I found this among my files. Obviously, I didn't get very far with it but figured I'd publish it.
By Teran McKinney
A young man, sat trembling under a set of creaky, old stairs. He was crouching as low as he could fit, in with the tools having uncertain nature in the darkness. He almost coughed, but couldn't let himself. The potent smell of putrified flesh was almost impossible to handle. He had never seen someone die before, let alone twenty. In his state of disgust, horror, and shock, he could barely think. It was perhaps the most quiet moment in his mind. There was no third person voice telling him that he was a failure, or discussing mathematical theorums. Only his animal self was there, responding hormonally as fight or flight, giving care to little else. He had given up trying to reassure himself long ago.
The silence was broken as a step was made onto the top stair. It was followed by another on the way down. The wood on the steps bowed out notably, but didn't make quite the sound that it usually did. While he couldn't see the bowing or make rational judgement about who was coming down, someone of sane mind might be able to guess that this person weighed at least two hundred pounds less than the last person. The young man was deeply afraid of the last person who made it down the steps. While the bullets had taken out most of his business partners, it took the heavy built man's fists to finish them. He was lucky to stay unnoticed, but lay in constant paranoia. Perhaps he had been heard? Did his breathing or crying give him away? Of course, he no longer thought so rationally. It was do or die, with no middle ground for thought.
The bipedal figure made its last step, making a pecuilar "clop!", touching the concrete floor. The clopping noise stepped into the room, with a very irregular pattern. There were too many limbs in the way to make clean, even steps. The man's eyes saw a momentary flicker of bright light, then it vanished. The figure pulsed the fluorscent lights once more. And again, for good measure. The man's long earned night vision was gone; pitch black was even blacker than before.
Thoughts began to blip through the man's mind. "Hide, hide, hide!", they shot through. His adrenaline appeared to finally let him think, even if just for a second. He slowly dropped down and put his head on the floor. He rubbed his face in the pool of blood from a neighboring body, and sprawled out in a deathly pose.
Near the lightswitch, a clop was made, and another softer thud. Faint sounds of feet were recognized by the man's suddenly keen ears. They were light steps, some further, then some closer. After a few minutes, they started to make way closer and closer, almost in a straight and perfect line. He knew he had been found, just he didn't know how. He wasn't sure how the figure could see at all in the darkness, or at least enough to spot him out. He cut his breathing, not even bothering to take a deeper breath. He was but a dead body on the floor, with only his mind and heart pulsing.
The man closed his eyes and did not want to know what would happen to him. He tried to forget everything, and for a moment even felt his death may be good for him. The steps ended; he didn't even care to exert his mind enough to tell from how far away. Suddenly, a cold, braided steel cable met his throat and pulled tight, lifting him up from his limp position. He screamed for a moment, until the cable tightened too much for him to continue. He shook and trembled, waving his arms helplessly. He muttered a few words, but they were muffled. He had forgotten about the enormous bruise on his throat, sourced from a very forceful lead pipe.
He choked and kept waving violently. The cable pulled him upright, then loosened just enough for him to breathe. The figure behind him kept the cable tight with one hand, then reached for a flash light. The light flicked on. After stepping around to his front, he saw that the figure was a woman, probably in her mid 20s. She had deep red hair dressed in a very professional-looking bun. She was slim, so her apparent strength would have been surprising to the man if he could think that far into it. Most notable, was the thermal camera she had over her right eye. She took it off and peered deeply into his eyes. They were ghostly, as if they had given up all hope once more. To her, he seemed limp in spirit, perhaps also in body. Harmless, she thought to herself.
Her face showed no emotion that he had ever seen before. She was the woman who shot everyone in the room. When she did, she had a cold and expressionless face. In this moment, it was of pure hatred. He knew that to her, he was the scum of society. The reason people die, the reason no one seems to find happiness. That was all him, he realized.
Angered, yet with strong confidence she spoke: "This is what happens when you fuck everyone everyone over and make them beg for mercy. Where they've done nothing wrong, but you destroy everything they own, every bit of hope they have, and then pick each of them off one by one. I've come to return the favor." With left hand on his cable necktie, she pulled her .357 magnum revolver out of its holster. Without a moment's hesitation, she cocked the hammer, pointed to the center of his skull, and pulled the trigger.
The young man was finally happy. Or at least, no longer in fear, or perhaps regret if he had remembered. Light for him grew dim, laying on his side with blood pouring out of his skull. His face froze with a neutral expression for the last time, the expression he had the most practice with.
The woman shot at another man who was feigning death in the corner of the room. She marched back up the stairs, into a large house. One boarded up long ago, with vintage wall paper and brass fixtures. It had a musty smell, with kicked up dust that you could see through the light coming in through the windows. The sun was in the East, having risen not long ago. The woman went to the master bathroom and cleaned off the blood as best as she could. She changed into the clothes in the black codura dufflebag sitting on the floor.
She left the house, with a tear in her left eye. She pulled out her $20 pack of cigarettes, took one out, and therew the rest near the house. Her lighter lit the cigarette, and she gave it a few puffs. Back to her cold face which the man knew quite well, she lit the gasoline on the ground which encircled the house. It lit up rapidly as she stepped back. She tossed the lighter into the fire, then walked towards the road with a burning house at her back.