Children of Targone Tenement

FOREWORD: This was made for english at school, and had to be kept down to half this size... but I can't help myself, its still lacking in some description, but I think you should enjoy it after a read or two (so you understand it). READ ON my fellow writers!!! All reviews and ratings are welcomed =D

Enjoy!





Intention: This piece of writing is intended for an adult audience. It has been written so as I could try a new style of writing – Flashback – and test its effectiveness in short stories as well as its plot development ‘perks’, by discovering new ways to mislead the reader and finding new methods of creating suspense and action.



Children of Targone Tenement


Leaning against the wall, Paul wiped his blood stained lips with the back of his hand; clutching tightly with the other his M4 – his last, trustworthy ally. He looked around in the hazy darkness, the streetlight flittering through the tears of the curtains, as if in silent weeping of their own wretched appearance. The hall he stood in was the same as when he and Bryan had entered except for the blood stained handprint showing four fingers that now trickled down the peeling wallpaper, flowing with the cracks of the wall.
“Bryan,” Paul whispered to the encompassing darkness, tears welling in his eyes; “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He gasped chokingly, his anger quickly evaporating, replacing with sorrow.

* * *
“You ready Bryan?” asked Paul flicking off the safety switch on his rifle.
“Hell yeh, a chance to crack a nut job in the head? No problems!” Bryan replied grinning as he and Paul crouched behind the bushes, awaiting the order to move.
The team had been briefed half an hour earlier, the briefing was almost as chilling as the night air they crouched in, they knew there was a serial rapist and a group of accused murderers who lived there, known around the local neighbourhood for their cunning and callous gun fights with neighbouring gangs – they had killed people, but the authorities could never get a conviction.
The apartment was on the ground floor, with 3 windows across front, and had a basement dug in to the sloping hill. The brick’s were pale red, sloppy graffiti covered the apartment in an array of colours.
“Bryan, don’t fool ‘round, we’re after a serial rapist, and some well broken-in killers. You heard the briefing, don’t let it escape your mind, its not gonna be an easy one.” Paul said keeping a weathered eye on the front door, feeling, as he always did before a mission, his stomach muscles clutching at his insides in anxiety.
“I know, I know, it’s just my first real SWAT job. I’m a bit eager to show Sergeant O’Conner how much better I’ve gotten in the field, ya know?” Bryan whispered smiling, his sharp, square face outlined in the nightlight.
The two waited long moments in silence, the rundown apartment standing silent, its front wire door broken, swaying with the wind, scraping the concrete landing with an eerie, hollow squeal.

“Officer down! They shot Johnny Sarge, I’m bringin’ him out,” yelled Walker over the radio who could now be heard on the other side of the building screaming ‘medic!’
“Team Delta, its all up to you, hit ‘em hard, hit ‘em fast.” said the Sergeant over the radio “Good luck boys.”
Pushing up their weapons, taking aim at the door, both men advanced softly, placing one sure foot after the other, their black M4’s shining softly, as if in ecstasy of their coming duty.

* * *

Paul glanced around, and stood up straight; hustling closer to the door at the end of the hall, smoothly sliding his heavily booted feet, careful to make no sound – the door leading to the laundry swinging open with his passing breeze. Drawing a quivering breath he quickened his pace, intent on finding the girl. He reached the door and stood staring at it, he placed his hand upon the coarse, splintered wood. It was icy cold. Grasping the door handle firmly he slowly pushed the door. It opened peacefully as before. Peering up the staircase, his gaze darted to the painting of the woman; her painted figure gleaming in the bright pallor of the moon – in silent mocking to the night’s events, her eyes glowing in the soft cool light. Swallowing his heart he advanced, testing each step for both strength and noise, avoiding those that weren’t worthy.
Crouching near the top he employed a steady, sweeping gaze over the kitchen and living area. All was quiet, just as it had been when they had entered. Gliding along the wall he kept his eyes fastened to the door nearest him, hastening to its front. Stopping suddenly, Paul jumped; his heart freezing. A long creaking noise slithered about the room – that of floor boards stressing under weight, echoing throughout the apartment. Cold sweat trickled down his spine, his short hair tingling upon his neck. Crouching low, Paul scanned the room again, his grip tense upon his M4.

* * *

Glancing through a crack in the front door with a mirror, Paul murmured; “All clear.”
Bryan pushed open the door and walked in, Paul following closely. Both men surveyed the room quickly; two couches faced each other in the living room, a staircase leading down to the basement to their left, leading to a closed door with an shutting mechanism on it. The kitchen was a world of broken glass and shattered crockery with cupboard doors wide open, leading off from the living room. Bryan went ahead to the only apparent door on the first floor while Paul kept a sweeping gaze across the scape behind him. Bryan examined the door – it had no knob – he pushed it open and moved in. The room was bare with the exception of some profoundly insane messages written in thick, black paint upon the walls and floor preaching prayers to an unholy matron. Paul shuffled in behind him, never allowing his gaze to slip from the staircase. Bryan quickly investigated the door leading off the room; it led to a bathroom with a shattered porcelain sink and an old bathtub that doubled as a shower with a pull-across curtain. The tiles cracked and lay sprawled across the ground.
Bryan and Paul quickly retreated to the staircase, – where a grimy painting of a woman sat, buried in darkness – murmuring simultaneously over the radio “Clear,” in affirmative voices.
Creeping slowly, they both began descending the creaking wooden staircase. Bryan quickly checked the door mechanism for any traps, taking barely a moment before he opening the door and glancing out. The walls looked to be bubbling and frothing with moisture, the baby blue wallpaper peeling, the plaster sinking away in to the wall like the eyes of a dead man sink back to his skull.
“Go,” Bryan whispered, starting to feel his training take over, his actions were now becoming more precise and professional.
Nodding his head, Paul etched out the door, creeping down the concrete hallway. One door stood to his left, another at the end. Beaconing towards the door in the left wall Paul approached; safe in the knowledge that Bryan had him covered. Putting his ear to the wall, Paul started listening. A low rumble could be heard, barely audible, even in the abysmal silence of the Targone Tenement. Paul beaconed for Bryan to come forwards. Bryan Following with nimble steps, came to stand beside Paul. Putting up three fingers, Paul slowly put them down, initiating the count before they entered together – one.
Pushing heavily on the aluminium door, Bryan burst in to the room – the door smashing the wall behind it, swinging wildly, the clatter and vibrating ringing pitching loud in their ears. Paul glanced around from the cover of the wall, looking around, his face flushing crimson as his eyes came to rest on a square object at the end.
“You sure you heard somethin’?” asked Bryan turning to look at Paul, his eyebrows raised in question.
They had walked in to a laundry littered with ripped and dirty clothes. Rolling his eyes, Paul and thrust his rifle towards the now slowing dryer, its barrel of clothes swirling like Paul’s stomach.
“Bloody house gives me the creeps,” said Paul walking out. Bryan softly closed the door behind them, the two beginning to advance on the last door.

* * *

Licking his parched lips, Paul drew a shuddering breath. He loosened his hold on the rifle and clutched his hip.
A soft, empty clicking noise split the silence; ‘She’s got another gun, or maybe she’s locked a door’ Paul thought, his heart pounding. Wheeling on his heel he aimed at the door, he wasn’t sure if the girl was in the next room, or fled it to the bathroom. Slowly he put the mirror up to the hole in the door where the knob should have been, fighting to keep his eyes open while he looked.
The room was dark, even if anyone was in there he wouldn’t have seen them – but they would have seen him. Gripping the sweaty gun handle, he pushed it against the door open and turned on his flashlight. Paul’s eyes shrivelled, his face contorted and froze as fear seized him, clenching his gun tightly he grasped the trigger, spraying bullets in to the wall opposite him. Tears welled in his eyes, his body seeping wet as blood mingled with sweat. Opening his mouth wide, teeth baring he screamed long and hard, the breath had escaped him, his scream was hollow and silent; shuddering convulsively, dropping his gun he fell to his knees.

* * *

Bryan and Paul both listened at the door at the end of the hallway where a low static of a television could be heard above the muffled whimpering of a person. Paul grasped the door knob and twisted it – locked. He turned to Bryan who nodded in understanding and took a step back. Paul, raising his M4 to the handle and watched as Bryan counted down with his fingers in the air. Smiling as Bryan dropped his last finger, Paul squeezed.
The door splintered and cracked, wood chips and empty bullet cases rained down on the floor, the darkness flickering in bright, brilliant light. The door, flinging open from ferocious roar of the cannon Paul was wielding in his arms stood aside, its paint cracked and flaking seemed to blow away from the force of the blast, sending white, sparkling flecks through the air. Rushing in amongst the shards and dust Bryan quickly sighted a girl lying lifeless on the ground. Paul walked in, loading another magazine in to the rifle. The girl lay on a shredded thin mattress, her red dress ripped, doing little to hide her features. She was young, 17 at most, and was bound in ropes, gagged and blindfolded on the ground. Her body was relatively unscathed from what Bryan could see. Paul surveyed the room he was in, near the window was a small, black and white television playing a static channel, a small chest of drawers lay against the wall, the drawers and their contents sprawled about the room. Walking near the door, Paul knelt down and began listening once more.
“Bryan! What the hell are you doing?” Paul whispered harshly, glancing back, “you should have left her bound, she would have been safer!” Paul stared at the scantly clad girl who stood before him, she remained silent, her large almond eyes two shimmering blue lakes, far too deep for their age.
Bryan shrugged and told her to hide behind the thick black curtains. She moved swiftly and calmly behind the curtains and didn’t move.
Glaring at Bryan, Paul angrily cocked his head at the door he was beside.
“He’s in there,” whispered the girl from behind the curtains, her eyes widening in fear. “He’s doing naughty things with another girl,” she whispered sobbing, tears streaming like endless rivers down her pastel cheeks.
Paul’s brow cut across his forehead and met, his eyes like hallow slits glowing with an inner fire. Bryan’s eyes narrowed in anger and he raised his rifle.
“Let’s get the son of a bitch,” whispered Bryan, his eyes focused, his senses keen – heightened by his rage.
Paul turned the doorknob and held it, listening closely, then swung it wide.
“Put your hands in the air, now!” screamed Bryan running in the room.
“Drop your weapon!” screamed Paul as he slid in behind, sweeping his rifle sight about the room
Bryan started shooting quickly and decisively, one tall thin man stood with a rifle, seemingly ignorant of who had just entered, but none the less posed a dangerous threat should he come round anytime soon. He fell quickly, holding the trigger of his Ak-47 as he went down.
Bullets hailed around the room; Paul and Bryan dropping to the ground. Chunks of plaster and wood erupted around the room. Paul quickly found the little girl whom had her mouth open, frozen in fear, her eyes distant. He looked behind her and saw another man with a rifle; this one however was quick to act, and taking aim. Shooting fast, Paul held the trigger; the gun barrel exploding, spewing forth a torrent of metal upon the man. Glancing quickly to the side Bryan didn’t hesitate to shoot, clenching the trigger hard, offloading the final payload of his gun. The fireworks of gunfire lit up the room, cutting deep in to their flabby target. The man dropped dead, his big, heavy body thudding to the ground, shaking the room.
Dropping his M4, Bryan dashed to the girl and clasped her in his arms. She fell in to him making no sound. He pushed her away and clutching her face, brushing away her mangled hair. Paul checked the bodies – both men were dead. Turning he saw the back of the little girl; riddled with holes like a fine Emmentaler cheese. She died standing, her mouth open in a silent scream.
Paul surveyed the room, making sure it was safe -upon a desk in the far corner sat a computer, an old CCT monitor, and another mattress on the ground nearby. The walls were covered in filth, the windows boarded up. No sign of any further hostile threats.

“Dad!” Screamed Bryan harshly, a note of desperation and fear in his voice. Paul turned fast and worried, his son rarely called him ‘dad’ anymore. His trigger finger at the ready, sweat glazing his face his eyes darting about the shadowy room. He felt a sharp, piercing pain cut through his left hip as loud, single shot shattered the silence of the room. He looked up and saw a red dress disappear out of the room.
“Get her dad,” Bryan grinned, shooting quickly with his hand gun. A wailing scream came from the next room and the heavy thud of a gun could be heard clattering to the floor. Paul looked towards Bryan; a tomahawk sat anchored in his neck, blood dribbling from his mouth on to the little girls head whom he was hugging. Staring at his son, Paul shuddered, tears flooding his eyes. Bryan gave a weak thumb’s up to his father, and motioned him out the door.
“I’ll wait for you,” Bryan said choking as more blood frothed at his lips, “Go!”
Paul got up, cringing with pain and walked to the corridor. He caught a glimpse of the door leading to the staircase softly closing. Ignoring the fresh wound in his hip, intent on finding the girl that killed his son, killed the little girl, shot him and imprisoned many more children.

* * *

The cold knife violently chewed down Paul’s back, cutting deep. Paul struggled briefly, images of the laundry door flooding to his mind, how it had softly breathed open with his passing – Bryan had closed it firmly when they had left, she had snuck up on him, up the creaking stairs, purposely opened the door at the staircase. “She had planned this,” Paul thought, “a young girl...”
Paul’s head lolled back, his eyes saw nothing, staring down at him, silhouetted against the dark stood a beautiful girl, her lip twisted in an ecstatic grin…