Chapter 1 was for all intents and purposes was a prologue; now we'll begin to get into the meat of what's going on. Thanks again for reading! Please leave a comment and share your thoughts, whatever they may be!


Chapter Two

"Awake"

They say that when you're in a coma, you don't dream. Of course, the people who usually say that aren't in comas. Perhaps you do dream, but you just don't remember? Or maybe the trauma was so great, you choose not to remember? Whatever the case may be, Matthew Crawley did dream, and it was the same dream he lived over and over…

The Somme. He was leading a group of men onto the battlefield. Amazingly, it was easier leading those men out onto the field, because the alternative was to hide in the trenches, where it made it easier for the enemy to gas them. Better to face your death with a bullet while standing on your feet, than shivering in the mud, coughing away your life as it was robbed from your lungs.

With a cry, he led the men over the trench, into the heart of No Man's Land. Bullets flew every which way; grenades were thrown; mud exploded; men fell. But those that still stood continued running; running and firing and shouting.

It wasn't a bullet that struck him. He was pushed out of "harm's way" by another soldier, just when the explosion happened. Down he fell, down into a pit of mud and blood. He heard bones crack, he felt the air knock out of his lungs, and then everything went black. And it remained so…

…Until today.

Light…the tiniest of rays, somehow managed to creep through his eyelids…

A hoarse groan escaped his chest, and his eyes squinted shut as the light quickly became too much, too soon.

His head throbbed. His entire body throbbed. His throat was dry, and he had the most desperate thirst. Despite the stinging pain of the light, Matthew managed to open his eyes once more…and soon, the blurs around him began to settle…and he realized where he was.

In a hospital; lying on a hospital bed.

Matthew groaned again as he pushed the thin sheet off his chest. His muscles ached from the slightest movement, and his throat screamed for water. "H-h-hel…" he found it very difficult to formulate any words; he felt like a newborn, learning how to use its lungs. "H-h-h-help…"

No response.

He turned his head, but soon realized he was alone in the room.

How strange, he thought. The hospitals always seemed to be overwhelmed with the amount of wounded men; it was a rare thing indeed to have a room without at least four or five other patients.

That was another thing that struck him; the quiet. It was very quiet—too quiet, to be honest.

"H-h-h-help…" he managed to murmur again. He knew his voice was soft, but surely someone would be able to hear him, based on how quiet it was. Weren't there nurses in the corridor? He listened, very carefully, and frowned when he realized he didn't even hear footsteps.

Matthew's fingers gripped the edges of his bed, and every muscle in his body protested to the point that he was ready to cry out in pain, as he moved one leg…followed by the other…stiffly, off the bed.

Once his feet were on the ground, he now had the job of sitting up, which proved to be an easier task in one's mind, than in reality. He truly was like a newborn child, helpless in every way. Why wasn't anyone else there? Why hadn't anyone passed the room? The door was closed, yes, but...didn't anyone make rounds to check on patients? It was the middle of the day, judging from the light coming in through the curtained window.

He wasn't sure how long it took (too long, no doubt) but eventually…he managed to rise from the bed. With a deep breath, he gripped the posts…as he began to hoist himself to his feet.

"Oh God!" he gasped, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. If he hadn't been holding onto the posts, he certainly would have, and he doubted he would be able to get back up. Careful, he found himself thinking. One step at a time…

For another lengthy amount of time, he stood there, gripping the bedposts with his hands, as his legs wobbled beneath him, getting used to being used once again. How long had he been lying there? Surely no more than a few days, at most. And yet…he felt as if weeks had passed…or months.

Water; his throat burned for it and he wasn't going to find it here. He needed to leave this room and find someone, anyone. With another deep breath, he moved one foot…releasing his hold on the bedposts…and then moved the other…his steps slow, but managing to keep him upright, thank the Lord.

He was dressed in what could only be described as pajamas. Under any other circumstance, it would be embarrassing, but all he cared about was finding someone and finding a glass of water. He managed to make it over to the door and pushed against it.

It didn't move. Something was blocking it.

No, no, no, he wasn't going to be stuck in here! He pushed again, but it still wouldn't budge. Matthew felt his jaw clench and his fingers made a fist, which began to pound, softly at first, and then with growing ferocity. He couldn't very well shout for someone to come and help him, but perhaps they would hear him knocking?

He began to use both fists, and he continued pounding harder and harder. Where was everyone? Why hadn't someone come? Surely he could be heard? Surely someone would complain about the noise in another room? Or come to investigate? But even as he pounded on the door, he still couldn't hear any approaching footsteps, or shouts from doctors or nurses.

…And then the door opened.

His pounding must have somehow done the trick, because he nearly fell forward by the sudden movement. No, there was no one on the other side of the door, no one had come to open it…but someone had, at one point, put up a barricade.

Matthew regained his balance and looked down at the various items that had been blocking the door—a few wheelchairs whose wheels had been locked; an overturned table; several rubbish bins. But he didn't have time to process why these items had been left in front of his door, because he was too busy taking in the chaos of the corridor.

It was a complete mess. Furniture lying on their sides, bandages and medical supplies strewn across the floor; and blood…puddles of what could only be dried blood, caked the tiles.

His hand flew to his mouth, a sudden wave of nausea overwhelming him. He closed his eyes and took in a few, shallow breaths, trying his best to regain his composure. Good God in heaven…what had happened here? Was some sort of emergency surgery conducted in this very hall? He opened his eyes and realized, once more, that there were no people there. He and these macabre images were all that occupied the lonely corridor.

He began moving, icy fingers of apprehension running down his back. He needed to leave; something wasn't right and he needed to leave, now.

His steps were still slow, but he moved to the best of his abilities, his hands sliding along the wall to keep his balance and to keep him moving forward. He passed another room, its door ajar. Matthew would have ignored it, had something not caught his eye.

A water pitcher!

He needed a drink, badly. He pushed the door opened and entered the room, pausing as he took in the scene of overturned beds. Something awful had happened here, but his thirst compelled him to move towards the pitcher, not caring that the water looked old and murky; he just needed to wet his throat. There were no glasses, but that didn't matter. He picked up the pitcher and brought it to his lips, ready to empty it of its contents…when something else caught his eye.

The pitcher fell to the ground, shattering everywhere, the water sloshing all over the floor…but Matthew stood, his eyes transfixed…on the body lying in the corner.

He suddenly found himself back on the battlefield. Images—ghastly and horrifying—of men, lying on their sides, some dead, others in agony, as their bodies had been torn apart, pieces of themselves lying every which way. The ones who were still living, were desperately trying to put themselves back together, while the ones who were dead lay there, exposed for the world to see.

This body was dead…but whatever had killed the poor wretch hadn't been caused by any weapon Matthew knew. No…it looked…it looked as if the man had been torn apart…by…something with teeth.

He hissed as his toe made contact with a piece of glass. He should have looked for shoes before leaving the room, but he would worry about that later. Whatever had happened here had been bad, VERY bad, and it would only get worse if he stayed.

Matthew stumbled back into the hallway, propelling himself forward, around a corner, down another cluttered corridor, the smell of dead bodies filling the air. Oh God, please let him find a door out of this place before coming across another monstrosity like he had seen in that room!

And he did find a door…but it was barred.

Chains.

The door had large, thick ropes of chain looped through its handles. And there were boards nailed to the wall, boards that were nailed across the door.

And someone had painted a warning on one of those boards.

DO NOT OPEN. DEAD INSIDE.

Only…that couldn't be right. Because if there were dead inside…then why was the door moving?

Matthew's eyes widened…as a pair of pale fingers managed to slip through a tiny crack between the doors. Good God…someone was in there!

He opened his mouth, feeling he should say something to the poor chap trapped inside the room…but a voice in his head told him to stay away from it. After all, the words on the door warned him not to open it. But…why? Whoever was in there wasn't dead! How did they get in there in the first place? Why were they in there? Had the ones who chained the door and boarded it shut know that someone was in there? Was it someone like him? Someone who had been asleep for…God knows how long…and who had just woken up?

God almighty, the poor fellow! To awaken in a crypt! He had to get the man out; he had to help whoever was trapped in there!

But the fingers were soon joined by another…and then another hand. Three hands were attempting to open the door. There was more than one person inside? The door began to rattle…and Matthew realized that whoever was in there…was pushing, just as he had done. But the pushing wasn't desperate, the way his had been. It was…slower. And he could hear…moaning.

It was an unearthly sound. And it chilled him to the core.

Matthew found himself backing away from the door. That other voice, the voice that had warned him to keep away was screaming at him: get out! Get away from this place and don't ever come back!

In any other circumstances, he would have felt ashamed for letting his caution and fear get the better of him; but right now, he listened, and continued to back away, moving further and further away from that door, as the moans grew louder, and the pounding increased.

One more turn and he found an exit. He pushed the doors open, and gasped as the brightness of the mid-day sun hit his eyes.

He was outside.

And he was in London! Or the outskirts of the city; he could see the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral in the distance.

But the streets were deserted.

And messy.

There was garbage everywhere. And…windows had been broken. Signs of vandalism littered the streets, along with old newspapers and…various forms of human filth.

One newspaper was crumpled at his feet. Matthew bent down to pick it up, his mind still in a confused daze from the unbelievable sights around him.

November 11, 1918.

NOVEMBER! It had been April before his injury. He…he had been asleep…for eight months?

He dropped the paper and let it fly away with the breeze. Oh God, what had happened? Had…had the Axis won? Was this what had become of Britain? Destroyed in some horrible battle? He stumbled away from the hospital…and began moving, as quickly as his numb feet would allow, down the street, hoping to see some semblance of…of Life!

…And he found it.

Or so he thought.

He had not gone but the length of one entire street, before he saw someone, moving slowly, like him, down an ally.

A woman.

She was hunched over, and her feet were bare. From the back, her appearance looked haggard. Her hair was loose, and hanging limply down her back. Her dress was torn at the legs, and it looked absolutely filthy.

Had she also woken up into this nightmare?

Matthew's throat burned, but despite that, he took a deep breath and somehow managed to call out to the woman. "Hello?" he croaked, before erupting into a violent cough.

The woman paused, and lifted her head, ever so slightly.

Matthew coughed once more, as it was the closest thing he could do to clearing his throat. "Hello?" he called out again, his voice growing a little louder.

The woman began to turn her body.

"I'm…I'm sorry, I…I need help, and…please, can you tell me—"

Any further words he had been about to murmur were lost when the woman lifted her head and met his eyes.

They were ghostly pale, her eyes; an inhuman color. So was her skin; pale, with a tint of blue…save for the blood spattered on her cheeks…and chin…and shoulders. And her nose was missing…as well as a piece of her jaw.

She opened her mouth, and made a low, hissing groan.

She began to move towards him. Her steps were slow, but they were determined.

Matthew began to back away...

The woman continued.

He kept backing away, his steps growing faster, but she continued to follow. Her hands reached out in front of her, reaching out to him, and that was when he turned and began to run…or at least, run as best as his feet would allow.

He glanced behind him and his eyes widened as he realized…she was still in pursuit! Her steps, which were staggered and slower than his, were beginning to pick up speed. And suddenly, he noticed another woman, one who looked very similar, joined his pursuer, also moaning and reaching out towards him.

Matthew kept running, his feet aching beneath the cobblestones. He wasn't going to escape them, not in a footrace. He needed to hide, or at the very least, confuse them! He gritted his teeth and forced himself to go down an ally, pushing through the pain of anything that was on the ground which his bare feet ran across. He pushed over a few rubbish bins to slow his pursuers, and then quickly stumbled out of the ally's other end…

Only to encounter Hell.

There were more. More like those women. People...wandering and stumbling…young and old…male and female…their faces bearing scars of every ghastly kind imaginable. They had been feeding, and he had interrupted their supper.

A dead creature…a horse by the look of it…was lying on its side, ripped apart by these…things…but his sudden arrival took away their interest in the horse, and now they began to rise to their feet to come after him.

"Stay back!" Matthew hoarsely shouted, trying to stumble away, but only managing to stumble and fall onto his back.

They were swarming! How many were there? He didn't know, just…too many!

He was trying to get on his feet, but they were approaching too quickly and one grabbed his leg and actually tried to take a bite out of it! He kicked his leg out into the creature's throat, causing it to fall back, allowing him to turn over onto his hands and knees and begin crawling away, as fast as he could, but another creature made a grab for him, and another, and another!

"GET OFF ME!" he shouted, but they only continued coming after him. He balled his fist and punched one in the jaw, just before its teeth made contact with his flesh. Surely this was a nightmare? Some outlandish, hellish, nightmare! He shoved and punched and kicked, but they kept coming! Nothing seemed to faze them, they just kept coming back!

A crash filled the air.

The horde of demons momentarily paused in their pursuit and turned their heads to the sound, giving Matthew a chance to scramble out of arms reach. The next thing that happened was a bottle of whisky, with a flaming handkerchief attached, landed just in front of one of the creatures, crashing on the ground and enfolding the thing in flames, causing it to scream and flail.

Several others who were near it also caught on fire, and then another bottle fell, adding more fire to the fray. Gunshots erupted, and Matthew gasped as two of the things fell to the ground, blood and tissue smearing the pavement.

An arm shot out and grabbed his elbow. Matthew spun around, ready to strike, but was stopped short by a frying pan…which made an ungraceful clunk on his head.

It wasn't enough of a blow to knock him senseless, but it did cloud his vision…and he felt himself being pulled away from the howling mob that was both on fire and being shot at. He heard a voice calling out to him, a woman's voice, telling him to just follow her, begging him not to pass out, telling him to keep his eyes open, to follow her voice, to keep moving, to keep moving!

And he did. He followed the blurry woman all the way until he collapsed inside what could only have been a wagon. He tried to look at the woman as she leaned over him, but before her face could come into focus, she threw a blanket on top of him. He heard her shout something, but it was hard to tell. Then, he felt his body and the wagon being jerked forward, the horses shrieking as their driver commanded them to pick up speed.

That was all he remembered. Once again, blackness took hold of him. He only prayed that when he awoke again, the nightmare would be over.