SURVIVAL IS NOT AN OPTION
That phrase echoed through her head, and it bounced along her small, blonde curls. Her crisp-blue eyes glittered intensely, as they flicked around in their sockets. She ducked low to the ground, behind a shattered boulder; her antique hand grazing gently across the slashed rock.
In her left hand, she held a knife in a backwards stance- the sharp, keen blade glistened in the orange light. She flattened herself against the rock, and took a deep breath in. And out. She steadied her nerves, and withdrew her arm; resting the knife near her face.
Sue Sylvester would not die- dammit! Not if she could help it...and if she was going to die, she would go out fighting. Not a coward. Her stocky frame shivered slightly, as the cold bit into her tattered red tracksuit. Her blonde curls quivered.
And Sue Sylvester went into battle with her head held high.
Sway. And creak. The half-sounds began to clear as her hearing became sober. Her brown, luscious locks of hair coiled downwards as she was suspended in mid-air. A stuttered gasp wrenches free from her sore vocal cords, as her brain pounds painfully against her skull. A scream dies along her flush throat; but that doesn't stop the fear clenching around her chest.
The panic-rat is loose in her brain, and it's nibbling her away like grain.
Rachel's dark eyes darted, trying to make sense of the upside-down world. She tried to move her 'man' hands, but found them tightly bound around her hips. Her fragile legs were firmly wrapped, with several layers of grimy rope. She began to cry- the small tears descending down her face, and slipping along her forehead.
Rachel shook her head left and right, trying to get loose. Instead, her deep-brown eyes found a sight that made her scream wildly. Another body twirled in the air, the twine tied around its ankle. It stank of rotten flesh- maggots swirled around in the eye cavities. Rachel Berry thrashed, until ragged breaths ripped out of her mouth.
"I can't die like this. I can't. I mustn't" Rachel rambled, trying to calm herself down. I would never get a Tony... and I would die a nobody. I can't- I must not let that happen.
The crackle of flame became noticeable to her ears. The flame crackled far away; the garish-orange colour soaked across the pale, stone wall. It flickered and cracked beside the hung corpse... whose pungent stench began to waft over Rachel's face.
Rachel was glad she didn't have a gagging reflex. Because if she did, she would surely be dry-heaving the remnants of her stomach contents over the upside-down floor below.
Rachel's bones began to stiffen and creak slightly, as she twirled in the air. Her fingers [from her weak vantage point] were starting to go purple. Her short, stubby nails were chipped and muddied. She glanced right, towards the suspended carcass. Clumps of kinky-blonde hair were planted amongst a mouldy, black skull. An outstretched, blackened hand dangled limply in mid-air.
Fire jumped onto the pecked leftovers of decomposed flesh- and quickly lit the body alight. It was a beacon. The harsh flames pricked Rachel's eyes, still adjusting from the murky depths of unconsciousness.
That was when the metaphorical light bulb went on in her head.
Rachel had a plan in her head- a goal. And like she had said to Finn, she always strove to achieve. Here's hoping it might work. Rachel began to push herself right- and let go. She swung to the left limply. And swung slowly to the right, Rachel exerting her weight slightly. She let the pressure go again.
Her body crashed against the corpse's bindings, and began swaying back. She grunted in frustration. Dammit! I'm going to die, i'mgoingtodie, i'mgoingtodie... She began to descend into fits of crying, the tears shaking down her face.
She howled coarsely, into the frigid air.
She felt something fiery, against her fingers. Prickling like a thousand pins into her flesh, a tiny flame of hope festered on the grimy binds. Her eyes were still blurry with tears, so Rachel didn't notice anything. Until the rope frayed... letting her go slightly. She stopped her sniffles, and looked [as far] up. Fire danced welcomingly, along the thin rope holding her up. Rachel smiled, her chapped lips stretching along her tanned face.
Snap.
The world was a blur as she fell backwards. Her brown locks whipped across her face, as she cast her arms around herself. She twisted herself around, to land- well more gently. She opened her eyes and shock gripped her.
A long, metal spike protruded from the ground. Rachel's eyes widened.
His face was cold, and his lips were blue. Thick-rimmed, black plastic glasses were splayed on the ground underneath- his vision was cloudy and shapes were swimming. Only a small cluster [flaunting at him] stayed unnervingly still. He tried to rustle, but could only hear a loud crack.
He stopped, his breaths beginning to quicken. He couldn't see anything, and yet he was certain- deadly certain- that he was not on the ground, and that something had tied him to his wheelchair.
The ropes holding his wheelchair, on the steep platform snapped. And Artie Abram's wheelchair rolled down the slope, towards a pile of untidy spikes.
Rachel screamed as the metal ripped through her shoulder. Blood poured, and slid down her arm. Her fingers were slick with- her- dark-red blood. She screamed, as pain ran along her spine like fire. The metal spike had ripped through her entire shoulder, and had nearly come close to her ear. All she could feel was the metal jutting from her flesh- her heart pounded in her ears as her life began to drip away.
Instinct grabbed her brain, and made her focus on one thing- survival. The pain was still there, and yet it was not there. She grunted, as she began to push up- her flesh shirking on the spike. Pain jarred across her bones, ragged breaths ripping out quicker and quicker. But she carried on, the barbed spear in her shoulder gradually slinking free.
Finally, Rachel plopped onto the desecrated floor- her shoulder free. Blood still pumped from her shoulder, now onto her torso- and onto the ground. The burnt corpse above twirled in her blurring vision, as she felt herself being carried up.
No. I WILL NOT DIE! Rachel began to fight the drowsiness, the blood loss weaving around her mind. Quickly, everything was sharp to her brown eyes. Moving fast, she ripped off her shirt sleeve- white tufts flying- and began to tighten it around her right shoulder. Rachel pulled her head back, and screamed loudly into the air. The blood had crusted on her pale shirt. Panting and gasping harshly, the pain subsided.
Rachel delicately stood up, clutching her shoulder tightly in her tiny fists.
Turn. Tumble. Dump. Rachel landed on her palms, grazing her hands nastily. She winced, twisting her face nastily as a tiny prickle of pain shot through her nerves. The cold, rusty taste of blood was on her tongue. She spat it out, and ran her hand under her chin- wiping away the spittle. Rachel got up again, swaying precariously.
Wiping some strands of her brunette hair out of her face, Rachel Berry lifted her head up. In her eyesight, she could see a ruined piano in the corner. Dust covered it like a mist; the slink-black exterior cracked now.
And with a slight jolt of pain, Rachel realised where she was.
She was in McKinley High's choir room [or what was left of it]. The silver bandstands were all cluttered in a messy pile, next to the smashed piano. Dull shock approached across her face, as Rachel swirled- the sweet shish of her green-plaid skirt in the silence.
Her world... was shattered. Rachel swallowed back a sob, her eyes watering slightly. All the happy memories shattered like glass fragments. There! A broken, plastic chair lies on the ground covered in ash; but in Rachel's eyes she could see the bright eyes of Finn as he paid attention.
Finn!
The ghost of a memory crumbled, and faded into dust. Rachel turned around, towards an open door frame. Walking over the thick door [laid on the ground, with the hinges broken off], Rachel tightened her shoulder bandage. The pain hurt, but Rachel felt a chill in her bones:
I'm in for a world of hurt.
...
A school corridor. Normally, Rachel would be hurrying along with her books clenched in her arms, close to her chest. The corridors were deathly quiet, like the grave. Some lockers were flapped open, papers spilled over the pale floor. Rachel's bare feet skittered across the calculus practise papers, as she walked down the corridor.
Bleached wall to her left, with several small windows up high- midday light poured, cutting through the darkness. Dust hung heavily on the air, small specks floating on the light. The cold bit into Rachel, making her quiver violently. Her bare feet were numb; her tanned skin pale and spoiled with dirt. Trudging along, Rachel looked around wildly; looking for familiar faces.
Instead her brown eyes rested on the dead face of Jacob Ben-Israel. Rachel recoiled backwards, her ankles twisting- falling onto her back. Horror in her eyes, it moved her across the corridor. Jacob's glazed-over eyes pierced Rachel's- at the corner of his mouth ran a few ripples of blood.
A poppy bruise on his forehead, and his jaw was slack. His glasses still hung around the bridge of his large nose, and his afro-hair was still bouncy.
Jesus, what happened to you? I mean, sure you were annoying...but... something is here. I hope I don't across it. It must have done killing you and ran off. But then... it's not me at least. That's good, right?
Yes.
What was that? Who's there! Huh. I must have imagined a voice. Never mind that. Jacob's dead! He was killed. I could be next. I don't want to be next.. I don't want to die!
Calm down and think.
There again! What was that?
Rachel, I am you. A part of you never realised you had. Listen to me and you will live. But you and I both know that the journey will test you beyond your limits. You will see things that will horrify you. You will have to fight for your life. Or you shall surrender it.
Reality came back to Rachel. She was on the floor, facing the dead corpse of Jacob Ben-Israel. His face was painted with horror. Her back was against the white wall, her legs stretched out in front of her.
See what's on him- it might help you.
Rachel twisted her legs around, and pulled herself into a sitting position. Biting her bottom lip, Rachel reached her hands towards Jacob's body. His head lolled further down, and a little spittle drooled out. Rachel grimaced slightly. Before death it seems Jacob had been wearing a cotton sweater with a striped shirt. Black sneakers and grey jeans. In a clenched fist, he had held a pocket knife.
Rachel took it delicately. It felt strange in her hands, as it glinted in the sunlight. She felt stronger. She was looking at it in wonderment, but twisted her head round to Jacob. Her frozen fingers began to peel the blue sweater off the corpse. Apart from a few crusty blood stains, the blue sweater was nice. The soft fabric under Rachel's fingertips soothed her.
She carefully removed her bloody shirt, her tanned skin prickling. Gingerly, Rachel put the sweater on over her shoulders. Small tinge of pain in her shoulder. Rachel shook it off, landing her eyes on Jacob's. In life, Rachel thought no better of him. In death however, Rachel pitied him.
"Rest in peace, Jewfro," Rachel simply said in a hoarse voice. She reached a trembling hand over, and closed shut his eyelids. She felt empty, like a cold husk.
Get used to the feeling. You will see many people die, but the important thing is to carry on. To carry on living.
To carry on breathing.
This is the first chapter of my new fanfiction 'Survival Is Not An Option'. Rated M in Horror for gore, language and character death.