped this because it seemed to linear to me. Im writing a FOURTH draft of this shit because ive failed in the last three. Im hoping the fourth will work.

07-17-2009, 10:55 PM
wow grate review