When it rains, it pours

I found an old WIP story-entry I had forgotten about, figured I might as well throw it up here for some feedback, see if it's worth finishing up. Yes, no update for 2 months and then two stories in a single night, quite a change I know!
This is currently untitled, names and titles are still likely to change, but the storyline itself should be pretty solid as is.
Enjoy!

A muck covered trooper burst into the dank cellar of an old café, where his comrades were holed up. “They’re coming! We need to leave, now!”
Immediately the room erupted in an explosion of movement, shouting and packing of what sparse supplies were left. Veterans barked orders, men grabbed food and ammunition, and rifles were slung across shoulders. Marcus, who was the closest thing to a commander they had, quickly packed up the charts he had been studying.
He took hold of the man who had burst in and said to him: “I need numbers and an ETA, now!”
“Marcus… sir…”
“Dammit man, spit it out already. There’s nothing we can do about it now!”
“Our forward relay counted at least 15. He spotted them 2 miles from here, coming straight for us. I expect them here in 5 minutes, tops.”
Marcus digested the information with a pained look on his face. He didn’t need this, not now. He had been so close. A day more, perhaps two and he would have found it!
“The relay?” He asked the trooper.
“Dead, sir. They passed straight over his position, he couldn’t have survived.”
“Perfect… Just what we needed.”
Marcus looked at the bustle and raised his voice: “Alright men, listen up! We’ve got 5 minutes before they hit us and John here says there were 15 incoming, so don’t even think about putting up a fight. We’re leaving, now. Everything that’s not vital, we leave behind.
I want everyone outside and moving in 30 seconds!”
“What about me sir?” John asked.
“Grab your rifle and ammunition, take all the supplies you can carry and don’t forget your transmitter. We might still have a use for that thing if we can salvage another one.”

The men were quickly pouring out of the cellar, taking up positions behind debris to cover their comrade’s exodus from what had been their home and base of operations for weeks now.
They had been relatively safe here. Only one Locust had come anywhere near their hideout, but that was still considered one too many by most of the men.
Marcus had heard their complaints and fears, but refused to move to a safer location. He needed to remain here, he knew that here he could find a key, a solution, an answer.

No one remembers what the Locust are or where they came from. Most of the population was wiped out several generations ago. Ever since, what little men remained focused on staying alive and out of their hands. They weren’t concerned with history.
Scattered scraps of information could be found about the Locust if you knew where to look and were lucky, although it was mostly unintelligible gibberish. Marcus had found something better. He said he had found a way to stop them. He said he had found their weakness.

Suffering from writer's blog

Such a funny play on words really requires no extra explanation, but as I like pointing out the obvious:
I'll be adding some of my writing to this blog, as writing is something I enjoy doing and I feel having an audience can never hurt. First addition will be a short bit I wrote a few months ago. Without further ado;

Here I stand

Here I stand, my hands wrapped around her neck.
How it ever came to this, I have no idea. All I know is this beautiful creature I once loved and adored now hangs limp and lifeless in my embrace.
All I want to do is scream and shout, to cry until I can’t cry anymore, to lie down and die…
But I can’t. I feel myself letting her slip.
Her soulless form drops to the floor, a crumpled heap of flesh. My being cries out in pain, but my voice resounds throughout the room, a mocking laugh filling my ears. I hear someone, something, speaking in my voice.
“How does it feel? How does it feel to know you are responsible for her death? Does it hurt? Does it fill you with despair, knowing she is gone and will never return?”
I try to reply, but my voice won’t heed my commands.
“Weakling! I am in control now… And I have plans for you yet.”
Then, darkness.

I wake up to find myself in a small, white room. The walls are padded. Above my head is a large fluorescent lamp, moulded into the ceiling. The light hurts my eyes.
A voice, seemingly out of nowhere: “Ah, you’re awake, excellent excellent! We were starting to get worried about you!”
I try to speak, but my voice fails me, resulting in nothing more than a rasping cough escaping my throat.
“Now now, do be careful! We wouldn’t want you hurting yourself, no we wouldn’t!
You see… we have plans for you yet.”

I wake up to find myself seeking cover behind a pillar inside the remains of a building I can’t recognize. Someone appears to be shouting at me, but I can’t make out his words.
His face contorts as a blade pierces him from behind. The force with which the blade was rammed through his guts sends a spray of blood showering my face. I find myself being strangely devoid of emotion as I see the life drain from his face.
His body slumps to the ground, and I see the… thing… behind the blade. Its insectoid face seems to look at me inquisitively, then turns malignant. It charges at me, chirping something that somehow feels familiar to me. Before it impales me on its blade, my body sidesteps the attack. My arms shoot out and grab the creature by its shoulders. I am aware of the muscles throughout my body tensing as I use the creature’s charge against it, sending it spiraling into a pile of debris. The creature impacts the debris with a telling crunch. A trickle of greenish fluid that can only be blood oozes out from the debris. I’m left wondering what just happened to me, when I suddenly black out again.

“Wake up, number 12.”
My eyes open, and the glare of the fluorescent lamp greets me again. I squint in a feeble attempt to get used to the brightness.
“How good of you to join us, number 12”
The voice sounds sarcastic, irritated. I feel as though this is not the same voice I heard before, but I’m not sure. Before I can gather my thoughts, the voice resounds through my padded chamber again: “So far you’re somewhat disappointing, number 12. I believe it is time for you to prove your worth.”
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can utter a sound darkness overcomes me yet again.

I awake at a table. 3 faces look at me, expectantly. I see plates with loaves of bread on them, glasses of orange juice. I look down and find myself holding a newspaper. For some reason I can’t make out the words. A woman’s voice reaches my ears: “Well?”
The sound of her voice seems to break my spell, and I ask: “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
A small smile crosses her face as she calls me a scatterbrain. I can’t help but grin sheepishly as I remember how she’s called me that ever since we first met, 15 years ago.
“I asked if you wanted another cup of coffee before you go out to work.”
“Coffee? Oh, yes, coffee, please.”
She pours me a cup of coffee. I suddenly get a feeling of deja-vu as the smell of the coffee reaches me. It feels as though my blood turns to ice where I sit as terror grasps me.
“Are you feeling alright dear?” She asks me.
“….run…” I whisper as I suddenly remember why I feel so scared.
She looks at me, fear and wonder trading places on that beautiful face of hers.
The 2 children sitting at the table ask her what’s wrong with daddy.
She doesn’t reply, her eyes locked to mine.
She sees what I see, what is about to happen.
The children pick up on the feeling of dread between the two of us, and start sobbing softly.
I hear her hiss for them to run, now, to go next door to uncle Jim and aunty Elly.
Between sobs the eldest says they don’t want to, they want to stay with us, but she yells at them to go, now!
Crying, he grabs his younger sister’s hand and runs out the door.
I slowly get up from my seat. She mirrors my action, moving slowly and deliberately.
She asks me what’s wrong, but my voice refuses to work.
I throw the table out of the way with both hands. She winces as it crashes violently into the porcelain closet containing the heirlooms given to her by her mother.
I feel myself slowly striding towards her. She just stands there, paralysed in fear. I want to scream at her to run, to flee while she still can, but I’m no longer in control.
My arms rise up. I see my hands surround her thin, swanlike neck. She lets out a muffled sob as my grip tightens. Inside my head, I’m crying along with her, as I find myself slowly squeezing the life out of her… yet again.