Young Writers Society

We manage to scrounge together a camp, lighting fires from the clothes of those we have buried (Clothes don't burn that well. Like paper.). I stand away from the others, staring off into the abyss of the planet (Abyss indicates it's a great big hole, but in the first chapter you described it as a flat desert. You need some consistency). This desert planet is exactly as it appears: a wasteland, filled with nothing more than sand and the rotting corpses of our dead.

The other survivors give me strange looks. One asks me if I am sick, tells me to lie down. I say no, friend, I'm right as rain. Just a little shaken. Yeah, that's what I tell myself. Just a little shaken. But I'm not okay, and I know it. My head is pounding inside my head like drumbeat, and a voice – barely above a whisper – echoes inside my head (You said head three time in one sentence, it isn't necessary). I try to ignore it, but it's like a parasite growing within my skull, pulsing and squealing like a disembodied embryo. I grit my teeth, and pray – oh, God how I pray – that it will abate and leave me my sanity.

My people make plans. We have no food, no water, no weapons. Tomorrow, they decide, we will make a run for the ship, when the sun is low in the sky. I watch these discussions with a dull sense of apathy. It's as if there is an invisible wall between myself and the others (I like this part. You're really describing the hero's emotions).

Still, I volunteer to take the first watch while the others sleep inside the pods. The woman who wept for Robert Brown takes the same shift. For a few minutes, we keep watch together, neither of us saying a word as we stare out into the faceless ocean of sand. The desert is a void of silence and stillness, as if it is frozen in time, oblivious to its visitors (I like the innocent irony of 'oblivious', which makes it link well with the climax later on).

The woman turns to me, and asks what it is that I do. I tell her that I am the custodian, and ask her what is she does. She tells me she was the pilot's assistant, training to earn her own ship and crew. Her name, she tells me, is Loraine.

Tell me about yourself, says Loraine.

I tell her there's nothing to know.

There's always something to know, she says.

I tell her I don't know, and mean it. My mind has (become? been? You need another word here) jumbled mess since the crash, my memory a jumbled train wreck (You used jumbled twice, if you repeat yourself, it begins to bore the reader and it loses it's impact). Hell, I tell her, I barely even remember the crash.

I'm lucky, she tells me. I don't have to remember the crash, the screaming, the dying, the fire. She looks upset, like she's about to start crying.

Hey, I say, trying to comfort her. Tell me about yourself, Loraine.

Nothing to know, she says sarcastically.

I see you have a ring, I say. Someone special?

It is a beautiful ring, as gold as a thousand suns with a diamond the color of the bluest ocean. She holds it aloft, letting it sparkle in the light of the fire. Her mouth shudders to form words, but suddenly, she begins to cry. It's not hopeless, deathly cry, but the cry of someone is who sad, hurt, lonely.

I try to put my arm around her, but she rejects my comfort.

What happened to your arm, she says, her tears stifling.

I say nothing. My arm?

She takes my arm in her hand and turns its underside upwards, revealing a tangled web of lacerations. I gawk, unable to accept the fact that I haven't noticed these yet. The wounds are dark pink and still sensitive as she prods them.

Must have happened during the crash, I say, not quite sure I believe this myself.

Huh, she mumbles. A vague hint of suspicion fills her eyes. They almost look self-inflicted, she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Something moves in the corner of my eye.

I jump to my feet, yanking my arm away from Loraine's probing . A figure is moving amidst the darkness, slinking about. It looks human, as far as I can tell. It is walking over the graves, hobbling towards our makeshift camp.

I tell Loraine to wake the others. She complies, shaking as she gets to her feet. I hear her footsteps fade behind me.

There are more figures now, joining the other in its crusade. Sand drips off their forms like water as they shuffle towards the camp. I hear stirring behind me as the others are woken. I keep my eyes on the intruders, somehow knowing that what is coming for us is almost certainly not human.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and nearly jump out of my skin. I turn to see Loraine behind me, her eyes filled with fear.

I return my gaze to the intruders, but they are gone. Am I imagining them? The voice inside my head tells me that yes, I was imagining them, that the desert and its stresses are playing tricks on me. I hear the whispers of others behind me, but I dare not turn around. They are there, I can feel them, I can –

A scream erupts. They are among us, and I know without having to see. I spin spin (You only need one) around in time to see Loraine's back as she tries to flee. One of the figures grabs her from behind, lifting her weight as if she were nothing. She kicks and screams in protest.

As I run towards her, pandemonium ensues all around me. The screams and cries of my fellow passengers erupt as the creatures make their assault. Shadows struggle and fight in the periphery of my vision. I sprint towards the woman, desperate to fend off the phantom.

The figure holding Loraine has her in a choke-hold, her legs flailing beneath her. With all the force I can muster, I tackle it to the ground, taking the crying woman with us. The figure turns to me, and I see the scarred, decaying face of Robert Brown. Death has shaken all humanity from him, and the sad blue eyes have gone all but black.

Does it speak to you? It rasps, a demonic smile curling around its lips.

Before I can say or do anything, he shoves me into the air with a strength no human being could possibly posses. I tumble onto the sand, helpless.

The thing that was once Robert Brown lifts Loraine – the woman who wept over him, the woman who could have saved him – and begins to sink into the Earth, as if disappearing under the surface of water. I somehow get to my feet, and stumble back over to where the predator and its prey are being consumed by the sand. It is happening fast, and all that remains is the woman's torso jutting out from beneath the ground, her arms reaching out to grasp at air.

I reach for the woman's hand, grab hold of it and hold as tight and firm as I can. Horror fills her eyes, her shaking voice spouting incoherent words as she is pulled beneath the earth. I hold on with every ounce of strength left to me, but it is not enough, and as her hands slip away, I hear one final muffled screech as Loraine and Robert Brown are consumed by the planet.

I scratch at the surface of the sand, trying to reach them before it is too late. With every ounce of will left to me, I tear and claw at the planet's skin, past the sand and into the hard dirt. But there is nothing I can do (These last three paragraphs are pretty similar to the movie "The Time Machine". I don't know if that's intentional or not).

All around me I hear the sobs and shrieks of the other survivors. The attack is over. All around me I hear my suspicions confirmed: our dead have taken our living, dragging them down beneath the earth to whatever Hell they have been condemned to.

I bury my face in my hands and begin to weep. The ashes of the fires are scattering, the light of the flames dwindling to nothing amidst the dark. They're gone, whispers the voice inside my skull. The planet took them.