AN: I'm so, so sorry I took this bloody long to write another chapter- honestly, it's just shameful! That hiatus was mostly caused by my mid-term examinations, which are over now (thank goodness), so I should be back tot he regular schedule. Hope you enjoy this chapter, please tell me what you think so I can improve, and see you next time!
"Now!"
With that, Wheatley and Chell had taken off into the darkness, gunshots and snarls ringing out behind them like an alarm.
The windows and doors leading to the other old test chambers were all barred up, Wheatley noticed, as he dashed past them. The keys in his hand felt bulky, like there was something else within their jingly ranks- but the janitor disregarded it as some strange key chain.
"Hey, Sir Starchy- over here!" Chell gestured wildly towards a door- old and worn, with a purple sticker displaying the all too familiar Vital Apparatus Vent symbol decorating its front. The first key Wheatley jammed into the lock didn't quite fit- same with the next one, and the next. It took the dim witted janitor eight tries to realize that the keys were colour coded.
At this realization, he quickly shoved the purple key into the doorknob and turned.
The corridor beyond that door was even more desolate- beams breaking apart and falling into rotting heaps on the ground. Grraahhh. . .
Wheatley froze. The mantis men couldn't have caught up to them, he thought at first- but the growling was getting closer, the sound of claws scarping on concrete drawing nearer and nearer like that of a predator looking for a cheap source of fresh meat.
He turned quickly to the door before him, expecting another colour coded sticker- but there was nothing. Some animal or employee with itchy fingers must have scraped it off. Panicky, he began to jam the keys in at random once more, just hoping he'd find the right one.
Carl Wheatley really, really had not signed up for this.
Neither had Chell Estaban, for a matter of fact.
"Damn it! I thought this was a prestigious research center that just happened to have a few mishaps here and there- not a very much murderous slaughterhouse full of mantis-men!" she huffed in frustration, as the imposing sound approached like wildfire, but with teeth.
The orange clad janitor quickly picked up a chunk of splintered wood, wondering idly if her self-defense classes would help her survive this one. She swallowed the lump in her throat, and prepared herself for the upcoming danger.
Wheatley cursed under his breath as the fifth key he tried wouldn't fit, quickly moving on to the next one in some sort of frenzy. The "key chain" was still hanging there- he couldn't quite make it out in the darkness, but its presence and shape felt familiar; comforting, almost.
"Do you think that scientist guy- I mean, Alex- made it out alright?"
"Uh. . .He has a bloody g-gun, doesn't he? Argh, I'm sure he's fine. Absolutely fine."
No. No Alex isn't fine, you bloody moron. He won't ever be fine.
Of course, of course. . . How could he have forgotten?
The window to Mitchelson's bedroom was open, that day.
It was sterile, completely empty- save for a bed and a desk full of books and post-it notes covered in random pretentious facts. He jumped right in- maybe he could mess with a few of Mitchelson's things- that'll show the snob! Probably. If there even was anything Wheatley could mess with, of course.
A sudden crash coming from beyond that white door made him freeze, his spine tensing.
"-'m s- p-p-!"
What was that?
"-'m s-!"
A door slamming- the surly shape of Mitchelson's father stormed out the front door, driving away angrily as soon as he got into his car- red and shiny- a snob's car.
Wheatley felt a morbid curiosity bubble up inside him, like oil on a frying pan, and he tip-toed out of the door, and into the big fancy hallway. There was a door left open. He stepped inside, tentatively, discovering white tiles and a sink as sterile as Mitchelson's room.
As he looked up, though, he saw red- lots of red, staining the white tiles and spreading slowly, sluggishly, like a puddle of mud or thick stew.
He panicked.
"Shit!" Chell cursed, snapping Wheatley out of his key jamming trance.
He stared, wide-eyed at the approaching horde of mantis men- bits of raw flesh hung from their appendages, green mixed in with beige and sickly red. Hurriedly, he picked out the last key from the huge jumble, shoving it into the doorknob and turning.
It clicked.
Wheatley bashed the door open- knocking it aside with a shoulder.
They ran, down into the darkness, mantis men nipping at their heels.
Shoot. Turn. Shoot. Turn.
The abominations closed around him- snarling, dribbling saliva. Another bullet, another corpse. Alex leaped on top of his table- almost tipping it over.
Shoot. Turn. Shoot. Turn.
A mantis man's head exploded- like a DUMMY Test Subject; gooey blood and rubbery limbs. Like a doll. Disposable.
Shoot. Turn. Shoot. Turn.
Red stained his coat. A bullet through a mantis man's torso- ripped it apart. The tendons stuck together, also like rubber.
Shoot. The end.
Out of bullets.
Another mantis man stretched his neck out, and bit. There was red on his arm, too.
He laughed, slowly, softly, cornered.
Then there was red everywhere.
"Quick! The vent's right there!"
Wheatley pushed past a pair of near-collapsing beams. "Come on!"
Chell struck the approaching creature with her make-shift bludgeoner once more, before dashing after him. More growls and snarling- louder and louder and louder.
He pushed the button, a little harder than intended, and then used his hands to keep the vent open- he had stepped on the cube as it fell, to gain altitude. "Chell!"
The other janitor climbed up the cube. "Come on, Wheatley- get on my shoulders!"
She lifted him up as fast as she could, shoving him into the vent.
The growling. Snarling.
Closer, closer, closer.
Wheatley grabbed her hands, trying to pull her up. Closer, closer, closer.
He tugged harder, grunting with the effort.
Growl. Snarl. Die. Die. Die.
Finally, they made it through.
"Let's go," said Chell, panting, as she nudged him forward towards the long climb ahead.
And they left the mantis men behind, scratching in frustration at the glass.
When Wheatley finally looked down, he felt a strange numbness well up inside him and flood his throat with repulsion gel, or something of the sort. His pendant- blue and as whale-like as ever, sitting there amongst Alex's keys. No wonder it had felt so bloody familiar in his hand.
The crazy psychopath had given it back. He'd kept his promise. He'd kept his promise.
Wheatley pressed on.
No. No turning back, not now.
He would have said it was a mere choice not to, but really- Carl Wheatley was just a scared, cowardly moron. And he knew it, too.