Empty Hours

Haha, well, almost a month later I check up on this little snippet and feel guilty for not following it with something else. I'll totally follow it up soon and alert the two lovely reviewers:)

'Tedius'Cloud's already dissected your story's grammatical/verbal failings. I'm not going to.

Arright. This seems like a prologue-ish start to me. Its length and lack of character description, as well as the hookhanger (NOT 'cliffhanger'; who hangs anything off cliffs these days?) at the very end prompted the idea.

Otherwise it was a fairly interesting start. You could, of course, lengthen it if it was an actual chapter, but if you're planning for a chapter scheme like in James Patterson's or Dan Brown's books, fine by me.
(The actual reason for all this haranguing about the chapter length is the fact that I really need to know what happens after that... ha.)

I enjoyed it - can't say I didn't - let me know when a new chapter's out, will you?

Hi Tedius, thank you for the review, and oh boy, yes, the quacking of doom! I had a similar typo the other day - to 'asses' a situation.

The hallway was damp; {Semicolon here, not comma} it had been mopped just minutes before I had appeared in the dark corridor. The building was closed for the night, quiet, only the humming of the computers in the locked up offices and the sounds of the street floating in through the open windows.

I walked slowly, placing my shoes carefully on the wet floor to avoid losing my balance. I was slightly hungry, which meant that if I didn't nibble at least a piece of candy soon, I’d be feeling the familiar buzz of the oncoming headache. {Interesting reveal here - however a word of advice: if it reveals nothing about the character (in this case perhaps diabetes and/or some form of affliction) I would remove it.}

The door that I needed had an electronic lock, which I had prepared to handle by means of a small portable magnetic lock-pick; stuffed into the left pocket of my jeans it dug into me with every stride. It was with a certain feeling of relief that I fished it out.

Everything was still quiet. I was the sole inhabitant {incorrect word usage, inhabitant means one lives there not one who happens to be there.} of this floor of the building.

I pressed the lock-pick at the door’s lock, but didn’t even have the chance to activate it. The door swung open. It hadn’t been locked to begin with.

That just felt wrong. Was someone waiting for me? The thought sent my hands into freeze-zone{a bit ambiguous word phrase here, if you've created it yourself define it, if you have not my apologies} and sweat went a-slithering {why the use of a-slithering here? It jars a tad. I would remove it} down my neck. My gun had been in my right hand the whole time, but now it felt ready to clatter to the floor – my palms were that moist with tension.

Well, there was no turning back. I listened through the crack in the door, but the faint buzz of sleeping electrical appliances was the only sound produced within that room {consider 'being produced from within' as a better phrase structure}

Then, without warning, the whole building seemed to tilt. The floor fell away from under my legs{consider feet rather than legs}, throwing me through the open door and on the floor of the shadowy office. A great rumble accompanied the shaking.

I scrambled on the floor, not to get up, this felt hopeless, but to keep from slamming my head into the furniture. As I had feared just seconds before, but for other reasons, both my lock-pick and the pistol had gone clattering{repeating the word clatter~ here is slightly unfavourable} to the floor.

In just five more seconds the quacking{typo alert! Perhaps quaking? } subsided. Alarms rang throughout the building and on the nighttime streets outside. Just my luck!

Then I calmed myself. If this was a real earthquake, then perhaps the police wouldn’t come here at once. No, instead the local security guards would just switch off the alarms. Nothing had changed. I still had a job to do.

I scrambled to my feet, picked up an overturned chair, and tried to figure out which of the computers was the one I needed to access. What had the man said? “The third from the left…”

Right, third from the left. I went there. “The password is on a piece of paper in the middle drawer." Okay. That I remembered too.

I listened, but there were still no footfalls in the corridor outside.

I yanked the middle drawer open and barely contained my scream. Inside, rolling with the movement of my yank was a man’s head, freshly severed. Face up, mouth half open, it seemed to be moving from side to side in silent disapproval: “Peggy Jackson Bloch, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

And then I heard footsteps in the corridor.