I can't write suspense. Instead, I'm being painfully obvious. Sighs.

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Flickering Lights

by kaeera

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Chapter Two: Flickering

He almost slipped on the cold tiles, caught himself just in time and skidded around the corner with less grace than normal. Heart pounding in his chest, Gordon raced all the way back to the stairway which, unlike the rest of the building, was still illuminated. The sharp, white light helped to bring him back to his senses; touching the wall with one hand, he stopped and doubled forward to catch his breath.

What the hell had that been? It had winked at him! And then the noise, oh so dreadful sounding...

The lights were humming again, sizzling, as if they were laughing at his expense. One of them flickered, then another one, reminding him that he was a victim to their will. The thought of being alone in the darkness gripped at his heart with icy fingers.

"Gordon," someone whispered close to his hear. He stumbled sideways, looking at empty air and thrashing around. "Leave me in peace!"

Another flicker. For a moment, he was plummeted into darkness. He thought of the bloody prints, of the corpse, of the moving thing, and his breathing quickened. Gordon wasn't one to be frightened; watching horror movies with his brothers was more of a laughing matter (who could point out the most mistakes?) and common terrors such as death and darkness didn't faze him much – he saw far too much of it in the course of his work. Actually, he had always taken pride in his ability not to be scared easily; something of dire need to him, with all the pranks he played on everyone.

Now, though, he found himself drenched in cold sweat, pressing against the wall as if the devil himself was haunting him. The humming became louder and louder, until he pressed his fists against his ears in an attempt to escape the noise. But it seemed to penetrate every fibre of his body.

He had to get out of here. That was the only thought that vibrated through his head. He had to escape, and fast, before he lost his sanity (or the last shred that had remained of it).

Gordon stumbled down the staircase, careful to make a wide berth around the next handprint that presented itself on the railing. To his horror, the stairway stopped in front of a heavy, metal door that seemed to be locked. Rattling on it didn't help. Rather, he just jerked his hands back because the handles were too hot to touch.

Was it only his imagination or could he smell smoke?

So there had been a fire after all! Glad that at least this memory wasn't failing him, Gordon leaned his back against the wall. He must be in the cellar, he supposed; that's why there were no windows. Which meant that the level above was the ground floor, and that meant – he shuddered - that he had to cross it in order to get out. Walking right past the damn room with the smirking face.

While Gordon had never been as sensible as Scott or as rational as John, he was alert enough to realize that one didn't normally see faces preserved in a glass jar. And even if there might be some, one didn't expect them to be alive and smile at him.

That was what the rational part of his brain screamed, but much to his regret, that part was drowned out by the feeling of cold dread that grew stronger and stronger, threatening to overtake his whole body. Once more he tried the door and winced when it burned his palms. Over him, the lights flickered as if to threaten him.

"Don't be a pussy," Gordon reprimanded himself, appalled by his coward behaviour. Setting his jaw, he faced he stairs.

It wasn't as if he had never been scared before in his life. No, fear was a very real factor of his work, and even before International Rescue he had been more than familiar with it. He'd be a fool not to admit it. There had been instances when he had been afraid as a child; had been so scared that he couldn't move at all.

And then, when he had had his hydrofoil crash...during the few fractions of a second the craft had been flying through the air, he had been more scared than ever before. It was a feeling that would never leave him; the frozen numbness in his limbs, the sound of his own heartbeat loud in his ear - even louder than the crashes, than the alarms shrilling and the voices screaming at him – and then there had been searing hot pain, like a glowing poker in his side and he...

Then there was the fear for someone else; fearing for Alan when he was dangling on a thin line, trying to rescue climbers while risking his own life; fearing for Scott when went ahead to take the brunt of the danger himself; fearing for Virgil, when he was stuck in the Mole under massive debris, unable to move.

Being afraid belonged to the job, because if you weren't afraid, you made mistakes, and you could not afford to do that when lives depended on you.

Yes, Gordon knew all about fear.

However, it was giving in to the fear that Gordon wouldn't allow. He had seen what happened when people were consumed by fear. And he really didn't want to experience it himself, no thank you.

That's why, even though his heart was beating and his limbs felt like lead, he forced himself up the steps. He refused to be scared by something like this. Or, at least, he could try his best not to show that he was scared.

The hallway looked the same as before. Dark, gloomy, full of lurking shadows.

Gordon used the torch to point into every corner. He felt a bit sheepish for doing so, but it wasn't as if his brothers would know – and besides, wasn't he supposed to be looking for possible victims?

Right. His brow furrowed. Damn, he had somehow forgotten about that. Unforgivable! Survivors were the first priority! Disconcerted, he pressed a hand against his throbbing head, wondering why it was so difficult to think. Somehow, he felt all fuzzy.

Then the humming noise was back, cutting like ice needles into his brain. "SHUT UP!" Gordon bellowed, but it wouldn't listen. It throbbed, like a heart that was beating, and then the lights flickered again, mocking him, laughing at him, making fun of the pathetic coward he had been reduced to.

He gritted his teeth, stumbled onwards with a stubborn look on his face. "I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid," Gordon repeated like a mantra, just as he had done when he had been younger and scared of the wardrobe at night. But just like then, it didn't help much. Instead, it only seemed to make him more aware of the fact that yes, the shadows were getting darker, and yes, there was something moving just at the edge of his vision, right behind him and yet he couldn't place a finger on it.

"Leave me alone!" He whirled around, but faced empty air. Trying to calm his racing heart, he ran a hand through his copper hair, tangling it up in the process. With swift steps, he hurried down the corridor, hoping to escape the unsettling feeling. A chill ran over him as he saw the door that led to the room where he had made his dreadful encounter. Then he shook his head, once again appalled by his own behaviour, and passed it in quick, hurried steps.

"Gordon Tracy, you are becoming a wimp.", the redhead scolded himself, finding relief in the sound of his voice. "Here you are, behaving like a baby just because the lights are flickering and you saw some strange things."

"Gordon?"

The whisper hissed through the air, made him freeze up like a mouse transfixed by a snake. Something reflected the torch light to his right. An invisible hand closed around his throat as he realised that he was standing next to another window. At first he thought it was his own reflection that he saw; but then realization trickled in: he didn't have black hair, nor broad shoulders like that.

It was a face that had been burned deeply into his memory. They hadn't been close friends - more rivals, really. But it was a companionable sort of rivalry, the thrill of finding out who was better, stronger, faster. They both knew that the other could be trusted to be fair and honest.

It was also a face that he hadn't seen in a long time, only when it was haunting his dreams, as it did after strenuous rescues.

Gordon swallowed. "No...it can't be...this must be a dream..."

Yet there was the reflection of a man who had died a long time ago. "Tom?"

"Hello Gordon." Thins lips stretched into a crude smile. "How nice to see you."

"You're dead."

The smile widened. "My, how perceptive we are today, Mr.International-Rescue. I am flattered."

Was it his imagination or was water dripping down Tom's face? Lots and lots of water. Running down in rivulets, forming a puddle on the floor. And then he felt it on him, too, soaking through his clothes, running down his cheeks just like tears. Like icy tendrils sneaking around his body.

It was unknown for Gordon to feel chilled by water. He thrived on it; he loved diving into it, no matter what the temperature. Swimming was his life.

And yet he found himself shivering at every drop that found his body.

"W-What are you doing here?"

Tom's eyes became darker. "Why, I'm haunting you, of course!"

And then he wasn't on the other side of the window any more, but right in front of him, much to close for his comfort. "Don't you remember me, Gordon? Don't you remember the day I...died?"

Gordon swallowed. What a question to ask! Of course he remembered – there wasn't a day when he didn't! It had taken him quite a while to accept Tom's death. But then again, the real Tom had never looked that...mean. No, he had always been sparkling; his humour not as outgoing as Gordon's, but still there, a cheerful way of taking life as it was.

Only to be crushed on that fateful day.

A cold hand reached out to him. "And now I will make you feel the same horror I endured." Tom whispered, his voice like the rasping of icebergs. Gordon watched in horror as the familiar features melted into something else. Skin became paler and paler, seemed to rot away right on the bone. Where there had been eyes, there were holes blinking back at him all of sudden. A rancid smell filled the air.

"Look what you made of me, Gordon," a distorted voice garbled.

Gordon opened his mouth, but for the first time in a long while he found himself at a loss of words. Tom's body – no, corpse – seemed to be rotting right in front of him. What had once been an acquaintance, a friend, a rival, a...human, suddenly shifted and morphed and twisted until it became something else, so dreadful and horrible that it made his stomach turn around. Claw-like hands stretched out to him, aiming at his neck. Millimetres before they brushed his skin, Gordon jerked back and whirled around. A wretched sound escaped his lips – it could have been a sob, it could have been a curse. Foul stench surrounded him, the smell of decay and death and failure and...

Bile filled his throat. Behind him, Tom cackled as though he was enjoying the sight. Eyes open wide with terror, Gordon opened the next available door. Another whiff of...death encircled him, and this time his stomach really did turn around. Spotting the sink in the corner, he dashed over, emptying the contents of his stomach into it just in time.

As he retched, feeling more miserable than ever, the water mixed with the tears forming a puddle on the floor. Where was it coming from?

This had to be a bizarre dream. The dead didn't come alive. Not even Tom. And he couldn't have meant...no.

But the smell...

"Shit." Gordon breathed and wiped his mouth. It was the only word that summed up his situation. His knees wouldn't hold him any longer and he sank to the ground, exhausted. From far, far away Scott seemed to be calling him, but he was far too exhausted to reply. Instead, he fell backwards and focused his gaze on the ceiling.

Water was raining down on him in rivulets. The sprinkler, he noticed dimly through the fog in his mind, it was just the sprinkler.

But the relief didn't come.

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The water had been pounding on him for quite a while now. He probably should get up, Gordon mused, but couldn't summon the energy to do so. So he watched the water droplets, raining down on him in a never-ending pattern, glinting in the light of his torch which was lying somewhere on the ground. He was at the end of his wits. Didn't understand anything. Didn't know, didn't want...

The lights flickered. Again.

He was too tired to ignore them. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the next available light. The humming sound was always there, clawing at his sanity and slowly succeeding. "Leave me in peace!" Gordon ordered, unaware of the waver in his voice. Closing his eyes didn't help; holding his ears shut didn't, either. It was as if the noise was deep within himself, shut in the darkest parts of his body and only now starting to escape.

With great effort, he eased himself up on his arms - to come face to face with another bloody handprint.

"Gah!" His whole body seemed to react to the sight. His eyes were transfixed on the bloody mess, taking in how it slowly got swept away by the running water.

"I need to get out." Gordon told himself, overcome by the need to see sunlight, and scrambled around for the torch. "I'm mad. I'm drunk. I'm concussed. Whatever it is, there is NO WAY IN HELL I'M STAYING HERE!"

Stumbling to his feet, he crashed right into the wall, the room tilting precariously around him. Cradling his aching shoulder, he searched for a kind of exit, any kind. But what he saw were shelves and no windows at all and huge machines that looked scary in the dark and white containers with skulls on them and a lot of things that didn't make sense at all, like the dark stain on the ground, for example, and no exit.

"Exit. There has to be an exit." Panicked, he scanned the room for the green sign that had to be there, somewhere, because this was a modern lab and all modern lab had emergency exits, damn, there were rules for this, so why couldn't he find one?

Maybe it had something to with the fact that his vision was swimming in and out of focus, or the water that kept running into his eyes and blinding him, stinging a bit, or with the panic that had somehow managed to drive its clutches into his mind, making his thoughts slow and sluggish.

It was difficult to walk on the slippery ground, and more than once he almost tripped, managing to grab some table just in time. Once, he imagined hearing a voice, calling out for him, so he hurried away from it, intent on not meeting Tom again at all costs, even if he had been a hallucination, though a pretty good one.

Tapp – tapp-tapp – Tapp.

"No." Gordon swallowed through his dry throat. The noise had been right beside him, very close to his feet, and he didn't dare to look down, oh God, what if it was something bad, what if the face, or Tom, or, and, and...and he was a Tracy, dammit, he wouldn't be reduced to some whimpering fool, because that wasn't what his father had raised him for, he was stronger that that, yes, he was!

It took more effort than it should, but finally he managed to steer his eyes downwards.

Shoulders tense, he didn't move at first. Better yet, he couldn't. It was everywhere, it surrounded him and he had no idea where it had come from or how something like that was possible, unless this was some kind of perverted joke.

The water around his feet had changed its colour. Instead of being clear and shiny as water was supposed to be, it had become a darker, much more sinister shade. Gordon's fingers trembled as he pointed the beam of his torch downwards. What had looked almost black before was now coloured in a deep crimson, swapping around his feet in an almost lazy fashion, colouring the rim of his uniform in a reddish, murky colour. Red, and thick, and smelling of metal, just like...just like...

Just like blood.

For the second time that day, Gordon bolted.

His feet slipped over the tiles, creating a path of dark footsteps behind him. He jumped over a table, not caring that he smashed several test tubes in the process. There was a door not far away and he steered towards it as if it promised heaven on earth, though he honestly had no clue where it was leading.

The lights pulsed.

And one of them exploded right above his head. Gordon yelped, covered his face with his hands and winced as shards pieced through his skin, drawing blood.

Then he was at the door and threw his full weight against it. It didn't move, so he tried the doorknob instead, but it didn't budge either and he sensed that there was something behind him, because the humming became louder and louder and his hairs stood on end, a tingling feeling in the back of his spine – he tried the knob again and realized that he had been moving it in the wrong direction. The door gave way, all resistance gone, and he stumbled into the room, falling on his knees

A curse escaped his lips that would have sent his grandmother after him with a bar of soap to wash out his mouth.

Much to his frustration, the room was a dead end, a tile-covered thing that had no other exit, just cupboards and a sink and a operating...table...in the middle of the room...

Gordon's heart sank as he realized that this was the same room he had been in earlier. The one with the corpse. But hadn't he locked it? And, much more important, where was the corpse?

Because the table in front of him proved shockingly empty. Even the white cloth was missing.

Gordon's mouth went dry. It seemed as if he had found out what had been leaving the handprints.

To be continued.