by Crae, Edward
Then, the grinding of stone sounded behind him, and the Shambler stopped. It backed away slowly, sniffing and moaning. Dan struggled to turn his head, but couldn’t see behind him. But he could feel the presence of something, and that something had terrified even the aggressive Shambler.
A tiny pinprick shot through the skin on his neck, and the soothing, burning feeling of morphine coursed through his veins. Though it was pleasant, he resisted it. But it was too late.
He stared at the Shambler as it backed away and faded from sight. Then, the world shut down around him, slowly whirling into oblivion as the morphine put him to sleep.
Chapter Two
Dan dreamt of a massive cloud of tiny, fuzzy orbs. Though he couldn’t exactly see, he somehow knew they were floating in the air, riding the jet streams and bouncing around harmlessly in the atmosphere. They went unnoticed for a majority of their existence, he knew; carelessly wandering around, doing no harm, causing no ill.
But then, strange red shapes began to descend from above. They were hexagonal in form, transparent, and spinning. Dan knew they were not harmless like the fuzzy orbs, but were malevolent and destructive. They seemed to descend upon the fuzzy orbs, clamping on to them and biting with imaginary fangs that ruptured the surface.
As the skin of the fuzzy orbs broke, the red shapes were absorbed. The orbs became orange, changing shape before his eyes. Dan could feel the sensation of danger as he stared at them, knowing in his heart that they were being altered; changed into something not so harmless. Their carefree, floating existence suddenly became purposeful, and they began to descend. Dan could almost see the evil in their non-existent faces. It was almost as if they were now instruments of destruction that fell down through the atmosphere among the remaining red shapes.
Above, through the cloud of orange and red particles, Dan could see the comet. It laughed as it passed overhead, spewing its strange and destructive cargo on its way to the sun. It was a familiar face; one that Dan had seen in the stories of the past.
It was the Grim Reaper; the Angel of Death.
Armageddon had come.
Dan sat up in his chair, jerked into consciousness when his arms pulled against his restraints. He gasped for breath, clenching his eyes shut with sorrow as he realized he was still imprisoned. He tugged at the straps, but found them strong and unyielding. It was no use. They would not break, nor would they ever come loose.
He was doomed.
Defeated, he relaxed, dropping his arms back to the armrests of his chair, letting his head fall back against the hard wood. He let his eyes fall open, and stared up at the stone blocks that surrounded him. There was more light this time, as if he had woken up before the sun had completely set.
He turned to look at the basement window, seeing that there was the faint, orange glow of the setting sun. It was fading fast, and the shadows were beginning to creep across the floor and disappear into the walls. Soon, the eerie and oppressive glow of the Moon would reign, and his horror would begin again.
“Fuck you,” Dan said. “Fuck you and your dead wife.”
He wondered what day it was. How long had he been here? How long did he sleep in between these little sideshows? Who was feeding him? The questions were endless. If he wasn’t starving, or even thirsty for that matter, he couldn’t have been here long. But then, he had obviously slept for an entire day, since the sun was just now setting.
What the hell was going on?
Angry, he jerked against his restraints. They clanked as he pulled, and the arm of the chair creaked. But they held fast.
“Hello!?” he shouted. “Who the fuck are you!? What do you want with me!?”
As he waited for something to happen, he realized that the metal straps that enclosed his alcove were gone. The room before him was open, and it appeared empty. The only discernable feature was the drain in the middle of the floor, and the metal studs that were embedded in the stone walls.
There were four clanks, one at each of his limbs. The restraints suddenly dropped away, leaving him free to sit forward with caution—and a shitload of fear. He resisted standing up, not knowing if he even could stand up.
“Hello?” he asked again. “Is someone there?”
When he got no answer yet again, he hesitantly stood on weak legs. He was dizzy and wobbly, but managed to take a step forward. As he exited the alcove, he looked on either side of the opening. On one side, there was a small cot. On the other there was a desk with a shadeless lamp sitting on the back corner.
“What the fuck?”
On the front was a bottle of water, and a bag of what looked like beef jerky; some off brand. It was sealed, thankfully, and Dan suddenly realized that he actually was hungry. He also realized he had to piss like a madman. He quickly went to the drain and let loose. It seemed like he pissed for an hour, staring around him the whole time in fear. When he was finished, he went to the desk and opened the bottle of water.
It, too, was sealed; thankfully. It tasted sweet going down, and Dan guzzled half of it before setting it down and grabbing the jerky. He ripped it open and pulled out a few small pieces, devouring them like a starving dog. It was tough, and tasted like shit, but he ate it anyway.
There was a single drawer on the front of the desk, and he pulled it open without hesitation. Inside was a half pint of cheap whiskey and two white, oval-shaped pills. He picked one up, looking at the imprint.
M357. Vicodin.
“Ok…” he whispered, looking around. “Thanks?”
He cracked open the whiskey, popping one of the Vicodin in his mouth. The whiskey burned, but went down in a satisfying manner, warming him up on the inside. He grabbed the bag of jerky, the bottle of water, and went to the cot.
It was hard as a rock, but much more comfortable than the chair. He lay back, leaning his head against the wall, confused and afraid, but slightly relieved. At least he could get some actual sleep now, even if it was in a dungeon.
And that’s what it was, for the most part.
It wasn’t long before the pleasant shroud of narcotic nirvana settled over him. That, coupled with the whiskey, put him in a state of relaxation—as much as it possibly could. He chowed down on the jerky, washing it down with either water or liquor, and hummed to himself. It hadn’t occurred to him to look around the room for some possible escape route, and for now, he let it go. He was quite sure there was no way out.
As he sat in silence, he became aware of the gradually increasing sound of music. It was a bass line; one that was familiar to him. No More Tears, by Ozzy. He froze for a moment, confused as to what was going on. As the song broke into its first verse, Dan settled back again, seeing that nothing was happening.
He listened to the music, tapping his foot to the beat, and continued his rest undaunted. Perhaps crazy dude was just giving him a break, or was preparing for something else… unpleasant. Whatever the case, the Vicodin chased away any cares, and he simply enjoyed the slight reprieve.
It was better than his previous days.
He began to contemplate the fate of his friends. He distinctly remembered seeing them fall to the ground unconscious. They hadn’t been shot; only gassed. Whether the gas was lethal was anyone’s guess, but if it had been, the mercs would have had no reason to carry them away. They, too, were apparently being held captive. Where? Who knows?
At least they were alive.
Gradually, the light outside faded completely, leaving him to wonder about his captor’s sleeping patterns—or if he even slept. The notebook had mentioned him sleeping in the storeroom, which was nearby. Dan wondered if there was another room there somewhere, and possibly more rooms hidden behind the stones, or even underneath the floor.
With this guy, anything was possible.
The only discernable doorways were the main door from the basement, and what he could only guess was a cellar door to the outside, which was located behind a sliding metal panel. The Shambler had come from there, possibly lured in through unknown means
. Or, even worse, created by the psycho himself.
He took another swig of the whiskey, chasing it down with a gulp of water. He was beginning to feel drowsy, but the fear told him that sleeping was a bad idea. Still, having been strapped to a chair for an unknown period of time had taken its toll. He was exhausted, and having some horizontal sleep was appealing.
“No,” he told himself, sitting up. “I’ve gotta get the fuck outta here.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, looking around the room. The metal wall panel stood out among the stones, and almost called to him to investigate. He would oblige. He stood, tossing the whiskey onto the bed, and approached the panel. It was iron, or some kind of thick, heavy metal. Rust stains covered it near rivets that held its three sections together. There was a sliding mechanism above and below it on the floor; filled with gunk and what looked to be dried blood.
There were no handles on this side, or any other obvious means of opening it. It was just a plain surface, pockmarked with dents and lime deposits. Dan put his hands near the sides of it, feeling around for small breezes that would indicate it opened to the outside. He felt nothing. He even sniffed the edges, hoping perhaps the smell of fresh air would be present. Nothing. There was only the smell of damp, rusted metal.
He grabbed the sides tightly in frustration, and pushed hard in either direction. The panel didn’t budge; it didn’t even make a sound.
“Of course it’s locked, you retard,” he said out loud.
He stepped back, smacking the metal with his palm. It sounded hollow, meaning the panel was thin enough to resonate with the impact of his hand. That was good news. Now, if he could only find a big, giant saw…
“Fuck,” he said.
The window nearby might be another option. He went to it, looking up at the tiny pane of glass. There were bars across it; of course. It was too small to get through anyway. Not even Dan’s skinny ass would fit through it.
He sighed, feeling the sense of doom come over him again. It was useless. Even the other door that led into the rest of the basement was secured tightly, he found out. There was no way out. He was trapped.
Defeated yet again, he slumped back down onto the bed and finished off the last of the whiskey. There was no use wasting his energy trying to get out. He would just have to wait it out, and look for any chance he got to escape. Surely, this was a game, and something would present himself as he played it.
He closed his eyes, hoping for some sleep. It came quickly.
Thunder crashed, jolting Dan awake. He shot up into a sitting position, breathless and disoriented, staring down at his shaking hands. He was confused as to why the thunder had startled him so much; he slept through storms all the time. Something else must have wakened him.
“Jesus,” he whispered, rubbing his eyes.
Thunder began rumbling again, slowly building as Dan’s breath evened out. He looked up at the tiny window, seeing lightning flash in the distance. The storm was still far away from what he could tell, nothing to worry about, and nothing to wake him…
The lamp was off.
He didn’t remember turning it off; just laying back and slipping into his little nap. He suddenly felt his skin crawl, and sat still, afraid to move. Something was in the room.
The harlequin mask shown in the lightning flash that broke the darkness, followed by a thrusting hand that bore a syringe. Before he could even scream, the needle pierced his neck, and a cold, rough hand shoved him back into the bed.
He struggled under the hand’s weight until the numbness overtook him, and the inviting sensation of opiate-induced euphoria blanketed his body in its sweet embrace.
“Time to sleep, naughty boy,” a raspy, hissing voice whispered.
Chapter Three
A whirring sound lulled Dan from unconsciousness. It echoed around in his mind for a few moments before he finally realized it was an actual sound, and not a figment of his imagination. It was a steady noise, accentuated with tiny clicks that sounded off in a regular pattern. Dan’s eyes fluttered open as he sought its source.
The first thing he noticed was that he was lying down in a bed with his arms strapped to the railings. The bed was in the alcove, with the foot facing the opening, and the metal straps were in place as they were before.
“F—fuck,” he stammered faintly.
Though he was weak and his senses were dull, he managed to turn his head enough to look to his left. Through the blur, he saw a machine. It was familiar to him; a medical pump used to administer regular doses of liquid medications. It whirred and clicked as it pumped fluid into his veins. He turned his eyes to his left arm, seeing the IV taped securely to his wrist. It stung, and the saline was cold as it entered his veins.
There were two bags attached to the pump; a standard saline bag, and what nurses called a banana bag, full of vitamins and other life-sustaining minerals to nourish the body. The pump itself contained two large vials that were also connected to the line. Though he couldn’t quite read their labels, the shape of the words on them slowly formed in his mind.
Hydromorphone. Dilaudid. It was an opiate much more effective than morphine, but with a shorter half-life—and twice as addictive.
Dan sighed, letting his head roll back to face the ceiling. A single, bare bulb hung there like the moon in a damp and oppressive sky of stone. He closed his eyes again as the sense of doom came over him. His heart ached with sorrow, and his mind was becoming numb with the grim outlook of spending the rest of his life in this prison.
Death seemed like a welcome friend.
There was a beep, and the whirring sound increased in intensity as the pump came to life. In seconds, the familiar rush of opiates filled him up, sending a slight wave of nausea through him, but warming and cradling him like a loving mother.
He almost laughed as he slipped into a trance. Almost.
For an unknown length of time, Dan slipped in and out of consciousness. When he awoke, it was only for a few minutes. Then, he would be dosed again, and the cycle would restart. Awake, then asleep, then awake, then asleep. Sometimes, the window would show the light of the setting or rising sun, and other times it would be totally black with the fog of night.
He had lost any sense of time.
It was only when he awoke with the urge to piss that he realized he had been provided with a catheter. It was shoved up his dick quite expertly. So expertly, in fact, that he hadn’t even noticed. His narcotic fog had dulled any awareness he had of his body, and only the increasingly painful sting of the tube in his arm gave him any connection to the real world.
When he was awake, that is.
When he slept, he didn’t dream. When he was awake, he didn’t think. The world alternated between black and gray, with no semblance of time passing at all. He was in limbo, it seemed. Or Hell…
Or worse.
He did manage to wake occasionally during the day. The sunshine that came through the window felt warm and inviting. He longed to be outside to bask in its rays; to twirl on his feet with his arms spread out, giggling like a little girl in a sundress. It didn’t matter that winter was approaching; it would still be Heaven to him. But then, the pump would activate and send him back into the void; only to wake in the dark of night once again.
He would listen to the dripping of moisture from the ceiling when he was awake. It was a steady drone that accompanied the music of the whirring pump. He would put them together into a beat, humming a bass line along with it to create a monotonous song that played in his head over and over again; even in his sleep.
Soon, his waking periods were marked with sobbing; longing. He felt the pain of isolation. Though he had spent most of his adult life alone, being trapped in this damp basement was a true purgatory. He had never felt so lonely, or longed for the voice of another human in his life.
He would even welcome the horrifying voice of his captor.
It would be better than nothing.
Finally, a reprieve.
He awoke on the floor of the alcove, curled up in the corner wearing only a pair of jeans that were damp with the basement moisture. He was cold and shivering, but he was free. Free of the bed anyway.
His catheter and IV were gone, and the pump had been removed along with the bed and the metal straps. Beyond the alcove, the room appeared as it usually did; empty, damp, and sloping down toward that dark drain.
He managed to stumble onto his feet, but quickly sat back down as a wave of nausea overtook him. He was trembling, but not with the cold. His skin was crawling, and his heart seemed to be beating painfully fast and in an irregular pattern. He suddenly wanted the pump back.
“Fuck,” he whispered as he realized that he would go through withdrawal.
It would be painful, he knew; even more painful than alcohol withdrawal. The thought made him even more nervous. His heart beat even faster, fueled by the prospect of his body begging for opium. Any kind of opium.
“No, no, no…” he whimpered, curling up into a ball on the floor.
He was freezing, and had nothing to cover himself. Nothing at all. He would suffer not only the pain of withdrawal, but the pain and discomfort of the cold, damp environment. His teeth began to chatter, and his body trembled. The stone floor was cold against his skin and added to his chill—and his Hell. But he lay there suffering without a thought. There was nothing to think about, anyway. There was only the longing for drugs, and a desperate prayer to God for a nice, warm blanket.
But, apparently, God was not listening. He probably didn’t even care.
Shoving his discomfort aside, he stood again, feeling his way around the dark basement. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, as he had already tried the panel door before. He simply hoped that some miracle would happen and a stone block would come loose, or maybe the tiny window would magically grow in size.
