If there was one thing Dib noticed about the rotting basement, it was this: darkness. The darkness consumed them all, eating away at any light source available. His other senses had been heightened to their full potential, but he felt as though he were blind. Besides, sight didn't do him any good down here. When you can't see the person, or in this case an alien, two inches away from you, you know it's a bad sign.
Dib could still hear Zim breathing, which was a good sign. But that was the only consoling sound in the darkness. He could here the soft pitter-patter of mice (or was it rats?) running across the floors. He could here the cockroaches within the walls. The longer he stayed in that damned room, the more he felt like he was in some psychological Hell. Crap, he was going crazy. He needed to see something.
"Hey Zim," he whispered to the darkness. No response.
"Zim?" he tried again. No response.
"Damn it Zim! Answer me!" Dib said harshly. Still no response; except for a quiet thump to his right. Or was it his left? He reached around for a few minutes trying to find where Zim was. Finally, his hand hit the Irken's shoulder.
"Zim!" he tried again, shaking the alien. Oh, how he wished for a flashlight!
Zim opened his eyes and just barely made out a hand on his shoulder. Readings from his PAK told him that he had fainted a few minutes ago and he needed medical attention. Suddenly, a small, flashing number appeared in his ocular implants. Curiously, Zim focused on it for a few seconds before mentally, for a lack of better words, freaking out.
There was some sort of countdown clock in the right hand corner of his line of sight, almost like the PAK's life-clock. Zim quickly checked if his PAK was still attached by pushing his back against the wall he was adjacent to. He immediately relaxed as his back uncomfortably arched to the shape of the oval shaped device on his back.
With a more thorough glance at the clock in the corner, Zim realized that the countdown contained three sets of numbers: hours, minutes, and seconds. 27:47:07. His eyes widened in the darkness, death seeming a lot more tangible. 27 hours, only 27 hours to escape.
Dib's shouts brought him back to reality. "What?" he asked; his voice hoarse and weak. What a terrible way to describe him, ZIM, weak. Zim was NOT weak. Then, why did he sound so pathetic? Oh right, dying.
"You wouldn't happen to have some sort of flashlight in there, would you?" Dib asked.
"Of course I would Dib-human." Zim scoffed. One of his PAK legs emerged carrying a small cylinder. With his enhanced vision, Zim located Dib's hand and slipped the metal tube inside of it. Dib squeaked in alarm before noticing that Zim wasn't trying to kill him. He heard a soft snicker beside him.
"Shut up Zim." He snapped, only provoking the alien to laugh harder. Dib's fingers explored the surface of the flashlight Zim had given him, finding a switch within a few seconds. With a quiet "click," a strong beam of light came out of the end of the flashlight. Unfortunately for him, that end was pointing towards his face and, by default, his eyes. His glasses didn't help lessen the glare of the beam at all.
"Nyaugh!" he shouted and promptly fell on his butt. Zim continued to snicker as Dib shot him a look. "You jerk."
"At least I don't have a big head." Zim remarked. Dib was about to yell his classic phrase ("My head's not big!") but decided against it due to the psychopath with a gun on their tails. Well, Zim's tail…Zim's metaphorical tail…
"Ok, listen Zim; we might as well try to get along while we're down here. After all, neither of us wants to die tonight."
"Finally, you listen human. This is what I've been trying to do for quite a long time now. It only took you an insane gunman to make you realize what I was getting at ages ago. Honestly, you humans are so dense in the way you see the world around you, it sickens me to no end. The one thing I've learned on Earth is that death (and death threats) changes people. I guess you're experiencing it first-hand. Congratulations Dib, do you want a prize?" Dib shrank back from Zim, the alien saying everything with such malice that it made him kind of…scared. Come to think of it, the basement was beginning to register a 10 on his "Sketch-o-meter."
Dib's lack of response puzzled Zim. If he knew anything about the big-headed boy, it was that he'd never miss an opportunity to snap a witty remark back at him, let alone let him, the alien, get away with beating him on the sarcasm scale. Perhaps it was the circumstances, or potential doom, preventing the boy from talking. Whatever, there'd be less of a headache for him once the whole mess was done and over with.
"We should probably start finding another way out," Zim suggested, breaking the silence between them, "or wait until crazy-head gets himself thoroughly lost and go back up the way we came." Dib raised an eyebrow.
"You remember where we came from?" he inquired.
"Of course, you came from your parental unit and I came from an incubator."
"Not helping Zim."
"Next time, be more specific."
"So you remember the way out of this creepy place?"
"Much better and yes, my PAK allows me to be highly adaptable."
"That sounds wrong…"
"Can it Dib-worm. Anyways, whenever I'm in a new environment, it scans the area for geography, intelligent life (which there is very little of on this planet) and technology so I can blend in. It's part of the core programming so even if I wasn't an Invader, I'd still have a sufficient disguise if visiting a potentially hostile planet." Zim explained.
"Wow, so many big words for such a tiny alien." Dib commented with a slight smirk, "You've changed more than I thought."
"I wish I could say the same for you." Zim said back. He could feel his body healing. This is what would happen: his body would repair itself, feeding off of energy from the PAK. Because of his panicked and desperate state, the healing process would work double-time, despite the fact that his very life-source was burning itself out. Why, he had no clue. The rain from before could have damaged it enough to go into a bit of a panic mode. The reason, at the moment, didn't matter to his-or Dib's-overall survival. What did matter was getting out in time, fixing the PAK, addressing the PAK's weakness so it wouldn't happen again, and then letting Dib do whatever the hell he wanted.
Assessing his current condition, Zim noticed that most of his superficial wounds were nearly healed. He could practically feel the energy radiating from his face; it was a bit disconcerting. His broken bones set themselves back in place, the broken leg having just enough time to support some of his weight. He'd be limping, but it was better than sitting around and waiting to be shot Irk knows how many times. To really kill him, it'd take a shot to the head, chest region, and PAK. Knowing Bill, he'd receive quite a bit more punishment before being allowed to die in pain. A wounded animal left for the predator never lives to tell the tale. Zim swore that he'd tell his tale someday, to any outcast Irken that cared. He'd changed, no longer caring for Irken society or Earth society. Honestly, he didn't know where the hell he belonged. All that mattered was here and now. And right now, escaping the insanity of the labyrinth and Paranormal Investigator was the first priority.
"We should probably get a move on." Zim said. Dib subconsciously nodded in agreement before helping his new ally to his feet. Suddenly Zim stiffened, his antennae on alert for something. Focusing on the air currents, he detected movement within thirty feet of their position and it was approaching fast. Well, as fast as a grown human male with sufficient exercise that ran on a daily basis. Bill was coming up fast and, to Zim's disappointment, from the way they came. They'd need to run through the basement to lead the crazy guy further into the maze and then pull a U-turn and scramble up those stairs and lock the door all under 27 hours. No pressure, right? Right.
Grabbing Dib's hand, Zim pulled him down a nearby corridor. With a yelp, Dib stumbled after him, struggling to regain his balance. Seeing an open door, Zim pulled them into it, slammed the door, and leaned against it. Quickly calculating the odds, Bill had a 12% chance of finding them. There were so many doors in the basement, so many twists and turns, that the possibility for hiding places was endless. Nevertheless, he made a back-up plan. The room they were currently situated in was the largest room, leading off to another hallway with, guess what, more rooms. Even if Bill found them right away, they had control of the one thing he didn't: the door. The old wooden door, while rotted, was thick and strong enough to protect the two from a gunshot. They controlled who came in, who came out, and when. At least now they had some handle on the situation. Of course, gun trumped fist-fight and malfunctioning alien technology. If Bill managed to corner them, they were most definitely screwed with no more plans.
Deciding to shake himself out of such pessimistic thoughts, Zim turned his attention back to Bill. The human was close enough to hear, footsteps stomping down the long-abandoned hallways. Soon, Dib could here Bill running, his breath catching in his throat. His heartbeat began beating in time with the frantic, impulsive footsteps of their enemy. As they approached closer and closer, the teenager really started to worry.
Could he really trust Zim? Could he trust him to have a back-up plan? Was he actually part of that back-up plan? Would Zim leave him for dead as he did so many times before? Doubt and worry filled Dib's mind, threatening to consume him.
Dib jumped slightly as he felt a hand over his. "Just in case, get ready to press your weight against the door," Zim explained, "knowing Bill, he'll fire a 'warning shot.' After that, we swing the door open and hit him. When he down, you start running and I'll close it. Run down the hallway and enter the third door on your left. If I'm not there by the time you can hear Bill running again, close the door. Only turn the flashlight on when you know he's past your door, then find the next hallway. It'll lead to another set of doors. Take the first one on your right, then the second on your left, and then the second on your right. I'll be hiding in that room."
It was almost too much to process, but Dib remembered it all and hoped he wouldn't be separated from Zim. His small plan reassured him immensely.
"I trust you." He whispered.
"Good, 'cause you don't really have much of a choice at the moment." Zim replied before falling silent. The stomping got louder and both instinctively began panicking…internally of course. Neither would really admit their fear to the other. They were still far too proud for that. After a minute of waiting, the running stopped, filling the silence with harsh panting. There was a quick string of swears (if it were a different situation, both males would have been snickering), more silence, a huff, and the stomping again.
As the footsteps grew quieter and quieter, both breathed a sigh of relief and slouched against the door. Dib couldn't help a smile creep on his face.
"We're lucky bastards, aren't we?" he asked in a whisper.
"Yeah, we really are." Zim huffed, bravado beginning to return.
Unexpectedly, Zim doubled over, gasping for breath as a sudden pain in Zim's side reminded him of reality. His wounds were healing fast, almost too fast. The bullets from the gun, they never made it out of his body. Letting a long string of swears fill the room, Zim prepared himself as best as he could for fresh pain. The bullet holes hadn't closed up, but they were now too small to get the bullet out without cutting into skin to extract them. Did some unnamed deity have it out for him?
Unveiling a small scalpel from his PAK, Zim laid down on his back. "Dib," he said, "I'm going to need you to do something and if you betray my trust, I will leave you for the psychopath."
"What is it?" Did the boy sound concerned? No, no need to dwell on that now. He was willing to help and that was the important part.
"Take this," he shoved the scalpel into Dib's hand, "and shine the flashlight over me. I'm going to need you to perform some…surgery. I never got the bullets out of my body and now my PAK's trying to heal me when I'm not ready. It's overriding certain safeguards and I can't control the healing process at all. What I need you to do his cut deep and wide enough into the wounds to get the bullets out."
"I don't have any gloves!" Dib exclaimed, "What if I get some weird alien disease from touching your blood?"
"You have any open cuts on your hands?"
"No, but-"
"Then you're fine. Irken diseases are rare and far-between. We've extinguished most of them from existence already. Plus, we made sure that they don't evolve. Even if you did manage to get one in your system, it wouldn't know what to attack and you'd flush it out in a matter of days." Dib was still hesitant, but agreed to the procedure.
Under Zim's guidance, he was able to successfully remove both bullets without majorly incapacitating the Irken. Wiping the green liquid off of his hands, Dib took the flashlight from Zim, who had just been holding it to illuminate Dib's "work area," and as Zim allowed his body to heal from the sudden procedure, Dib decided to pace around the room with slight impatience. He'd heard stories of this house, screams coming from the basement at all hours of the night and some poor kid next door who heard it all. Tales came from house 777 of men, women, and children walking in and never coming out. Some believed it to be the workings of the paranormal, out for revenge on the…well, "normal." However, Dib was inclined to believe that the inner workings of the house weren't entirely due to paranormal activity.
Everyone knew some weird guy used to live there, always slaving away in his basement. Most believed he was a washed-up comic book artist, seeing as the graphics from his house contained a suicidal, morally insane stick figure that had a tendency to cuss and spew his insanity to everyone from a soap box. But if this theory was true, then why were there no papers littering the floor?
Curiosity got the better of him and Dib decided to cast the flashlight around. On the ground, there were dozens upon dozens of old, broken paintbrushes, all coated in some rust-colored paint. They all appeared to be pointing towards the opposite wall. As Dib shined the flashlight across the floor, the rusty paint began to grow from small splatters to long, messy streams, permanently staining the ground. Finally, the light hit the wall and Dib nearly lost whatever food was in his stomach. The wall was coated in the rusted paint, peeling and cracking in most places. But now, Dib knew what it was. He walked backwards, back soon hitting the door. Upon impact with the rotted wood, he dropped the flashlight, making Zim jump in alarm. Facing towards the direction of the disruption, he eyed Dib skeptically. All the teen could do was shakily point the way he was trying and so desperately wanted to escape from.
Curiosity overcame Zim as well and he picked up the flashlight. His implants widened slightly as he found the same sight Dib was privy to moments earlier. Silence fell upon the two, neither wanting to say a word concerning the wall.
The wall itself was innocent enough, concrete chipping away from age showing more the building's foundation. What scared the crap out of the two was what was on the wall. It was dried, congealed, and never meant to be seen, on this scale, out of a living body. It was grotesque, uncalled for, and all around screamed insanity and homicidal tendencies.
The wall was coated in layers of blood…as if you couldn't figure that out before.
A/N: I just want to take a second and sorry for the wait! As you can tell by my recent activities, I've been dabbling in a lot of different fandoms and Zim kind of slipped from my mind. Nevertheless, I return to you with a new chapter that I hope lives up to the first one. It's slow going, seeing as I'm no longer freakishly obsessed with IZ, but I'll do my best to update and finish this story. *Shrugs* It feels great writing this again, good break from writing about robots beating the slag out of each other. Also, you may have noticed a slight, inconspicuous style change. I hope my writing's improved since my last foray into Zim-dom and please tell me if it has. Also, sorry for rambling, I tend to do that on occasion (aka: every flippin' minute of every flippin' day), I apologize for the suspense, and thanks for the reviews.