Too Alive
I'm not sure what sort of face I wore. Somewhere between blank disbelief or utter horror, I didn't register at first what was happening until his fist connected with my head, my bruised brow. The second blow hit somewhere behind my ear, effectively stunning me. Whoever the fuck he was, he was strong. I lost count of how many times he pummeled me before I was soup, spilling out of that idiotwaiter. I was barely conscious as he knelt over me, running his mouth.
"Hey, you're that little shit priest's guy, aren't you? His…witness, or whatever. You must be exhausted. Let's take a break, huh, buddy? The old two martini lunch, have a little confab."
I already decided, I hated this guy.
He pulled me up by the lapels of my coat and flipped my body over his shoulder. Miles. Miles. Focus, wake up. I need to get away from this guy. Have to get out, gotta find that way out and not get killed. MILES!
My eyelids drooped as the world drifted away, my head was pounding and the room was spinning. Or, he was turning before he flopped me down into a hard, uncomfortable chair. I tried to find my limbs, my arms, my legs. What was he doing? He was saying something….
"…heavier than you look. A little cardio wouldn't kill you." My head lolled back and turned uncomfortably on my neck, like a broken spring in a dull mechanism. My jaw slacked, but I managed to clamp my mouth shut. Keep your mouth shut around this guy. If you have to pass out do so slumped forward, I was so muddled in the head I wasn't sure if I could manage that.
What was he doing? "Okay. Here we go. Arms and legs inside the car at all times." He tightened something around my wrists, and when I spun my head to see, I felt my heart skip a beat.
Restraints. He leaned on my knee and gave a light heartened chuckle before he disappeared from sight. Oh god. This was bad. This was indescribably bad.
My head swayed as he gripped the handles of the wheelchair and spun me about. Miles. Get it the fuck together. I need action, response. I was certain I was trying to move, but my body was unresponsive and in pain. I clinched my hand against the hard wristband, and turned my head a little more to view where we were going. The man was quiet for now, only the howl of the storm and the irritating chirp of the wheels reverberated in the background.
I saw a steel countertop, blood, there was always blood. Tall shelves, looked like for stacking something thin or flat. Sinks, pots and pans. Kitchen. I closed my eyes feeling my brain flat line, no, stay awake. Focus. I can get out of this. My head rolled back and I saw pale carpet, the colors looked horrible. Walls burnt and damaged by fighting, or something. The paint badly chipped, made everything look ancient and ugly. Boarded up door, probably locked too. An acrid scent twisted in my nose as I was reacquainted with soured aroma of the asylum all over again, the remaining lights seemed brighter than normal.
My head. Everything was fuzzy, and everywhere all at once. Was I supposed to be here? Dead Murkoff, pools of blood, pieces of people scattered across the floor. A surreal nightmare I couldn't escape. The surviving humans wore a mask, but their minds were fractured by the fiends that had run this place. Something had been waiting for them in the mountains. Was it Father Martin standing behind those bars, or…something else? The Scales on Saul's eyes were fear. Miles. Too deep Miles, I've gone too deep. Please wake up.
I opened one eye to stare at the floor, and turned to check the walls of a glassed in office as the wheelchair rotated and backed up. I was feeling sour in my gut, even when I shut my eyes the world still swirled around. Horrible things nested in my head, I couldn't stop thinking about it.
"Y'know, I love the mountain air up here at night. You want to head out, take a stroll?" He darted into my line of sight, sideways and nodded toward an open door labeled EXIT in friendly, bright red letters. "Go ahead, I'll wait here."
A stroll did sound really nice, but I wasn't sure how to do that. I opened my other eye and fixed him with a glare. "Go on, run free." As he carried out the E he gestured gaily with his arm. "I'm in no hurry."
He paused and noticed my look, his giddiness died somewhat. But he brushed it off coolly with a small shrug. "No? Alright. Nose to the grind stone, I like that."
I did want to go out, clear my mind. But I couldn't figure out how to get outside from here, it seemed somewhat complicated. My elbow brushed the armrest awkwardly as I shifted, couldn't get my arm free.
"Okay then. Right this way." He drew the wheelchair backwards, and I watched the shapes warp around my eyes. The walls and floor distorted, I whined softly as the large exit became smaller and more distant.
He pulled the wheelchair back into a small room, the doors shut in front of us and he hit a panel.
An elevator Miles. We're in an elevator, going the opposite way of where we need to be. I exhaled a small breath and fought not to cough, that smell of death was following us. Where are we going? I blinked a few times and gently turned my head left and right, just to feel it all settle back into place. We were headed up a few floors, I lost count, too focused on other things.
This guy had a strange apparatus imbedded with his arm, looked like blood was traveling through it. His blood? But why? Given his physique, horrendously gaunt, his skin stretched over muscle and bone, he might have collapsed arties, and this was a bypass. Or, he was giving transfusions. That thought frightened me more than it sickened.
His fingernails were overgrown, and splintered. He was nearly bald, but for the scraggly hair that grew from the back of his skull. His fashion sense consisted of an apron fastened to his front, at least it was something. Though, there was that strange monocle lens over his eye, and the remains of a rotted surgical mask.
Oh shit.
The elevator came to a stop, and the doors scraped open. He eased the wheelchair out, over bloodstained tile that had thick red lines identical to wheel tracks. The man kept a steady pace, his casual indifference to his surroundings twisted in my thoughts. I picked up the pained groans of people struggling with chains, and the distant moans. The blood stains grew larger and thicker, with wide patterns across the dull and damaged floor. He was following this trail.
He pushed the wheelchair past stained gurneys that lined the wall, and into a dark corridor where the sounds of anguish grew louder with our approach. We passed through a segregation gate, broken and the door nowhere in sight.
"Kill me….Kill me."
The chair slipped around a corner into a lit corridor, I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck. A man tied to his bed made a valiant effort to break his bindings, his voice muffled despite his gaping black mouth.
"Shhhh…shh…shh…shhh! You weren't putting that tongue to any use anyway." I stared at him, and where a long line of decay had chiseled the plastered from the wall. Blood was splattered on it near his face, and a black shape had formed in the mattress under his head. "Truth be told, I was just tired of licking my own stamps."
Light poured from the open double doors in the walls side, he eased through them smoothly into a room of disarray. Some sort of communion hospital room, beds lined the walls while others were shoved across the floor. A few mattresses had been discarded around two large pillars off center of the room. I stared as we continued through, toward a door with blood on the floor, on the walls, and a red mop leaned on the corroded plaster. I groaned through my teeth and turned away, but that was only the beginning. A sloppy handprint had been pressed by the doorframe, and thick black lines led back indicated a struggle in which the doomed was dragged.
That same reek from the dying patient room, stale urine and extensive amounts of old copper and rot. I flinched and jerked at my wrists, trying to curse, but it came out as a stiff murmur.
"Here we are, then." As we entered, I saw bloody shoeprints in the little bit of light. This guy was barefoot.
He spun the chair around and drew me deeper into this black room that smelled of death and pain. He sighed, and said, "Thanks so much for coming by. We'll begin your consultation in a moment," as he spoke he flipped the lights on from somewhere, and I was buried in full view of this horrific place.
Blood splattered walls, thick pools of blood coated the tile floor. Urinals lined the wall… was this a lavatory? He was chopping people up in a restroom! Ragged body pieces were scattered everywhere, to the side stood a small table cart with rusty tools lined out on its surface, behind it sat a pile of moldy arms and splint ribcages. Fat insects scattered under the light. The man, whoever he was, crushed them under his bare feet like they were crisp autumn leaves. "I'll just need a second to wash up and…."
As he trailed off, he reached for my belt undoing the snap and pulled my camera free. "Oh…Home movies!" He posed with the camera, before turning his attention to a large wash basin behind him. "...And it'll give us a chance to talk."
He set MY camera on the edge of a sink. ON the EDGE of a SINK! As he was washing his hands!
Yes, I know, this should be the least of my concerns…. But everything I've gone through, EVERYTHING! Is. On. That. Camera! I didn't cart it through sewers and protect it from naked thugs, to have some wacko carelessly dump it in a sink of WATER while I'm tied up!
Break out of the restraints. If I wriggle hard enough, they would come undone. I wrench one way, then the other feeling the leather cut into my skin. I hissed as I jerked my wrists back hard and….
"You know," As I stared down, his bare feet and that ugly apron came into view. I took a sharp breath and looked him in the face, "I'm a bit worried how much time you've spent with Father Martin." I recoil as he turns away. "I know…" And heads towards the table cart piled with rusted, bloody tools. The one beside rotting human limbs.
"I hope you haven't been letting him confuse you with all his holier-than-thou bible thumping." He began fiddling with the tools, turning one over or picking up the next and examined its jagged edge.
I have come to terms with how severely I am fucked. It's frigid, my coat is almost dry, but the powerful quivers that rip through my body stem from the way he's casually walking over here with that long, jagged-edged blade. My fingers dig harder at the armrest until my nails ache. I need to get out of here, I need to survive….
"No offense to the man, but I sometimes worry he might just be," He set the blade beside my neck, to where I could feel the tiny teeth cut into my skin. I froze staring up into his eyes and felt…an unfamiliar wave of helplessness ripple through me. Oh please... "A little bit….crazy." I wince when he nicks me, and I withdraw from that side, even as he's already returning to the cart.
Halfheartedly I tugged at the restraints, more out of desperation than any attempt to escape. My eyes followed his movements, my mind racing. How fucked was I? I was so fucked. Completely at the mercy of a homicidal sociopath. I couldn't rip my hands free but I wasn't exactly trying, I set my feet on the floor and he glanced my way causing me to set them back on their steps. The wrist straps, I needed to loosen them. Before he slit my throat. All the blood spray on the walls! He was—
"It's understandable, people get scared," he resumed, picking up what was definitely a bone saw. A fuckin big one, too. I swallowed and felt myself choke a bit on my tongue. "They're as likely to turn to God as anything else." He examined it, setting it delicately over his fingers and turning the blade over, before he returned to me. "God died with a gold standard. We're on to more concrete faiths now."
He rested the end of the saw against my upper arm and resumed scrutinizing the blade, as though he had doubts it could cut through the tendons and cartilage of my shoulder. Drool seeped out of the corner of my mouth as I drew my lips back in a grimace. "You have to rob Paul to pay Peter, there is no other way." I clenched my fist tightly, and at this point he took an interest in my hand, lowering the knife. I did not miss the wicked way it glint along the edge. "Murder in its simplest form," he gently touched the underside of my fist, effectively uncoiling my hand and examined it upon his. "But what happens when all the money is gone?" When he removed his hand and returned to the table cart, I clenched my fist once more and stared.
It felt like I made some sort of mistake.
"Well, money becomes a matter of faith." He sort of dumped the bone saw on the table, and went straight for a urinal….
Where a huge set of rusted shears sat, waiting. "And that's what I'm here for." My heart twisted behind my ribs as he drew near, snipping the grungy blades together. "To make you believe."
Oh god.
A soft whimper escaped my throat as I tried to get up and pull my wrist back, but it was locked tight in the restraints. On impulse I struggle to get my feet down on the floor and shove away, but the floor was too slick with fluids. My heels kicked out awkwardly, comically. I seized up as the crazy fucker anchored his weight over my thighs with one knee, and leaned over my arm obscuring my sight. No. No. He's not, he can't! WAIT! He gipped my right hand in his and with the other, he had the shears…he….
FUCKIN CHRIST!
A horrible crunch splint the air, fire surged through my forearm, scorching across my wrist. I gag and howled in pain as the blades cracked the bone, but didn't quite tear through the skin, I don't think. The lights dimmed as my consciousness spun, a sound I'd never heard myself make before spilled from my throat. I felt his weight lift from my legs and I tried to lift my foot, find the floor. It was too much for me as he worked. My senses torn raw, remained locked on my compromised hand. He twisted the shears, but my finger was still attached. IT WAS! I felt it dangle loosely before he tore it off!
I sobbed in pain. My finger! Which one! I couldn't see, couldn't look. I COULDN'T FEEL MY FINGERS!
I turned my head to him, the agony still fresh as my vision dimmed. "You paying attention?" He pulled his arm up and swung out, smashing his bloody palm against my face. "Don't pass out on me, there's still a lot for you to absorb." He snapped the scissors as he practically sat on my lap, and gripped my left hand same as the other. I tried to keep my fist clenched, but his jagged fingernails cut into my skin. He was ripping my hand apart!
NO! NO! YOU FUCKIN PSYCHO—
That grotesque crackle as my bone ruptured, and the flesh, I imagined the flesh ripping as he readjusted my hand. Keep it together Miles. Don't pass out. I'll get through this. I'll survive and I'll see this bastard die. But I felt my resolve diminish, I was barely hanging on as it was.
I choked as my voice caught in my throat, between a sob and groan. I leaned away, trying not to see what he was doing, though I felt the nerves erupt as their devastated ends were ravaged by a pair of blunt scissors. He had a better grip on my hand this time, or I didn't struggle as much. I felt the odd sensation of my finger rubbing over the back of my hand before it was gone. My brain did a weird twist from processing it, and the sudden realization there was this wide gap in my hands where my fingers once held residence. I think it made the pain worse, or made it ignite in a finale as I bent my head back and moaned between my teeth.
My hands were covered in blood, dark rivers carving red paths over my sleeves. I yowled, and another incomprehensibly sound gurgled in the back of my throat. My fingers….
"There," he cooed. "Better now, right?" He turned and strolled aside to collect the table cart, and braced the shears against the handle as he pushed it by. "Do you understand what we achieved here? We made the consumer into the means of productions." I couldn't keep track where he was, somewhere behind me? Everything was fuzzy, dark spots dotted my vision as I felt all the strength spill out of my guts. "This thing is going to sell itself." I barely saw him head out the door, before it slammed shut.
I never saw what he did with my fingers.
ARGH! Hell, damnit all! My voice sounds strangled and sick, I try to get over the fact that I've been mutilated, that my fingers were gone. They were fucking gone. The ecstasy that I was somehow still alive clashed with the trauma, and the pain flared through my forearms. I let out another moan as I stretched my hands out to take in the damage. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe. My legs were still pitifully weak and bent askew over the wheelchairs foot rests, where his weight had shoved them down. Water streaked down my cheeks and my stomach knotted. Oh god, my fingers were really gone.
The index on my right hand, and my left hands ring finger. Gone. Where did they go? I attempted to quiet my whimpers, blood was just spilling out of the remaining stumps to mix with the layers of gore already dried on my pants and shoes, most of it spread under me in a thin crimson puddle. I needed to fix that. Had to get out. Had to get free. Shit. Oh god, oh shit.
I jerked at my wrists, grunting as the skin aggravated the raw nerves. Can't stay here, don't want to think about what he does next. Fingers first, then, then….
I jerk at my wrists, the loop was impossible to loosen due to its design. But I could drag my hand back, coated with my blood it was slick enough to slip free. I could do this, I didn't have a choice if I wanted to walk out of here. Nausea swells in me as my hand folded in the loop, the pain in my knuckle and that space in my fingers. I try not to look as I work.
A sharp snap, and one hand rips free, then the other. Free. Gently, I drag my heels over the red puddle and steady my legs to what I can manage in my current state. Then, push up, off the wheelchair without slipping. Everything in my body felt weak, my legs shook so bad I could barely keep my balance. I just lost a lot of blood in the short amount of time, and some psycho just chopped off two nice fingers! That bastard! That psychotic bastard! I would see him die, I would. I swear. For what he did—
Recalling the experience, coupled with the stress, and the overwhelming stench of this foul room. I collapse to my knees and flopped my arms up over the rim of the bloody sink, to keep from dropping to the filthy floor. I try and avoid my pants as I expel the remains of my lunch from hours ago, in a murky mess of bile. I'm not sure if I can stop as I heave up some more, till there's nothing but convulsions wracking my trembling form.
I try to push myself to my feet but this time I can't do it, my body gives out and I slump sideways over the slick tile. I'm barely able to avoid a thick puddle of blood as I crawl back to the wheelchair, the cleanest surface in the room. Gingerly, I slip my hands over the seat and lay my head on my upper arm, I keep my mutilated hands raised while the blood still seeps. My eyes focused on a nearly clean space on the wall as I zone out, I try and spit some of the lingering taste from my lips as my eyelids droop.
I needed to calm down, slow my heart rate. I adjusted my legs under me to keep from pushing the chair away, mostly I wanted to get on my feet and get out of here. He would be back, I doubt he left me for long. But I was uncertain if my legs could carry me. Another wave of nausea cut through me and I lean forward to the best of my ability just in case, but the sensation passed. As I set my head down I noticed dampness on my sleeve, something dark from my face. It took a moment for my mind to conjure up the recollection, he'd slapped me and this was my blood. I lay my head down and let out a slow breath, concentrating on the way the damp coat crinkled over my ribs.
My fingers were gone.
The lights flickered but I barely blinked, I struggled to come to terms with what has happened. I don't want this to affect me, I don't want this to get me killed. I didn't want to die. If I couldn't cope, if I couldn't get on my feet and move, I was dead. He'll find me lounging here and drive those shears through my face, that could be the only outcome. My breath was labored, but I was all right, I kept telling myself this. I lost two fingers, he could have done worse. Most of it was psychological, I couldn't let that wreck me. I could still walk, but I had to get up. I was going to survive, I was going to get out, and I would not die here. Not after I came this far. I would go further if I needed to, on my own feet. I was going to walk out of this place, through those front doors.
My mind cleared more or less, the adrenalin flooding my veins would keep my senses sharp for a short time. If I didn't fuck it up again. I slipped back to my knees and braced my elbows onto the hard seat of the wheelchair, pushing with my arms until I raised off one knee and then the other. It was pathetic, my legs shook under my weight and I nearly fell as the chair slipped backwards but I managed to straighten up. Carefully I spun around and staggered to the bloodied wash basin and lifted my camera off, I winced as the exposed bone on my index finger glanced its side. As soon as I could, I needed to find a place to hide and recover better.
I took some time to temper myself to the fresh wounds and the eerie lacking digits, gently I checked through the cameras features pressing buttons with my middle finger and slipping the strap over my hand. It ached but I had to do this now, there would be no second chances. But the camera and strap would help protect my finger, once I had it on.
I checked the visor of the camera to find of course, it had caught everything. For a second I pondered over what should be done, but I didn't think over it long. Rather go back and see what was recorded, I made the difficult decision, one I may come to regret. I isolated the time segment where…this occurs, and lock it. A small effort to prevent accidental deletion, and to discourage deletion should I change my mind.
This was real. I might need this later.
I filmed a bit of the room, further adjusting myself to the space in my hand and their fresh sensitively to variation in temperature, and touch. The bleeding had lessened considerably but blood still oozed in thick clots. In the worst case scenario, my vulnerable hands would become a hindrance. As it was now, staring at them made my vision foggy and I had to avert my eyes. I doubt I'd find clean bandages and disinfectant, let alone utilize a steady hand in applying said dressings. I vouched to leave them as they were, if I tried cleaning them it would aggravate the wounds and the bleeding needed to stop. This entire facility was contaminated anyway, and I wouldn't be able to flee as effectively if the bandages distracted me.
I took a sharp breath as I recalled what was beyond the door. Everything I had fought to avoid, and I had to keep moving. I had to get out of here while he was content to believe, I was still tied up and delirious with pain. I tried the handle, relieved that it was unlocked, though it caught and I had to jiggle it. I exchanged hands and decided to rely on my left, the 'amputation' was cleaner and I still hand that index finger. My right hand was already swollen and difficult to work.
"Who's there? Is somebody there? Come closer."
A voice drifted from the next room. I pushed the second door open and shut it softly behind me as I scanned the copious shadows. The only source of light was a lamp standing beside a bed, where a body lay in a pool of blood. I navigated between upturned beds, a few broken wheelchairs to the voice as it called out again.
"I'm not a patient. I'm an executive. Just like him." He groaned as he shifted in his restraints. "Like Trager."
He looked no different than the others, mangled and vivisection scars all over his body, he had endured the second phase of basement torture. His head was cradled awkwardly in a cloth sling, and his limbs tied to the beds legs.
"But he got the treatment. He's too alive. Filled with Wernicke's nightmares." I carefully slipped the cameras loop over my hand and raised it to film his confession. "It worked too well. They couldn't control it…." He seemed to notice me, and the camera.
"And you can't control it. Nobody. Nobody! NOBODY!" I backed away towards a set of beds beside the wrecked wall, while he began to thrash at his straps. "He'll find you! He'll kill you! He's coming right now!"
As instant after I jerked my head rather painfully, when a door cracked open and in strolled the Doctor. "TRAAGER! TRAAAAAGERR!"
I dropped down and shuffled under the nearest bed, keeping my camera propped in my hands as the psycho continued his even stride towards the shrieking man.
"Ah. I see what's happening here. You're bored, you want a little attention. Perfectly understandable." He indicated the man with a finger, as though explaining a rudimentary point. "I'm here for you. I'll give you very special attention."
Then plunged the large shears into his stomach. I could actually hear the ribs crinkle under his skin and the soft gurgle of fluid as guts and blood swirled. The executive gave a final shriek as Trager twisted the weapon deeper, then wrenched it free. A thick black puddled formed under the bed, and the man's body went limp, his head still dangled in the sling. Trager departed, from my position I couldn't make out exactly where he was headed. Just in the direction he had appeared from.
A door opened and shut. The silence held for a few seconds. I pulled the camera to my neck and strained to listen, while fighting to ignore the mild ache building in my finger as it pressed into my collar. The soft slap of warm fluid on a puddle slowed.
"Fuck! Fuck! Really? You're gonna walk on ME?" I tightened up into a small ball and shoved myself further back under the beds end. The door rattled as Trager returned to the room, and slapped it shut behind him. "If there is one thing I cannot GOD DAMN stand, it's a quitter! Come on!" Somehow, I managed to curl up into an even smaller ball, with my head tucked under my knees.
"Alright…alright, you can figure this out. Let's…solve this little problem." The echoing rasp of the shears seemed magnified on the walls, as he moved around searching, snipping them every now and then. I winced but relaxed all in the same instant when I realized he hadn't found me, I raised my head to scan what was visible from where I lay and locate where he was.
He navigated the rooms perimeter checking over the broken beds stacked around the pillars, when it was obvious I wouldn't be in plain sight he began stooping down to check under beds.
"All those bureaucrats with their corporate luncheons and golden parachutes. Where are the survivors? Where are the sharks?" He wandered into the half of the room I was in and checked under a bed by the far wall. "I've been chumming the water long enough."
There was a door just beside the bed I was under. While Trager lowered to check under the next bed, I took my chance and climbed out trying the knob.
Locked.
I crawled back under the bed, as Trager raised and sauntered to the next bed. I didn't bother to pause, and continued to the other side still crouched down as I hustled to the next bed. I chided myself for being too noisy, for not keeping low enough. I wanted–
"Hold up there buddy!" Fuck. I launched up to my feet, shoving off the bed post and ran for the large doors. "I'll be right with you!"
I dove out of the room turning, checking with the camera. A dead end of medical tables and shelving. Blocked. We came through here, the trail of blood from the elevator was all over the floor. The way out!
I dashed away, ignoring the patient thrashing in his bed shrieking at my appearance. The noise elevated my anxiety, mind racing, I could scarcely recall my movement as images clashed with the short journey from the elevator. I would be next, I was next. I was in the process of becoming a victim!
My shoes skid on the dried blood as I shot around the corner, the bright doors of the open elevator in full view. Screw this! I was out, so out! I don't give a fuck where Trager was, he couldn't touch me once those doors shut. The outdated lift shifted as I leapt inside and smashed the button without a second glance.
Nothing happened. What was wrong? We had power! What could… I touched the panel with my left hand, there was a thin slot beneath the buttons. For a key most likely.
"Let me sell you the dream!"
"Argh!" I lunged out of the elevator and twisted toward the only available route. There was a gate with large shelving shoved against it, all on the other side. My attention then went to a blood drenched gurney, and the wet vent dripping above it. Without hesitation I sprung up the step, into the small space and dragged myself into the safety of the metal cradle.
I hissed when I adjusted the camera, before I could drop it in the sudden black. The bone sticking out on my index finger amplified every little bump, waves of heat rolled through my traumatized nerves with acute precision. I had to deal with it, if I couldn't do that then I might as well stop running now. I didn't pause as I roughly searched my way along, my free hand twisted sideways against the floor to ease the pain through my knuckles as I entrusted my weight on it. I was more or less leaning forward, anxious to find a way out if that sick freak was able to follow me up. It didn't seem he could. But it did look like someone had tried to escape the same route, with less than successful results.
The next flue was torn out, and I peered down trying to see as much of below as I could, and listened for movement and those shears. Once I felt eased there was nothing living, I slipped down into the hall. Light I recognized gleamed from an obstructed gate, scooting along the wall I glimpsed around the corner into the room with the elevator. There had to be another way out, a set of stairs somewhere. A gondola?
The floor creaked under my steps, it looked to be an older section of the asylum with outdated wood floors with evident gaps between the boards. I gave my perimeter a quick scan, wondering where Trager had disappeared to when I had eluded him. He could have been locked in that room now, unless he was strong enough to push the metal shelf aside. The wheels were stationary, I doubt he'd get the leverage to push it over and aside.
I sat down on the floor with my back to the shelf, and set the camera beside me. In the little light I reevaluated my hands. They looked terrible, and the tremors had yet to diminish but I was probably in shock, or just scared out of my wits. I pressed my palms together and focused on calming my nerves. The asylum made strange sounds behind the walls, the groan of machinery I couldn't comprehend and pipes gurgled. And there was the trademark shriek of a man lost in this insane environment. I felt drained, more than that, there wasn't an accurate description for what I'd call what my body felt. Transparent maybe? It was vague, I felt fragile enough. I was constantly reminded of my mortality via physical and mental abuse, and each time I received the threat the distance I ran from it shortened. I pulled my arms around my sides and sat for a few minutes, examining the area.
A dark corridor loomed directly across from me, but of what I could make out, it might be another dead end. To my left was a long hall with functioning lamps, a few beds stacked along the sides, and a small broken desk. It wasn't frigid as the lower levels had been, but in my damp coat I trembled. I was on the verge of collapse.
"TRAGER. Sick fucker cut my fingers off. Has tortured and mangled dozens of patients, I watch him murder another one, nothing I can do about it. Talks like a white collar business school douchebag, probably has a set of golf clubs in the trunk of his Audi. I'd bet the rest of my fingers he was Murkoff brass before whatever's infected this place changed him.
I want out of this place. I want my fucking fingers back. I want to see Trager die."
I wrote this with all the conviction I could muster. Though I doubted I'd get my wish, if given the opportunity, and I had a chance - a legitimate chance - I probably would try to murder him. He needed to die, and that's what I wanted.
The page had a few smears of blood and a couple fingerprints despite my efforts, I really didn't bother to clean my remaining fingers before fumbling with it. I carefully slipped these items back into the pocket and zipped it tight. With my nerves smoothed out to some degree, I took up my camera before climbing to my feet and gazed into the lite hallway. My progress was excruciatingly slow, and every shift or sound that reached my ears was mistaken for footfalls or the scrape of grungy shears. I imagined taking a few steps and blinking, and there he would be with that horrible weapon perched neatly behind his back as he waited for my brain to register his presence.
I realized my breath was labored, I tried to calm it but my heart was pounding. It hurt too much to fight it, the anxiety only elevating the red seeping from what remained of my fingers. For some time I stood staring into the hall without a prompt or objective, just waiting for a sound or something to happen, but nothing did. I was on the brink of bolting, if the doctor or any other variant decided to reveal them self. Where was I? I was so fucking lost. It was impossible to focus on a single objective, I couldn't imagine myself moving on.
Yet I did.
The floor gave thunderous creak as I shifted my footing and began forward, through a set of open doors that seemed irrelevant to the layout. Hospitals had a lot of doors, but this wasn't a legitimate hospital. This was the hospital of hell. Another pair were locked on my right, I fooled with the handles a bit shoving with my elbow where the doors met as they seemed flimsy from their age. I crept close to the wall and tried the next set of doors, locked fast. A sudden clatter caused me to pause, but I never figured out what it was or if I'd actually heard something. Maybe just the shadow in my thoughts.
I didn't feel comfortable in full view of the light as I continued, passing two large rooms on the left, each filled with beds and 'hospital' equipment. From the doorway I could view very little with the dim light, but I wanted to save my batteries anyway. The soft voices trickled from the gloom, moans and occasional sobbing. In the second room, abandoned under a bright lamp was what remained of a man lying on a bloodied gurney, his leg bolted into some sort of brace. Blood coated the metal device, spilling down his thigh. A chill ran down my spine, and I turned to the end of the hall where two metal beds had been stacked, the one on top was flipped over with its sharp feet sticking up. On it a few boxes and tools had been piled in.
"Aw, buddy. What are you trying to do?" I whirled about and crouched low, where the hell was he? Where did he come from! "I gave you a chance, didn't I? Didn't old Rick try to give you a hand?" There, concealed by shadows he emerged from the double doors that were previously locked. I slunk backwards biting my lip to withhold a pitiful sound. Oblivious to my shape, he turned the opposite way towards the shelving at the halls end. "I can't help somebody who doesn't want to be helped. You're fired."
I think the big ugly fucker made more sense than him.
I tried to mirror his movements as I slipped through the open door and backed up into the shadows, gaze locked on the golden rectangle the door cast. I stumbled and pivoted when I had backed into a pillar, I used it to steady myself as I stood to shuffle around it. The only light was in the ceiling, shining directly down on the man. What was Trager trying to do? This was nothing more than torture, cruel and pointless. Two bags of blood were suspended beside his bed, they looked old and the contents an ugly chunky black consistency.
The patient gave an inconsolable wail and sat up, struggling with his leg. "If you touch me again I swear to fucking Christ I will murder you with my mind. Just fucking try it. You sick motherfucker! Try it! Try it!"
I had stepped a little closer gawking at him. I couldn't help but feel a massive swell of pity, it was obvious he was hopelessly doomed. Trager would keep performing his oper— Mutilations, until he was dead. I wasn't sure what I could do. Not sure if I wanted to do anything, either.
"Buddy!"
I didn't see where he was coming from, but it sounded like he was directly behind me. I shot past the patient, skidding around his bed as Trager rounded on the other side. We made another lap around before I sprint off toward the back off the room, dragging up the camera to keep from running into the numerous beds scattered about. Nearly all of them were occupied by a patient, chained down in various conditions of mutilation. The sharp bolt of rot hit me hard, informing that some had already expired.
When Trager caught up to me, he slung out the shears nearly catching my head as I ducked sideways over a bed. I tumbled and swept up, leaping over an empty bed and ran for a door on one side of the room. It resembled the one in the first room I escaped which had been locked, but this one snapped open easily.
I jerked the door after me, stumbling away as Trager slammed into it. He gave me a displeased look as he reached down for the handle, I practically dropped my camera in my haste to take it and snap the door out of his grip.
Rather fool around further, Trager lifted the shears and plunged them into the wood, I stumbled back as they pierced two feet before he withdrew them and smashed his bony shoulder against the wood. I took a step back, picked up my camera, and ran.
That wouldn't hold for long.
The connecting room was no bigger, but it was less crowded. With patients, that is. A few lamps were set up by cots, and swarms of roaches and flies hummed over the dried pools of blood and melting piles of innards. My stomach wrenched as the insects crunched under shoe, oh god I hope it was bugs. The sounds at the door had ceased, and I ducked under the nearest bed.
I struggled not to lie directly in a quivering mess of insects, but it was an impossible goal. Several tense minutes wound by, I lay there tormented by the little buggers trying to crawl over me and my face. When I thought Trager had entered, I pulled up the camera. Something was pinching my finger, I looked through the visor to see a large roach camped on my sleeve, and EATING my finger.
"Somebody has to win and somebody has to lose here, I don't make the rules."
Cringing, I flecked the bug away and tucked my free hand against my neck. Trager came from the other doorway, padding along the bloody tiled floor scanning the wary shadows for my form. He snipped the scissors as he rotated, the lamp light caught his monocle making it glimmer like a silver disk, reminiscent to something from one of those sinister characters in a Japanese comic.
I heard something rattle, and turned the camera to view an arm chained at the bed post I was under. Another patient, his hand gripped at the bar as he twitched. I couldn't decide if he was trying to reveal my position, or if he was just struggling to free himself. Trager seemed oblivious to his actions, now focused on checking under beds. The inhospitable nature of my location may have moved it next to last on his checklists of areas to search, or I was just lucky this time.
I slipped away from the insect nest and kept low, buried in shadows as the doctor continued in the other direction to check a patient that looked very dead. The self-absorbed bastard could just be admiring his own work. If he was distracted, all the better. I paused to make sure he wasn't looking my way, then slipped under a halo of light on the floor and out the open doors.
Back in the hall, without incident. I still wasn't any closer to figuring a way out of this area. Let alone where exactly I was. There was the gate in the dark corridor, maybe it was unlocked. I doubted it, but it was the only area left unchecked.
I crept quietly back to the hall, using the NV to see where I was going. There was a hall extending beyond the door a ways out of my cameras range, but the gate was locked. Surprise, surprise. Turning, I thought about the room I began in, beyond the shelf and gate. The key could've been there, but it was evident it could just as easily be anywhere else. Trager had access to it as he did the double doors, it was most likely somewhere safe. But it couldn't be on his person….
The sound of snipping drifted from the hall, and I spun to see Trager coming towards me. I dashed into the dark corridor and tried the boarded door at the far end, though I knew damn well it was pointless. I ducked behind a bed flipped sideways and shut off my camera. I could see the end of the hall and the silhouette of Trager as he appeared, I put one hand over my mouth to smother my breathing. He closed in on my location and I prepared to dash, but he halted a mere few feet away and snipped the shears in aggravation.
"I should have cut his feet first," he sighed, and pivoted. "Amateur move."
I didn't think he saw me, but he could've been fucking with me. No sound flittered from the corridors end, was it possible for him to shut up for a minute? I went ahead and moved, crawling around the overturned bed with the camera clutched in hand. Reaching the shadows edge, I strained to see around while listening for his obnoxious voice. No sign of Trager.
Oh, I did see him down the hall, heading into one of the rooms. Looked like the first one, because there was that bed between the two and he was on my side.
Few options were open to me. While Trager was elsewhere, I stood and braced myself to the metal shelf. Blood was still slick over my palms, I made a small effort to scrub it off on my coat and not risk slipping and ripping my hands up further. That sharp pain rippled up my side as I pushed, like an old friend I'd missed for years. Hm.
I was disappointed by how easily the door swept open, I don't know why. I wasn't feeling too good at the current time, despite my outstanding health. I shut the door and moved past the elevator with its welcoming light. Damn, asylums, and their keys and locked doors. There were too many locked doors in this place, and when they weren't locked there was always something terrible and evil on the other side.
There was nothing in the dark corridors end, only a locked door and a poor man tied to his bed begging me to end his life. I pretended I couldn't understand what he was saying, and I didn't film him either. Revisiting the room where Trager had left me offered nothing, I didn't expect it to either. I was running out of places to search, though desperation was never an excuse for dumb theories.
I had paused in the next room musing over matters while the peace held, and regarded the barred windows with some interest. They were clearly outdated, when compared to the previous section of the asylum I had explored with the Plexiglas and thick chicken wire. It didn't enlighten me to my whereabouts, only that this section was built before 1970 before it was shut down, and Murkoff built the modern sections to suffice the needs of their 'physicians'.
It looked like someone had already tried to tear the thick bars off, or shoot them off. Bullets had punched through the windows accented with thin cracks, the plaster was somewhat crumbling from where they did hit the wall. I gripped the bars in my hands and shook them, but they were locked solid in cement.
A small wood nightstand sat beside the bloodied bed. I ignored the executive as I picked it up and returned to the window. Poised a safe distance back, I heaved the small piece of furniture to smash against the bars. The wood burst into pieces, and the window suffered some minor damage, another hairline crack.
There was an assortment of furniture and beds still piled around the pillars. I selected a small table and threw it against the window, it bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor. A piece of plywood was jammed through, tearing out the glass and let the rain pour in with a frigid gale. I went back for a wheelchair, another side table, anything I could lift and throw was driven against the barred window. I took the light from beside the dead patient and tore the cord from the socket it was plugged into, and smashed the lamp it against the bars over and over. When it was in twisted pieces I threw it aside, and stepped up to the window staring into the dark night.
A crack of thunder bellowed forth and the lightening flashed over the asylum's grounds. I wanted out of this place so bad, it hurt somewhere deep in my body. Everything that was me would die here if I couldn't escape this hell. Alone, crumpled in some corner, broken and waiting for death. That would be me, if I stopped running. If everything in me just stopped.
My face felt wet and I recalled the blood that was there. I used my left hand to rub away at the mist but didn't bother to look. I had been in bad situations before, had my life threatened on several occasions. Probably deserved it, too….
But this was impossible. This was incomprehensible. I slipped to my knees as I stared up into the night, the rain cast silver beads into the thin light of the room. That same wave of helplessness crashed through my senses, unfamiliar and strange. I'd never felt this way before. Never in all my life. Was this what it felt like to die? I think so. A few years ago I had been in an accident, hurt so bad I didn't know who the people were that stared down at me screaming questions. I was oblivious at the time, a massive concussion and some hemorrhaging. As everything faded I thought I was dying. I had surrendered to death.
With a twist I realized I had not been dying. I was hurt, confused, but there were people that would not let me die. What was different was my capacity to appreciate my current awareness, and witness myself crumble from the inside out. In a sense I was dying, while I fought to see the end of this. Somehow, I was doing the whole process backwards. I'm pretty sure you weren't meant to do that, which would explain my situation now. I had the sudden urge to throw more furniture against the window, but couldn't find the strength to rise. I wanted to sit here and stare, and think, and enjoy the cool breeze from the outside as it teased my face. There was so much I wanted.
The executive shifted in his restraints. Immediately, my mind cued in on this redundant detail.
The executive was dead.