Go For Stories

The landing was sudden, but soft and just a little bit slimy. The impact forced a whoof of air out of his lungs, but he was otherwise unharmed. He rolled to his front, feeling the open chasm beneath his lower legs, and pushed himself up on his elbows to see what had saved him.

The vines that had crept through the lower floors made their way all the way up the atrium. They twisted around each other and rose in tight, hugging plaits. At the apex of their ascent, they knotted together so tight that they formed a bridge of sorts across the gap; a dark green suspension bridge just for Nigel. The vines on his side reached out their verdant hands to the vines that stretched from the opposite balcony. They clasped together, praying for Nigel’s life. Were it not for the slippery coating on the makeshift bridge, he would have bent down to kiss it.

He shuffled forward so that his entire body was over the vines and stood, being careful not to lose his footing. He looked back at the crowd of wraiths that had gathered around his would-be killer. Even now that Nigel was getting away, Anderson did not attempt to get him. He stood back with worry creeping across his primeval face. His kill was escaping, but he was not willing to catch him. There was no way around either; the balconies had broken apart and collapsed before they all got here.

Nigel followed that beast’s feared looks to the edge of his bridge. It didn’t take a genius to see what it was afraid of. Below him the atrium dropped away, balconies crumbled and walls missing. The most worrying part, though, was the emptiness beneath. The floor of the plaza had disappeared and in its place was a swirling vortex of darkness. It spiralled down into a black so deep that not even hope could survive. In the one second that Nigel fixed his eyes on the darkness, every fear that had ever kept him awake washed away; all to be replaced by the void below.

He developed a sudden awareness of his feet and the slimy branches on which they stood. He fanned out his hands, palms down, and lowered himself back to the vines. From here, he kept his body low and crawled along the bridge. Towards the centre, the entire structure swayed with every movement. The feeling of sickness this induced was compounded by the uneven source of light from above and the dead-even source of dark from below. He shuffled as fast as he dared with sweat dripping from his face and armpits. His muscles screamed at him to just lie down, let it go, death isn’t all that bad, it’s just like sleeping.

He weighed up the options. On the one hand, he could make it to the other side and might even find a way out of the place, but would it ever leave him? Would it remain inside, eating away at his soul with the horrid and twisted memories that it had granted him in so short a time? Would he be strong enough to fight this, or would he just end up dead at the end anyway? On the other hand, he could listen to the screaming of his tired body and slip away peacefully.

He didn’t let go and, as he neared the other side, the screaming died down to a muted whimper. Okay, maybe death can wait. There were people relying on him. He shimmied over to the balcony and hauled himself over the edge using the absolute last of his energy. With the feeling that filled him, it was no surprise that he hadn’t been joined by any of his audience. There was no way they would cross this void that had brought him to the brink.

He lay on his back and sucked in shallow, pained breaths, trying to slow his frantic heart. At first, he thought he would die here anyway, his organs having shut down from stress. He stared up at the ceiling and focussed on the flickering blue light. It had an odd calming effect on him and his breath evened out. As he watched, the hue changed from the pale, erratic blue to a more balanced, yet still shaky, orange. He lifted his hands and rubbed his eyes with his fists. This simple movement proved easier than expected. As he moved his hands away, they opened the curtain to a familiar orange reactor and decay-free, yet still collapsing, ceilings.

He sat up. Not all of the energy sapped from him in the dark world had returned, but it had made a start. His brain pulsed in his skull, pushing against its bony walls in an even rhythm that made him dizzy. He held a hand to his throbbing temple and stood, using the railing for support.

How long had he been gone? He couldn’t tell. The degradation of the complex had continued in his absence and the floor was divided by hairline cracks that ran here and there. In parts, the walls held on only by the power of sheer will and the less said about the condition of the ceilings, the better.

He brushed flakes of paint and plaster from his shoulders and turned around. From this spot, he was just about outside the Quartermaster’s office. If ever there was a hidden route out, it would be there, the idea of being able to bring in supplies undetected was too logical to ignore. He would investigate and make his way back to his remaining friends. If he could make only the one promise for the day, it was that Milly and Levi would leave here alive.

He allowed a quick glance to the windows opposite and up a level in the hope of seeing them against the glass, intact and following his movements with anticipation. Sadly, that was not to be. The constant shuddering of the building had cracked layers of the glass, leaving it opaque with a series of sharp cobwebs. All he could see beyond the mess of glass was movement. Lots of movement. They still fought. He had to believe it.

“Hold on, guys.”

He turned on his heel and crossed to the office marked “QUARTERMASTER”, ignoring the insistent pain in his head and back and legs. The door was made of solid steel with artistic streaks of rust to keep it from appearing too cold and uncompromising. The brownish-red stripes only served to remind him of all the blood spilled. He grasped the handle with both hands and yanked hard. It was no surprise to find it locked. He gave it another shake and held his ear to the cold metal, listening for any hint of life beyond.

All he heard was the blood pumping through his ears. Not satisfied, but faced with no other choice, he lifted his arm and pushed a series of buttons on the watch bequeathed to him by Jacob. It brought up a menu that listed the surrounding rooms. The one he needed, being the closest to him, was on top. He tapped it and slid a bar to the side.

As the bolt inside the door clicked, a small yelp found his ears. Someone was in there. Alive.

Before the occupant could relock the door on him, he tugged it open and stepped through. Inside, he did not find any spooky monsters or supernaturally strong and murderous devils. In the back corner of the office – behind the desk and both crouched, holding their knees for support – was a couple of people more frightened of him than he was of them. He held his hands in front of him, palms down to show that he was not going to hurt, but prepared to if it was required.

The closest of the couple was a woman in her mid-fifties. Her wild, grey hair framed a face with severe eyes and thin lips. She did not recognise Nigel upon first glance, as she backed further away. He didn’t blame her. After everything he had been through, he must look a sight with ripped shirt, bruises, and blood stained clothes. It wasn’t until he spoke that her eyes lit up in recognition.

“It’s okay,” he said, as gentle as he could. “It’s just me.”

“Mr Astley?” Her voice was thin, as if it hadn’t been used in hours. “Is that you?”

“Nigel Astley?” The man beside her asked. “Head of Security?” He stood in a single fluid movement and crossed to Nigel with his hand outstretched. “Boy, am I glad to see you. It’s about time someone came to rescue us.”

Nigel batted the offered hand aside. He narrowed his eyes at the man.

“Murchison,” he said through clenched jaw.

“Ah, my reputation precedes me, I see.”

“Your reputation for murder.” Nigel felt his blood boil in his body. The pounding in his head returned, only this time he could do something to alleviate it. He clenched his fists, turning the knuckles white. “Why are you still alive?”

Not ‘how?’, ‘Why?’

“Well, I don’t-” began Murchison in a sputtering voice; that of a man caught red-handed who thinks he might still walk away unpunished. He backed up a step.

“No!” Nigel felt the acid of anger run from his stomach to his chest and, further, to his throat. He could feel his cheeks redden and his eyes widen. “You caused this. All this death. All this destruction. And still you have the bare-faced audacity to remain alive.”

Murchison moved close to Nigel. He changed tack to that of a man emotionally wounded. He put out his hands, pleading and weak.

“You don’t understand. If only you knew. If you knew what I lost, what I-”

There was a time when a right cross from Nigel Astley was enough to give a man a good night’s sleep and an aching head for a week. After all that had happened, however, it was barely enough to put Murchison on his arse with an expression like an inflatable doll that has just realised its purpose in life. The tall man with the pale skin shuffled back, his jaw reddening, and held a hand up in defence. Tears made their presence known. The empty tears of a man on the chopping block.

“YOU DO NOT GET TO COMPLAIN!” Nigel let it all out. “YOU HAVE LOST NOTHING COMPARED TO THE THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE THAT LIVED DOWN HERE, THE THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE THAT LOST THEIR LIVES DOING YOUR DIRTY WORK.” He took a step forward, cornering his boss and towering over him. He sucked in a pained breath in an attempt to control himself. He wanted to kill the coward at his feet. He wanted to grab him and throw him out to the albinoids. He would enjoy watching their fingers tear this man to bloody strips. But he wouldn’t. That was a version of himself that he wouldn’t allow to see the light of day again. He spoke again, lowering his voice. “This is all your doing. You have lost the right to complain. You have lost the right to a voice. You have lost your humanity.”

He turned to the woman in the room. She had sidled her way over to the wall, partly out of fear of Nigel, partly to just distance herself from the accused man.

“I have questions,” Nigel said to her.

“Y-yes.”

“Why are you both still here?”

Her brow wrinkled. “What do you mean?”

“Why haven’t you escaped? Why didn’t you get out of here when all of this started?”

“The time-locks, they-”

“Bullshit.” He thrust a finger towards Murchison, who sat silent as instructed. “He got in here. The time-locks are a lie. Why didn’t you leave the way he entered?”

She hung her head in shame. “We tried. But something happened to the doors. They locked when the siren went off and we couldn’t get them to open. For that we would need remote access. There’s a man in the basement who can help, but we couldn’t get to him.”

“He’s dead.”

“What?” This woman, Audrey Ross was her name, must have retained a great deal of distance between reality and herself in recent times. Even now, she had the audacity to be shocked.

“The man in the basement, Jacob,” said Nigel, keeping his voice even and low, “he’s dead. Torn apart by the creatures THAT man,” he pointed to Murchison, “created when he murdered Dr Allen Peterson and released evil on this world.”

“I beg your pardon?” sputtered Mr Murchison.

“I am not here to discuss it.” He took a breath that failed to calm him. “We’ve wasted enough time already. Right now, I am focussed on getting myself and what remaining friends I have out of here. If I must take you with me, then so be it. But you will be held accountable for your actions here. I’ll see to that.”

An explosion somewhere in the depths of the complex shook the room around them. Nigel fell to the side, managing to catch himself against the wall. Murchison and Audrey were not so lucky and ended up in a heap on the floor. Dust flew around them and a loud crack sounded above their heads. Nigel dove forward, tackling the pair out of the way as a large section of ceiling came down where they had lain in a tangled mass. This was followed by an unbearable rending sound. Nigel peered upwards to see a large steel beam bending and creaking. Bolts shot across the hole left in the ceiling and the beam trembled.

“Out. Out now.” He pushed the pair to their feet amidst muttered protests. Once up, he kicked them forward before escaping the room himself. As he passed the threshold, the grinding metal noise culminated in an ear-splitting racket and a blast of dust that pushed him towards the balcony edge. He didn’t need to look back to know the ceiling structure had collapsed. He would waste no time looking.

“Right.” He brushed down his front in a pointless gesture. “How do we get out?”

“I told you,” said Audrey, “we can’t open the doors. The power…”

“Don’t worry about that. I can fix that. Where is the exit?”

“Behind the main lifts. There’s a second set of doors.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

He nodded them forward, pointing the way. As he did, another explosion rocked the complex. This time, overlooking the atrium, he saw the plume of fire and smoke fill the void as he fell forward. His feet gave out and he landed hard on his knees. The air itself thrummed with the change in pressure and time seemed to slow. Amongst the smoke and the dust, shapes played before his eyes. Mostly they were the same black wraiths that taunted his escape from the Anderson-beast, but he also caught sight of the winged devil itself and something else. It stepped from the grey shroud and became clear. There, walking alongside the creature that had killed her years ago, was Julia.

He reached out for her across the atrium. She held out her hand and the floor gave way under him with a crunch.