(I wrote this in 2010 as part of my creative folio for Higher English. It’s very, very over-the-top and really hyperbolic, but still remember having a bunch of fun writing it (:
My inspiration for the main character was Yassen Gregorovich from Anthony Horowitz’s ‘Alex Rider’ series, and for the setting it was the ‘Escape From Colditz’ board-game and the second level of ‘James Bond 007 Nightfire’ for the PS2!)
The fortress stood before him, an imposing outline in the winter Scottish valley. Moonlit. His merciless posture seemed to shrink its immensity. He had no real name: it had been forgotten long ago. They called him Haunter, the image of a living ghost. His target was inside, known only as the General. He didn’t care why they had to die. He didn’t care about what they had done. He only cared about the money. He was the ultimate mercenary. He took a step back, fading into the cold.
He stole over to the side of the building, looking back to survey the path he had taken through the battalion of guards and the several searchlights defending it. He turned, and threw himself to the ground. Two guards walked past, but he went unseen: his dark clothes merging with the shadows. Then he was up again, moving like spilt oil. He made his way towards the guardhouse, gliding over the gravel, almost soundlessly. He looked in the window, seeing three uniformed men lounging in the warmth. They were laughing, oblivious to the fatal venom closing in. Heartlessly, Haunter drew his gun. He aimed. Three muffled coughs divided the night, finding their targets.
He rose up the stairs. Another guard appeared. A woman. For a second she was paralyzed with fear, then tried to shout. The noise never left her mouth. A silver blur glinted in the artificial light, ending an existence. He removed his knife; blood glistened on the blade. The body slumped to the floor. Ruthlessly, he continued on.
He was in the library. The General was through the door, at the far end of the room. The stacks of books acted liked guards, blocking his way. But they were powerless against his pitilessness. A naked light bulb hung from the ceiling, barely illuminating the gloom. It flickered out, as if he had extinguished it. Haunter paused and closed his eyes; focusing his mind. He opened the door.
There was the General, sitting to the left of the large table, listening patiently to a man avidly making a point. The meeting taking place was drawing to a close, the eleven participants beginning to shuffle their papers and pick up their briefcases. Haunter was on the balcony, spying on the khaki-dressed men and women below him. He wasn’t concerned with what had been discussed. It was irrelevant. The cold-blood pulsed through his veins, as he moved in.
His target was the last to leave the room. The General placed his jacket over his forearm and, picking up his briefcase, moved towards the door.
Haunter dropped to the floor, noiselessly. He promptly cut off the General’s only escape, standing casually, but ready to strike. His target froze, defenceless.
Now, invincible, Haunter once again drew his knife; it was still fresh with crimson blood. The General was backing away. He let out a shout, but nobody came to his aid. Nobody ever did. Sweat began dripping down the sides of the General’s face; the floor swaying beneath him.
He advanced, raising his weapon; each step a tidal wave of callousness and fear. His feet didn’t seem to touch the ground, but still they clicked ominously on the tile floor. They were counting down the seconds to the inevitable.
The General began withdrawing backwards, faster and faster. But he was unable to keep his eyes from his killer. He was hypnotised.
Haunter was expressionless.
The General’s voice was reduced to a high-pitched squeak as he desperately tried to negotiate with the brutal monster before him. But he only met silence. Suddenly, he toppled over a chair; clattering to the ground. The General’s body went rigid, his face fixed in an expression of pure horror. He let out a whimper, a cry of mercy.
Haunter’s face didn’t change at all. It was unmoved, remorseless. Uncaring.
He raised his knife one last time, and then stabbed down.
A klaxon began. The bodies had been discovered; the catalysts of mass panic. Red lights flashed on and off. Doors opened and closed. There were shouts, screams. A multitude of guards flooded out of the building, disoriented, half-dressed and confused. They were running around blindly, searching for the invisible threat that had already slipped away.
The next target had been located. The last already forgotten…