by David Jester
Malcolm felt sick. The longer the taste stayed in his mouth and the more he thought about it, the sicker he felt.
The corridor led into a large room. At one end of the room a series of large windows looked out onto the back of the building; only one of the many lights in the room had been turned on, but the moonlight took over where the lights left off. At the other end of the room was a small enclosed area, like a ticket-seller’s booth in the subway. At the front of this booth was a sheet of reinforced glass with a cutaway at the bottom, at the side was a heavy door that swung loosely on its hinges.
Malcolm didn’t stick around to study the room, but he could see drawers and shelves of medications, most of which had been knocked on the floor, some of which had made it outside and littered the floor like some psychotropic collage. There was a large television and several chairs in the main area, along with a radio and a couple of tables; Malcolm was happy to see that this room wasn’t filled with bodies.
He barged through the doors that flanked the outside of the room, searching for a bathroom, for some water to wash out of the taste of death form his mouth. His hand covered his mouth and his breathing was heavy and fast as he tried not to vomit, but when he opened the first door and was hit by a stench of putrefaction and a sight of pure evil, he nearly lost the contents of his stomach.
He gagged a few times and managed to shut the door as his stomach threatened to explode. He didn’t count the bodies inside, but he knew they were all dead; living people didn’t look or smell like that.
He opened the next door cautiously, and was relieved to see his reflection staring back at him from a small mirror above a bathroom sink. He turned on the tap and ducked his head underneath, opening his mouth and rinsing it out with the gushing cold water, allowing it to run all over his face. It took away the smell, took away the taste, and took away the images of the dead man in the corridor.
He turned the light on when he had finished. He looked at his breathless, red-faced reflection in the mirror. His pupils were dilated, wide-open to the horrors he had witnessed and prepared to witness more. His eyes were streaked with red and his face looked gaunt, he looked like he had been starving himself for days. He was about to look away, to continue his trek through this insane nightmare, when he caught something moving out of the corner of the mirror.
He stopped his shifting eyes, felt his heart and his breath follow suit. He could see the open door behind him, looking out into the large room; the scattered pillboxes on the floor, the edge of the reinforced pharmaceutical room, a solitary chair that sat back from the others.
He was stuck in a dimly lit, psychotic purgatory; it was late, dark, and he was tired, he knew his eyes could be playing tricks on him and he hoped that they were, but his instincts—the way his heart beat so fast and heavy and the way his palms flushed with a film of sweat—told him differently.
He saw it again. A shadow that scampered across the floor, it was quick, but slow enough for him to make out the shape, slow enough for him to know that the shadow was human. He continued to watch, hoping that whoever it was, they were friendly or, if they weren’t, that they didn’t know he was in the bathroom. He knew his hopes were futile, he hadn’t exactly been sneaking around, he had been noisy; banging the doors open and closed, rushing to the sink, opening the tap.
He thought back to the room next door, to the collage of carnage that decorated the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and even the lightbulb. It was a crimson room, a coppery-scented boudoir that no self-respecting punter or prostitute would ever enter. Whoever had killed those people, whoever had herded them inside, or led them in one by one and then butchered them, was probably still alive and probably still—
He saw more than a shadow this time. A man was standing in the doorway to the bathroom, his figure fully illuminated, his face perfectly clear under the blinding light from above. He looked like he’d been bathing in blood, from the slick crimson on his forehead to his large red hands. The knife he held in his right hand was also dripping with it.
Malcolm didn’t turn around; he continued to stare through the mirror, as if pretending to the beast behind him that he hadn’t seen him, but Malcolm had seen him and the man standing behind him knew that.
The doorway was blocked, there was no escape route, nowhere for him to run, nowhere for him to hide. Malcolm closed his eyes momentarily, an expression of exasperation and dwindling hope. He didn’t see the man behind him smile, didn’t see his bloody mouth open, exposing bright white teeth that stood out like gleaming stars against the crimson night of his bloodied face.
29
Malcolm heard movement behind him; he sensed the air shift as the bloodied beast loomed over him. He could smell him now, an overpowering stench of must and death. Malcolm grimaced, flinched, and then opened his eyes.
The man wasn’t looming over him preparing to slit his throat, nor was he standing in the doorway. Malcolm couldn’t see him anywhere. His mind had been playing tricks on him; his fear creating images and scenarios in his head.
He froze, his eyes the only part of his body that moved as they covered every inch of the mirror looking for the crimson monster that had lurked behind him. The door was open, pushed up against the wall, so he couldn’t be hiding behind there and there were few other places to hide inside the small bathroom. There were two cubicles against the far wall, but they were both shut and both out of the way, if he was in there hiding, waiting to jump out, he wasn’t the brightest of mass murderers.
Malcolm knew he was hiding in the main room and that knowledge should have given him the advantage, he knew where his adversary was so he could act accordingly, but it didn’t help him at all. There was only one escape route and only one option, he had to venture into the lion’s den; the monster knew that and he was waiting for him.
He reached into his pocket, his eyes still on the mirror, and pulled out the flick knife he had taken from Smiler. He kept it hidden in his palm, just in case the beast was watching. He kept his finger pressed over the release-catch of the weapon. The knife felt reassuring in his palm, he’d felt naked before, heading into a fight with the armed butcher, but the knife evened the score, if only slightly.
He held the knife tighter in his hand, careful not to press the switch, not wanting to open in into his own flesh. He looked at his own reflection, psyched himself up with a few mouthed words, and then slowly turned around, his eyes on the door and the bright lights of the main room.
He saw the man standing beside him when he turned around. His mind didn’t register straight away—his concentration was on the door, his focus on how he would approach his entry—and when it did it was too late. The bloodied beast had been standing next to him the whole time. He had watched, grinned a mocking grin as Malcolm scoured the reflection for him, not noticing he was standing right beside him.
He felt a hand wrap around his face, a viscous coating of blood on his lips and his cheek. He breathed in the metallic scent of blood as the hand tightly squeezed his jaw and his cheeks. He felt another hand rise to his throat, felt a wet, sticky blade press against it as the first hand ripped his head backwards to expose the vulnerable flesh.
Malcolm kept the knife steady by his side, more out of surprise than patience. He was still gathering his senses when he felt a hot breath on his ear, it crawled over his skin like a leech, tickling the stubble on his cheek and making his entire body quiver.
The voice that spewed forth from the sickly breath was as thick as curdled cream and just as unpleasant. It oozed with malignancy and vulgarity and it made Malcolm’s blood run cold.
“And where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
Eddie knew what Darren was thinking; he could read his blank expression like a large print book. He wasn’t an idiot, but clearly Darren thought he was.
This is your fault, Darren was thinking. In between fucking you and your mother, your uncle started spouting bullshit and you were dumb enough to fucking listen.
My un
cle may be a mad bastard and he may have been talking out of his ass about this place, Eddie thought, but you believed me just like I believed him.
Eddie nodded and grinned a wide and knowing grin at Darren.
“Are you okay?” Darren asked.
Eddie continued to grin. Darren shook his head and then dragged his eyes away from his friend. “So, now what?” he asked.
They were back near the front entrance, at the point where the three of them had split up. Darren was standing in the spot where Malcolm had stood, trying his best not to look through the window into the room where the staff member had been tortured. He had listened to his screams and they would haunt him for the rest of his life, along with the images of the man in the chair and the gurgling sound his dying lungs made; the last thing he needed was another horrific image to add to his collection of nightmares.
“It’s not his fault,” Eddie said. “You shouldn’t blame him.”
Darren raised his eyebrows. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“He didn’t know.”
Darren felt his hand instinctively grip the knife tighter, his free hand, wrapped heavily in the makeshift bandaged, also tensed. “Are you talking about Malcolm?”
“You shouldn’t talk about him like that.”
Darren slowly shook his head.
“He was only trying to do us a favor.”
“Mate? What. The. Fuck?” Darren said. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Eddie’s face changed, from a smile to a snarl. He thrust his hand out towards Darren who returned the gesture by raising his weapon, preparing to defend himself, preparing to stab his friend if he needed to.
“You take that back!” Eddie spat.
“What the fuck is—”
“Take it back!”
Darren held up his hands, “Okay, okay, just chill.”
Eddie still looked annoyed, like he was moments away from fighting. Darren was ready for him, but he was injured, tired, and mentally drained, he didn’t need another fight, especially with his friend, even if that friend had lost the plot.
Eddie withdrew his menacing expression and lowered his arm by his side. He looked down the hallway, his eyes wide and alert, as if seeing something at the end, nestled in the darkness.
“You okay, mate?” Darren asked, following his gaze and seeing nothing.
Eventually Eddie nodded. “I’m fine.”
“It’s just you—”
“I said, I’m fine.”
Darren met his friend’s gaze again. He didn’t see the Eddie that he had grown up with, didn’t see the laughing, joking idiot that had been a part of his life for so long; he saw the crazy, unstable Eddie that had quickly developed over the last few months, the Eddie that snapped so readily when Darren made a joke, the Eddie that launched into a verbal assault against the woman on the bus, and the Eddie that had nearly killed him. He said he hadn’t known it was Darren when he tackled him and Darren had believed him, but he was starting to doubt that belief, starting to wonder if he had believed him because he wanted to believe him. He didn’t want to be alone in this place. He didn’t want to face the fears and the horrors that waited around every corner, but a part of him knew that although Eddie could keep him company, he had the potential to be worse than anything that waited around any corner.
Malcolm felt the blood on his ear, he felt it drip to his neck and stick to his clothes as the beast pushed up against him and forced him out of the bathroom.
“I have some people I think you’d like to meet,” he said, almost giddily.
Malcolm squirmed. He tried to break free from his grasp, but he was bigger than him and towered over him, his body almost enveloping him, sucking him into its bloody embrace. He edged him forward and when Malcolm resisted by digging his heels into the floor, he merely lifted him up and carried him.
He stopped outside the door to the room of carnage, lifted a foot, and kicked it open. Malcolm twisted his face in revulsion when the smell and the sights hit him again. He felt vomit rise from his stomach and into his throat and he was sure he was going to gag again, an action that would no doubt force his throat onto the blade.
He held it back, swallowing the acidic bile with a grimace.
“Don’t they look comfortable?” The beast asked, his heated breath cutting through Malcolm’s spine. “Resting peacefully in eternity.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Malcolm spat, disgusted. The bodies had been massacred beyond belief and he knew that if their souls had existed and had escaped, they wouldn’t be resting peacefully. They would still be suffering, still remembering, still trembling with fear as they looked at their butchered vessels and remembered the torture they had endured.
“You don’t like?”
“Fuck you!”
Malcolm kicked back with his heel, catching the beast on the shin. He felt him recoil. He kicked again, harder this time, but the beast anticipated it and moved his leg out of the way. He released Malcolm from his grasp and for a split-second Malcolm found himself able to breathe, he found himself free of the sticky, bloodied embrace of the madman, but then he felt something heavy on the back of his head. He didn’t feel any pain as he fell—face first into the blood and the decaying bodies—but when the viscous crimson carnage sucked him in, he felt the lightning strike through his skull. There was a split second of agony before his world turned black.
Eddie didn’t tell Darren about the thing that he was following, Darren didn’t see it, he wasn’t paying enough attention. That was Darren’s problem, he wasn’t observant enough, he didn’t understand the situation like Eddie did, didn’t understand that he had to be vigilant and alert at all times. Eddie kept his eyes ahead, his attention on the threats that lurked around every corner, but every time he looked at Darren, to check if he was doing the same, he discovered that his friend was staring at him.
They had ventured away from the torture room in the hope they would bump into Malcolm. They were walking slowly, Eddie ahead of Darren, and they had barely gone a few feet before Eddie snapped.
“Why are you fucking staring at me?” he roared, standing still. He saw Darren flinch, saw him take a step back. He was armed, but Eddie didn’t mind, he knew he could overpower his feeble friend in a heartbeat.
“I wasn’t,” Darren said.
Eddie stared at him. He saw the fear in his eyes and in his rigid body language. He heard it in his words. He looked down at Darren’s hand, at the blood that had seeped through the thick material. Then he looked at the knife, gripped so tightly in Darren’s fist that he knuckles had turned white.
“You have issues,” Darren said.
“What did you say?” Eddie said, raising his eyes to meet his friend.
Darren furrowed his brow deeply and then slowly shook his head, “I didn’t—”
“How about I show you some real issues, eh? How would you like that?”
Darren took a step back; Eddie took a step forward.
Eddie began to push him again, “How about I—” he paused when he heard voices down the corridor.
“What’s the matter?” Darren asked, watching as his friend alerted himself to the noise.
“Shh!” Eddie threw a finger to his lips.
He heard talking, two voices, maybe more. They were hushed and seemed to be coming from further down the corridor, from one of the many rooms that flanked it. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but he picked up a few words here and there.
He turned to Darren and grinned when he saw the fear in his friend’s eyes. He looked like he was ready to wet his pants. “So, macho one minute and now this, eh? You’re pathetic, you know that?”
Darren’s mouth opened but he didn’t reply.
“Come on,” Eddie whispered, nodding down the corridor. “We need to move quick. If they attack us, be prepared to use that thing or to give it to me.” He gestured to the knife.
Darren swallowed hard, nodded, and then followed Eddie down the corridor. Eddie
followed the shifting shadow that had, once again, darted into the darkness.
Malcolm peeled his eyes open. An intense pain raced through his head, intensified when a stream of light cut through the gap in his pupils and set his skull on fire. He tried his best to ignore it, to focus through the haze of his eyes as they slowly opened and exposed the red-tinted room around him.
He didn’t know how long he had been out but he was alive and, from what he could tell, his arms and legs hadn’t been tied. He could hear a commotion above him, a white noise that filtered through to him like distant waves lapping a shore. He tried to concentrate on it, tried to understand what was happening, but he couldn’t focus on it.
He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, and prayed the pain away.
It subsided somewhat and he opened his eyes again. The noise above him had stopped. The commotion had ceased and his attacker was silent. Malcolm pictured him looming over him with a grin on his bloodied face, drops of crimson dripping from his curled lips. He found an urge to live, an urge to fight. The bastard above him had murdered a handful of people for no reason other than the desire to see them suffer, to watch the light of life fade from their eyes. Malcolm knew that if he didn’t fight through the pain, if he didn’t stand up and face the beast above him, he was going to be next.
He opened his eyes fully and waited a few moments for the haze to clear. He was lying in a pool of blood. Now that he could see it, he could also feel it on his skin, sticking to him. He felt his stomach lurch but he tried not to think about it.
He tilted his head, moving ever so slowly, not wanting his attacker to know that he was awake and ready to fight. He felt a glimmer of hope when he saw that his attacker was standing a few feet away with his broad back turned. He wasn’t looking at him and didn’t seem at all interested in him. That was just what Malcolm needed.