The Dig

Hard rock mining is a form of underground mining. In general it refers to the various techniques utilized to extract bodies of ore via excavation. Shafts, which are either dug, blasted with explosives or drilled out with special equipment. Shafts are not only used for transportation of labor and materials, but also for ventilation. These shafts rarely lead directly to the ore excavation areas. Instead, when the bottom of the shaft is reached, miners will then take tunnels to stopes, which are underground chambers, created for the purpose of ore extraction.

Most diagrams of hard rock mining do little justice to the expansive nature of the mines themselves. The best characterization of these chambers is as underground buildings, complete with access shafts, tunnels, rooms, crosscuts, machinery, trenches, walls, reservoirs, drifts and other geological or natural features spread across many numerous levels. Almost all hard rock mining involves the extraction of five main minerals. Gold, copper, zinc, lead and diamonds.

The two deepest mines are both gold mines and located in South Africa. Both almost reach depths approaching four thousand meters below the surface, which is the equivalent of forty four football fields or ten times deeper then the length of the tallest buildings in the world. They recently surpassed a hundred year old gold mine as being the deepest. One of the mines, the TauTona actually has over eight hundred kilometers of tunnels and is staffed by five and a half thousand workers.

Many dangers are associated with this field and hard rock mining is the most dangerous form of mining. Already well known are the ecological and environmental problems caused by hard rock mining, as well as the physical dangers encountered by miners themselves whether in the short term due to accidents or manifesting in long term health effects. With mines planned on approaching five kilometers in depth in the coming years, even more problems will arise.

One of the lesser known problems is pressure. At depths already reached of thirty five hundred meters, the pressure of rocks above ones head approaches ninty five hundred tons per meter squared or over nine hundred times average atmospheric pressure. When drilling at this depth, the pressure on rocks triples, often causing rock bursts. Another problem is that at five kilometers depth, temperatures up to and surpassing seventy degrees Celsius (158 Fahrenheit). Even in the TauToma mine where extensive cooling equipment is used both for the preservation of machinery and personnel, the temperatures in that mine drop from an unbearable fifty five degrees Celsius to a barely manageable twenty eight degrees Celsius. (82 Fahrenheit)

Mining, especially hard rock mining, are crucial to everyday life. In the United States alone, over six hundred power plants and eleven hundred manufacturing facilities use coal. At current usage rates, the United States has a two hundred forty year supply of coal while worldwide, the coal supply would last over a hundred fifty years with current known coal reserves. Mining itself provides over a half trillion dollars in the American economy annually and employs over seven hundred thousand people, its highest number in fifteen years. Of these, over three hundred thousand are actual miners and over a quarter are in labor unions. Even using everyday items requires numerous minerals. Your standard computer requires around thirty different minerals, your average television, thirty five and your average telephone, forty two, thus making mining a necessary component of everyday life.

While harming the local environment, mines in the United States touch less then one half of one percent of total land area and only Only three million acres of public land have gone into private ownership from mining, compared to ninty four million acres granted to railroads and almost three hundred million acres as agricultural homesteads. Since 1978, more than two million acres of mined lands have been restored to their original or better condition. Furhtermore U.S. metal/nonmetal miners reported only four non-fatal injuries per one hundred workers in 2004, a lower rate of occupational injuries than agriculture, forestry & fishing, construction, manufacturing, transportation and wholesale & retail trade and services.

Day One

"How many are they Captain?" he asked as he peered over the battlements. The long spears, he thought, could be counted individually, each one striking into the fading orange sun set, every black wooden pole contrasting its silhouette against the fiery orb that was their backdrop. But their foes were too dense so that instead of individual spears appearing, it was one black bristling mass that blotted out the sun.

Still awaiting his answer, the mans spine visibly quaked. Finally his adjutant, clad in blue battle armor and a sturdy black shield as long and as wide as a mans body in hand, turned to him.The soldier had tanned skin which looked almost leathery and worn, half hidden by his helmet and chinstrap. Neither of them looked much like soldiers though. Short noses, pronounced cheekbones, and broad jaws. Though he was the exception, his face was a little softer around the cheeks, a little stouter around the chin.

"Sixteen thousand at least sir," the soldier responded, rather confidently and in a most exacting voice, even though it obviously was an estimate.

The sun had disappeared behind the body of men, as it had for three days now. Once again the commander turned his body to the construction located behind them. The catapult was ready, the torque building in the tight bundle of rope and fibers intertwined with the weapons firing arm. Inside, the powerful payload glowed with an equal intensity, but it was far more lustrous. Just by looking at it, the man started licking his lips. They were dry but that wasn't the reason why he was doing it.

To his right, the soldier abruptly turned about and walked up beside the winch, beside the lever and then raised his head to him. "Do we fire sir?" For a moment, the man glanced at the catapult, then at the phalanx of sixteen thousand before him. He opened his mouth, not to speak as his lips formed into a broad smile. Any kindnesses evident were immediately betrayed as his back turned to the last wisps of sunlight hitting his backside as he lowered his head. Darkness covered his face until only the light in his eyes could be seen.

"Do you really intend to throw money at the problem?"
---

The man woke up in a cold sweat, on top of an uncomfortable cot. The bed was still made, a simple white sheet and yellow blanket tucked under the mattress, folded two thirds up and only slightly ruffled by the presence of a man suddenly rousing himself up to a sitting position.

"God..." he murmured softly when he heard, or recalled a scrape along the floor to his side. He turned his head quickly and saw a white envelope on the floor and looked up, noticing a thick, featureless steel door with a food tray panel built in halfway up and a small barred window at eye level. His peripheral vision confirmed his quickly building fear, this was a prison cell.

Two distinct shadows were on the other side of the door which he recognized as feet and immediately peered through the darkness of the room and saw rapidly rise from the bottom edge of the window, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Or at the very least, the most beautiful women he could remember seeing in the context of having recalled seeing in person. Sure he knew of a few celebrities, models, and other air-brushed beauties that were more visually arousing. But at this moment she was beautiful.

Small nose. Full lips. Her ears half covered by thick dark reddish brown hair tied behind her back. Light brown sand colored skin almost uniform across her face and those lips. Her eyes were full and brown though, not Asian like himself. Maybe Latino. Maybe...

Her eyes went wide, as if not expecting to see someone in this room. Her trucker cap had some sort of insignia on it. He couldn't read it but the dark green color and simple look of the emblem implied she was no doubt a guard or employee of this prison. Her being surprised at his presence, when it was so passive, begged other questions.

"Good luck," she suddenly said in perfect, if faintly accented English. A flash of regret covered her face as her bottom lip tensed up, but then she disappeared, running off to the side. He blinked, puzzled and immediately tried to come to grips with the recent development. First thing was first, how did he get here?

One second later, his internal questions led him to another very simple question. Who was he?

Was it amnesia? That was almost so cliche. His eyes were still focused on the empty window, the narrow beam of light filtering through into his darkened cell. It was as if glaring at it was helping him concentrate. But with his memories empty except for the last few moments, he decided to refocus himself and saw the bulging envelopment apparently slid under his door. That must of been what awoke him. The envelope was actually quite thick, it could barely fit under the bottom lip of the door.

Hopping off the bed, noting he was in fact an inmate from his orange clothing and polished leather shoes, he sighed and then took the scant few steps across his small dark cell and simply reached down.

Though thick it was quite light. His fingertips ran over the body of it, feeling numerous cylinder sized bumps underneath. Something was inside. With a finger, he flipped open the top leaf of the letter which was tucked in and reaching in, pulled out a small plastic ziploc sandwich bag.

No sandwich.

Just a plethora of small white pills and a masking tape label that said in clear permanent marker, VIIKANEN.

Vicodin?

Why would he need what looked like a seasons supply of that?

He paused a moment, realizing his first thoughts of this world were troubling dreams and waking up in a cold sweat. Maybe this was his prescription. Bit unorthodox giving him it all at once though. Not wanting to think about it anymore, he shoved the bag into his pants pocket and then pulled out the remaining contents of the letter.

One was a notecard with more of the same handwriting as on the tape label. The other was what appeared to be a page of a small Bible torn out. In pen two verses were underlined. Though he figured the notecard was more informative, he looked at the torn text first, a curiosity now stirred, had to be satiated. Checking the top of the page, he saw it was from the Book of Isaiah. That wasn't good he thought and then read the pertinent passages.

He didn't recall himself being Christian, or even having faith, but even he was both fascinated and puzzled by the verses and their relevance.

Thy dead men shall live, together with my dead body shall they arise. Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust: for thy dew is as the dew of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the dead. Come, my people, enter thou into thy chambers, and shut thy doors about thee: hide thyself as it were for a little moment, until the indignation be overpast. For, behold, the LORD cometh out of his place to punish the inhabitants of the earth for their iniquity: the earth also shall disclose her blood, and shall no more cover her slain.

The man paused and then read the passages around them. Having not been an avid Bible reader himself, or at the very least, not knowing anything except this final chapter was where all of the armageddon stuff happened, he focused his eyes on the other passages. Some sort of song. Looked like it should've belonged in the Book of Revelations, or that Left Behind series. Sighing, as if he felt he shouldn't be taking along something like that, he shoved the page in his pocket as well.

He flipped the notecard over to read it.

In the distance he heard, echoing through silence hallways, steel doors and thick walls, a distant whirring motion. Not quite a drill but some sort of mechanical device. His ears perked up at the sound. The last one he heard since the footfalls of that beautiful guard and her closing some nearby door. But the crisp whirr was somehow subdued, becoming more muffled, with a thick but still faint chopping sound beating a tempo over the whirr.

Thwuk. Thwuk. "Thwuk."

He tried to mimic the sound, wondering if it'd help him grasp its origin. Like a boat motor in the water. But then it was gone. A second later he looked down at his notecard.

I AM ON 88.5

DOOR WILL OPEN AUTO-LY IN ONE HOUR

THE KEYCARD WILL GET YOU OUT

YOU DONT DESERVE THIS

GOOD LUCK

Informative?

It gave him more questions he wanted answered. But he already knew that those answers weren't in this cell. And from that guards composure, he got the feeling that staying in this cell was probably not a good choice. Just to check, he pushed on the door upon finding no actual handle on it. He felt the lock. Deadjam. For a moment he glanced around his cell. A bed. A toilet. A roll of toilet paper. No amenities. Even a new cell would have those right?

No light either.

Was he in solitary?

Couldn't of been the hole or whatever right? His cot had sheets. He remembered hearing a story of how an inmate got out of prison into a hospital where he later escaped by choking himself with a towel.

What did it matter though? If the notecard was right, he'd be free in an hour anyways unless this was some sort of cruel sadistic joke. Almost as an afterthought, he dipped his hand into the envelope, realizing one more item was in the letter. A dull gray keycard with a black magnetic strip across the bottom.

On the reverse side of the keycard was a picture of one of the guards. Some black man. Underneath was an ID number and a name. MIGUEL NUNEZ Jr. His face was partially scrawled out and as the mans fingers rubbed across the keycard, he felt moisture on it. Turning the bottom of his wet fingertip to see what it was, he suddenly jolted back a step, the steady calm suddenly shocked as he realized it was blood.

"Jesus..."

He gulped. Creepy Biblical passages, cryptic notes and a bag full of Vicodin. Already he felt his nerves frayed and his heart pumping, burning through adrenaline even though all he was doing was standing here. Bringing the keycard to the light, he saw it was a bloody finger smudge. Maybe he caused that.

Another sound in the distance caught his attention. This was a lot more crisp as it echoed through the building. The sound of metal clanging against metal.

He had nothing else to do for the next forty minutes except listen to the distance interrupt a near perfect silence... if the notecard was correct. He felt compelled to push at the door again, as if it might open early.

It did not.

Sighing again, almost as if feeling dejected, he sat back down on the bed, and then decided to lay down on the cot. Perhaps get some rest. He had this feeling dwell deep in his gut that he might need all the rest he could manage for this upcoming day.

Sleep however, was out of the question. For the next few minutes he just laid perfectly still, occasionally glancing at the cell door, still closed with whatever lied beyond so ominous. Eventually it grew even more quiet, his troubled ears were picking up on his own breathing. Every shift of his body against the crisp bedsheets was audible, almost loud.

A moment later the usual bubbling of liquids through pipes in the wall suddenly startled his body back to alertness.

In another twenty minutes though, his composure of tense passivity had reasserted itself. His eyes still panned from the dark ceiling to the door as he wondered now if the door would unlock automatically in an hour, or actually physically open. If the former, would the unlocking actually make a sound he could hear? Should he get up and test to see if the door was still open?

For some reason that though was suppressed by irrational fear. Why bother, the note said the door would open, it would open. Not just unlock. As he ruined his mental equilibrium with such thoughts, a loud boom suddenly caused his entire body to jolt, half of his body rising off of the bed in shock before falling upon the mattress again.

That was the most clear sound yet. A shotgun blast.

For some reason, he knew that was a shotgun discharge and nothing else. His lips managed to fumble a bit of blasphemy in reaction, the tone hushed.

"God damn it..."

On a completely unrelated note, the door to his cell five minutes later.

Thank you.

It's mainly research. But my father hails from and lived in the Mesabi Iron Range for quite some time. One side of my family was practically inured in the Minnesota mining communities for a generation or two. Course the mines up there are not hard rock mining, it's open pit iron mining. But still, I think it attracts a similar sort of culture.

Thank you for the compliment.

I found the idea of seperating the two forums to be kind of gay to be honest. There must be some compulsion to subdivide everything. Plus this gets more viewership.

But alas, I'll go off to Cocytus without protest if it means not violating the rules. Or I'll call this a uhhh.... Book of Revelations fanfic.

Something...

Oh and I might wanna avoid serious criticism, I'm fragile and reactionary.

CHAPTER TWO

The light flooded the dark room, but the man did not bat an eye. He didn't even have to squint. It was all quite anti-climatic actually, the door simply buzzed and pushed out, then slid off to the side and like that, he was free. A soft ding sound then went over the PA.

"Solitary A-5 Open," a pleasant recorded female voice stated over the hallway speaker followed by another soft ding. The man was already on his feet but his body was still tense. Laying down didn't calm his nerves one bit. Instead of entering the safety of the light, he actually felt safer in the recessed shadows of his cell. At least until he found a weapon.

He took the pillowcase off his pillow.

Did prison pillows have pillowcases?

He had no idea, but took it anyways. Maybe he could fill it with some hard and heavy, like... his vision panned across the cell. The only thing not bolted down and heavy were his shoes, but that would just be silly taking them off. He needed like a small appliance like a toaster or some thick glass mugs or something to make a pillowcase into a proper weapon.

What did those marines do? They tied their belt around one hand and held the length of it in the other. What was the point of that? Do you punch them with the leathery hand. Tie them up somehow. He smiled, picturing some crackhead inmate coming at him screaming and he simply dodged the attack and wrapped the pillow case around his neck and within seconds, choked his imaginary attacker unconscious.

Yeah. That must be the trick.

He wrapped one end of the pillowcase around his right hand and then tightly held the other end in his left hand and then slowly made his way out of the cell. He peeked his head out, looking both ways in the well lit hallways as if anyone paying attention would not see his head stick out. Nothing in either direction. But it still didn't feel safe.

It took an inordinate amount of courage just to step out into the hallway, but he did. Nothing happened. His breathing grew longer, drawing in the air deeper as he looked from side to side again, noticing this hallway was curved into what seemed to be a half circle. Above him, a shiny steel metal grating was the ceiling. He could see there was a wider matching passageway above him, and from the signs, it looked as if it was some sort of guard station.

The cells in the hallway he was in all looked identical but something just wasn't right. No just the fact that there were no voices, or really any sound, but something was out of place. Maybe it was the smell. It made him uneasy. He walked down towards his right, where he saw the guard leave an hour earlier. Maybe that is where the exit was. With his pillowcase weapon in both hands, pumping himself mentally to be ready for anything, he started walking down the hallway.

He passed the next cells door when he recognized the smell. An acrid, almost pungent odor. Cordite. Sulphur. A gunshot. He leaned over and smelled it in pockets now. More then one shot perhaps. As he stepped away, the toe of his foot sent a shell casing skittle across the floor. His eyes glanced down as he saw the shell casing roll away softly, and then looked up and as if by magic, he saw a dozen more shell casings laying on the floor, each one located in front of a cell door entrance.

Not his though.

His breathing grew heavier, but his mind was not quite prepared to draw his first conclusions as he raced towards the window of one of the doors and peered through the bars of the cell, steeling himself for any possible scare. It was the most obvious answer thing that still chilled him though as he blinked and gritted his teeth for a moment.

The narrow beam of light illuminated this cells bed. Moving his head to the side a bit, the man let more light filter in and saw the almost peaceful body of an inmate laying on the bed, a red hole in the side of his head and bits of crimson gore, bone and brain splattered across his pillow and on the wall behind his resting area. Shot in his sleep? More like executed.

He walked over to the next cell over, where another shell casing lay innocuously and saw a similar sight. This solitary prisoner was a bit more portly, and older, with a thick gray mustache. There was an eyeglass case in his hands, perhaps having just awoken, but his body was slumped back against the wall still sitting on his bed. A pair of shattered eyeglasses dangled from his hollowed out face. Another gunshot, right through the eyes or nose it seemed.

How could he not hear that? From the looks of it, there must of been a dozen executions which conveniently skipped over him and his cell. Just like these people, he must of been sleeping. Maybe they used a silencer he rationalized. But more importantly, why did this even happen? With no answers forthcoming, he continued moving. The pillowcase now felt even more flimsy in his hands then before as he did.

Dried blood was on the concrete floor, in small dried puddles, hardly more then droplets. One could barely notice them unless you were scanning the floor, like he was now. They too led to the exit of the passageway as the man wondered if the woman that apparently freed him was also injured. Her face didn't show it.

Up ahead a transparent doorway sealed off this section of the facility. A keycard scanner was fixed to a panel on the wall. Through the polycarbonate doorway he could see a two steel doors on either side of a small room and an identical transparent gate on the opposite side of the small passageway, leading to another half circle shaped corridor shrouded in darkness. From the glow of the light though, he noticed it was more of a general population cell block with two separate levels.

The man swiped his card and a soft ding was heard as the gate slid back, then off to the side. He stepped in as the pungent odor of sulphur renewed its assault. There were two doors, the one to his left was marked Cell Block C/ Solitary Observatory, the door to his right was labeled Administration and Guard Offices. To his front, several letters were burned into the brick above the transparent gate. CELL BLOCK C. Beyond it, the cell block was covered in darkness. Apparently someone turned off the lights there.

Peering through the polycarbonate of the door, he saw the cell block which normally could hold dozens of prisoners. It was quiet too. It had been quiet ever since he had awaken. He glanced down at his feet, noticing the trail of blood from solitary did not lead to the cell block, but rather to the right door observatory. But he saw other footprints, the shoe and boot marks partially outlined by blood.

Almost reflexively, he reached out to the side, while backing away from the blood on the floor and as soon as he felt the switch on the wall, he flicked it upwards, almost absentmindedly. His conscious self took over a split second later however as he realized just what he had done as the entire cell block was suddenly bathed in an almost harshly bright artificial lighting.

The cell block was quiet for a reason.

Its walls were painted with blood.

He internalized the shock with a deep breath and a step back, his grip reaffirming its tightness on his only weapon. The pillowcase was growing moist from the sweat of his hands as his eyes took in the sweeping display of blood, bodies and debris. The entire cell block looked like an army had passed through, ransacking and killing everyone within. Just like in the solitary area, he saw the evidence of a mass execution, only done far less cleanly.

Bulletholes saturated the concrete walls, with chunks of masonry having been torn out by either concentrated fire or perhaps blasts from more powerful weapons. Shell casings of a half dozen different weapons, rifles, shotguns, pistols, littered the floor close to him. Then there were the bodies. Blood stained and perforated by bullet holes, the flimsy orange clothes worn by every corpse in the section were practically shredded by the gunfire or other means of destruction.

In the carnage he could see how it all played out. Perhaps the cells were all opened, maybe for a roll call. Then from that observatory area, where the guards could peer into every cell, the staff must of opened fire. Mattresses, torn open by torrents of gunfire, were limply covering some cell areas. Other sundries and goods were scattered across the floor. Toilet paper. Books. Figurines. Compact discs. Mostly papers though. Letters. Postcards. Magazines. Posters.

Some parts of the wall were blackened, as if scorched by fire. He couldn't tell, his nose overwhelmed by the smell of gunfire. Then there were the corpses. Dozens at least. Movies never did justice to just how grisly a gunshot wound could be, much less a half dozen. Neat puncture holes were exceptions as bullets fragmented off of bones, shattering organs, caving in bodies, tearing gaping holes in flesh. Other times they'd shatter limbs, or tear out chunks of flesh the size of your fist or worse. It was all seen here.

The carnage transfixed him. Almost hypnotizing. He had never seen so much death before. As he stared though, he started noticing subtle differences that clouded his initial first impressions. They were all shot, but not just bullets were at work here. His eyes focused on one of two tables, surrounded by four chairs, all bolted into the floor. It was riddled with bullets as unfortunately inmates realized that the thin metal surfaces were far from bullet proof. A small pile of orange clad bodies were underneath both of them.

Under one of the tables in particular though, he saw a dead prisoner with a hand over a bloody mess that was once his neck. It took a bit of strain to realize it wasn't a gunshot that incurred the injury, but a shiv driven into his neck. Gang violence during a guard massacre? No need to clean house if everyone was dying.

Not too far away, on a metal stairwell leading from the ground floor to the second floor, he saw another body that stood out. It was one of the few not laying on the ground or even slumped over something else. This particular fellow looked like he was still standing and that was only because his bullet riddled body had his head jammed in between the metal plates that were the stairs individual steps. Someone had broken his neck and placed it in there.

Was he alive when that occurred?

The man glanced at his fingers. The tips were bloody, he could tell even from this distance. Signs of a struggle maybe. Why would you take the time to put a dead body in such an exposed position.

Not too far away, near the far wall, he saw another corpse face down on the floor. It too had blackened bullet holes perforating his uniform, but a pool of blood had gathered around his skull and on the wall about five feet up was a distinct circular red mark imprinted on the cement. Slowly, the mysteries built up. Wounds that looked like they could be explained as bullet exit wounds or other side effects suddenly grew into other possibilities in his mind.

Everything about this massacre just seemed out of place and that was quite the observation to propose.

His suspicions were finally hammered in as he saw one body, which happened to be one of the few that made it closest to the transparent polycarbonate doorway he was standing behind. This corpse was face down in the floor, his arms reaching out vainly, fingers stuck in claw like forms as they tried to drag him along the floor. There was no real damage except what looked like a bloody ear though until he saw his legs. What brought him down appeared to be the fact that at the midpoint of his legs, at the knee joint, there was just a pool of blood and a few inches separating each of his upper legs from the lower appendages.

That would take concentrated, and highly accurate gunfire to pull off he thought.

What if they were cut off?

But that seemed ridiculous. The man shook his head and turned away for a bit, almost feeling shame as he stared so callously at the carnage that was before him. There was only one thing to do. That was leave this place. Something was awfully wrong here and just from what he had seen so far, it seemed like a miracle that he had managed to make it this far. Steeling himself for the next steps in his journey, he rose his head up from staring at the ground and just happened to lock eyes with the man with the severed legs.

CHAPTER THREE

The face was pale and almost seemed like it was hanging, as if the body being drained of blood had somehow pulled down the mans face. The glassy gray eyes were wide open though, leaving no mistake that this person was alive and staring right at him. He could practically see his reflection in the mans unflinching orbs. A chill shivered through the amnesiac mans spine as he found himself trembling at such an unsettling sight.

Then the wounded man slowly lowered his lips, pale to the point of tinging with blue and flaking with dry skin, seemed to open his mouth, as if trying to form words. The mouth took an almost circular shape before he tugged the corner of his lips down, like a frown. Through the thick transparent barrier, he could not hear what the injured man was saying, but even he could read his lips.

Help me.

His lips. His face. Especially his eyes.

They all displayed the wounded persons intent clearly as the amnesiac man took a slow step back, the toe of his foot never lifting off the ground. He gripped his pillowcase tighter as if there was something to fear. But his eyes felt pulled to the pathetic casualty laying before him. He gulped as he saw the wounded man reach out his sweat glistened arms and tried pulling himself closer to the doorway only to suddenly have his face contort and redden in pain.

A terrible scream was reduced to a muffled silence by the polycarbonate barrier as with growing dread, and guilt, he realized this injured mans legs were not quite cleanly shredded yet. One of them was dangling by a few thin shreds of flesh, dragged along by its owner as he futilely tried to crawl closer to him. The right thing to do was only a keycard swipe away.

Instead, snapped out of a face whitening stupor, the man simply turned his back to the sight and headed for the steel door marked Administration and Guard Offices and swiped his keycard. Against his own higher brain functions, he took one last sideward glance towards the view of Cell Block C and immediately turned away in revulsion at his own growing guilt. The wounded man was still staring at him, the glassiness in his eyes was actually his face welling up with tears. The door closed, leaving that scene behind him. Out of sight and hopefully out of mind.

The man was alone again now, as he shook his head vigorously, feeling a pressure building up in his temple and an emptiness in his stomach. His head arched upward as he stood in what appeared to be a darkened stairwell leading up and let out a long, guttural sigh. For a few seconds, he took several deep breaths, regained as much of his composure as he could and loosened the ever tightening grip he had on his pillowcase. Sweat was beading on his forehead, falling down his face, irritating his eyes.

He used the pillowcase to wipe his brow and wished he could find a towel instead.

A towel is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker could have.

He paused, that one thought being held out amongst the many running through his mind at the moment and chuckled for a moment. So silly. A smile half forced, appeared on the mans face as he then reached over to the nearby wall and flicked on the stairwell light switch.

The back of his head struck the steel door behind him hard as he jumped back and screamed again as he came face to face with one of the guards of the facility. This fellow, like almost every other one though, was quite dead. Or at least, unmoving.

How he died looked bloody yet far more peaceful then the ones mowed down in the cell blocks. He was a slightly larger fellow, with a clean shaven head and a roll of fat on his neck. Broad shoulders. His closed eyes looked beady and he had a stocky muscular build to him and from the rolled up sleeves, wasn't afraid to show it either. He didn't have the dark green trucker cap like the female guard who had released him, but the rest of his clothes were similar. He also had a picture keycard, just like himself.

This time, he could also read the emblem on the guards shoulder.

CONVICT LEASING CORPORATION, LLC.

A private correctional institution?

Yeah they did exist. But they normally didn't kill their prisoners in large numbers. That tended to be bad for business.

This particular guard looked like he was in the thick of it however. Blood was streaming from a nickel sized puncture wound in his neck, where a blood caked ballpoint pen was jammed at least an inch into the border of his larynx. Just below the grisly wound, collecting on the collar of the mans green jacket, were several blood soaked patches of gauze and masking tape, all apparently loosened by the copious flow of blood.

That wasn't the only injury. The mans left eye was swelled shut and completely black, surrounded by hues of blue, purple and red. His lips were cut, and red imprints of fingers could be seen on his cheeks and exposed forearms. Farther down, he saw two of the fingers on the guards left hand were bent backwards and all of his knuckles cracked some with dried blood. In his right hand, where he could see teethmarks on the inset of the wrist and palm, he still held tightly some sort of rifle. It looked like an M-16 but somehow appeared smaller. Looked more like a toy to be honest.

It also had a silencer fixed on the end.

The man put two and two together and then looked down, past the dead mans feet and then back through the door he had just passed and noticed the blood trail he originally saw in the solitary wing of the hallway ended here. With a sudden decisiveness, the man reached down and picked up the AR-15 from the dead mans grasp and realized he was holding the weapon that had brained his neighbors back in that hallway. And this was the person who did it.

Finding out the who though was not nearly as revealing as he had hoped. There was still no explanation of why. Or even when. Plus was he injured before he entered the solitary wing, or during? Maybe after?

He handled the weapon for a moment and then, feeling a bit of familiarity dawning upon him, ejected the rifles magazine and shook his head, both in disappointment and in realizing his theory was probably correct. This must of been the executioner and now this rifle only had two rounds left. Three if there was one in the chamber he mused as he checked that as well.

Three rounds.

He reinserted the magazine and lifted the light weapon to his face, staring down the iron sight. From previous performance, it appeared to be a very straight shooter. Casting one more confused look down at the now far more peaceful looking body, he practically tip toed around the corpse and clutched the rifle in both hands after tossing aside the pillow case. Even with three rounds, a gun was better then a piece of linen.

At the top of the one story staircase was what looked like an simple wooden door, like you'd see in any building. Never the less, he had to scan his card to unlock the door with a painfully loud unhitching sound. Lowering his rifle a bit and pressing himself to the side of the wall that the door opened against, he reached out his other hand and opened the door, pushing it open and then quickly moving his extended hand back to the forestock of the rifle and scanned the new area.

He was in a double wide hallway with two wooden doors on each side and a metal desk at the very end of the hallway, a magnetometer at the end of the passageway. He glanced down. Green carpeting. Beige walls. Nothing hanging on the walls. Very spartan.

In front of the metal desk, a broken coffee mug and a notebook laid on the carpet unattended. The man took two steps out and then realizing that this hallway was twice as wide as the door he left, turned around and saw behind him, just past the stairwell door, the hallway continued on. It was cut off as a steel door with a wire mesh reinforced window with the words "Cell Block A-B-C and Solitary Observatory Access" painted on it.

For a moment, he felt compelled to head through. On the second floor was each cell blocks observation area. The perfect place to stage a mass execution of the prison population since it did offer that commanding view of almost every cells interior. But he grunted and shook his head, he didn't want to go back there. He wanted to leave.

Or so he forced his mind to think.

He kept moving forward. The two doors on his right were marked Offices and had brass door knobs. On the opposite end he saw the doors labeled Men and Womens Locker Room. Along with a keycard reader, both locks also had an electronic keypad underneath the handle. He frowned, then shrugged. Why would he need to go into the locker room anyways.

Suddenly a chill crept up his neck as he felt something almost burning into his backside and spun about, rifle at the ready and with a sharp grunt of surprise to face his potential ambusher.

But all he saw was the empty hallway with the two doors at the end of it. Both were closed. He smiled, and shook his head yet again when he felt another chill. It was coming from behind him again. But he was just facing that way he thought, nothing could be there. But he knew something was. As soon as he had turned his back, something had risen from behind that metal desk.

This time he leaped forward and in midair, twisted back to face the new threat.

All he saw was a desk as his feet reached for the carpeted floor in desperation. They didn't quite land, as the point of his heel was the first part of his foot to hit the ground and sent him falling backwards sharply. He bent his other leg, desperate to brace the impact, but that foot landed off to the side, simply moving him back and to the right, instead of straight back in his fall. Not wanting to lose the grip on his rifle, he clutched it tightly, his finger squeezing the trigger guard as his head slammed into the bottom of one of the wooden office doors.

His weapon discharged upon impact, his finger apparently not squeezing the trigger guard as he had once thought as the bullet cut upwards and just happened to shoot out the hallway light.

But instead of being bathed in pure darkness, the hallway instead defaulted to a soft red emergency lighting he did not even notice before. It was just as terrifying as his accidental headbutting of the office door gently nudged it open.

The man fluttered his eyelids, opening them up and coming face to face with a crimson colored zombie. His eyes went wide as he stared into another set of dead eyes, only these ones were wide awake and staring right at him, just like the legless inmate in the cell block. He screamed and with pure adrenaline, vaulted his upper body into a sitting position as he brought about his rifle and jammed it into the creatures face.

That was when he realized it was just dead. A highly animated face no doubt, but still dead. How could it be a zombie after all, the poor lass apparently shot her brains out. He paused, realizing in fact, it was a woman that was laying down in this office.

Struggling to get back to his feet, he switched on this particular offices lights and after not being frightened by the rather well kept office, looked back down at the woman. It was another guard, but this one looked younger, almost a teenager. Her keycard badge was still clipped to the breast pocket of her dark green jacket, which itself was buttoned up. Her legs were together and she just seemed to lay down on the floor, her head against the wall.

Her left hand was laying on her belly, her right hand gripping a small revolver which was pressed firmly against the bottom of her head, tucked under her chin. But there was little blood. She was wearing her rather oversized cap and from the darkened fabric, he could tell it was now filled with whatever was previously occupying her skull. Her eyes were welled up with a mix of tears and blood. A line of the translucent fluid fell from the corner of her eye to the floor.

Red eyed. White faced. Pretty golden blonde hair.

Her pants were torn though. Nothing large, just a noticeable rip along the calf. He looked farther down. One of her shoes was missing as he panned his vision back up to her belt. She committed suicide. Now to find out why. Cursing himself for not thinking of it earlier with the other guard, and definitely not feeling like backtracking, he gently reached into her belt and pulled out her pepperspray or mace, whatever it was.

The belt latch holding it in was unbuttoned and he figured out why as he shook the can. It was almost completely empty. He then leaned over her body, stretching out his neck across her still form and struggled to see the odd looking wooden baton also thrust in her belt. It was reflecting but not from a good polish. He knelt down beside the body, his eyes glancing at the corpse, somewhat shaken by just how peaceful she seemed and then stretched out a hand to touch the baton.

He felt fibers and then withdrew his fingertips. Tinged with blood again.

His eyes wandered back to the womans face, focusing on her as he tried to gather his thoughts. A prison riot gone out of control? Not all of the facts matched it though. He had not seen anyone since he left. The staff wouldn't just leave the problem unattended and if it was contained in the other two cell blocks they wouldn't have to leave.

"Gah!" he suddenly yelped and flinched away from the woman, scrambling halfway across the office in surprise. He stopped a moment later though, when he realized it must've been his nerves that saw this peaceful corpse move. "Christ..." he muttered, wiping his brow on his sleeve. He had to get out of here.

For a moment, he thought about taking the womans revolver. But it just seemed ghoulish disturbing such a sight. Then he looked at the desk. There were papers on it, all neatly stacked and organized. Maneuvering behind the humble office desk, he thumbed through the top few pages. Invoices. Records. Receipts. He then noticed a drinking fountain in the corner and a small stack of paper cups that were scattered on the floor beside the receptacle.

He licked his lips, realizing just how dry they were. Plus his stomach was still growling. Snatching a cup off the floor, he placed it under the faucet and still with gun in his other hand, pressed his thumb down on the fountains button after a quick inspection to make sure no blood was on the nozzle. A moment later the cup was filled and the man readily chugged down the best tasting tap water of his life, as far as he could recall it anyways.

That probably wasn't saying much of course, but he knew what he meant.

Nothing about a prison riot written hastily on a sticky note, or memo from the President about an unknown virus ravaging major cities. There was also a phone though. For a moment, he briefly flirted calling someone, but no one besides 9-1-1 occurred to him. Even calling the police... would that be wise for him.

Maybe they were already on their way.

What would they think finding him poking around.

Instead, he accessed the phones voicemail. Lax security. Not even a password to get in.

---

Message One

From Phone Number 481-516-2342

This is Chief Carano again. Noncompliance with federal regulations is not going to put off this inspection. The State Attorney General's office and Fire Marshal have both both contacted of your facilities non-cooperation. Keep in mind that our inspection is not just for fire safety. We do realize that your facility is made of stone and cement. That is not the point. When undergoing inspection, we examine not only fire hazards, but all health and safety hazards that may be present in your facility. This includes occupational hazards that could be hazardous to your staff and population such as electricity shortages or gas leaks. I'd really hate for half of your prison to fall into the underground lake we have in the area due to shoddy foundation work. Just because you're not in the big city anymore doesn't mean you can do whatever you want out here. Bye.

End of message.

---

He tried to place the accent of this Carano woman but outside of American and maybe with a hint of 'redneck' nothing really came to mind. Or maybe it was Italian. Then again, weren't they the rednecks of Europe or something. He realized nothing of what he just thought made any sense, but then again, that just brought it up to the level of this days weirdness so he shrugged and played the next message.
---

Message Two

From Phone Number 481-516-2342

Hey Debra. This is Chief Maria Carano from the Ogden Fire Department. Unfortunately our inspection is mandatory as per the latest state law regarding private prisons. I've reviewed the blueprints of your facility, it appears to meet all of the state and local fire codes and even surpasses them so you should have little to worry about. But we still have to go there and look. Tell the Warden if he doesn't cooperate, that your facility will be fined and face censure. Good bye.

End of message.
---

Ogden?

Never heard of it. So far, it also seemed fairly bland.
---

Message Three

From an Unknown Line

.................................................................................

DON'T DRINK THE WATER

.................................................................................

End of message.
---

For a moment, the man grunted as he heard the static, and then those chilling words in that equally alien voice. His eyes immediately turned on that damnably innocuous drinking fountain as he felt the coolness of the water evaporate down his throat. His skin immediately started to feel clammy as impending doom dawned over his body. His heart started racing anew like it had already so many times this morning, but this was true desperation as he scoured the desk, looking for a pencil or a pen, or anything. He could already feel the water sinking into his skin, abosrbed by a thousand unseen pores, wreaking their chemical induced magic. Seeping into his body.

He dropped his rifle upon noticing the glimmer of a pen in a mug on the desk behind the telephone and snatched it up. It took a half second for him to decide not to punch the pen and have the ballpoint stick out. He couldn't see why that'd improve his chances.

Spotting a wastebasket nearby, he knocked off the shredder located on top of it and fell onto his knees behind the desk. His breathing growing more rapid, he took a deep breath and bent over the bin and drove the pen down his throat until he gagged.

Well I don't know about scifi.

I think of it as a romantic comedy personally. The love of an author to writing. I find such animism ridiculously humorous.

I love zombies. So much cooler then vampires in my opinion.

Yeah Underworld: Evolution, I'm talking about you.

At first I was worried about the amnesia cliche, but as long as you can write something enjoyable or original out of the cliche, there should be no worries I reckon.

CHAPTER FOUR

The tiger stared at him passively, before bending low and licking the top of her paws. He cocked his head to the side, watching the powerful predator only inches away from his face, and shearing it off if it so inclined. He had so many startles, it seemed peculiar to him that he wasn't flipping out right now in abject fear. But this tigress, while dangerous, was also visible. He could see it.

Her dark eyes stared at him again, mesmerizing.

She was sniffing him.

There wasn't a car for miles.

He turned back to the clearly disturbed tigress and reached out an arm, beckoning her over to the edge of the road when a flash of lights and white and red metal slammed into the side of the tiger with enough force, the proud beast practically exploded into gore. Shocked into frigidity, and covered in blood, he made no move as several blue coated soldiers in a hard gallop pursuing the vehicle rode hard past.

The last cavalry trooper stopped his steed just for a moment in front of the blood soaked man and withdrew a large service revolver. One of those old fashioned Navy Colt Revolvers. Looked as big as a machine pistol in the small riders grip. "Where are you going?" he asked in a trembling voice.

His face a shadow against the high noon sun, the cavalry man lowered his revolver to the mans head and spit out a wad of thick tobacco juice out of the corner of his mouth. It sizzled on the hot asphalt. He shook his head in disgust upon seeing the gruesome sight. "Make me sick," the blue clad man said, his vowels drawn out like a Midwestern country boy. "Hell with you!" the shadowed soldier responded as he cocked back his revolver and fired a bullet clean through blood soaked mans brain.
---

The man groaned, his eyes already open before he was awake it seemed. Hell, he didn't even think he was out. He was still leaning over the now quite foul smelling waste basket, his vomit specked hands gripping the top edge of the bin. Another deep breath. He was ready. Felt drained, and quite literally was, but he still had the energy to move. Then he looked for his pen, until realizing that it was actually at the bottom of a bin filled with vomit.

Odd compulsion that. Looking for something that was probably completely unnecessary. He sniffed, and then grimaced. He had... leftovers in his nose and rose his head, the look of disgust perpetually fixed on his face. Spotting a tissue box, he pulled out a sheet and with a big snort, cleared up his clogged nasal cavities. He also resisted the urge to look at his handiwork, and simply tossed the spent tissue into the bin as well.

For a moment he sat down, and then snatched up his rifle while collecting his thoughts when he noticed something. The body was still there. For some odd reason, he had this creeping premonition that it'd just disappear, or he'd spin around and boom, empty headed zombie would bite his throat out. Neither occurred.

Yet.

He was brought up in a pop culture twenty first century household. He knew that at the very least. The only thing counter balancing the obvious creep of this situation was a real life that stressed rationalism, logic, and science. People don't just come back from the dead and eat your brains. Even those real life examples of zombies turned out to be retarded people eating bad fish or something didn't it.

That was one thing he hated about critics of horror movies. Oh the characters are acting so stupid. "Well shit lady, like you'd be fucking rational if people ate your fucking head!" He jerked his head back, realizing he was speaking aloud, angry at some nonexistent and nebulous entity.

It was time to get moving.

For some reason, he gave a nod to the serene woman still laying where she blew her brains out and started to step over her when he felt a rather painful swell in his stomach, and then noticed her left hand was laying over her tummy, slightly clenched. He saw it before, but until now, didn't really notice it. He didn't notice she was clutching something in her hand. Hiding something.

Holding the rifle in his other hand, he reached down with his right hand and touched her left hand. Almost immediately, his lips faltered. He was touching her. The dead flesh felt so cold, so soft. His face started to tighten up again as the very thought of her death impacted him so strongly, that he felt the tears welling up in his eyes as his fingers slipped between hers. Poor woman. She was healthy. Why did she have to kill herself? What was so fucking bad? Why didn't anyone help her?

As he dwelled on that, his fingers sprung free whatever she was holding. It was a letter, written on a blank sheet of paper. As he unfurled the note with his thumb, he realized it was a suicide note.

I HAVE TO END IT THERES NO HOPE LEFT FOR ME DONT BLAME YOURSELVES I LOVE EVERYONE AND NO ONE IS TO BLAME I KNOW SUICIDE IS A SIN BUT IM GOING TO A BETTER PLACE I KNOW IT

WATCHING FROM ABOVE
JESSICA BLANK
MARK 5:13

He paused, still tearing up, but not from the letter. Just everything seemed to be catching up to him as he then noticed there was writing on the other side.

LISTEN TO THE MESSAGE IT WAS ALL DEBRA AND THE WARDENS FAULT FORGIVE ME I DIDNT FORGIVE THEM YOULL FIND HER IN THE CLOSET

He turned around, almost immediately and noticed there was no closet in this room. A coatrack was on the back of the door to serve that purpose. Then he wondered if looking for someone likely dead in a closet was a good idea.

No.

He wanted to keep moving. With deep consideration, he placed the letter back in the womans hand and even curled her dead fingers around it again before giving her one last sorrowful look over. Then he rose up and rifle in hand, headed out of the room, ducking his head out first only to find nothing had transpired since he had last been here as far as he could tell. The choice did arise however as to head either to the Cell Blocks or the continue down through these offices and such. He figured continuing on through these offices would lead to the exit, if the magnetometer was any indication.

So he headed towards the end of the hallway where the magnetometer was when he noticed there was a second office door to investigate. He paused for a moment, wondering if investigation was wise, and then looked behind him. The cell blocks were still quiet. Yet he was sure up ahead he would find the main exit to this complex. Time could be short.

Plus he might need to go to a hospital in case...

Frowning, he walked past the closed office and planted a foot on top of the metal desk. He didn't want to pass through the magnetometer, which probably was still on for all he knew. The last thing he needed was a loud alarm scaring the hell out of him or perhaps, alerting something else.

Hopping off of the other end of the desk, he found himself at the middle of a T corridor. To his right he noticed a short hallway with a janitors closet on the side of the wall he was facing and at the end of the passage, a wood and glass door labeled Warden. There was a keypad lock underneath the door handle which made little sense, considering you could probably just break the glass and open the door from the inside anyways. Through the thin horizontal blinds present on the window of the Wardens office door, he could see muted sunlight billowing into the darkened hallway. A long cardboard case was laying in the middle of the floor. He could read from here that it was a plastic food wrap box. It was empty.

This hallway was also dimly lit he realized, as glanced down to his left and saw, past two locker door entrances, was an electric sign above a stairwell heading down that said one beautiful word. EXIT.

He smiled and started to move towards the exit stairwell when the soft sunlight illuminated the dark hall suddenly was extinguished. The creeping darkness soon covered him in black as the man gulped, realizing that the sunlight outlined a figure and a great shadow enveloping his own could be seen upon the carpet.

Closing his eyes for a full second, he flashed them open and then spun about rapidly, rifle raised to his cheek. His eyebrows launched up his forehead as his eyes went wide and he saw a shadow standing behind the windowed door. The dark figure had a head and shoulders and appeared to be staring right at him through the window blinds. But it just stood there, ominous and absolutely terrifying just from its presence alone.

"Come on," the man whispered, taking a step forward, rifle at the ready. His finger slipped from the trigger guard to the trigger itself. Two rounds left he remembered. Had to make them count. "Come on," he tersely said, his voice still hushed but rising with intensity. He took another step towards the door, realizing the shadow was still unmoving. "Christ..." he grunted. Did it even see him? Or was it baiting him to come closer. He found himself hating the shadowed man shape behind the windowed door. It would be so easy pulling the trigger instead. But he just couldn't do it.

"Heeeeeey?" he finally said, his e's strung out like he was singing or whistling, easily betraying his frayed nerves.

Just then he heard a loud knock emanating from the wall to his side, from the office he had bypassed. But it wasn't against the office door, it was against something else.

A closet perhaps.

Then it happened again.

He could hear the sound of hangars or something falling from within the office, but his eyes were still focused on the shadow in the Wardens office. Now though, the racket wouldn't stop. His fears building, and feeling frustrated, almost torn, he took a step back from the mysterious shadow. "Fuck this," he muttered so soft only he could hear. He made a tactical withdrawal and started to backstep towards the exit, only with every step he glanced over his shoulder, just in case.

Three steps later, he heard a long muffled moan emanate from the closed office. It was punctuated by another loud knocking noise of something heavy against something unyielding. His vision panned to the office door, as he briefly thought of pushing the metal desk in front of the door. But that would do no good, those doors swung inside, not outside. The pounding got louder, as another moan billowed into the still air, only this one soon de-evolved into a muffled sobbing.

As he looked at the closed office door, the door to the Warden's office suddenly swung open into the hallway with enough force it knocked against the hallway wall. At that same moment, a loud crash thundered through the office, followed by a far more clear sob. Yet the door to the office was still closed. The man turned his eyes to the figure in the doorway. It was human at the very least.

He had frazzled salt and pepper hair, looking as if he hadn't even touched it with his fingers, much less a comb, for the past week. His gray, double breasted business suit hung limply off of slumped shoulders. The shirt underneath was wrinkled, as were his boxers. His pants were missing, or perhaps simply unworn. The mans vision focused back on the persons face, and he kept his weapon trained on him. In the dim light, he couldn't make out this persons particular face features. He looked white though.

For a moment, the two exchanged measuring glances.

"Warden?"

"Unh," grunted the disheveled person as he took a single staggering step forward, the cuffs of his suit hanging limply from his pale, hairy wrists. His grunt sounded like an affirmation as he bobbed his head slightly, and then raised his arms from his sides, towards the rifleman. "Are you..." the suit wearing man started to mumble, after confirming his title. Apparently basic English was hard for him to bring to his lips as he shambled forward again, his untied leather shoes limply thudded against the carpet. In the office, crying continued, but this fellow did not even seem to notice as he made his staggering advance. "Are you here to..." Just then, a flash of orange reflected on his eyes and just like that, the soft speaking, almost mewling Wardens face transformed into that of bright red rage. "You..." It took a moment for the man to realize that danger was upon him when he saw from the suits sagging cuffs, a small blade suddenly fall out, right into the shadowy characters hand.

The amnesiac man started to form a word in response, his lips forming an 'o' as the Warden let out a betraying snarl and gripping some sort of knife in his right hand, charged across the hall at him.

"Yah!" the prisoner screamed as the Warden lunged for him. The sharp blade sailed in a wide arc, its point aimed for his left ear. Unable to clearly think, only react, the man responded by driving his rifle up and shoving it forward as hard as he could, his weapon cross facing his oncoming attacker hard across the face and right shoulder. Blunted, but not stopped, the knife arm bent at the elbow as a split second later, a slicing pain brewed up from the tip of the mans nose as he flinched it backward at the first sign of pain.

He pivoted himself, again without thinking, pinning the Warden against the wall with a thud while keeping his head back. It was at this moment the sunlight, now filling the hallway, illuminated his attackers face. Terrified eyes. They were wide with irrational fear. Deep set wrinkles. A thick unshaven stubble. Dry chapped lips. He also got a glimpse of his wrist as it struck out. His wrists were raw red. Yet they did not seem any less vigorous in their attempt of skewering him.

Not wanting to risk premature negotiation, as soon as he barely avoided that first swipe, the man shot forward his right hand and slammed the rifle butt across the side of the Wardens face. He wailed in pain, his free left hand reaching out blindly as he stumbled back from the blow. His fingers managed to grasp the sight of the rifle and with a desperate grip, jerked it from the prisoners hands. It fell to the floor between them.

Before either of them could recover the weapon, the Warden shot forward again with another wide arched stab. Stabbing his weapon like a boxer would throw a right hook, the prisoner was able to predict the path of the strike and grabbed the incoming arms wrist and propelled the blade into the drywall and made sure to smash the Wardens hand between his own palm and of the wall itself.

The Warden grunted, his knife embedded in the wall, and his right hand pinned to it as well. But with his left hand still free, he simply shot it out and gripped a mans most vulnerable spot and started to squeeze.

His teeth gritting in pain as he felt his attacker clench his fingers around his groin, the prisoner let out a pain driven growl and responded with an hard uppercut, looping his free arm under the trapped knife arm and slamming his knuckles straight upwards into his attackers chin. It was a perfectly executed strike and if he was a stronger man, he swore it would've lifted this crazy man clear off his feet.

As it was, the Wardens grip only tightened upon the moment of impact.

The sound of wood splintering came from nearby.

Growling again, finding any attempt to ignore the obviously blinding pain impossible, the prisoner then shot forward his leg behind the Wardens and with his punching arm, grabbed the man by his neck and gave him a hefty push to the side. So focused on the attack, the Warden didn't see such a simple move coming as he suddenly let out a rather pitiful whelp of surprise, his grip on both the knife and his balls evaporating as he toppled to the ground.

Before he hit the ground though, the man raised his foot and brought it down on his attackers face. Almost at once, the Wardens legs and arms jerked upwards off the floor before flopping back down from the foot stomp. That was that.

He took several deep breaths, but not nearly as many as he'd thought he'd need. His body recovered quickly from the brief exertion. He placed a hand against his chest as he crouched down and picked up his rifle by its forestock with his left hand. His heart was pounding under a firm chest, but his breathing, it was already normalizing. "What the hell?" he muttered to himself as he rose back to his feet, staring at the now motionless man that had just attacked him.

It took a moment for him to run back through the recent events and noticed, as their eyes stared at each other, that this person had a flash of orange in his eyes before he struck. He looked down at his inmates uniform. It was orange obviously. Was it a riot?

He almost chuckled at the morbid though that bad tap water made the prisoners decide to riot. Or maybe this Warden drank the water. That message, the suicide note, something was amiss wasn't it. He started to even wonder if this fellow even was the Warden.

Taking another step back, the man then looked past the body, towards the exit. He had to go. It was then the Warden character suddenly had his outstretched fingers twitch and a low, wounded moan escape his lips. It sounded like he recovered from a bad night drinking. Either way, he was done with this. "Owww...." the attacker groaned, a hand then slowly moving from his side to covering his face. The prisoner snorted silently, his own nose was bleeding. No sympathy here. He made a promise to kick the bastard in the head as he stepped over him, just to keep him down as he walked past him.

He took his first step forward when the magnetometer behind him suddenly went off. For a split second, he could almost hear the young woman say her note aloud. You'll find her in the closet. There were no more sounds coming from that office anymore and the magnetometers wailing alarms were blaring in his ear.

Frozen anew if only for a moment, he suddenly spun about and took in an eyeful of blood red gums and strong white teeth.

Mark 5:13?

Oh dear. If that is related to what has been going on in there... well, that's definitely one hell of a twist.

The story is excellent, too. Great suspense and very good writing quality overall. I can't really say anything else but that I await the next update with impatience.

I know. It's a horrible shortcoming of the written word. Sufficiently skilled writers like HP Lovecraft or Stephen King can instill that sort of imagery to the reader, at least when I read it. But it's a challenge to show rather then tell the reader whats happening with words alone, especially when horror nowadays oftentimes has an shock/ surprise value which I don't think can really be delivered in most stories instead of a more conventional building suspense or mystery, like you'd get with Lovecraft.

Still, if it was the silver screen, I do think it would've been an excellent scene.

Well every character is definitely interpreting the events as they see them. Even the narration can't be trusted to be objective since that often states what the main character is thinking, often without any qualifiers identifying it from normal objective prose.

Well unless otherwise stated in the text, I'm using the New International Version of the Bible as reference. Not sure that will help clarify the verse, but hey, who knows.

CHAPTER FIVE

The mans eyelids clamped shut as the teeth clashed together, practically trimming his lashes as he instinctively snapped back and brought his hands up, merely slapping his attacker as he stumbled back, unable to formulate a true defense. The jaws came at him again, very human ones, the teeth clashing, desperate to bite into his flesh as he continued falling back in absolute terror until finally his back hit the wall only to have her jump at him anew.

Her lips were tinged with a faded red. Either old lipstick, or something more grisly. He didn't care but was leaning towards the latter as she fell upon him again. All he could see was the gnashing teeth, everything else about her was a blur, covered in either bright reflection or absolute darkness. A demon. A ghost. A monster.

Fury bubbled through his fear for a brief moment as he lashed out with his rifle, swinging it at the oncoming devil, striking her limbless side but she simply propelled herself forward, her bites growing louder as her lips pressed against his cheek. He yelped, feeling her mouth open up, a constant hiss rumbling from the fiends throat as he smashed the palm of his right hand into the side of her face, his fingers digging into the side of her head, trying to push her away.

Her front teeth scraped against his brow a bit too sharply when his eyes immediately slammed shut as he felt her tongue try to dig into the corner of his eyeball, perhaps trying to gouge it out. The mans cowed, turning his head away, pale with dread as he followed through with the motion, hurtling the armless creature to the floor and hearing her guttural wail punctuated by a simple thump.

Immediately the thought of water came into his head as he immediately rose the sleeve of his orange shirt and wiped clean his face, his subconscious praying to all that he wasn't infected. He had already decided he was willing to vomit up his insides, but he wasn't about to gouge out an eye. Would that even work?

Instead he took a step back, rifle still gripped by the forestock, as he was too panic stricken to even ready the weapon to finish her off. She was writhing on the ground too, no longer moaning or hissing, but screaming at the top of her lungs in absolute pure rage or anger. Her hips and lower body, for she had no discernible legs, writhed and wrestled with some sort of invisible bonds that seemed to hold her down. Her mouth agape, unleashing a torrent of maddening words.

A hand reached out and smashed the back of his knee. He tumbled backwards, falling on his posterior only to see the suit wearing man, sufficiently recovered and bleeding from his crushed nose, reach out his arms, seizing his rifle. "Get off!" snapped back the man, trying to wrench the weapon away from his initial attackers grasp, only to have his foe grab the weapon and push it forward, slamming its breadth across his face.

"Mine!" screamed back his adversary as he wrenched it with a hefty jerk of his hands. The now disarmed man started to lunge forward to try and free the weapon again, when his eyes grew wide. Whoever he was facing was quick, as he immediately turned the deadly barrel end of the rifle upon the prisoner. His eyes grew even wider when he witnessed something that was simply from the realm of the bizarre as the armless, almost serpentine woman somehow propelled herself upwards without the assistant of her limbs.

Almost like a mummy, except she seemed incapable of bending her waist at the sitting position.

The man simply sat there, impassive, terrified and hoping fortune would save him. Did he not hear? "Mine!" he growled as his forefinger neared the trigger when he noticed a shadow had been cast over him. His peripheral vision picked up on the madwomans descent. He turned his face just in time to have the scream he was about to utter be silenced as her head struck his shoulder and her teeth cut deep into his his flesh, tearing into his neck.

His grip weakened. Ignoring his own fears for the moment, the man shot his arms forward, knocking the weapon to the side first, out of his foes rapidly weakening grasp and then pulled it towards him.

Blood gushed upward, erupting around the womans mouth as she dug her teeth in deep on a second bite. Now unarmed, the warden started to rain blows upon the cannibalistic creatures head, only to find them ineffectual. His resistance ended a moment later as a rifle butt slammed into his face with enough force to send his head careening backwards. A helping of blood boiled from the fresh neck wound as flesh and teeth were forcibly torn apart.

The woman creature started hissing again as the suit clad man started to gag, clutching at his bloody neck. The AR-15 spun about in his hands as he panned to the top of the writhing females head and pressed his finger down on the trigger twice. Holding the butt of his rifle in the crock of his arm, two rounds exploded from the barrel at near point blank range.

A split second spray of blood shot across the hallway, erupting from his targets shoulder. The first shot though, that clipped off the back of her head as an almost mist like explosion of blood, gore and hair billowed up from the sudden bullet sized excavation of her skull and splattered across the wall behind her.

She screamed in response.

He realized she shouldn't be screaming at all. Not too far away, the supposed Warden was groaning, pressing his necktie against his neck, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Then, along with her screaming, she started thrashing about again as her head shot upward from the floor and he realized her faceless head was not that at all. Her eyes were blindfolded.

She was covered in plastic food wrap. Rolls of it apparently. Her ankles and wrists bound with duct tape. Acting like this, it was no wonder she was stuffed in the closet.

"Die!" screamed the man, out of ammo but feeling a new anger built up inside of him. Flashes of the blonde teenager who committed suicide in that neighboring office shot through his racing mind as he slammed the butt of his empty but far from useless rifle against the writhing creatures head. The plastic wrap started to turn red as blood pooled under the transparent material. "Christ. Die damn it!" he practically screamed.

Finding his puny rifle insufficient for the task at hand, he started launching kicks at her, battering her head and shoulders with his shoes, still sitting only half a leg away from his adversary. "Die! Die! Die!" he screamed, punctuating every kick with his desperate exaltations. His legs were on fire almost as his assault continued only to have her snap back in response, the top of her head slamming against his oncoming shin bone as a sudden surge of pain thrust up from the point of impact, straight through his body.

His face contorting in response, he withdrew his reeling leg only to see the plastic wrap around her bloody shoulder suddenly tear apart and her shoulder burst through the thin material. A new fear rose through him at the thought of her somehow being unleashed anew as a grisly plan of attack entered his head. He held his rifle high above his head, winding it up for a moment before bringing the point of the butt of the rifle down upon the bloody mess that was the back of the womans skull.

It struck home as a circle of bloody gore shot out in all directions as his rifle butt smashed into a mix of bone and soft, soaked brain tissue. She wasn't thrashing anymore, but her limbs were moving. Or flopping rather.


His opponents were subdued it seemed, at least for the moment, but he still scrambled to his feet and treaded backwards towards the top of the staircase, his free hand reaching out and grabbing hold of the thin wooden railing as he started to tap his foot behind him to find the first step. The wrapped woman was still in spasms as not too far away, the person in the suit was softly moaning, his neck injury having stopped bleeding, the teeth perhaps not digging deep enough for an artery.

The man planted the toe of his foot down only to find his heel fall through air. He lost his balance, his grip on the railing lost as he felt himself falling backwards down the hard and thinly carpeted steps. His first instincts as he felt the steps cut into his back was to cover his head with his arms as his legs flailed about and the thankfully empty AR-15 clattered down besides him.

Fortunately the double doors at the bottom of the stairwell broke his fall as his back slammed against a cold tile floor, his head snapping back against the floor, his interlocked fingers crunching between his impacting skull and the ceramic surface. Having spilled into a partially curled up form, the man grunted more out of soreness then any actual pain or injury as he rolled to his hands and knees and looked up.

Another hallway. Behind him the rubber thin double doors he had rolled through skirted closed again. Up ahead he could see sunlight filtering through several rooms, hallways and window panes. Almost towards the exit. At the end of the hallway was an glass door leading to some sort of visitation area filled with chairs and tables bolted to the floor. To his right was a thick metal door with a wire mesh reinforced glass window. The drywall had holes in it as if people had been smashing against it, and pools of dried blood spotted the tiling.

Laying on the ground in front of it was another green jacketed prison guard. At the end of the hallway was the more disturbing sight, a prisoner in orange clothes was slumped against the base of the pillar, his body punctuated by almost a dozen gunshots. Four of them had practically split open the mans neck. In the visitation room meanwhile, he simply saw more carnage.

Next to the corpse was a baton, the wood splintered open revealing a broken metal core. At his feet was one of those aluminum, red and white first aid kits. It was open, its contents partially scattered about. The man rose to his feet and then looked at the flimsy doors behind him. The handles were wide and the doors were solid, if light. He tied the bedsheet around the handles just to make sure no crazy people covered in food wrap tried to hop through. He then noticed hanging all by itself on a pair of hooks by the door, was a green prison guards jacket on a hanger. Realizing bright orange pretty much painted him as an inmate, he put on the jacket.

Turning back, he approached the fallen guard, looking for a weapon while keeping his own empty rifle at the ready as if he was going to shoot the man. "Hey," he finally said, working up the courage to see if the unmoving guard was truly dead. Another step closer and he realized this man was dead. His face was laying to one side, with the upright side saturated in blood. A cruel laceration had split his cheek open, exposing the side of his mouth. The seam of his jackets shoulder was torn open. Small cuts could be seen across his sleeves, some coated with blood. A few nicks were on his baton. The man could only imagine underneath the long sleeves of his jacket was just blood. It was already seeping over his cuffs.

One of his hands was visible, but the other one was hidden under his stomach. Noticing this guards pistol holster was empty, the mans face tightened. He decided to kick the body over and hoped there wouldn't be anything disgusting. Gently nudging the body onto its back, he saw it limply flop over. His hidden arm was holding something.

A snub nosed .38 revolver. At first the man lowered himself slowly besides the corpse, then at the last moment shot his hand downward and snatched the revolver away before jumping back up, his back hitting the metal door behind him. The corpse was unmoving and he breathed a sigh of relief.

He checked the barrel of the small handgun. Three rounds were used. Only three were left. The man looked at the riddled inmate then back at the fallen guard. There were shell casings about him and a speed loader that was also previously covered by his body. Crouching down again, he started to rifle through the mans pockets but couldn't find anymore ammunition. He rose back to his feet again, frustrated at the seeming lack of ammunition anywhere when a loud crash boomed against the metal door he was about to lean against.

The man scrambled forward, his legs sweeping forward, his ankles catching on the dead guards legs as he almost spilled forward. At the last moment, agility and reactions won out however, as the man shot one of his legs forward just in time to prevent another humbling fall as he spun about and aimed the gun at the thick metal door while his eyes and revolver raised up to the small glass and wire mesh window.

He saw nothing but white wall tiling through the window and bright lights. There wasn't another boom. Red letters painted on the metal revealed this was GATELODGE INSPECTION. The man assumed this is where the inmates were searched upon entering the facility and before visitation. Next to the door was a keycard reader but the man suppressed any urge to investigate as he glanced down the hallway, past the bullet riddled inmate and noticed through the visitation room, was another set of glass doors that led to another room which had marked on the far side in bright white letters FRONT ENTRANCE.

He slung the rifle over his shoulder and proceeded towards the door, always keeping the slumped inmate in his peripheral vision as he approached the door towards the visitation room. But he still felt uncomfortable drawing out his keycard so before he did, he simply kicked the body onto the floor before swiping the card into the reader.

A soft buzz actually startled him more as the locking mechanism on the reinforced glass door clicked. As he pushed the door open, he swore he could hear a whimper from behind him, emanating from the inspection chamber. But he kept moving. Maybe it was a figment of his imagination. Maybe that initial booming sound against the door was actually him backing up against it. Didn't matter really. He stepped inside the visitation room, only to almost regret it a moment later.

It looked worse then the carnage in the cell block. Only this times, inmates, a few guards and even honest to god civilians were spread about, often in parts. Most of them had gunshot wounds, nasty ones which came from big rifles and shotguns. In one corner, one of the guards faces simply looked like hamburger. Laying beside him was an inmate, his face caved in by what looked like blunt force.

Some of the metal chairs apparently had become loose, or were never bolted down in the first place. They were scattered about the room. The thick glass, meant to be shatter proof, was cracked in several areas. It was then he noticed that the far doors, the one closest to the entrance, was still open. An paunchy black woman, wearing some rather tight clothes was laying down, the door propped against her. A large red circle of churned meat had cored right through her body.

The guards had tried to kill everyone in this room, but it wasn't contained unlike the previous cell block. That merely confirmed his suspicions. But that just raised more questions. If they prisoners had escaped, why weren't they here, or perhaps, if they did get out, how could that one guard make it back to his cell and free him.

He tiptoed towards the far door still, stepping over the body of another inmate, his face intact but bullets having torn apart his chest. Not too far away was a green riot helmet with a facemask partially shattered. Blood specks dotted the broken visor. He continued moving forward towards the far door, stepping here and there, as if careful not to disturb the dead when, in his silence and concentrated movements, his ears picked up a sound they normally would not.

A soft mechanical whirr.

His ears honed in on the origin of the sound immediately as he looked up to a corner of the ceiling and saw it. A security camera, protected by a bubble of glass and with a green light glowing under its lens, was focused right on him. The man froze for a moment, and then testing the camera, leaned in closer to see if it really was on him, or even on in the first place.

His eyes narrowing, he suddenly saw the camera gently tilt up for a second, then stop before tilting back down again. The man blinked, only to have, a moment later, the camera do the exact action once again, going up and down. Then, as if to break the ice, the camera softly whirred towards the hallway that he had just left. The man glanced back as well and could barely see the window in the metal door. It was no longer filled with a bright light. It was dark.

The camera whirred back to the man, only to see he was already stepping on and over bodies to get to the far door. The lens trailed his movements as he simply stepped on the body of the woman at the entrance when he could hear a muffled crash from behind him and glanced over his shoulder. The door was still closed, but he knew it wouldn't be for long. His heart started racing, but not from surprise. It was from that notion of impending doom. That if he didn't run now...

He just ran down the hallway, skipping over the body of a fallen guard covered head to toe in riot gear minus a helmet. He didn't even notice the bullet hole in the officers head that had felled him. That would've just rose more questions anyways. At the end of this hallway he saw the white lettered sign stating front entrance and could see through the tinted windows a lobby with sofa seats, coffee tables and several sets of glass doors. Beyond it lay a sun baked parking lot, green fields and what looked like a freeway.

Hope.

He raced towards the door only to crash against it full force. It was locked and there was no keypad reader. For a brief moment of blind rage, he attacked the handle, trying to force the door open by just shaking it but soon arose above his panic induced foolhardiness and read a sign on the door. "BUZZ TO LEAVE."

He turned to his left and saw the door to a small security office and could've sighed at his own stupidity if he didn't feel time was of the essence. He shot his keycard through the reader and stumbled into the small office. Small black and white television monitors decorated this small room as a console with many buttons was in front of him. All of the screens showed gray static and in the center of the console was a big red rubber button marked "Buzz."

He slammed his fist on it.

The entrance door buzzed.

He stepped towards the hallway again when at that exact moment, every monitor suddenly flickered to life as the entire prison was revealed to his eyes. The truth he was too afraid to see had now been presented to him.

The solitary wing where he had arisen this morning looked the same, as did the office hallway with the magnetometer. Cell Block C was still filled with dead bodies. He knew he had to leave, but he took that second alone to quickly scan every screen that he could. He had so many questions, that he just had to at least look for a brief moment, regardless of the danger. It was like fire to him.

Another screen showed two guards, covered in red sores and wounds, shotguns in hand, crumpled against some lonely stretch of hallway. The next screen merely showed another hallway, only this one had absolutely nothing in it when suddenly something fell down like ribbons over the top half of the camera. It took a moment to realize what they were when they started dripping and the bulbous nature of the strips of streamers was soon realized. Entrails.

His heart started beating faster as he spun about and then saw two more monitors on the opposite floor. One was the same view as a previous camera which showed the two fallen guards, but in this one there were only pools of blood. The bodies were gone. Then in the next camera he saw a white tiled hallway, pools of dark blood easily identifiable on the black and white screen. Part of a metal door with a glass and metal wire mesh window could also be seen at the bottom corner of the image when a dark globe slowly rose from the bottom of the screen.

It was hair.

Black hair, tousled and unkempt but still thick and shiny. Pale skin then appeared, on a softly spotted brow followed by two dark husks which represented eyes. Represented eyes. There was nothing there. The rest of the head was still rising as the man raced into the hallway and towards the still buzzing door and stiff armed through the entrance. As he raced through, he glanced back and saw the metal door was opening. Something was stepping through.

He slammed the door shut behind him.

The prison waiting area was small. He practically crashed through the front doors, his eyes focused on the sun baked outdoors. There was something reassuring about daylight, about simply being in the open, and escaping the haunting that prison. The sun streaked across his face, its warmth feeling so welcome, so nice, on his cold and sweat covered skin.

But he kept on running, he just had to escape whatever presence was within that building. He was so adamant that he didn't even notice the young woman that was about to intercept him. "Excu-," she started to say when he simply plowed her off to the side. The women let out an all too human yelp as she fell onto the sidewalks curb and cried out in pain as she clutched her oversized belly.

It was the crying that brought the man out of his trance of fear as he spun about, a flash of guilt now covering his face as he saw the young, pregnant woman, her face red in pain as she clutched her tummy while trying to rise against the curb of the parking lot where he had simply knocked her down. She had long straight black hair, a pale face which was covered in skin lightening foundation since she was obviously a full blooded Latino. "I...I..." the man started to mumble, still backing away from the dreaded prisons front doors.

He wanted to tell her everything, foremost that she should get away from the front doors of the prison, but he couldn't find the words. Finally, he outstretched his hand towards the woman, only to have her shriek again and scramble backwards, dragging her tight blue jeans across the dirty sidewalk. He realized he was aiming the revolver at her. His eyes grew and he started to lower the weapon. Just get away from the damn door, he wanted to say. But his mouth opened and nothing came out.

"Asshole!" suddenly screamed out a Spanish accented voice as a man with a button up short sleeve shirt and loose black jeans appeared from behind a car parked on the prisons front curb. "What the-," the young Hispanic man started to say when he noticed the orange pants of his girlfriends accidental attacker.

Putting two and two together immediately, the young boyfriend suddenly withdrew a shimmering silver handgun and the man immediately spun about, not bothering to talk now. A look of absolute rage had crossed this persons face and he had to find cover. A gunshot rang out as the boyfriend pulled the trigger as soon as he brought his gun up. A bullet snapped in the air behind him.

The prisoner aimed for a large minivan parked in the nearest space to him. Low to the ground, hide behind the engine block. But he didn't want to return fire. After all, he knocked his pregnant girlfriend down. She was screaming. The boyfriends pistol boomed again, a mere second after the first shot. Who knows where it went. "Jodete!" he spat as he charged after his girls attacker, holding the gun in one hand and racing after the man as he tried to leap behind the van. His gun boomed again and the minivans windshield simply shattered into a hundred shards of glass.

He had to fire back.

He raised his revolver up in the air and fired. It was unseen by his attacker, but as the revolver went off, the Latino suddenly recalled this man did have a rifle slung over his shoulder and thinking he had brought it out, immediately raced back to his car and girlfriend, wanting to bring them to the cover behind his car. But as the Latino man turned about, he saw his girlfriend was no longer sitting on the curb. She was just gone. Only one of her sneakers was there, untied, in the middle of the sidewalk as one of the prisons front doors closed shut.

"The fuck..." the Latino man said, standing in open of the parking lot, his eyes fixed on the darkened doors and windows of the prisons front entrance. "Elvera?" he almost passively murmured as he approached the door slowly.

The man peeked out from behind the van, gripping his revolver only to notice the man was inexplicably heading towards the prisons entrance. He finally got the courage to speak. "Hey stop!" he called out, his voice still trembling with the tinge of fear.

His head ducked back down as the boyfriend turned his head and gun and fired off two quick gunshots as he backed into the tinted front doors. One of gunshots kicked up some dust a few feet in front of the van as the second bullet echoed off high into the sky. The man took a breath and then peeked under the van, only to see the door slowly close again. That was all.

He rose up from behind the van and noticed that the couple had parked their sedan in front of the prison. Wisps of smoke were billowing out from under the hood. The trunk was open and a tool kit was laying by the rear wheel. A break down. He frowned. Bad place for car trouble. As he stared at the entrance, his passivity was broken as he heard a loud, long scream which was followed by several shorter ones and concluded by two distinct gunshots a moment later. He could see the flashes through the tinted prison lobby glass.

Then silence.

It was time to leave.