Chapter 3
The sweat dripped down David's back as he threw box after box across the mail room. Where the fuck had it all come from? Most of them were marked 'fragile' but David couldn't give a shit about that. If they wanted them handling delicately then Gregg should be here, instead of calling in sick and having David start so early. He'd literally walked in his apartment, had a shower, fallen asleep on the couch then rudely been woken up, the phone raising him from a semi-lucid dream. Poor little Gregg needed covering so here he was. Forced to start this same boring routine all over again. The most annoying thing was that he knew without a doubt Gregg was perfectly fine. He was just a lazy motherfucker. He'd even bet money that their supervisor, Don, was aware of this. But what did Don care? He wasn't the one having to haul his ass down here and cover the early shift. He'd just finished heaving yet another 'fragile' item of mail across the room when there was a knock at the door. David stopped, turning his head to examine his guest as he took a breather, doubled over, hands on his knees.
"Say there sonny." The old man blinked through the extremely thick lenses of his glasses, his head thick with a snowy frosting of hair, bushy eyebrows resting atop his eyes like a couple of frozen caterpillars. "This here the mail room?"
"Yeah," David stood upright, breathing heavy. He turned and took a step towards his new friend, taking care to stride over a couple of smaller boxes. "You got something to add to this organised chaos?" David laughed.
"Looks like it." The old man gave a friendly smile, producing a large rectangular package, 'US-X' printed down one side. Nothing else special about it, indistinctive, boring tan paper wrapped around the box, 'fragile' yet again emblazoned down the other side. "Want to grab it? Things like this get kinda heavy when you get to my age." The old man laughed again as David grabbed the box. He was right, it was heavy. Definitely heavier than David had imagined upon seeing it.
"Jesus. What's in here?" David asked. The old man produced a tablet and stylus from his pocket, handing them to David in one fluid motion.
"Be damned if I know son." He held out the tablet, running the index finger of his other hand under his nose, sniffing, as if to clear his nose, at the same time. "I just get to drop these things off, they don't tell me anything else, except where to deliver them. Even then they did a lousy job. Does everybody have a hard time finding this place?"
"Sure they do." David grabbed the tablet, swinging the stylus into his hand and signing his name in the shaded box halfway down the screen. "I think that's the point ya know. Make it hard to get in to, should make it hard to get away from." David handed the tablet back to the driver.
"Well," He gently took the tablet, holding it up, at an angle, as if to make out what was on the screen. "Least I should know for next time huh? You got a surname son?" He held the stylus up to the screen, hand trembling as he awaited David's response.
"What?" David seemed startled as he examined the box once more, turning it over in his hands. No name, no return address.
"Surname son?" The old man asked again.
"Oh yeah, Jacobs." He answered, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs brought on by the lack of sleep.
"Well David Jacobs," The old man whizzed around his screen, obviously more at ease with technology than his appearance would suggest. "I'll bid you farewell. Any place I could get a coffee around here?"
"Erm..." David thought. "Yeah, I'll have to get you the elevator." David placed the box on one of the metal shelves standing to his side and followed the old man out of the door, turning to close and lock it before heading to the elevator. He walked with the old man sparking up a conversation to relieve the tension. "Don't expect anything from the coffee. It's just one of those automated machines, the powdered shit."
"Son, I'd suck rabbit piss through my dear old mother's pantyhose I'm that thirsty, god rest her soul." He laughed. David had to laugh at that too. The image it conjured up would take some beating. As they reached the elevator David fished out his key ring and swiped his key card down the reader. The familiar changing of light from red to green, followed by a low beeping noise, request successful.
"Think I'll come with you." David decided. "The mail can wait till later. Only supplies, nothing important."
With that the elevator arrived, the doors sliding open for the two to step in. David spun and jabbed the button for the ground floor. The doors pausing before gently sliding shut and carrying them off, and away.
The box sat on the shelf, completely still. The mouse from the previous night entered the mail room, one of the many stops on its trip around the grounds, food the target of the night. It sat on its hind legs, sniffing the air, hands out in front of its chest, whiskers vibrating frantically. Something else was in here. Something new. It scurried along the floor, weaving in and out of the boxes, envelopes and the odd mouse trap, before reaching a broom. Without thinking, the mouse leapt, clearing the dirty head of the broom and landing gracefully on the handle, claws sinking in, holding on. Without stopping for a second it darted up the handle and onto the table the broom had been delicately leaned up against, slipping onto the smooth finish of the wood without hesitating and darting across the open newspaper laid out upon the surface. It stopped at the edge of the table, sniffing the air again. It could sense something, a rotten smell that needed investigating. Whipping its head left to right, the mouse stood at the edge of the table, its little paws, both front and back wrapped around the radius of the table edge. Then in one sudden movement it swung its body back before throwing itself forward, catapulting itself across the gap between the table and the stack of metal shelves, landing with sheer grace. The smell was stronger. Nose up again, it seemed to be higher, above the mouse somewhere. The mouse looked for a way up. Over in the corner there was a supporting metal leg that ran the full height of the shelves. Gripping the holes along the leg of the shelves, the mouse climbed up, using the shelf holes as makeshift rungs on a ladder, before finally reaching its destination. There in front of it sat a box. Long, not so tall. The mouse approached the box and inhaled repeatedly. This was it. Whatever was inside had an unfamiliar smell, it was intriguing, as though daring the mouse to delve deeper. Taking the bait the mouse dug its front paws into the side of the soft, fresh cardboard, claws extending, digging in and gripping, allowing the mouse to cautiously climb its way up the side and onto the top of the box. The smell seemed stronger down the middle, where the tape had been positioned to hold the box closed. The mouse slowly moved down the middle of the box, stopping every now and then, checking out the surroundings, before finally coming to a stop at one end. It could hear something, feel it in fact. Felt like a rumbling and sounded like a rustling as something moved inside. Suddenly the mouse was taken by surprise, blinded by a flash of light, the knife shooting from the middle of the tape, right between its eyes. That was the last thing the mouse saw, as the blade sliced straight through its face and out of its back, its heart stopping in an instant. No time for shock. The knife retreated a touch before coming back up. Then again, moving down the line of tape with each thrust forward and pull back. As it reached the bottom of the box the knife disappeared back inside, before coming up and working its way along the bottom, slicing open the tape, more and more with each cut. Then it disappeared again. Reappearing at the top of the box, the same motions, the same objective. When all was done the box suddenly flew open, polystyrene spilling out, the light blinding to the inhabitant. He was finally here. It was show time. Looking around, the new resident of Green Acre Mental Asylum noticed one thing, and it wasn't good news. The door was locked.
"Fuck!" He cursed.
David looked up from the plug socket he was tampering with, bleary eyed, a yawn escaping from his mouth. Nearly 2pm according to the clock on the far wall.
"I said are you alright?" Nica asked, lowering her head and tilting as she gave him that award winning smile.
"Yeah," David answered standing straight up and stretching. "Just tired. How you doing?"
"I'm not bad." The smile disappeared from Nica's face as she sunk back into her seat, her arms pulling her cardigan closed across her chest. "Didn't sleep too well, that's all."
"No shit." David yawned again. He noticed her solemn expression. "You wanna talk about it?"
"No I'm..." She gestured down the corridor. "...Just on my way to see Dr Abner."
"Wow." David seemed surprised. "Twice in two days? You know he's married right?"
"What?" The smile returned to Nica's face as she playfully threw her hand, David just jumping to the side, dodging contact and laughing. "He should be so lucky."
"Yeah." David sighed. "He would be."
Nica's look turned a touch more serious as she tried to read David's expressions. She was just about to say something when she heard a voice behind her.
"Nica?" Dr Abner stuck his head out of his office. Looking to the right, then to the left and spotting her. He took a step outside his office and held the door open, gesturing inside with his other hand and giving Nica a welcoming smile. "You wanted to see me?"
Nica gave David a defeated look and grabbed her wheels, turning on the spot. She turned her head back as she slowly started to move off.
"Maybe I'll see you later?" She asked.
"Hopefully." David waved before returning to the power socket, screwdriver at the ready. He was beat. He just wanted to get this done and go home. Back to bed. Because it was more than likely he was going to be back here very early again the next morning.
Dr Abner waited in his office. Just when he thought all this talk of abuse and violence had subsided, here was another report. Only this time he had a name, a face, a time and a date. Not something to be taken lightly, it sickened Dr Abner that this happened at all, but for the report to come from Nica Pirce, a T5 paraplegic that literally had no way to defend herself, well this was just unfathomable. According to Miss Pirce's report, she had fought him off. Quite visciously in fact, but that wasn't the point. No, Eric Grant was going to be called in as soon as he arrived for work tonight and given an indefinite leave of absence, pending further inquiry, obviously. Reclining in his chair, he let the soft leather wrap around him as he closed his eyes and tried to remain calm. Reaching out for his office phone, he speed dialled the office of Dr Abigail Weston and beckoned her to his office. She wasn't going to like this, but she was the only one available and there was nothing he could do. Besides, he'd managed to land her this job, attractive salary, generous pension and incredibly flexible holidays, he figured she owed him the odd favour here and there. He decided this was the time for that bottle of scotch he'd been keeping locked away for the last four months and stood from his warm seat, the creak as he stood making him feel the chair was almost as old as Dr Abner himself. He had just opened the filing cabinet and lifted the bottle of honey gold liquid, rolling it around in his hands, when there was a knock at the door. He spun to see the small, blonde silhouette of Dr Weston standing there.
"Come." He boomed.
The door opened, Dr Weston quickly letting herself in, never removing her hand from the door handle until she had closed it fully behind her. She gave him a little smile as he held his hand out, gesturing to the empty seat across from his. They both took a seat as Dr Abner opened the bottle, the snapping of the fresh seal resonating around the office. He held the bottle up.
"Abigail?" He waved the bottle.
"No, thank you." She politely refused. She couldn't stand the stuff, and she wasn't that keen on socialising with the old fart either. Retracting his hand, Dr Abner poured himself a decent measure before screwing the lid back on and setting the bottle down by the side of his chair. Just in case anybody should come in unannounced.
"I suppose you're wondering what's got me at this stuff?" He said, holding the glass of single malt aloft. "Only natural. I don't make a habit of this you know."
"I understand Dr Abner." Dr Weston responded. "What is it I can do for you?"
"We have a problem my dear. A big one." He took a drink from the glass.
"How do you mean?" She asked.
"Eric Grant." He remained calm.
"Grant? What about him?" Dr Weston seemed confused.
"Only another report of assault. A sexual one. I've given that man enough chances and I'm afraid this is just one bridge I can't gap for him. In fact I plain refuse to." Dr Abner sighed.
"I see..." She paused. "And who's made this report?" She enquired.
"That's not important." He leaned forward, crossing his arms in front of his chest, cradling his glass close to his heart. "Needless to say I simply can't allow him to continue working here. At least not until this whole mess has been investigated. By the proper authorities I mean."
"That makes sense." She seemed to know what was coming. "But he's the senior night nurse. The night shift needs him."
"Well Abigail, that's where you come in. I need you to do me a favour." He leaned forward a touch more, urgency in his voice.
"Oh no, now Dr Abner I couldn't possibly..." She started, but he interrupted.
"Sure, sure you could." His expression turned to one of desperation. "It wouldn't be for long. I'll get straight onto the agency tomorrow and I'm sure they'll have a replacement out by next week."
"But Dr Abner, the night shift?" She seemed astounded he'd even asked. "I left all the nursing behind when I graduated and became a doctor. This isn't really my job."
"You do like your job here don't you?" He leaned back, slowly turning his glass, the whiskey sloshing around.
"Of course I do." She gasped.
"Well it'd be a shame if something was to happen to it." He gave her a look. Menacing, cold, heartless. "I mean, I can't have somebody here that isn't a team player. Can I?"
"No..." She was defeated. It was a shitty trick to play, but she knew when her card was up. "I'll cancel any plans. Am I okay to head home and get some rest?"
"But of course." Dr Abner replied, happy again. "Come back for about 10pm. I'm calling Grant to come in a little earlier so I can place him on paid suspension. Damned union, if it were up to me he wouldn't be getting a dime."
"Okay," She stood from her seat, downhearted. She walked to the door turning to address Dr Abner as she grabbed the handle. His smug face would undoubtedly be eyeing her up. Heels, stockings, skirt, the lot. But she had gotten used to it during her time here. "Until later then Doctor."
"Indeed." He replied. She turned just to see him correct his gaze. "Oh and Abigail..."
Dr Weston had just pulled the door open and taken one step. She leaned back, her head tilting to acknowledge the old pervert.
"Thank you for this." He sneered.
She nodded as she left, walking back to her office and cancelling any appointments. She was fine with getting the looks from her male colleagues, turned her on from time to time in fact. But having to go from a respected doctor and back to a nurse, on the night shift too. That wasn't on. But as she walked she had one positive thought.
'What's a few night shifts in the grand scheme of things? Could be worse. I could be dead.'
Finally David was able to clock out and get home. As he emerged from the elevator and entered the maze like bowels of the facilities basement he suddenly remembered something. His jacket. Jesus, he was nearly heading home without his jacket. Not that he needed it. It was like a heatwave outside, but his apartment keys were in the pocket. Trying to think where he'd left his jacket as he stumbled into work that morning, he passed the mail room. His brain made the connection as he suddenly swung his body round and stopped at the mail room door. Lifting the huge key ring from his overalls pocket he inserted the key in the rusty old lock and turned it sharply anti-clockwise, feeling the lever lift the lock. Opening the door he was amazed by what greeted him. Everything was just as he left it. Why hadn't anybody been and sorted this mess out? If he was in early doing somebody else's job then he was gonna be damned if he was fucking about doing the mail run too. He spotted his jacket, flung over the chair next to the table and made his way to it, lifting it and throwing it over his broad shoulders. It was then that he noticed something strange. Not quite right. The box. That mysterious box he'd dumped on the shelf, it was open. Somebody had been in here. Don? That was the only person it could be. But why the hell hadn't he taken any of this mail? Too tired to try and make sense of anything else this day could throw at him, David trudged back to the door of the mail room and closed the door, completely missing the exposed ventilation shaft in the bottom corner of the room. As he snapped the lock back, he heard the satisfying click indicating the room was now secure. David left work and began the half hour walk back to his neighbourhood. Blissfully unaware of just how lucky he had been.
Three hours! Three fucking hours he'd been in that mail room. Why hadn't he seen that fucking shaft? Maybe he was getting rusty. Maybe he was just that used to having it easy nowadays. Delivered, unsuspected, getting the job done, then leaving some poor fucker to take the blame. He had to laugh at that. Although he had been infuriated, blinded by rage, somehow only just managing to retain his composure as she taunted him in that packed courtroom.
"I'm still alive!" She'd screamed, laughing. Bitch.
Well she'd soon see how alive she felt. He was quite excited by the challenge at hand. He hadn't been forced to work for his thrill in a while, and although a kill was a kill, it just seemed so much better when you'd put the effort in. That mail room hadn't been a complete waste of time either. There was all kinds of shit down there, picture wire, nails, hammers, all sorts. The only problem was these fucking overalls. It was bad enough carrying these things in normal pockets, but overalls this size? A fucking nightmare. As he scuttled along on his hands and knees through the air vents he could feel the knife occasionally sticking into his leg. It didn't hurt, that would be impossible, but it was so annoying. In the end he'd only been able to carry the bare minimum, and being something of a traditionalist, he'd taken the picture wire. It was just one of those things. So versatile. He stopped, pausing to check his current location, there was a mesh grill up ahead and he needed to see where he was. The way he figured, he needed to get up to the maximum security ward. That's where she'd be. No way would they have her anywhere else. She was obviously a fucking psycho. He'd been crawling along for what seemed an eternity, but was suddenly alerted to this mesh grill due to the light flowing in from below. As he approached it, he crawled slowly, in case anybody should hear. Beneath him he could make out what seemed to be a restroom. Male too. He could tell with the urinals littered along the far wall. This was as good a place as any to get out. He had no idea where he was, there were that many ups and downs to these vents that you could spend a week inside with a compass and have no idea where you were going. He'd already spent nearly a full day climbing up and down and was getting nowhere fast, all he was doing was getting frustrated. Crouching, he brought his foot crashing down on the metal grill. It moved, but not much. He tried again, the grill bending, but still not giving. He tried again and again. Around about the seventh time the grill finally gave up the ghost and fell, hitting the tiled floor with a clatter. Taking one more check, he finally leapt out and landed on the cold floor, the light much brighter from down here. All of a sudden he could hear something. Somebody was coming. There was a voice, a raised voice at that, and it was headed this way.
Throwing his fists at anything and everything he could see, Eric Grant staggered down the corridor, obscenities spilling from his lips. His eyes were black and the two steri-strips placed across the bridge of his shattered nose were of no use whatsoever. He knew something was wrong when the fucker Abner called him to come in early. He never thought Pirce would report him, especially not so soon. But she had. That fucking bitch. He didn't even get anything for his trouble either. The psycho coming to and landing one right on the end of his nose. He raised his hand to his swollen nose as he remembered the incidents of last night. Fair enough things had gotten out of hand, but now this? 'Suspended pending further inquiry' the wrinkled old bastard had said, taking great pleasure in delivering the news from the other side of his antique desk. The look on his face had been enough to make Grant fly into a rage. He could have wiped that look from his face in two seconds, probably have put him in hospital too. But he'd kept cool somehow. It was Pirce's word against his at the end of the day. She had bruises, apparently, but they could have come from anywhere. As for Grant's injuries, he'd just say he came off his bike on the way home. Try proving that wrong. His eyes fixed on the restroom door as he quickly slipped in, throwing his weight behind each push through the two doors and into the bright, tiled interior. He stood at the basin, hands resting either side of the hot and cold taps, staring straight into the mirror at his battered reflection. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as his hair fell slightly out of place, the gel no doubt wilting due to the sudden perspiration. Suddenly he heard something, from the stall behind him. A laughing.
"Who's there?" His voice was raised. But no answer came. "I'm telling you man, now's not the time to fuck with me. Who's there?" Still no answer. He took a step and sunk to his hands and knees, checking under the door of each stall. Nobody in there. As he stood back up he decided to open the door of the first stall, as if by accident. Placing his hand on the handle he stood up, pushing as he did so. The door fell open, nobody there. He moved on to the next door, throwing it open sharply, still nobody there. He reached the third and final door, knowing full well whoever was in here was hiding in this third and final stall. Quietly he grabbed the door handle, sweat pulsating from every pore of his body, nerves beginning to kick in, his anger giving way to a fear he hadn't felt before. Without thinking he threw the final door open and again... Nothing. He couldn't believe it. He must be hearing things. He started to calm down, his chest banging from the experience. Then as he turned back to the basins, something strange caught his eye. Over by the very door he'd entered through, was something on the floor, by the trash can. Grant turned his head and finally got a good view of his guest. It was a doll. Not just any doll, a Good Guy. He walked over to it, without thinking, and lifted the little guy up. He remembered these things, hell his kid brother had one years back. People couldn't get hold of these things back in the late eighties. They weren't too common now, the company seemed to disappear without trace years ago. But this one was strange. It looked like it had been customised. Stitches and staples ran down its face, parts of the metal skull underneath exposed. One of the eye sockets was absolutely mangled, like somebody had given it a good going over with a knife or something. This thing was creepy, but probably valuable.
"Hey there little fella." Grant joked. "You wanna come home with me?"
"Hi... I'm Chucky... Wanna play?" The doll asked, turning its head and blinking. The way its mouth opened, showing gum as it talked was a little unnerving.
"You bet I do." Grant answered taking the doll into the stall. He placed it on the toilet seat and patted it on the head. "You make sure you don't crap your pants 'Schmucky', yeah?" He sarcastically smirked, returning to the basin, leaving the doll on the toilet. As he approached the basin he glanced in the mirror at the doll. It was a freaky looking thing. He ran some cold water into the basin and leaned forward, gently splashing the water on his face, the cool, refreshing feeling making him feel better. He stopped the tap and lifted his head to the mirror again, but was taken aback. Chucky was gone! Grant spun on the spot, backing up against the basin, head spinning left, then right, no idea what had just happened. Cautiously he approached the toilet stall and stepped inside, figuring maybe the doll fell off, maybe landed down the side of the toilet, it could even have landed in the next stall. But the doll wasn't in there. No sign of it. Grant was confused as he slowly knelt down to check under the other stalls. Looking along the floor, the entire length of the restroom he was amazed, there was no sign of it. Then suddenly he heard a scream. A high pitched war cry coming from above as something landed on his back, wrapping something around his neck before he could get his fingers up to stop it. It only felt small, but he could feel it, kicking his back as he stood and spun around frantically struggling, trying to shake it off. The screaming carried on, only now it wasn't screaming as such, it was more sentences, riddled with anger and venom.
"Night night asshole!" The voice seemed to cry as the wire around his throat was pulled even tighter, slicing into his skin, blood starting to weep from the cut it was making, deeper every second.
"Help..." Grant barely managing a whisper. Nobody could hear him. Not even outside the door. But he tried to stay awake, tried to make it to the basin, figure out what was going on. As he staggered out of the stall he caught a glimpse of it in the mirror. Was it?! Was it the fucking doll?! No that was impossible! But that's what it looked like. The doll pulled back even further, more or less standing on his back, no doubt trying to add leverage to its fatal grip as it choked the life from him. He reached out for the basin, looking for something, anything to steady himself as he started to blackout. His eyes started to close as his hearing became muffled. There was no air in his lungs and he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his ribs, down his right side. As he looked down, dazed, he swore he saw blood. Then with his last remaining energy he looked up again, into the mirror and saw the evil, sadistic face of the doll pulling on the wire around his neck with one hand, while lifting a bloodstained knife with the other, the evil smile growing into a cruel, foul grin. With that he fell face first. The basin shattering into a hundred pieces as his skull made contact with the porcelain, down he went. The last breath leaving his body as Chucky released his killer grip. And with that last breath, Eric Grant died.
That was fun, although it was kind of a mess to clean up. He had no idea who this guy was, but he'd just given him a good workout. He really felt alive now. He likened killing to sex. The most fun was in the anticipation, the chase. A lot of the time the actual deed was nothing compared to that build up, and it often left a lot of cleaning up afterwards. He had to laugh. He'd managed to drag this guy, and he wasn't exactly small, into the end stall and sit him there. The good thing about this voodoo shit was nothing made sense. To look at him you'd think he was harmless, even if you knew his story. But the truth was he possessed more than enough strength. He'd dragged that fat bastard halfway along the floor anyway, locking the door then slipping underneath, hopefully nobody would find him for a while. Opening the door to the rest room he stuck his head out, only a little and was amazed to find endless corridor either side of him. Empty corridor too. But that was no good. He needed something to get him from A to B. Why the fuck didn't he just stay in the shafts? Just as he thought it was starting to get difficult he heard something down the end of the corridor. Narrowing his eyes and focusing he could make out the figure of a woman. A mature woman at that, she seemed to be heading this way pushing a trolley, but this was good. It was a trolley with an apron down either side. This could be useful to him. He stepped back into the doorway, allowing it to close more or less fully as the woman approached.
'She must be seventy if she's a day' Chucky though to himself. Her short grey hair, almost a buzzcut it was that short, and hampered walk seemed to signal retirement age for this old crow. She would reach that retirement too, because for once, somebody was actually worth more alive than dead to him. He watched as she stopped outside the female restroom and left the trolley unattended. Making her way inside for, well, god knows what. 'She could be in there for hours' He thought, laughing to himself. Opening the door again and making sure nobody was looking, Chucky quickly dashed from the male restroom and shot underneath the apron of the trolley. The only thing to do now was find out where he was headed.
Luckily the old girl was doing her rounds with the last of the medication, her next stop was Maximum Security too which was music to Chucky's ears. She headed to the elevators after stopping off at the nurses' station, picking up her notes for the dosages etc and they were on their way. The elevator doors sliding open as the old woman pushed the trolley slowly down the corridor and to the security desk.
"Hey Pearl." The voice of the security guard bounced off the walls of the narrow corridor. "What you got for us tonight?"
"Oh just the usual." She giggled. "Am I okay to leave this with you Ralph?"
"Sure thing." The voice cheerfully answered. "I'll take it in and let Walt set about distributing them."
"Okay." She said. "Don't you boys go working too hard. G'night."
"G'night Pearl. Take care." Ralph softly spoke as he grabbed the trolley and yanked it away from the wall. He pulled his nightstick from his belt and, like every night, used it to lift the apron of the trolley checking underneath.
All clear.
Ralph swiped his key card down the reader and stepped through the security door with the trolley. Unaware that another of Green Acres ventilation grills had mysteriously fallen from the wall.
Back in the shafts, but at least he knew where he was now. It was only a matter of time. All the cells had a vent. Nothing that could be removed, but they still had one to allow air in. Over the course of an hour, he figured he must've checked every cell twice. No sign of the bitch. Where the fuck was she? He'd even gone as far as monitoring the routine the guards had in place for patrols. As far as he could make out, one of them stayed in the office, locked in and monitoring every cell on the wing, while the other three made their little walks up and down. One interesting thing, the cell doors all seemed to be locked electrically. That was interesting, and it gave Chucky an idea. He stopped at a random cell and looked inside. There, sat on the end of his bed, sat a man. Not old, probably about early thirties, long shoulder length hair, stubble formed on his chin. Quite thin, not dangerously thin, but the way his orange jumpsuit hung from his frame seemed to give him a weak look. Like somebody that could be approached. Chucky decided to put his plan into action. What did he have to lose?
"Hey?" The voice whispered.
At first he thought he was hearing things. Sat on the end of his bed, trying to clear his mind, then that. No it couldn't be. Not even the guards spoke to them up here. But there it was again.
"Hey... You!" It was louder this time.
The man stood from his bed and raced to the bars of his room. Calling to the nearest guard.
"Hey! You gotta help me man. There's a voice coming from somewhere in here!"
"Sure there is Locke." The voice bounced back from down the corridor. "Pipe down and get to sleep!"
Looking around, a little freaked out, Jonathan Locke answered, not sure who or what he was speaking to. Or even if what he was answering was real.
"Hello?" He extended the reply.
"Aah, finally." The voice came back. "I'm down here idiot!"
"What?" Jonathan looked down, his eyes noticing the air vent. "You're in there?" He sunk to his hands and knees.
"Yeah. Now shut up." The voice seemed to be getting angry. "I'm looking for someone."
"In the vent?" Jonathan was confused.
"No. In one of the cells. A woman. Young, in a wheelchair." The mysterious voice answered.
"Oh her?" He knew the girl. "Yeah they moved her."
"Shit!" The voice exploded. "Where to?"
"I dunno man. Probably down to the first floor. That's where I heard they usually take the rehab cases. Evaluation, that kinda shit."
"God damn! Can you take me there?" The voice asked.
"No way dude." He laughed. "I'm kinda locked in?" He gestured to the iron bars of his cell.
"I can sort that. Can you take me?" As the voice spoke it got a little louder. Jonathan noticed that now, in the vent, stood a doll. Ugly looking, crude, red hair, so freaky.
"You get me out of here and I'll try man. But it'll be impossible. You don't just need to get out of here, you need to get through security too. Then I think you need a card for the lift."
"Don't worry about it." The doll said. "Just make sure you hang back when that door opens. Then come get me from the office. You got that?"
Jonathan looked at the doll, struggling to determine if this was real or not.
"I SAID DO YOU FUCKING GET THAT?" The doll shouted at him, scaring him half to death.
"Yeah... Yeah man I got it." Jonathan replied, shaking.
"Good. Just wait here."
With that the doll turned and left. Jonathan sat back down on his bunk, eyes opened wide before burying his head in his hands.
'What a fucking dumb ass.' Chucky thought as he made his way along the vent trying to remember which grill it was that opened into the office. It took a few minutes, but eventually he found it. The light filtering through tenfold compared to the others. He took a minute working out his next move. There was only one thing for it.
It had been a pretty uneventful night. It usually was up here. The stories of these maximum security hospitals and the exciting escapades of the inmates, completely fabricated. The security guard sat at the computer, the monitors showing camera feeds from all over the ward, bathing him in a majestic glow of light. He'd just finished his sixth cup of coffee in the space of two hours, he was feeling it tonight, fighting to stay awake. He doubted the myth that coffee actually helped keep you alert and awake because right now, despite the fact he'd sunk more than some do in a day, he could have crashed and burned right there at the desk. He stood, grabbing his empty mug and turned to the coffee jug, almost empty, when he heard a noise. Like a rattling, rasping noise, almost like something being run across an old washboard. He looked around the office, finding nothing at all amiss. Looking back at the monitors he could see his colleagues patrolling up and down. Nothing out of order there either. He poured his seventh cup of steaming hot coffee, the jug now empty. But there it was again. Where was it coming from? He moved to the back of the office, checking behind various equipment and storage boxes. Nothing at all wrong. So what was it? Then just as he was about to return to the desk it happened again. Right behind his head. He turned, but all he could figure was that something was trapped in the vent. Getting closer he stood on his tiptoes and leaned over, bringing his eye up, nearly touching the metal of the grill. Then BANG it hit him. He never saw it coming. Never felt a thing.
Chucky tried pulling the knife back, but it wouldn't come. He knew he'd gone in hard, but seriously? The blade of the knife seemed to be caught, maybe wedged between the bone of the eye socket. The security guard on the end of the knife was now limp, his mug of coffee shattered on the floor. But try as he might, the knife would not come out. This was bad, if one of the guards glanced over and saw this then it was game over. He let go of the knife and spat on his hands.
"Third time's a charm." He said to himself.
He wrapped his hands back around the handle of the knife and jerked it back furiously, wiggling it at the same time. Finally the blade came free and the guard dropped to the floor, lifeless. One swift kick to the wire grill and Chucky dropped down into the office. Approaching the computer, taking care not to be seen, he made sure to kill the cameras. Not just for here either, luckily he'd found the command to kill camera feeds all over the hospital, this really was the mother lode right here. Then the next step was to find the door release command. Running his hand over the keyboard he found the button titled 'Door Release' and pressed it. His eyes lit up and he couldn't believe his luck at what flashed on screen.
"-Release Single Door- / -Release All Doors-"
Giggling to himself before letting it develop into a full on laugh and throwing his malevolent little head back, he pressed the button for 'Release All Doors' and sat back to enjoy the show. Up and down the ward the locking mechanisms on all doors hissed and sprung into life as they slowly retreated from their chambers and allowed the doors to swing open. The guards suddenly noticed this and were caught completely unprepared. The patients, although confused, were quickly up and out of bed, staggering through their doors, unaware what exactly had happened, but needing no second invitation. They tore from their cells, attacking the guards, crowding each one, similar to a swarm of bees, kicking, punching, screaming in mass hysteria, leaving nothing to chance. Fire extinguishers were ripped from walls and used as weights, allowing the patients to dispense their own brand of 'corrective treatment'. One of the guards was engulfed by a conflagration of anger and hostility, seeing his life flash before his eyes as he felt fists laying into his kidneys, boots coming into contact with his legs, shattering his knee, before finally the brutal strength of one inmate resulted in the immense pain and bloodshed as the guard felt hell on earth. His lower jaw more or less ripped off in a fit of rage, before being flung like a rag doll through the glass of one of the many counseling rooms. The other two guards didn't fare any better. One had his skull caved in after repeated blows from the aforementioned fire extinguishers, his brain hanging precariously from the back of his head as he lay twitching on the floor, his life slowly leaving his body, soon to breathe his final breath. His colleague was held down, boots raining in on his face until he resembled nothing more than a bloody pulp. His arms and legs broken, bones sticking from the open wounds. The patients were ecstatic, feelings of euphoria sweeping over them as they left the bloody lifeless corpses of their captors. Taking night sticks, key cards whatever they could before heading for the only exit available. The elevators. Ralph, sat outside the security doors, heard the commotion and turned just in time to see the crowd, running as one, before smashing through the 'unbreakable' glass, the next innocent victim of the deranged mob, the lust for blood running high among the majority.
Chucky sat back and waited.
Sure enough, a lone man remained on the ward as he creeped from his cell. The room he had called home for the last three and a half years. Just as requested, Jonathan Locke didn't follow the crowd, instead taking a sharp left and heading down the hallway to the office. Chucky unlocked the door from the terminal and awaited his escort. He'd already made sure the lifts were locked to go no further than the first floor. If Locke was correct, then things were about to get a little crazy down there.
"Ready or not here we come, bitch!" Chucky whispered to himself, allowing a smile and a cackle of laughter.