best action scene in a book you've read?
i'm trying to develop a flexible style that can create a really riveting action scene. typically the best action scenes are found in pleb books and not literature, i've found, so don't be afraid to post those.
i'm particularly fond of heroic action, with high-flying emotions.
if you know generally what part of the book it's in or can post an excerpt into the thread, that'd be sweet.
From the next room he hears the unmistakable sound of an
Army belt buckle.
“Somebody,” he observes, catching on quickly, “must be
robbing my pants.” Feet patter by on the carpet, close to his
head. Slothrop can hear his own small change jingling in his
pockets. “Thief!” he yells, which wakes up Katje, turning to
put her arms around him. Slothrop, managing now to locate
the hem he couldn’t find last night, scoots from under the
tablecloth just in time to see a large foot in a two-tone shoe,
coffee and indigo, vanish out the door. He runs into the
bedroom, finds everything else he had on is gone too,
down to shoes and skivvies.
“My clothes!” running back out past Katje now emerging
from the damask and making a grab for his feet. Slothrop
flings open the door, runs out in the hall, recollects that he is
naked here, spots a laundry cart and grabs a purple satin
bedsheet off of it, drapes it around him in a sort of toga.
From the stairway comes a snicker and the pad-pad of
crepe soles. “Aha!” cries Slothrop charging down the hall.
The slippery sheet will not stay on. It flaps, slides off, gets
underfoot. Up the stairs two at a time, only to find at the top
another corridor, just as empty. Where is everybody?
From way down the hall, a tiny head appears around a
corner, a tiny hand comes out and gives Slothrop the tiny
finger. Unpleasant laughter reaches him a split second
later, by which time he’s sprinting toward it. At the stairs, he
hears footsteps heading down. The Great Purple Kite
races cursing down three flights, out a door and onto a little
terrace, just in time to see somebody hop over a stone
balustrade and vanish into the upper half of a thick tree,
growing up from somewhere below. “Treed at last!” cries
Slothrop.
(1/2)
First you have to get into the tree, then you can climb it easy
as a ladder. Once inside, surrounded by pungent leaflight,
Slothrop can’t see farther than a couple of limbs. The tree is
shaking though, so he reckons that that thief is in here
someplace. Industriously he climbs on, sheet catching and
tearing, skin stuck by needles, scraped by bark. His feet
hurt. He’s soon out of breath. Gradually the cone of green
light narrows, grows brighter. Close to the top, Slothrop
notes a saw-cut or something partway through the trunk, but
doesn’t stop to ponder what it might mean till he‘s reached
the very top of the tree and clings swaying, enjoying the fine
view of the harbor and headland, paint-blue sea, whitecaps,
storm gathering off at the horizon, the tops of people’s
heads moving around far below. Gee. Down the trunk he
hears the sound of wood beginning to crack, and feels
vibration here in his slender perch.
“Aw, hey . . .” That sneak. He climbed down the tree, not up!
He’s down there now, watching! They knew Slothrop would
choose up, not down—they were counting on that damned
American reflex all right, bad guy in a chase always heads
up—why up? and they sawed the trunk nearly through, aand
now—
They? They?
“Well,” opines Slothrop, “I had better, uh . . .” About then the
point of the tree cracks through, and with a great rustle and
whoosh, a whirl of dark branches and needles breaking him
up into a few thousand sharp falling pieces, down topples
Slothrop, bouncing from limb to limb, trying to hold the
purple sheet over his head for a parachute. Oof. Nnhh.
About halfway to the ground, terrace-level or so, he
happens to look down, and there observes many senior
officers in uniform and plump ladies in white batiste frocks
and flowered hats. They are playing croquet. It appears
Slothrop will land somewhere in their midst. He closes his
eyes and tries to imagine a tropical island, a secure room,
where this cannot be happening. He opens them about the
time he hits the ground. In the silence, before he can even
register pain, comes the loud thock of wood hitting wood. A
bright-yellow striped ball conies rolling past an inch from
Slothrop’s nose and on out of sight, followed a second later
by a burst of congratulations, ladies enthusiastic, footfalls
heading his way. Seems he’s, unnhh, wrenched his back a
little, but doesn’t much feel like moving anyhow. Presently
the sky is obscured by faces of some General and Teddy
Bloat, gazing curiously down.
“It’s Slothrop,” sez Bloat, “and he’s wearing a purple sheet.”
(2/2)
this book and vurt both have crazy action. I don't have the time to look shit up.
