Fiction Fragment

Wrote this a couple months ago:

Devon’s calf strained as held his foot down on the go-pedal and snatched another glimpse in his rear-view mirror. The gaggle of pursuing vehicles was still inching ever-closer to the ancient Chevy he’d salvaged from the abandoned garage.

The engine still coughed and shook, the continuous volley of vibrations hammering up Devon’s spine as he tried to keep on the gleaming modern grid-road that arrowed away from the deserted town behind him in the distance.

Guess the dregs of fuel in those cans were pretty old, he thought. Hoped that additive stuff I found would bring some life back into it. Guess not enough.

The pursuers had no such concerns as old gas. They streaked along on electric motors, continuously recharging themselves from the grid-road in the afternoon sunshine.

The silvery Excela sports-car was leading the pack, followed by a blue-and-yellow traffic interceptor unit. The oddball assortment of porta-taxis, delivery vans, and even a huge long-hauler truck trailed farther back.

Devon stared off at the low mountains ahead of him. If I can just get to the foothills, I can lose ’em. The grid-roads were never extended that far before Doomsday happened.


Writing Practice – Action Scene

So I am STILL not up to “the big showdown” scene in my story, but am creeping ever so close.

I think part of what is causing the slowdown is I haven’t been in a real physical altercation since I was in the 8th grade… back in 1983.

So I decided to try writing an action scene just for practice as a warm-up exercise.

Here’s what I came up with:


Phil stalked Hank through the forest.

Hank was a big, heavy guy, and Phil had little trouble following the trail of broken branches and muddy footprints.

Phil’s pistol was in his right hand, as he knew Hank had taken a gun with him when he had fled into the woods.

Phil slipped easily around trees and over fallen branches, barely making a sound as he closed on the racket of snapping branches and rustling leaves ahead.

The noises slowed, then came an end.

Maybe Hank’s out of breath, Phil thought. Maybe I can get a clear angle and get the drop on him.

Phil crept up to a broad tree about two feet thick, and listened. He heard a low gasping, as if someone was trying to catch their breath.

Phil peered around the tree, careful to keep as much of his body behind cover as possible.

Ahead, in a little clearing among the trees, stood a tall, bulky man with unkempt brown hair and a long bushy beard. The man held a shotgun in one hand, and had his other crossed over his heaving chest.

Phil snaked his gun-arm around the tree. “Drop it, Hank! I’ve got you covered!”

Hank’s head whipped all around as he jerked the shotgun to waist-level.

“Drop it!” Phil called again, “Then put your hands up.”

Hank’s head came to rest facing roughly Phil’s direction. “Okay. Okay. Don’t shoot.”

Hank tossed the shotgun off to one side, but he suddenly dove the other way behind a large fallen tree trunk.

Phil’s pistol barked as he put a bullet into the fallen tree. “Freeze! No more funny stuff, or you’ll get it for sure.”

Phil advanced into the clearing, moving towards the fallen shotgun while keeping his own gun trained on Hank’s position behind the tree trunk.

As Phil bent down to pick up the shotgun, a good-size rock flew up and out from behind the fallen tree in Phil’s direction.

“Whoa!” cried Phil as he dodged out of the way.

With an explosion of rustling leaves, Hank flew to his feet and leapt at Phil. Phil got off one shot, but missed and then the bear-like Hank was upon him.


Notice how even in practice, I STILL did not get to the actual fight?