Excerpt from the Apocalypse

Okay... I'm a bit depressed with what I received as my O'level results. I won't go into details, but lets just say I didn't perform up to my own expectations. Hopefully, just very, very hopefully, I will be able to get into the college of my choice. If not, I might as well go play the violin, if you get my point.

Troubles aside, I've managed to get some good progress on my first novel, so enjoy a small excerpt from it...


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Even in her little corner of the world, Fiona could tell the vehicle was stopping. The deceleration became more noticeable, until a quick jerk made her shoot forward. Before she could orientate herself to the situation, she heard the cries of a woman loud enough to permeate through the car walls to her.

Her vision steadied a bit after she had bruised herself in her collision with the front seat. She could just barely see the silhouette a man frantically waving and limping towards them. He was heavily bearded, but that did not mask the desperation chiseled into his face, as well as those feral eyes he possessed. He was clearly in a position to do something very drastic.

A haggard woman lay a few meters in front of the now stationary minivan, pleading for rescue.

Clement’s face now expressed extreme nervousness. Fiona was terrified of what might happen, but at the same time, felt slightly worried for him, especially since the hysterical maniac was almost right outside his car window. It was at that moment that she noticed a metallic glint beside his leg. It slowly moved, as Clement pulled it out and placed it discretely beside his lap. That glint came from the barrel of a shotgun.





He didn’t have time for this. What is it this time, another life to save? Hell, one was enough. Rehearsing through this procedure in his head, he gave a heavy breath before the crazed man came collapsing onto his window pane. He reeled it down, hoping the following conversation will be a short one.

“Please, give us a lift,” he pointed with shaky hands at the slumped woman in front.

Clement gulped, and firmly gave his rehearsed answer, “Sorry, it’s every man for himself.”

This exchange of pleads and refusals went on for four rounds before Clement finally snapped, and was about to reel the window back up and speed off when a meek voice sounded from behind, “Clement, he has a gun.”

He spun around to give a quick look at Fiona, whose pupils had already dilated, and quickly turned back to see the man, stunned by her words. He just managed to see a revolver tucked into his belt, and his hand shooting forward to grab it.

Acting almost instinctively, Clement gripped tightly onto his Remington and brought it to bear on the man’s face. He reeled back, and at the same time his gun was flung a safe distance away. Although the man was now on the ground and no longer a threat, Clement’s brain now fired into a state of caution and anxiety, and he took aim. He could see the fear and dread of a condemned man in his eyes.

The first round tore clean through his left shoulder, shredding the flesh off like so much paper confetti. This was followed immediately by agonized and blood-curdling screams.

That was not enough; he was still alive, still a threat to his survival. This thought flashed maliciously through his mind, and he pumped out the spent shell, ready for another shot. This time the pellets impacted him square in the face, ending his misery in a crescendo of red mist.

Giving no further warning, Clement slammed down on the pedal. He made no intention to steer away from the appalled woman. Her eyes widened almost to the size of golf balls as she saw the minivan come straight for her after whomever inside cold-bloodedly slew her companion.





The resulting thud was amplified ten-fold in Fiona’s perspective; a small earthquake was now rocking her thoughts. She witnessed everything: the murders, the violence, the viciousness. Curling back up in the seat, the tears were now no longer damned up.

She stole a peek at Clement, whose shirt was soaked in perspiration, and whose eyes betrayed how vicious his survivor instinct must be. He was hardly recognizable from five minutes ago. How little she knew of her savior was now shattered by her new insight into his twisted mind. And yet, this was the person who had saved her from almost certain death. What compelled him to show such acts of compassion to her, but not to the random straggler?

The murder weapon, the shotgun, was now placed in the side seat, its barrel still smoking slightly. Its owner looked just as incensed. She had a lot to be thankful for, put perhaps being in this car at this moment was not one of them.

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There, I hope you liked this piece. Notice the transitioning of perspective between Fiona and Clement from the former, then to the latter and the former again. I was hoping to concentrate on the POV of one of the characters only, but it would leave inadequate character development. So my solution was to alternate the perspectives so readers can understand how both of them think and feel throughout their adventures.

If you found it enjoyable, please leave a comment and cookies! If not, I would appreciate it if you could give some constructive criticism as to how it isn't good, and how it can be improved. I'm having a case of writer's block recently, and can't think of any decent ways to continue and finally conclude this story. Any ideas would be especially welcome!

I'll be busy with my admission exercise, so it will be a while before I blog again. For now, adios, amigos!