Here's a short story I wrote a few days after the completion of Synchronicity, cause I like the idea of something as inane as a sneeze causing trouble. I only finished it today and haven't had it edited, so any feedback at all would be greatly appreciated.
Also, a new F.E.A.R. fic is currently in the works (that means I'm way busy procrastinating), so keep your eyes peeled!
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F.E.A.R. – Attack
Greg Logan sneezed. It wasn't a particularly loud sneeze and he had managed to muffle the brunt of it with his hands; nonetheless, after hearing the sound shatter the silence he was terrified, and so were the three other people holed up in the cramped office with him. Ann MacPherson's eyes went wide for a moment. Instantly, her hand flew up to her lips and, as she shushed him somewhat needlessly, a mean look came over her face, ready to assign blame.
Sounds drifted through the closed door: the dull clunks of doors opening and shutting, the heavy thuds of combat boots and the crunching of broken glass underfoot as the owners of the feet moved confidently through the occupied building, all accompanied by the unmistakable radio chatter of the intruders. As the men approached, Jenny Powell gave an involuntary whimper, huddling closer to her husband, who fingered his pistol with nervous anticipation. Ann carefully crawled to the door to switch off the lights and moved out of the way of the narrow glass panel next to it.
The strip of light from the corridor was eclipsed intermittently as shadows moved past their door.
"This is Charlie One. We're on the sixth floor."
"Alright; clear it and meet with Echo on the ground floor for extraction." The radio crackled and went silent as the first man answered, "Roger."
The paltry light was completely blotted out again. Greg edged until he could see through the thin gap between two stacks of file folders. He looked out at the door and, from his vantage point behind the desk, could see a masked face peering in. He heard the intruder's weapon graze the wall. Sweat beading copiously on his face, he ducked lower, but the head vanished as the radio crackled to life again.
"Charlie One, there's been a change in plans; proceed to ground floor immediately."
"Roger that."
Greg bit back a loud sigh of relief. The four survivors watched as the men moved on past their hiding place, before succumbing to the sheer exhaustion of fear and uncertainty.
An indeterminate amount of time later, they woke to silence. The lights in the corridor beyond the door were all out. Moreover, the heating in the building seemed to have been turned off, and the air was frigid in the office. Ann glanced at her watch, but the hands had stopped. Crawling painstakingly with one hand on the wall, she moved to the light switch again.
"It looks clear," she whispered, her voice hoarse and her mouth dry. A surprising cloud of vapor lifted from her numb lips as she spoke. "Should we make a run for it?"
As if on cue, a slight electrical hum made itself heard to the four survivors. The source-less buzzing made Ann's brow crease into a frown. To Greg, the whine seemed to grow louder and increase in pitch until it matched the resonance of his skull, and he cradled his head in pain. Through his half-shut eyes, he saw a shadow flicker across the far wall. A sibilant hiss of a laugh seemed to cut through the incessant noise.
"What the hell?"
A spark landed on the carpet as the lights flickered on overhead, pulsing as though in the throes of a power surge. The noise level in the room increased suddenly; Rick Powell screamed from close by. Greg looked up blindly, felt a few small droplets of spit hit his face, but Powell wasn't there. He followed the sound of the screaming, and found himself staring at a pair of flailing legs. The pistol landed on the floor two inches from Greg's hand.
The two women were screaming now, cowering together in the far corner, an unearthly dirge combined with the electrical crackles from the lights, the deafening humming and the screams intermingled with gurgles coming from Rick's suspended body.
Greg finally got a good look at Powell. His whole upper body had been lifted clear through the hole created by the removal of a ceiling panel. His normally immaculate white shirt was drenched in deep, dark blood, and his legs convulsed insanely, knocking against the wall. Greg felt sure he saw the dark glistening of intestines and the dull sheen of ribs, and he wanted to retch.
The smell was incredible. He stared at Powell but found himself unable to act. He touched his cheek almost timidly, staring at fingers coated in Rick's blood. Jolted from his inaction, he seized Powell's legs and tried to pull him back into the room, causing the agonized scream only to increase to an unbearable level and tone. Not to be defeated this easily, the force holding Powell up engaged in a macabre tug of war with Greg, who soon found himself drenched in warm dribbles of his coworker's blood.
There was a sudden, horrible rending sound. The person, creature, whatever, that was holding Rick up suddenly let go, and Greg crumpled to the floor with his friend lying on top of him.
"Oh my God! Oh my GOD!"
As soon as Jenny Powell screamed those words, Greg realized something was wrong. He stared into the bloodied stump that used to be Powell's upper torso. He screamed in horror. Somehow, while he screamed, he heard the gurgling as clear as day, like a fly buzzing in a silent room. It wasn't coming from Powell. It had never come from Powell.
He felt desperately for a weapon, and he found the gun.
In an instant, he undid the safety, and thrust the gun at the gaping hole.
He squeezed off two rounds blindly, and they went wide.
"Shit!" he screamed as he stared up at the glowing red eyes staring unblinkingly from the ceiling gap. "Shit! Shit!"
And then it was upon him.