by Crae, Edward
Neither of those things were reality.
It seemed warmer by the panel door, so Dan sat down next to it. He curled his feet underneath him, wrapping his arms around him and leaning against the wall. There, he shivered and shook as the pains in his chest grew. His stomach was churning as well, and he could feel it cramping and gurgling as it protested his abstinence.
In his mind, he pictured a bottle of Vicodin, and even a syringe of morphine. A nice little half-pint of whiskey would help, too, he thought, and his gut did flips as he pictured himself chugging a shot. He could almost feel the warm liquid going down, feel the gentle nudging of Vicodin tightening his face and settling his stomach.
Almost.
But soon, the pain grew. His shaking got worse, and the thumping of his heart became unbearable. There was nothing he could do to alleviate the pain. He would have to suffer through it. Sobbing, he laid his head down on the floor, gripping himself tightly and scrunching up into a little ball of misery.
If there was a Hell, this was surely it.
He didn’t sleep, as was expected. The pain and discomfort was too great. He simply lay still on the floor, shivering and groaning with the intense pain that was getting worse every hour. The cramping in his gut was growing to epic proportions, feeling as if his stomach was turning inside out. At one point, the sickening taste of bile gathered in his mouth, and he crawled to the drain, unleashing a deluge of the bitter, stinking fluid.
After that, the dehydration started creeping up on him. He no longer had anything to puke out and repeatedly wretched and heaved to no avail. The pain of withdrawal, coupled with trying to puke on an empty stomach, was enough to send him into a coma-like trance.
His skin was crawling like crazy, too. It felt like a million biting ants crawling around on him, swarming his most sensitive spots, digging their little fangs into him. Even his eyeballs hurt. They hurt so bad, that he couldn’t even look up at the window that was showing signs of daybreak. He just lay, immobile, with his face pressed against the stone, staring off into space.
Once, a tiny mouse crawled into view, stopping to sniff him, and scampered off into the shadows. Dan laughed, not realizing why, and began sobbing again. Perhaps it was the realization that even a little mouse could easily escape and be free, but he was trapped; doomed to suffer in solitude.
He missed his friends.
Dan awoke with a jolt as the slamming of a door boomed in his ears. He shot up, glancing around to find the source of the sound. The door into the rest of the basement had slammed, he realized, and now there was an ax leaning against the wall near it.
Still surprised that he had fallen asleep, he sat staring at the tool, unsure as to why it was there. He could barely move because of the pain, but began crawling toward it anyway, his stomach shooting stabbing pain through him with every inch. When he reached it, he touched its cold, steel surface, running his fingers along the shaft and up to the blade. It appeared brand new, and gleamed even in the dim moonlight.
It was an Estwing; his Estwing.
“What the fuck?” he asked out loud.
Before he could contemplate any further, a clank sounded behind him. He turned quickly, just as the panel door opened. He grabbed the ax, gripping it tightly as he scooted back against the wall, glaring at the dark portal that was now open.
Dan’s breath quickened, and his heart began to thump; even more so than it already was. A low moan echoed from the darkness, sending him into a panic that sent his mind racing. Something was about to join him in his prison, he knew, and he gripped the ax tightly as he stumbled into a standing position.
Then, without any warning, a filthy man tumbled into the room. He was dressed in rags, covered in mud and puke, and was disheveled and wild-looking. He was not a Shuffler or a Shambler, simply a man who had apparently just been infected. He laid prone, moaning and groaning in pain, gagging and retching as vomit streamed from his curled lips.
“H—help… m—me…” the man whispered.
Dan stood still, confused and ready to defend himself. The man turned his face toward him, and Dan could see that his eyes were ablaze with pain and terror. He was definitely infected, but had not yet succumbed to the pathogen. He was more like big tits, or the kid in the liquor store; feral, but still mostly human.
“Stay back,” Dan warned him, backing away.
The man puked on the floor, curling up and clutching his stomach as the sickening fluid glopped on the floor. He rose up to his hands and knees, growling in pain as mucus dripped from his nose.
“Help me,” he pleaded. “Please.”
“Fuck off,” Dan replied.
The man got up on his knees, raising his head back to sob at the ceiling. Dan could see something around his neck; a necklace perhaps, maybe a medallion. He looked closer, stepping forward cautiously, the ax out in front of him.
It was a small zipper bag with a single, white caplet inside. A Vicodin?
Dan’s heart jumped. Vicodin was white, and shaped like that. Exactly like that, and the exact same size. Oh, how good it would be to pop that and chase the pain away. He stepped forward, eager to reach out and pluck the bag from the string. But the man screamed, and rolled away when he saw the ax.
“What are you doing?” the man shouted. “Help me.”
Dan was torn. He could kill the guy and take the Vicodin, or just wait for him to die; if he even would die. He could suddenly attack once the infection took hold, just like the loonies in Bloomington. In that case, killing him would make no difference. He was fucked anyway. Chopping his head off would be a mercy killing.
Maybe he would wait…
No. It was inevitable. The guy was going to turn. There was no question about that. Why risk becoming infected when he could just end the guy’s misery—and his own—with a single chop?
“I’m sorry, dude,” Dan said, stepping forward and raising the ax.
“Wait!” the man protested, shuffling back and holding out his hands. “I’m not one of them. I swear!”
He knelt down and puked again, and Dan could see the feral look grow worse on the man’s face as he turned to look up at him. Dan held his breath and closed his eyes.
“No!” the man begged.
Dan chopped.
He felt the ax split the man’s skull, and heard the sickening splat as his brains fell to the floor. When he opened his eyes, he ignored the gruesome sight and knelt down to grab the baggy. He pulled it off, holding it in front of his eyes like Gollum finding the One Ring.
“Myyyyyyy preciousssss,” he hissed.
He dropped the ax and tore the baggy open, holding the pill in the light to read its imprint.
M357.
“Fucking yes,” he whispered, gulping down the pill and scooting away.
He crawled back into the alcove, folding up into a ball again, eagerly awaiting the comforting wave of opiate Heaven to spread over him.
“Very impressive,” a ghostly voice whispered.
Dan wasn’t sure whether the voice was real or not, and he didn’t care. The tingle was growing in his gut, slowly building into an almost orgasmic sensation that put a smile on his face. It was pure Nirvana, and nothing else in the world mattered.
Not even the fact that he had murdered someone in cold blood.
Chapter Four
Sunlight streamed in through the tiny window, waking Dan from his first peaceful night of sleep in days. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, sitting up and looking around his prison. It was clean again; with the remains of the infected man having been removed and the floor scrubbed.
There was a recliner in the alcove, next to which stood a small end table with items scattered on it. Dan stood, still uncomfortable in his damp pants, but lacking the shakes or nausea. He plodded across the cold floor to the window, closing his eyes as the warmth of the sun shined on his face. There was still no way out, he saw, but the light was comforting and rejuvenating.
He turned, scanning the room again. The bare stone was
still as oppressive as it had always been, but he felt drawn to the alcove. The chair looked comfortable, and he was curious as to what the end table contained.
It was not only an end table, he noticed, but had two drawers and a small shelf at the bottom. On the table’s surface was a small ramekin with six white pills, which caught his attention immediately. Next to that stood a fifth of decent whiskey, two sealed bottles of drinking water, another bag of off-brand beef jerky, two candy bars, and a folded piece of paper.
He picked up the paper and unfolded it, surprised to see a handwritten note.
Dan,
As a reward for the amusing display last night, I am giving you the day off. Here, you will find a collection of lovely things that will chase away your sorrows for a day. I have left you several Vicodin, a bottle of whiskey, and some food and water. In the drawers you will find some clean, dry clothes, and a blanket. Behind the chair, you will find a pair of nice work boots. Wear them if you wish. But other than their capacity to keep your feet dry, they are of no use to you.
Enjoy your day. We shall resume our game after dark.
Sincerely,
R
R? Who was R? Dan assumed it was the first letter of the psycho’s real name. Or maybe it stood for reaper. Either way, he didn’t give a shit. He quickly stripped off his damp jeans and opened the top drawer. There was a pair of brand new khakis, a sweat shirt, and a pair of wool socks; all still adorned with their store tags. He donned them eagerly, enjoying the feeling of the brand new fabric against his skin.
He then sat in the chair, grabbing two Vicodin from the ramekin, and leaned back to relax. The Vicodin went down easily with a swig of water, and the whiskey, though cheap, was delicious. As he sat there waiting for the warm feeling to come over him, he chuckled to himself. The situation reminded him of a particular phrase he had heard when referring to captives.
Stockholm Syndrome.
Oh well, he thought. Who gives a shit?
It began to rain outside, he noticed. It was a heavy rain, sure to cause some minor flooding, but that didn’t matter, either. What mattered was that he was dry, warm, and had some comforts to ease his mind. It made him wonder what kind of person this R was. Obviously he was a psychotic serial killer, but why the games?
Was his captor enjoying his plight? Why not just kill him? There had to be a reason. Dan wondered if the guy had toyed with his other victims this way. He hadn’t toyed with Shirley, or any of the dead people he had seen strapped up in this very room. They had simply been slaughtered without mercy, and dismembered for some sickening reason.
The one thing that weighed on Dan’s mind was the journal entry he had read during his last day of freedom. The psycho had mentioned that he was infected. So how was he still coherent? Shouldn’t he be a raving, slobbering mutant zombie by now? Or one of those Stalkers? Was the fact that he was already a psycho a factor? What would the pathogen do to someone who was already insane?
It was an interesting question.
As he pondered the possibilities, he watched the window. There was a small amount of water dripping in around the metal frame. It ran down the stone in a tiny little rivulet and pooled on the floor in a mortar joint. Once it filled up enough, it snaked over to the next one. Eventually, it would make its way to the drain and disappear somewhere; probably to a cistern or even a sump pump powered by the unknown electrical source.
But that wasn’t the point. The stone was leaking there by the window, and that meant it was weakened; possibly enough to break through and escape. It was a slow realization, but once Dan got it, he sat up in the chair and stared. He could probably get out if he tried. But with no tools to use, the prospect was grim.
He went over to the leak anyway, inspecting it and testing the stone blocks. They were still firmly set; there was not even a wobble when he tried to jostle them. It would take something heavy to knock them loose. The ax was gone, however, and so was anything else that he could use.
Dan sighed, testing the metal panel again. Nothing. He tested the other door. Nothing.
“Damn it.”
He sat back down in the chair, reclining and opening the whiskey bottle. He sipped it, still glaring at the possible escape route, and let his mind wander. When he had the chance, and the tools, he would make a break for it during the day. That was when the psycho slept, he guessed. If he even slept anymore, that is.
He briefly wondered how the ceiling was constructed. The floor above had been hardwood, with no apparent sign that there was a block floor underneath. Since there were no beams on this side—the ceiling side—he wondered how they were held up. There were no columns here, either. It seemed like only the side to side pressure of the blocks was holding them together. Above them, there would be nothing, he assumed. But, knowing the obsessiveness of some like the psycho, this entire basement may have been dug underneath a slab foundation, and the blocks were firmly attached to the concrete above them.
Yeah, that was probably it.
“Shit,” he thought, swigging the whiskey again.
He settled back, returning to his thoughtless state. There was no reason to brainstorm at the moment, he reasoned. He wasn’t getting out anytime soon. Besides, if he began becoming restless and hopeful, his captor might notice and make his life even more unpleasant than it already was. He sighed, closing his eyes and taking some small comfort in his nice buzz.
He knew it wouldn’t last long.
He awoke at dusk, when the sunlight outside had faded to a dark blue. He was still in his chair, comfortably reclined with his hand behind his head, and the half empty bottle of whiskey on his lap. The metal straps had returned, and he was once again trapped inside; but this time, thankfully, he was not strapped to the hard wooden chair.
Across the room, near the metal panel door, a lone, hooded figure sat hunched over a desk; a single bare bulb burned brightly in a metal lamp that was placed right on the edge. Dan’s heart beat quickly when he saw the figure there, assuming it was his captor; the psycho. He sat still, not wanting to alert the man that he was awake.
He knew anyway.
“Good evening, Dan,” a whispery voice said. The figure didn’t move much, and Dan didn’t answer.
“I thought I would take this opportunity to speak with you for a while. Would that be alright with you?”
Dan remained silent, watching the figure as it recorded something in a journal. From this angle, Dan could see that the man’s writing hand was pale and strangely textured; as if wearing a glove made of some strange material.
“It doesn’t matter if you answer,” the man said. “We will speak anyway. After all, I am the game master here, am I not?”
Dan unscrewed the cap from the whiskey bottle, taking a swig.
“I see you are alright with the brand of whiskey I chose,” the man said. “Not that it really matters. You’d drink anything, wouldn’t you?”
Again, Dan was silent. He wasn’t sure whether it was out of fear, or whether he was simply intrigue at the man’s odd voice. It was almost as if there two people speaking at once; one whispering, the other growling—but both speaking the same words.
“I admire you, Dan,” the man continued. “Not because I am envious, but because you are without a doubt the most interesting person I have ever come across. You have survived life without ever really living. Your lack of motivation or ambition is uncharacteristic of a survivor, which makes you an anomaly.”
Dan sipped his whiskey again. What the fuck was this guy talking about?
“You have gone through life with such an ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude, that you have defied all logic. People like you aren’t supposed to survive. You’re supposed to fade into the woodwork; fall into the cracks, as it were. Yet here you are; a survivor of this apocalypse that has taken so many lives and turned the world into a shit hole.”
“The world was already a shit hole,” Dan spoke finally.
The man stopped his writing, turning his cowled head slig
htly to the left. “Indeed,” he said. “An astute observation if I ever heard one.”
“What do you want with me?” Dan asked. “Why am I here?”
The man laughed. It was a hissing, growling laugh. “I think you know.”
Dan shook his head. “No,” he said.
“You read my journals,” the man said. “You read the entry about you and your friend.”
He had.
“Where are my friends?” Dan asked.
“That is a good question,” the man replied. “But I think you know the answer. They are alive, I would assume. But where? I would say they are in some compound being held captive by those wannabe grunts. You know the ones.”
Gephardt. “Yeah, I do.”
“You could probably save them,” the man said. “If only you weren’t my guest.”
Guest. Yeah, right. Dan grunted out loud.
“Fear not,” the man said. “Your ordeal will soon be over.”
Over? What did he mean by that? Dan sat forward. “So, you’re planning on killing me then?”
The man chuckled; that odd tone returning in his voice. “Of course,” he replied. “That’s what I do. But not without having a little fun first.”
So, “R” planned on torturing him even more. As if the withdrawal game wasn’t bad enough. What else did he have in mind? Dan glared at the leaking blocks near the window, hoping that the flow was still there and that his captor hadn’t noticed. It was his only hope of escaping, and his only salvation from torture.
Thankfully, the blocks remained where they were, and leaked steadily with the rain outside. Soon, they would be loose enough to remove, and he could begin his escape. He decided to change the subject.
“You killed Shirley,” Dan said. “Why?”
“Shirley was already dead,” the man said. “She had cancer; a disease that would have been cured had she been infected. I merely expedited her end. Besides, I had to get to her flesh before it became corrupted.”
“For what?”
