I've written pieces of chapters that loosely follow an outline forming the story of a protagonist and his friend Bert, surviving in the immediate chaos following a viral (zombie) outbreak.
For here and now, what I'm looking for is literary criticism of my writing style (for clarity, potency, overall feel, etc.), and of the general story elements (compelling characters? compelling plot? interesting read?) based on the excerpts I'm providing.
[EDIT. Or anything and everything you think. Lay it on me, yo.]
As a major note, one of my biggest concerns with literature as a whole is it's ability to convey action. I've read plenty of suspense, mystery, and horror books, but it seems that most of the emotions are impelled by drawing out of tense situations, where resolution is oblique to the relative actions of the characters. Now, I'm not a cynic, and I still love reading, but what I ask is this; can you create "action" in a novel? This is one of the reasons I chose this excerpt to present and have critiqued.
As for the story itself, the first and pretty much only thing I'd like to note is that “zeds” are zombies. Not “Night of the Living Dead”, slow, unintelligent zombies, but more of a mix between “Dawn of the Dead” and “28 Days Later”, fast, unfeeling, infection-based zombies.
Also, this isn't really the forth chapter, because there are no chapters one, two, or three. It's just not the beginning. Oh, and it's not the end.
Currently, the yet-to-be-named protagonist (you can refer to him as Joaquin) and Bert are looking for bolt-cutters, or an equally ambiguous object, for a really good, highly-motivating reason. (undeveloped)
Lastly, the beginning was used to contrast his current state of idle boredom and restlessness, to the later story-telling speedy piece. He's not trying to be profound or anything, just cranky and listless.
Enjoy, or else!
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God's requital of man's sins came at the perfect time. In retrospect, its coming was undeniably, painfully obvious.
Hind-sight bias and Monday-morning quarterback, extinction was flaunting itself in our faces. Before you continue reading, please don't judge me; don't write me off as a bitter grouch. No, to be spiteful now would be pissing into an ocean of piss. I'm merely observing man's arrogance, his ignorance and obsession with self-perpetuation. These words are spoken with unwieldiness, and without the slightest consideration of tact, but believe me – I spread my deepest sympathies with those caught under the heat and pressure of apathy's baneful oppression, who were all but able to just keep living their lives, sucking up the sweet filth of melancholy existence.
There was no global devastation or species-wide extinction before the twenty-first century. Hiroshima, Nagasaki, the Nazis - none of them came close to what has been accomplished. Think the Black Plague, or a Cold War in the information age, and you're getting closer. Our last great concern was the small-pox sample raided and looted at Koltsovo. We as a nation and as a world sweated bullets over it's loss. Politics were played, finger pointed, accusations made, but nothing we did brought it back. Meanwhile, as the world spun its wheels, the virus was being replicated, bred, and altered. In the least, that's what I've pieced together. I don't know any of this – maybe the small-pox was just a diversion, or an addition, or the removal of an effective counter-weapon – I'm not saying this with any sort of certainty, but with the lack of in-your-face entertainment, all the time, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, never more than the press of a button away from instant gratification... it's given me a lot of time to just think. This, as you may have already judged, has just been an idle rant of patchwork observations.
In terms of far-more conclusive observations, we were running out of water. The bolt cutter was an entirely separate issue.
***
Chasing daylight. Early august, it was a quarter to seven. The sun would set today at our expected eight twenty-something. We were sweating bullets as we rode towards the first gun, liquor, or anything shop with barred windows we could find, all along Nineteenth Avenue. The sun was our ally, and time was against us. For only so long would the heat keep the zeds warm, asleep, and tucked away into whatever sort of cove they had chosen.
Tick tick tick tick – crunch! The sound of bicycle gears was our solemn theme song. We had given up our silent by-foot approach for the awkward-sized teenager bikes, but it was worth it. We'd have been dead twice over if it weren't for those little feats of ingenuity on Bert's part. The first was that whore-house full of zeds we managed to fubar with, and the second was rigging a C-type wedge to bust the chain holding these bikes. If we'd have walked, we never have made it this far, only to realize too late that there was nowhere sound to sleep. Camping in one of the countless death-traps waiting to happen was not my first priority.
Keeping up a foot sprinting speed was relatively easy on the bikes, but it made an unholy racket as the crankshaft turned force into momentum. Today was Bert's turn to draft, but he kept his distance. The knot that had been in my stomach for the past four months told me that I'd die before my time. Wake me up when I'm there.
“Up ahud un the right,” I called out to Bert, as I angled myself as far left as would be safe, without running into one of the abandoned cars or buses that littered both sides of the road. It came out baffled by the painter-style gas mask, but I got the message across. Ahead, the tint of dried blood stained the sun-bleached asphalt, an obvious sign that others had fallen victim here before. Before it, on the right shoulder of the road was the tipped semi of some deli-foods business – a maw of death begging for us to come close enough. As we passed, it was hard to ignore the sensation of my forearms tensing, having to consciously force my legs to keep moving. Up down, up down, up down. My quads ached as I pushed myself harder against the hill, ready for the adrenaline. I'd have never known the incline was there if I wasn't on a bike. I fretted for a second about how Bert was holding up.
As we passed, the semi proved nothing but its emptiness, but it had served its purpose. A flicker in my peripheral vision, and the attack came from the left. Avoiding the most obvious danger, we had come dangerously close to a derelict city bus, most of its windows blown out, and its front door invisibly open. On instinct, I veered dangerously to the right, every muscle attempting to help keep my balance. I aimed for the intersection not twenty feet ahead, muscle memory from countless games of tag and the Pythagorean theorem coaching me to the shortest path possible. I stabilized, wheel shaking, as the threat became real in the corner of my vision. I stood, my blood turned to ice, and I pushed and pedaled for my life. Adrenaline thick as syrup in my blood, I didn't get ten feet before I heard the sound of metal on metal on asphalt. My body froze.
Disregarding safety, the bike, everything, I hit both brakes and came to a screeching halt. Hopping off the bike on one leg, my fingers wrapped around the hexagonal crowbar fastened to my right hip. As I regained balance, taking the grip and stance I had practiced, the scene flashed before me.
Two – no, three of them; one coming from the bus. I broke into a sprint towards the murderous melee that was occurring between my fallen comrad and two zeds – a medium-sized man and a smaller one just shy-looking of Bert. Two steps, and the third of the zeds had turned his focus to me. Stampeding like jousters, I took my crowbar by the head end and aimed to connect with his face. The zed feigned, ducked and lunged, but a late thrust and nothing remained of his left eye. Faltering as I and the lifeless sack of flesh connected like linebackers, I threw him off me, and regained my speed towards Bert. As I turned, the smaller was toppling sideways, his arm bending the wrong way into his side from a short swing of Bert's wrench, as the larger threw himself upon his prey. Bert, pinned under his opponent, hooked an arm under the zed's jaw, using his other in attempt to push him off.
Approaching the group, I used Bert's lock of his attacker's head as a tee, angling my advancement to take them from the side. Holding the crowbar like a club, I took two quick sideways hop-steps and swung high to avoid Bert's face. Connecting with the back of the zed's skull, blood flew up from the swing, plastering the side of the bus with a spray of blood and bits of gray-matter. The zed crumpled lifelessly on top of Bert, and he struggled to twist the dead wight off of him. Without pause, I turned to the last, crippled zed, who had managed to partially stand, and aimed a flat-footed kick to his face. Restricted by the tight jeans, my blow landed south of his chest, sending the zed toppling backwards in discorded balance, spewing a mixture of blood and vomit from his mouth in suspended momentum.
Taking Bert's raised hand, I helped pull his legs free, and threw him to his feet. In unison we made for our bikes. Mid-sprint, I paused at the resonance of a sound half-registered. The jingle of a door-bell in our apocalyptic hell fit like a bombshell in a china shop. Looking up, four zeds were breaking from a corner store, the bell on the door handle clanking lazily, and with grave intentions.
“Bu-u-urt!” I screamed, as my mind raced for an escape. In a split second decision, I broke left, in front of the bus, towards the front double-doors of a derelict motel. “Zeds, Bert!” I hollered, highly muffled, but he passed me mid-sentence in his limber quickness. As we booked it for the motel, I dared to look back for one second – just one – and risked everything. In a moment's time, one glance, one image in my mind before I kept moving towards the strategical death-trap of walled-confinement, I was sure that I could see the faded-orange of an unmistakable trademarked sign.
....
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