Author's Notes: Thanks a bunch guys. This is perhaps my favorite chapter that I have written. Guidelines in case anyone gets confused: Each half page break signifies the two pieces that go together, the first one leading straight into the next. Each whole page break signifies a shift in the scene. I think this adds to the drama of the chapter.

And the cavalry arrives...

"I give the final blow, When darkness turns to light, It ends tonight"

-The All-American Rejects-

The fog rolled steadily, coming off from the general direction of the bay. It was sometimes called the 'May Gray' or the 'June Gloom' by its residents that lived in the Santa Monica area. Streaming off from the waters of the Pacific, it would roll in during the very late hours of the night, burning off by midmorning as the sun made its own appearance way up in the sky overhead.

The marine layer wisped over the grass, leaving dewy tendrils of vapor in its wake. Ghostly fingers caressed every blade and every stone. The wind blew silently, whispering and propelling it forward.

On and on it rolled over the coast line, moving away from the cooler temperatures and warm air of the ocean.

Several miles inland found it stopping as it came into direct contact with something in its path. Spreading in two directions, the fog curled and climbed the old bricks, hugging the blocks and slipping in between the cracks.

Bright stars, so very odd for this city that was usually far too bright to see the massive balls of plasma overhead, twinkled and blinked in the night sky. Crickets chirped, adding their voices to the other creatures of the night in this secluded and open area. From somewhere came the call of a bird, a harsh cry that echoed in the otherwise still night.

The thin mass of gaseous water and air continued to climb upward, stretching itself to embrace the entire building. All was silent in the night except for the normal cacophony of the habitants that made this silent place their home.

And while it was silent on the outside and to the fog's ears, there was no way for it to hear what was happening inside the old brick building.

And there was no way for it to know what was about to happen outside of the building.

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The agent bit his lower lip, clenching his jaw and tightening his grip on the 10 mm MP5 resting in hands, the butt in the crook of his elbow. Junior agent Marshall Conrad had to stifle the urge to shiver; the urge itself was great and sorely tempted him to turn tail and run. In any other situation the twenty nine year old rookie transfer from Salt Lake would have been embarrassed, but not with the one that he had been ordered to suit up and participate in tonight.

Before him was an old factory, fishing by the looks of it. The bricks that must have been red at some point in the past were now faded to a burnt sienna color, chips here and there dotting the ceramic stone.

The land surrounding the square building was unkempt and overrun. Tall blades of the dune grass kind grew in the sandy soil, thigh high in some patches. A dirt path, just wide enough for a vehicle ran three yards to his right, running straight to curve and end around the end side, more than likely in the back entrance of what used to be the loading and receiving docks.

Marshall looked up into the sky. It was a full moon tonight, the light beaming down from behind thin wispy clouds. The moon and the clouds only added to the spooky and eerie feeling that surrounded the place. It was the aura that reminded him of Halloweens when he was a child, and was out of place for the mildly cool night in late May.

The night call of a bird drew his attention back to the structure before him. Again he found himself adjusting his grip on the weapon in his hands, reassuring his mind that the heavy artillery capable by the semi automatic weapon was more than enough to ward off the demons that inhabited this ground.

Sounds of heavy feet crunching against the small shells and stones beneath their feet made the agent look to his right. Walking past him and speaking in hushed voices were two other agents part of this rescue team. Sinclair and Granger were their names and Marshall watched as they silently approached the dark haired agent who was the closest to the building. The senior agent and the leader of this operation was speaking in his ear piece, no doubt waiting for the go ahead back at the main office.

Sinclair and Granger stopped behind their leader, waiting and listening. Eppes cast them a furtive glance, and Marshall saw his lips move to say something and then bend back down to his mouthpiece.

He watched them with a pitying glance. Everyone knew in the office that it was Eppes' team that had lost the forensic doctor from downstairs in the basement. Tensions had been high over the last three days, everyone tiptoeing around, especially those that worked on that floor. No one in the office wanted to say anything or make any sort of comment that could offend or send someone else into a fit. They had all kept their heads down, going about their own cases, and keeping their mouths doubly shut. Though that hadn't stopped them from whispering about it in the copier room or the coffee lounges when they thought no one else was around.

He blinked as he saw Eppes straighten and nod to the agents on his own team. The team leader's hand flew up and twisted to sign the appropriate signals. Everyone knew the drill and knew what to do. They had been briefed extensively back at the office and again on the way here. Now it was time to do it.

Moving his weapon to the correct position, Marshall steeled himself and blocked out all thoughts of eerie moods and auras just as he had been trained to do. There would be no room for that tonight.

Silently he fell into line with the other twenty odd agents, moving through the tall grass, the only sounds coming from the night birds and the whick-wack of the grass against their knees.

One by one they each advanced upon the building, the fog swirling, providing them with a natural cover, and making them all disappear.

She ran, not really knowing where she was going or why she was running. She only knew that she couldn't stay here. A restlessness and a sort of nagging feeling lurked in the back of her mind, urging her to continue onward despite the protests from her sick and weary body. The only thing she wanted to do was to lie down; to lie down and to never get up again. Rest was what her body called for.

The woman stopped and leaned against the wall to her right. Wearily she collapsed against it, not quite sliding down to the floor and not quite remaining all the way upright. Her eyes fluttered closed and her head fell to hang down, the weight of it seeming impossible at the moment. Straining, she attempted to try and pick up on any sounds.

That simply function that should have been so easy seemed so hard. Nothing wanted to work properly. It took her ears several minutes to realize that the harsh sound in the corridor was actually her breathing.

An involuntary spasm rocked her body, sending her on a trip that flowed from the tip of her spine to the bottom of her bare feet. A moment later and she shivered from the actual cold of the place. Her toes curled and she was startled to discover that no shoes of any kind encased her feet. Hugging her chest, also startled to find how much effort that too took, her senses made a mental note that the cotton of her clothes was wet and stiff.

One of her hands brushed against her arm, trailing a wet liquid across the hairs and skin. She pulled the appendage away, bringing it close to her eyes— her eyes wouldn't focus, either— in order to see what the substance was. It was sticky and thick and she rubbed two digits together. Doing something that any average eight year old would have down when stricken with a bout of curiosity, she tentatively licked it, pulling back sharply at the metallic taste.

The viscous liquid on her arm and hands was blood. Her blood, she discovered, twisting her wrist to watch it flow from her tips to down her arm. A fresh drop splattered down from somewhere above to fall on her upper arm and she reached up to touch her face, noticing that she was bleeding from there as well.

Already sticky fingers followed a deep gash that stretched two inches along her jaw line to her chin.

A noise came from above her head, the sound coming from upstairs. Her fingers dropped from her face after the few extra seconds it took for her brain to process what it was hearing. One voice called out. That triggered the nagging feeling to return and she pushed herself away from the wall.

Instinct taking over, the woman ran, ignoring the pain in her body and devoting all of her energy to outrun whatever it was that was haunting her.

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Jose Garcia was beginning to understand why it had been that when he was a little boy, playing in the dirt in his village, the other boys had teased him about being dumb and stupid. The teasing had usually ended in fights, where he won some and lost others. But now he understood why they had called him that and he was beginning to acknowledge it himself.

After being dismissed by his boss, Jose had gone back to the main level of the fishing factory and gone out the back door, intent on getting in a smoke or two. It was his time to kill, the man hadn't given him any orders, and he really didn't care to be around him when his boss was about to do something. A few cigarettes out back with the wind blowing off from the ocean would help him to clear his head and chase away the damp smell of the place.

It had been outback that he had made stupid decision number one. Not thirty minutes after he had unbolted the back door to the old docking area, had Jose heard something that alerted him to the fact that he might not be alone. Stamping out his butt, he had walked around the back, not thinking to find something other than a stray animal or creature out during the night.

What he had found had been very different from a cat or dog. He couldn't make out much of what the figures were, being that the mist obscured mostly everything that wasn't five feet in front of him, but he was able to discern that they were people and men by the look of it.

That had brought up stupid decision number two. Instead of hightailing it back around the building and leaving his boss to fend for himself, Jose had made the erroneous decision to go back into the building, giving up his one chance to escape.

Now he was two floors down from the main level, not quite in the basement yet. Figuring that he could use the back stairs from the basement to escape, Jose had headed down, but had stopped when the sounds of carefully guarded footsteps from overhead filtered down through the old floorboards.

Jose pressed himself into the shadowy alcove, doing his best to remain silent. Inch by slow inch he moved sideways down the corridor, eyes trained on the wooden planks up above. A thudding sound followed by a wet splash tore his watchful gaze away and down the dark corridor.

The woman from the townhouse rushed into the light, hunching over to grab at her stomach a few yards away from him. Jose hadn't seen her since his boss had decided to question her himself. Silently he watched her.

She swayed from side to side, seeming to have a hard time keeping her balance. It took him a moment to connect the dots and deduce that the shiny dark pool on her clothes was the blood that was rushing from her own body. It was everywhere, all over her hands and arms, down the front of her shirt. Thick clumps matted her hair and in the dim light as she turned her head to one side, he saw that it was streaked all over her face. Jose remembered a book that he had once read in an English class; something about a group of boys that had been stranded on an island and that turned into savage little monsters that eventually hunted each other. Standing there in that corridor, he thought she looked exactly like one of those boys out of the story.

In watching her swaying there, continuing to remain unnoticed, Jose also remembered what she had done to him. The cuts on his face seemed to burn and all of the anger that his cigarettes had chased away came back in a rush.

Jose hissed and swore under his breath. At the sound the woman's head snapped up and she stepped back as he stepped out from the shadows. Her eyes seemed to take a few moments to register who he was and he moved forward, intent on killing her and exacting his revenge.

Recognizing him, the woman clumsily dove sideways and scooped up a lead pipe from the base of the wall. The fact that it was there was simple random luck. Back home in his village, just across the border, Jose had played football with the other boys. But he had also played baseball and a favorite past time of theirs had been to hit one another with the baseball stick.

And when she swung it towards him, rather clumsily, he let it bounce against his forearm, grimacing at the shock and pain. Quickly, he grabbed it from her, ripping it from her hands and bringing his head forward to head butt her hard in attempt to loosen her grip. She fell backwards and he followed the quick head butt up with a sharp blow to her right wrist from the pipe, satisfied at the resounding crack.

With the second blow she fell completely down, falling hard and letting out a loud cry. She laid there on the dirty wet concrete floor and Jose grinned. The sound of running feet from up above and doors slamming against walls was lost on him as he advanced, the only thought in his mind the need to hurt the woman right in front of him.

Don's head jerked up at the sound. He stopped dead in the middle of the open floor, boots sloshing the water around in the puddle. The four other agents that had been designated to follow him stopped from their scattered places in the vast and cavernous main floor.

The sound echoed, coming from somewhere beneath their feet. Magnified in this building, it had the eerie sound that complimented the place. Long and loud it rang, stretching to fill the tall ceilings and corners. But for all its eeriness and sense of foreboding, the shriek was still that of a person in pain. And it was still very feministic.

Moving so fast that the other agents behind him had to run to catch up to him, Don tightened his grip on his Glock, tearing open the only door in the wall. The steps lead up and down, and he took them several at a time, almost slipping as he went down and came to the bottom.

The barrel of his weapon was the first thing that appeared around the corner of the door. Doing a quick check and assured that no one was right there, he stepped out into what was a darkly lit corridor. The door banged closed behind him, the harsh sound traveling down the hall. Not waiting for the agents he could hear coming down the steps, Don set off down the hall, shifting his gait from a fast walk to a sprint.

He cursed as he reached the end and discovered that the whole thing was empty. Furious, he cast around for another place or another way. This couldn't be a dead end. The cry hadn't come again and that thought chewed away at his mind.

His arms stumbled against a metal rail and he squinted in the darkness to find that it was another set of stairs, no doubt leading to the next level. Grasping the metal, he hopped over and landed roughly on his feet, wincing as it jarred his knees.

Once again the steps were taken more than a few at a time. Wary as he had been at the first landing, he met the second level with his gun outstretched. Listening for a moment, he faintly heard the sound of feet.

Don sprinted down the hall, slowing his movements as the hairs against the back of his neck prickled and the feeling of alertness that had only come from being an agent for all these years washed over him. The second corridor had proved to be the one he had wanted and the source of the sound.

He stepped out from one patch of darkness and into the light, his brain quickly processing what was in front of him. A man, another Latino and probably Ricky's accomplice, stood in front of him, arm bent raised above a figure below him. Don couldn't exactly make out everything about her, but the small figure and the hair gave her away.

His mind and chest both jumped as it always did in situations like this. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body. She wasn't moving. Don raised the Glock, moved forward, and barked out, "Back up! Don't move!"

Alerted by his voice, the man spun around, continuing to keep the pipe in his hands over her. A feverish light shone in the man's eyes and Don tightened his grip. He repeated his order.

This time he was rewarded with a reaction. The man hissed and shouted something in Spanish. Don watched as the man ignored him, turning back to raise his arm back for another strike. As the metal swung down, Don's finger tightened on the trigger, squeezing once.

The bang of the gun echoed and reverberated down the hall and filled the silence.

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Colby shifted his Glock from his right hand to his left hand. He reached up and wiped the sweat from his brow, a shaky hand passing over his lips. From the corner of his eye he saw David doing much of the same thing.

Assigned the back of the building, Colby and David had entered from a small door off set from the loading dock. Taking the steps right there, they had entered the basement. No sign of their first objective had been found, but the horrors that they had found in the basement converted laboratory had been enough. No sign of the man behind all of this had been found either.

Colby turned as his partner came to stand next to him, shying away from the wooden shelf above their heads. They had found the missing eyes of their victims and he grimly tore his gaze from the floating organs.

Another agent moved past them, bending down to tell the woman next to the man's latest victim that an ambulance had been dispatched and was twenty minutes out. Unlike the others, they had arrived in time for this one. The young man was still alive for the moment. Time would tell as to whether he would live through the physical and mental ordeals that he had endured.

The distinct sound of a gunshot came from above. Trading a knowing glance with David, Colby set off from the room, David right on his heels. The door opened easily as he yanked it open.

This was a different way from where they had come in, but there was only one way to go and that was up. Both of them moved their guns back into the correct positions, rushing up the stairs and bursting through the door at the top, attempting to track the sound.

The stairs led to a long hallway and Colby broke off into a sprint. David's breaths came from behind him, urging him on. He skidded to a halt as he came to the source of the gun shot.

To one side was a man, groaning and holding his right shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers, the hole the source of the gun. To the other side of the hall and against the wall was Don. His boss was down on his knees, hands moving over the person on the ground.

Colby's eyes were drawn to his leader's hands as they fumbled against her neck, searching for a pulse of some kind. With the way she looked Colby feared they wouldn't find one. Their missing doctor was unbelievable pale, and thin looking, the sharp angles of her face amplified. A nasty looking bruise was forming across her forehead, and blood seeped from many places. She was horribly still in the dim light, looking very much dead.

All three of their breaths were harsh in the open corridor, mingling with the sound of the groaning man now behind Colby as he stepped forward. Don swallowed, his fingers finally finding the right place, tilting her head to the side. Colby watched as it moved effortlessly with no resistance, seeming to flop like a rag dolls.

Nothing was said and the seconds seemed to drag on endlessly in his mind. Finally, Don whipped his head around to face them, dark eyes shining bright in that dank place.

"I need a medic now!"

Background Information:

Peyton's semi-concious state and behavior: Ketamine distorts sounds. It's a known side effect and is a reason no one uses it any more to get high. Also, after being starved, depraved, insanely driven, and given copious amounts of heavy drugs for three days, she's not in the best of shape. Also, at this point she is starting to lose her grip on sanity.

The Fog: In Santa Monica there really is the 'June Gloom' and 'May Gray' and it's just what I wrote.