Waiting 4 Salvation
Welcome to the Infection
The dark dank corridor was dimly light with overhanging lights, which flickered rapidly, offering a flourish of light at intervals all the way down the corridor. The double doors before him stood open, a bloodied palm print smeared in the middle. He looked down. His hands were clean. So he wasn't bleeding, clearly. He moved his hands away, to see his apparel. It seemed rather normal, slightly dressy. The dark pinstriped jacket and trousers, with a crystal white shirt and a red tie, reaching down to his waist. His jacket lay open, his tie exposed, his shirt un-tucked. His wrist watch was thick, chunky and sluggish - it felt like a heavy burden upon his wrist. He looked at it for a while, the second hand clumsily stumbling around the face like a drunken fool. It was late (early morning actually). 3AM.
He heard a crackling sound to his right. He turned his head slowly, to see a white pillar, with a small light fitting splaying out a fountain of murky yellow down around him. He moved around the pillar, slowly. He felt light headed. He stumbled over to an old looking, worn out radio, missing a few buttons.
The speaker crackled, with a song playing, words spluttering out inconsistently. "…found a way…kill me yet…burn with sting and sweat…" He smiled. He knew the song. His smile vanished. He… remembered? That was a first. The one thing he remembered was a stupid song on a clapped-out old radio.
He turned to see a blue light emitting from the desk. The light was coming from a grimy computer monitor. On the screen was a small log-in box. It read 'Welcome back, Louis. Please type in password to continue.' He rubbed his bald head.
"Louis… Is that me? Am I Louis?" He looked around for a name tag, something. He pulled open the drawers, the top one was filled with blank paper and a stapler. He pulled open the middle drawer and there was a pistol. He looked around, and slowly picked it up. It had a small flashlight cheaply attached to the underneath of the barrel with adhesive tape. He put it into his pocket of his jacket.
He tried the bottom drawer. He saw a photograph of an African American man, with no hair and a beaming grin, with an arm wrapped around a boy and a woman.
The woman had long dark curly hair, spiralling of all around. The boy was fresh faced and happy, a wide grin a perfect copy of the man's. The glass caught a flash of the fountain of yellow, and the man reeled back, dropping the perfect moment, freeing it from its glass prison. The glass shattered. He felt like he'd seen a ghost. His face looked the same as the man in the photograph. He gently swept the glass to one side, gently crawling over to the drawer.
A few sheets of paper smothered with scribbles, an old watch and… a wallet. He grabbed it, pulling it open. The photo inside was the same as the one in the frame. He moved the photo and saw a driver's licence. The photo was a perfect match of the man in the family photo. The name was Louis Alexander. He smiled. "My name is Louis Alexander. I have a wife and son. I am happy." He subconsciously knew he was lying. He brushed such thoughts aside, and smiled. "I am Louis Alexander." He stopped.
He heard footsteps down the corridor. The lights were too dim, and the flickering wasn't much help either. Louis only saw a masculine figure shuffling along, arms at his sides, grumbling and moaning, his feet clumsy. Louis called out. "Hello! Can you hear me? Where am I?"
The feet stopped.
The arms shot out rigidly in front of the figure, and the figure began to clumsily sprint, breathing heavily, screeching.
The light was better nearer to Louis, and as Louis began to back away, the light caught the man's face. His face was deathly pale. His eyes were pallid, with no pupils or irises.
His face and chest were smeared with blood, and his jaw was dislocated on the left side, hanging limply on a tendon.
He seemed as if he was already dead. He heard loud footsteps, and gunshots illuminate the corridor behind the figure that was getting dangerously close to Louis. He grabbed his pistol and aimed at the figure. He saw muzzle flashes behind the figure, and saw it convulse a few times, reacting to gunshots tearing through its abdomen. Louis dived to the side to avoid being hit too. He heard voices. A deep booming voice called out.
"Is someone there?" Louis paused. Were they here to kill him or something? He chose not to answer. He simply began to get up. A soft feminine voice called out. "Who's that? There, at the end of the corridor, are you okay?" Louis felt as if he should answer the now appearing figures, at least they had saved him from whatever was now dead at his feet.
"My… my name's Louis Alexander. I'm fine. Who are you people?"
The figures walked into the light. The man on the farthest right was old, wearing tattered military gear, a green beret and a cigar in his mouth. He had a thick white beard neatly smoothed around the contours of his face. He carried an assault rifle firmly in his arms. "The name's Bill."
Next to Bill stood a shorter female, her hair tied into a messy ponytail, he pink hooded sweatshirt covered in dirt and blood. "Hi. I'm Zoey. It's nice to meet you." She held two pistols, identical to Louis'.
Finally, on the left stood a burly man, with a dark beard and short hair, wearing a white t-shirt and a leather sleeveless jacket. His arms were covered with tattoos. He rested a shotgun on his shoulder. "Name's Francis. Welcome to the Infection."