I wheeled my patient down a ramp, into the eerie basement. She was very old and had only days left of her miserable life.
When we were concealed by darkness, I locked the door. I knew my way; I spent a lot of time down here. I could see the old ladies outline in the darkness. I stood in front of her wheelchair and switched on the light. She gasped, obviously frightened. She looked around the room and noticed the titanium benches covered with medical tools, glinting in the dull light.
“What is this?” she asked me, panting heavily now.
I said nothing, a grin spread across my face.
“Take me back upstairs now, before I call the other nurses,” she said.
The smile faded from my face, it was replaced with a frown.
I back-handed her, blood spattered on the wall. She looked at me, a horrified look on her face and blood dripping from her lip.
Scared out of their mind, just the way I liked them.
I walked over to the bench and started looking at the tools, wondering which I should use.
“Please, don’t hurt me anymore. I want to enjoy the last few days of my life,” she sobbed.
I turned around. Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she sobbed silently.
“Shut up,” I growled. I didn’t like my victims talking, it annoyed me.
I picked up a knife. The blade was only a few inches long, but it was sharp.
The grin reappeared on my face. This was the highlight of my nights.
I turned around, running my thumb up and down the blade.
“Please,” was all she could manage to say. She was crying and hyperventilating now.
As I came closer to her, she raised her hands, doing her best to defend herself.
I raised my fist in alarm, trying to send her a message. But she kept wailing and waving her arms about.
I punched her in the nose, it cracked. Hot, red blood poured out. Blood and tears started dripping from her chin.
I smiled again.
She lowered her hands, and I gripped the knife tightly. I raised it and with one quick swipe, dragged it across her throat. Her aged skin cut easily. Blood sprayed all over me, painting my white uniform red.
The veins on her forehead pulsed and her eyes widened. She started gasping for air, but only managed to swallow blood.
After a few moments the life started to edge away from her. Her head fell forward as she died. The bleeding stopped.
I sniffed the air triumphantly, the smell of blood. It was delicious.
I put the knife back on the bench and grasped the dead body’s arms. I heaved her onto another bench, one that was cleared off.
I retrieved my favourite knife and went to work.
I parted her eye lids with my fingers, and slid my knife in behind the eye ball. I pulled the knife down, levering the eye ball out of its socket. It popped out.
I sawed at the artery still attached to the eye ball, it split and mucus seeped out.
I put the eye ball on the bench and did the same to the other. I sat the eye balls together and opened the mouth. I got a clamp from my set of tools and tightened it on the tip on the tongue.
As I held the bottom jaw down, I pulled the tongue to its maximum extent. When I was happy with the length, I began to cut it. When it had detached I placed it near the two eye balls.
I went to the refrigerator in the corner of my workroom and retrieved a jar full of eyes and tongues, my trophies. I added my latest prize to my collection and put the jar back in the refrigerator. I had to keep them cool, or they’d damage.
My work was done for the night, time to go home. I quickly changed my clothes and threw my coat around me. I didn’t bother hiding the evidence; I was the only person with access to the basement.
I walked out of the basement and locked the door behind me. I continued out of the building unnoticed.
I walked past the giant brick sign that read, ‘Aged care facility’ and continued the familiar walk home.

*****


I looked at my watch, it read ten PM, I was late for work. I smiled and ran out of my apartment.
When I arrived I noticed no one had taken this morning’s news paper inside yet. I picked it up and looked at the front cover.
It said, ‘Dozens missing from aged care facility in the past three months.’
I started to feel nauseous and my knees started to feel weak. Breathing suddenly became hard, I struggled with every breath.
I enjoyed what I did but I never thought I’d get caught.
I heard a car screech to a stop behind me and sirens wail. I froze. My throat closed up. I nearly collapsed.
A voice through a speaker phone boomed, “Put your hands on your head and get on the ground.”
I dropped the newspaper and struggled to raise my arms. I put them on my head, as instructed. My knees buckled, unable to support my weight anymore and I fell to the ground.
Two officers ran over to me. One pointed a revolver at my face and the other began to cuff me.
“Yep, this is him,” said the one with the gun.
“Piece of shizzle,” the other spat, “You make me sick.”
They threw me in the back of their car and began the drive to the police station.
I suddenly found myself reminiscing. Not me murdering, but my childhood. I was so happy, what happened?

[Close]

Voices echoed throughout the building, the words of those speaking cascading down the hall. The man was annoyed, these children were always intruding into his house they had absolutely no respect for his home. It was the weekend, he despised weekends, as children were allowed to roam the streets before seven. It was too much for him, he was not going to take this form of trespassing any more. The children were going to die. “Let them be an example, a warning for those who wish to trespass onto my property!’” The man spat with malice, his harsh voice rebounding off the concrete walls. He clenched his right hand with anger, thrusting the recently formed fist into the thin concrete wall; a flurry of dust fell from the wall, floating onto his face, tainting his already distorted features with concrete dust.

The man hissed, withdrawing his hand from the crumbling concrete wall. Blood dripped from his hand, pooling onto the floor below him, seeping into the carpets. Turning on his heel, the man paced toward the desk situated in the very center of the room, he opened the drawer, pulling the entire draw out of the desk in irritation. His anger was mounting exceptionally fast; he dropped the draw onto the floor, crushing the edge of the thin wood with his foot. Blood continued to drip onto the draws contents, marking anything it landed on with a deep crimson splotch of sticky liquid.

Dropping to his knees, the man rummaged through the draws contents, his eyes gleaming like massive orbs. Suddenly, his breath stopped; his eyes glazed over with excitement, he had found his precious tools. The man gently held the small package in his dirty hands, staring at the package as though he was a child in a candy store. The man began to laugh manically, his rotten teeth bearing; lowering his hands to delicately place the package onto the ground, he began opening one side of the package with care. Sliding the plastic container out of the butcher paper packaging, his eyes flickered with exhilaration. Inside the transparent plastic container was a small hand gun, a medium sized meat cleaver and his favorite, a specially sharpened pizza cutter.

His face twisted with delight as he ran the pizza cutter down his calf, applying a little pressure, enough to split skin. His skin opened like a seed pod, jewels of blood clotting at the site of the cut, dripping down his leg in a mild trickle, soon enough, the blood began to clot around the wound to prevent further blood loss. The man grinned carelessly; the pizza cutter’s blade was efficiently sharpened, with this tool alone he could create enough enjoyment to last himself a night. Rising to full height, the man hastily exited the small room the transparent package now in his hands. The door slammed shut, the noise resonating through the hall in which he now stood. Childlike voices could be heard, they sounded frightened, terrified, nevertheless indisputably alive. The man’s blood began to rush with excitement, his steel gray eyes flashed with longing.

Small cabinets lined the hall, attached to the wall roughly a meter from the floor. The man walked to the nearest cabinet, placing the package onto the locker with care. Flicking the safety locks on the sides of the container, the man removed the lid, throwing it to the ground from where he stood. First he ran his ringers along the barrel of the hand gun, studying the craftsmanship of the weapon. ‘This beauty will be adequate for slowing those darned children to a crawl.’ The man contemplated various ways of stopping the children from escaping as his fingers began to trace the fine edge of the meat cleaver. ‘This will be ideal for removing their little fingers, the children deserve this in the least, using them to open the doors to my home, using them to mark everything in sight with their grubby fingerprints. Disgusting, they have no use for them anymore; they won’t need them where they are going.’ The man began to chuckle crazily, remembering his fantasies, where he vividly imagined the children screaming for help, their voices uselessly ringing through the schools basement not loud enough to penetrate the thick walls designed to withstand hurricanes, flash flooding and even earthquakes.

The sound of something dropping to the floor snapped the man out of his dreaming his eyes flickered around the hall, scoping the area for any signs of a disturbance. Seeing nothing noticeable, the man checked the hand gun, counting how many bullets it had in the magazine provided. “One, two, three, four, five, six! Six bullets will surely be enough for these meddlesome children.” The man declared, his rasping voice echoing through the school’s main hall quietly. The man placed the gun into one of the pockets sewed onto his thick flannel shirt, the shirt was covered in a fine layer of grease, grime, blood and concrete dust. He had no use for washing his clothing, he never left the building; everything he needed was already kept inside the school before it was shut down. He had heard the rumor of the school being closed due to malfunctioning power; it was an opportunity for him to stay in the building whilst it was closed. Now, thirty years later nothing has changed, except one thing; ever since the building was declared unstable children began to enter the premises, plaguing the building with foul odors of cookies, strawberries and disgusting aerosol sprays. The man visibly cringed, remembering the room he slept in had been covered in strings of lavender scented toilet paper.

Oh how he hated the children now, he vowed silently to himself, if he were to get a hold of any of the children running through the building, he would revel in torturing them slowly, painfully. Another sound snapped him from his never ending fantasies, looking up his gaze fell on the children, three young boys. They were dressed in dark clothing, supposedly to avoid being spotted easily. It wasn’t good enough however, the man was now grinning evilly, his disgusting teeth bared for the children to see. The tallest boy, dressed in long cargo shorts and a long sleeved camping shirt dashed off down the hallway, his ragged breathing could be heard clearly in the silence. Rising the gun in his hand, the man aimed it at one of the children, flicking the safety switch off. The remaining boys darted off, their footsteps echoing off the walls.

“Too late!” The man exclaimed as he flicked the gun towards the childrens running feet, pulling the trigger a loud ‘bang!’ ricocheted off the walls, the smallest boy fell to the floor as his ankle shattered under the impact of the bullet. Screaming out in pain, the boy began to cry uncontrollably, his friend stopped, terrified. The man rushed towards the child who was now withering in pain on the hallway floor, grinning with malice the man let out a manic chuckle. Composing himself, the man rose his gun once again, pointing the muzzle to the child who stood stock still, terrified. Snapping out of his petrified state, the child turned and ran, yelling out wildly. “I’m sorry Benny! I don’t want to die!”

The man advanced on the child, crouching down to his level. The child’s eyes widened in terror, screaming out to his friend who had ran. “Don’t leave me Kyle! I want to live too!” Benny’s words fell on deaf ears as Kyle and the other boy had disappeared from sight, their footsteps continuing to echo through the halls. Holding the gun to Benny’s head, the man grinned, opening his mouth to speak. “Hello little Benny, my name is Oscar. Pleased to be of your acquaintance you little devil!” Spittle flew through the air, landing on the child’s petrified face as Oscar spoke harshly, his finger hovering over the trigger if the child so much as attempted to fight back.

Benny squirmed as his eyes bulged in fear, his body began to shake as he hyperventilated, the sheer terror rushing through his body had driven his small body to its limit. The sound of echoing footsteps had disappeared, the children ha obviously escaped the building. ‘Damn! I wanted to torture them, it looks like I’ll have to hurry or I’ll be facing problems.’ Oscar thought to himself, as his finger closed on the trigger, excitement had rushed through his veins too fast, his finger closed on the trigger. Another bang ricocheted off the walls of the hallway as the child’s head exploded, brain matter and blood spurting, covering Oscar in the deep red liquid. ‘Too excited... Wasted a bullet, wasted a torture victim!’ Oscar yelled in rage, his hoarse voice rebounding off the hallway walls louder than the bullet shot. His hand clenched around the gun, rising to his full stature Oscar kicked the now limp body of the boy, sending it into the wall.

Oscar held his anger in, crouching down, Oscar rocked backwards on his heels, bringing his knees up in a foetal position. It seemed like ages had passed when Oscar heard the sound of sirens, blaring down the street. Oscar panicked; rising to a stand he grabbed the shattered ankle of the child’s body, dragging it into a nearby room. Oscar grinned with malice, the child had died too early, but he would have another chance if he weren’t caught. Hearing a rush of footsteps rushing down the hallway, Oscar turned a scowl spread across his contorted face. Torch light blinded his vision, he could hear orders echoing through the building.

“Drop the weapon now! Step away from the child!” Yelled the man who was now loading a semi automatic firearm, as the weapon clicked, the man aimed it at Oscar’s head.

Slowly, Oscar placed his rotund finger on the trigger, raising his hand in small intervals. Placing the muzzle of the gun under his chin, Oscar grinned at the police officer, his bloodshot eyes illuminated with madness. Oscar then began to laugh uncontrollably; his finger tightened pulling the trigger of the gun. The bullet was pushed into the barrel; a metal lug hit the rear of the bullet sending it flying down the barrel. A flash could be seen, and then a spray of blood as the bullet punctured Oscar’s flesh, driving itself into his skull. Oscar dropped like a stone, his slightly overweight body hitting the ground with a thud. Blood pooled from under his chin, the thick red liquid pouring out. The bullet hadn’t exited his skull, despite being such a close range shot. Smiling as the last of his life force left him, Oscar fell into the vast abyss known as afterlife.

[Close]

My family is rather stable--all of us sound of mind, well-to-do, blah blah. All of my relatives are mostly the same way, so it was a surprise to receive a call from the Meynard Williams Institute about my nephew.

Nathan's a college-age lad--smart kid, good mind, orphaned early. We knew each other quite well. Who'd have expected that he, of the entire gang, would be in the nuthouse.

See, the Institute is a local little place for the criminally insane, you might have heard of it, remember those murders awhile back, some guy named Jeffery or something? Never mind that, I'm getting off subject, please forgive me.

Upon arrival at the Institute, I was quickly ushered in and led to the rear of the building, to the most secure cells. Through various windows and viewports, I glimpsed diabolical-looking machinery, restraints for the inmates, and occasionally a padded room with some poor lunatic inside.

How changed was Nathan! My nephew's little cell was slightly larger than the others, with one-way viewports the doctors would use to observe him. He lay on the floor, bound by a straitjacket, his face obscured by shadow. Occasionally he'd thrash about, presumably to free himself of his restraints.

The doctors informed me that he'd been picked up by a police officer near a local forest, ranting and raving incoherently. He was inexplicably violent towards the officer and showing signs of insanity, and within the hour was checked into the Institute.

The objects found on his person were quite sparse, and showed nothing out of the ordinary: a watch I got him for his 16th birthday, two pencils (one broken), a bar eraser, an ink pen, a tape measure, and a little notebook that proved to be for some project he was doing for college--it was about one-sixth of his grade. My curiosity was piqued--what could have occurred during a trip to a place he knew well to drive him insane?

The Meynard Williams Institute allowed visitors, and the doctors believed that my presence might help Nathan recover. So it occurred that I was in the same room with my nephew.

He had been lying on his side, but struggled upright when I entered, difficult as it was with his straitjacket. "Uncle," he rasped in a voice quite unlike his own, "How nice of you to drop by."

I muttered something about how the pleasure was mine, then said, "My nephew, there is something different about you. How did this happen?"

Nathan cackled, rocking back and forth. "How? How, dear Uncle? You wish to know?"

"All I'm saying is that I don't see how you were reduced to this state of insanity, unless you ate a poisonous mushroom in the woods..." I began.

He grinned wickedly. "Insane? No, it's not me, but all of you who've gone mad!" This seemed to amuse him greatly. "I've told the doctors and experts my story, but they forgot to tell you, eh?"

"No, as a matter of fact--."

"Oh, go stuff a sock in it, Uncle." He suddenly grew somber. His body quivered, and he collapsed, groaning and thrashing. I watched with concern.

After about a minute, he swung upright again, panting, terror in his eyes. "Uncle--," he tried to say, "It--I was walking...near the little stream...the forest..." Another attack gripped him, and it was a full thirty seconds before he regained the ability of speech. "There was a house," he said, slightly clearer than before, "A small hut, made of stone, it...made of stone..."

I was loath to interrupt, because I felt that this would shed light on my nephew's insanity. At the moment, he was again thrashing on the floor. I hoped he wouldn't injure himself.

Nathan made no attempt to right himself, continuing his speech from where he lay on the floor. "There were books, many old and worn..." He moaned. "I...they were scattered, pages missing--on battered shelves..

"One of them I picked up...and I read it..."

"What did it say?" I asked excitedly, "What did it say? Do you remember?"

He stared blankly at me for a span, then shook himself and resumed speaking. "Some Latin...Greek, I don't know...a little English, an archaic dialect, really old..."

My nephew seemed to be struggling with an unseen force. "I...saw this..." He coughed. "It--it was...evil...I..."

He's ranting and raving now, I thought. Poor him, I hope he recovers. I stood to leave. "Well, my nephew, nice mee--"

A change seemed to come over him, and he staggered to his feet. "BLOOD!!!" He roared, lunging at me.

I turned and ran from the cell, the doctors catching Nathan and injecting him with something. He collapsed, and was thrown back into the cell.

"Sorry about that," one of the lab-coated figures apologized, "He's rather violent at times. We run tests on him regularly, and he'll probably be right as rain in a week or so, never fear!" Something in his manner told me the lie, however.

What could have brought Nathan to such a state? A stone hut and strange books? I highly doubted his narrative.

That was all around a month ago. My nephew still is in the Institute, still quite insane. And since then, I've had the most horrible nightmares...lots of times I see Nathan, snarling at me, or grinning wickedly as he lies on the floor...and there's this darkness...a strange being that pervades my rest...

I have had little sleep over the past few days, despite the copious amounts of medications I take to help me rest...I can find no solace, and plan to end my life as soon as possible. To whoever finds me here, please believe my story, for you may be the next to be possessed...


--Claude Thomas, October 27

(Note: Claude's body was found dead in his room yesterday, his brains blown out, a gun and this note beside him.

[Close]

In Auschwitz, in the time of the Nazi party, there was a man who was known as the “Angel of Death.” He preformed gruesome surgeries on the Jews -- things such as ripping leg muscles out then forcing the unfortunate person to walk. He preformed surgeries without anesthesia. All with no emotion, no remorse. He said it was “all for the benefit of mankind.”
He lied.
I was a citizen of Hamburg, Germany when Hitler was voted Fuhrer. I feared this, because he was very racist against people of my birth. When they took me away, I didn't know where I was going. In the end, I was taken to Auschwitz as a prisoner. I didn't know what would happen when I was taken into the room with the Angel of Death. He strapped me to a chair and...
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I think it's better to start at the beginning.
My father had already been taken two years before, so it was just Mother, Kathrine, and myself. Kathrine was only six. The Stormtroopers came for us in 1941. When they burst through the door, we had hidden. Mother whispered to me “Don't make any noise, less they take us away.” So we kept absolutely still for what seemed like an eternity. We could hear their yells as they found our secret stash of money. We head our grandmother's china breaking. I stifled a sob. That lead them to our closet behind the bookshelf. They slowly shoved the bookcase out of the way, and yelled when they saw us.
“Run!” my Mother yelled.
We bolted. They caught my mother, and aimed shots at Kathrine and me. They all missed, but they scared Kathrine.
We ran out the door, but the troopers had reinforcements in place to catch us. They separated us, and we were taken to different camps. When I entered the Oswiecim – you would call it Auschwitz – I knew no one.. The other prisoners were calloused, and looked at me with mournful eyes. I wondered why they were looking at me like that.
A boy my age, twelve, croaked, “You're lucky, you are. Soon, you'll regret that you didn't care more, spend more time with your family, and wish that you had.” He introduced himself as Hane, and we became friends. How right he was! I never saw any member of my family again.
While working in the death camp at Oswiecim, Hane and I never spoke a word to each other. In the very few hours we were allowed to remain in our “houses” (if you could call them that) we talked. Hane was from Berlin, and had been brought here two months ago. He had been born into a very wealthy family, but none the less, he was taken to Oswiecim. I told him about my family, about Mother, about Kathrine, and about myself. He, in return, told me about his mother and father, who were taken to a different camp.
I saw many things in Oswiecim. People were herded into a room by SS officers. They closed the door and we heard the screams as shots rang out. The worst of it was when the screaming stopped. I saw people starved to death. It became a part of our day, the norm after a while. You weren't surprised when friends were taken away from you and slaughtered.
It was in August of '41 when the SS came into our barracks. They came over to my bunk, and grabbed... not me, but Hane! He kicked and thrashed, but they were stronger than him. He was taken away, and I never saw him again.
I miss him very dearly. It was only later that I realized that he'd been taken on his thirteenth birthday. Thirteen was truly his unlucky number.
I continued my meager existence in the camp. I was working most of the day, producing war goods for the Nazi regime. I lived off stale bread and what water I could find, day in, day out. It wasn't a surprise when I started seeing my ribs, my heart beating beneath my flesh. I was scared then, but after a while, I barely noticed it.
After I had been in Oswiecim for about three months, I was told that something special was about to happen to me. I was going to see the “doctor.” I was taken to a special barracks, and given food. I was treated very well. One day, the “doctor” came in. He introduced himself as “Uncle Mengele.” He was very kind, and even gave me a little candy. I'd never had candy before. It was very, very good!
Uncle Mengele left, and I was again alone with the other prisoners. They promptly told me that this was all a ploy, and Uncle Mengele was going to cut me open. I called them liars, that Uncle Mengele would never do something like that. I even defended him! The guards heard, came in, and seemed pleased. Now I regret that very, very much.
I continued to get better food that what I'd had before. Uncle Mengele visited often. He seemed to like it when I told him about myself. He'd always come back to talk. He acted interested in what I had to say. He told me he'd been in the army, but didn't like it much so he became a medic. He liked being a medic. He said he was glad that he was promoted to be the doctor at our camp.
Finally, one day, the SS guards came in and took me away. They said I was going to see Uncle Mengele. I was happy. When we got into the operating room with Uncle Mengele, he welcomed me, and told me to lay down on his chair. I did so willingly. Then, he buckled me in with heavy leather belts -- five of them. I couldn't move, and told him so.
He laughed. Told me I was very foolish to trust him.
He took out a scalpel, and a marker. He marked a line over my chest. Then, he took his scalpel, and started to cut. I screamed in pain, but he never seemed to notice. I had no painkillers, no anesthetic, no numbness. I felt every ounce of pain he delivered into me. I knew that I was as good as dead.
I wish that he'd just killed me. But he didn't.

[Close]

A flicker of golden blond hair, tossed by pale, nimble fingers. Blue eyes fill with laughter at a joke just told.

His eyes follow every motion of the young woman having fun with her colleague not more than ten yards from his office. The only thing that separates them is a thin sheet of glass.

A simple wave and a thin silver band on the index finger of her left hand gleams in the dregs of the afternoon light. Her name is Kristen, and she is young, smart, pretty, and married. To him.

He turns away, humming idly, satisfied with his brief look out the window. A new patient has ambled into his consulting room, and, as he interrogates the frail-looking old man, he notes with a slight smile that the patient is not in good health. One incorrect prescription later, he is back to looking out the window at his young, smart, pretty, and married girl.

Although his outward expression is bland, inwardly he is vaguely happy. They are still a young couple, married recently, with very few problems. There is one problem, however, and is has been brewing in the back of his mind ever since he met her. Absent-mindedly he toys with a scalpel in his shirt pocket.

It is funny, he thinks, expression still bland, like unflavored gelatin that gives everyone a queasy feeling. It is funny, because if emotions and thoughts have colors, this thought would have been cloudy, the darkest, stormy black, with poisonous vines twined around it. Like a fairytale castle after it has been cursed by a witch in one of his childhood storybooks with a happily ever after.

So he thinks, and he hums Paul Mauriat because he likes Paul Mauriat, a French orchestra conductor. He twirls the scalpel in his hands, eyes still fixed on the retreating back of his wife.

Wife. What a funny word to use for his young, smart, and pretty girl. He will have to remedy that soon.

Where was he? The problem, yes, the problem. He hums a bit louder and a small smile grows on his face. He has just the solution. He wants his Kristen to remain the way she is forever.

Kristen, my young, smart, pretty girl…you must die.

[Close]

Staggering. Falling. Gasping for air. Why can’t I see? Eyes stinging anyway, acrid smog stabbing at my pupils. I close my eyes. Help. Help! Falling again, but I’m already on the ground. What’s happening? Why can’t I see? Burning…BURNING! Why can’t I see?!

Slowly my nightmares disengage themselves from the legitimate pain in my head, and I grope for a shred of consciousness. Eventually I find it, and I open my eyes recklessly. Too fast. The air is smoggy, just like in my dream, and it hurts a little to have them exposed to the stench. But I need to know where I am, regardless of whether it hurts or not. I force my lids to remain open and sit up to look around.

Apparently I’m in a hospital, but this doesn’t resemble any hospital I’ve seen in the past, even in those zombie films I used to watch every Halloween just for laughs. Sure, there are clean white hospital beds arranged neatly throughout the room, little tables next to them for personal possessions, and sure, the floor has the typical mind-numbingly dull floor pattern design that invariably exists in hospitals. But in this case, the room is destroyed. The ceiling is completely gone, and huge, jagged sections of wall are missing on all sides of me. I’m facing the outside wall, and through it I can see a red-hot glow, volcano-like, emanating from some dim place behind the thick wall of smoke that prevents me from seeing much of a view.

This is horrible, and I have no idea why I’m here. Last I knew I was enjoying a peaceful Italian vacation, and I haven’t a clue what bizarre chain of events brought me to this place. Besides the confused images from my dream, I literally have no recollection of what happened since I got up this morning — if it was this morning, which I’m starting to doubt — even though I know I did wake up. So that rules out the possibility that somebody drugged me in my sleep and carried me to a hospital, bombed the city and left. That doesn’t make any sense, but neither does anything else I can think of. Well, I’ll stop worrying about it.

I get out of bed and am about to yell for a nurse to tell me what the heck is going on, but I step on something sharp and yell something completely different instead. Owww. I think I’m bleeding, and yes indeed, I see when I lift my foot, I sure am. There’s a shard of some jagged rock-like object on the floor next to my foot covered in blood. Mine, I hope, although there’s more on it than I’d care to describe.

I’m about to shout for a nurse to treat my foot, but then I realize that I’ve already shouted pretty loudly and nobody has arrived. Either the staff has far too many patients to tend to properly unless it’s an absolute emergency — and from the look of the empty dorm, this is unlikely — or there’s nobody around. Or rather, nobody interested in helping me. Trying not to whimper, I tear a corner off my bed sheet and tie my foot up in it.

I’ve just taken in the rest of the room, which has about a dozen berths and an average of three feet of wall missing from the roof down, when an ominous horn blows from what I presume to be the outdoors. I jump nervously, banging my injured foot against a cabinet and refreshing the bleeding, but I don’t care about that because the smoke is clearing in the wake of the horn. Slowly it drifts aside, and soon I can see exactly what the outside of this hospital looks like.

It appears that the hospital is at the base of Mt. Vesuvius, because that’s the only volcano I remember being near recently and the shape looks similar, though the cone is a lot more dented than it used to be. The sky is an ugly cross between blood-red and my least favorite kind of tomato sauce, but while this would normally disturb me out of my wits, I barely notice that now. For carved into the mountain, with unusually light lava pouring out of them that makes them easier to read, are the words

HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE
“THE UNKNOWING VICTIM?”
YOU REAP WHAT YOU SOW.

I haven’t a clue what these words are supposed to mean. Maybe a doomed high school band member is practicing his trombone on a short-lived island of rock, and the fact that the holes in the mountain closely resemble a perfectly articulate threat directly faces my window is an utter coincidence. But I doubt it. Whoever carved those words is right: I have no idea why I’ve apparently been chosen as a victim of a talented horn-player, but in my mind, that means I don’t deserve whatever he’s going to do to me. Pausing only to grab the rest of my torn blanket from my bedstead — I don’t know why, but maybe I can use it for something — I run from the room.

As if this is nothing but a cheap movie, the doorframe collapses as soon as I cross the threshold of the hospital room into an open-air hallway. This place must be more fragile than I’d thought. I was planning to run for the stairs and then try to find a car with the keys still in it to get away with, but it looks like I’ll just get buried in rubble if I try that. Instead, I merely choose a random direction to run down the hallway in, past room after blasted room. This isn’t helping. Neither is the fact that the horn begins to blow again.

Startled, I stumble and trip on another piece of rubble, cutting my other foot even more badly than the first. Muttering a string of the worst words I can think of, I tear off another large strip of my blanket and tie it around the wound, trying to ignore the red stains that appear instantly all over the clean white cloth. I start moving again, catching a sight of an open rooftop that slopes downwards towards the ground. This gives me an idea. Maybe I can tie the blanket to a jagged edge of the roof and pull myself down.

I test my weight on the rooftop. It feels safe enough. But the explosion behind me doesn’t.

Whirling around in alarm, I see a second flaming rock strike another part of the hospital, right next to an existing crater that I presume was formed at the same time as the original explosion. This coincides with a particularly major chord of the trumpet. Another strong chord accompanies a third rock that crashes only a few dozen feet away from me, causing a good portion of the hallway to collapse. Whoa. The roof doesn’t seem like a good place to avoid falling debris, but what other choice do I have? I run out onto the charred white tiles, ignoring the gray powder that has begun to slowly fall all around me.

As I hurry as fast as I can down the slanted roof without losing my balance, the trumpet notes change to a higher pitch, and the explosions behind me subside. I breathe a sigh of momentary relief, but then the wind picks up and I’m almost swept off my balance. I crouch, going slower now, but a particularly strong gust tugs my blanket right out of my hand. Now I really am alone on the rooftop, with nothing to use for a rope.

I walk towards the edge anyway, crawling now for maximum safety, as the wind is blowing harder than ever; my blanket is a hundred yards away already. Perhaps I can climb down or something.

I peer over the edge, but apparently the angle has hidden a lot of ground from me. The parking lot slopes up from this side of the hospital, and a sizzling pool of molten lava has collected along all of this low ground. No wonder the hospital is collapsing; its foundations are burning to the ground! Dang. Dang. Dang!

Suddenly my blanket is flying back towards me, the same direction that I came to get here. At first I’m irrationally glad that I might be able to grab it as it passes, but then I realize it’s flying at top speed, straight at me. A terrifying thought flashes through my mind: I’ve been herded.

I begin to scream, but nothing can stop the blanket from slamming into my body and pushing me over the edge. I grope for the side of the hospital, just as if this were a really cliché action film, but of course that only works in the movies. I actually do manage to grab onto it for a second, but my weight, coupled with that of my bandages, is just enough to make the whole wall collapse when I do this. My scream never ends… or when it does, I’m in too much pain to realize it.

~-~-~-~-~-~-~

The premier audience cheers as dramatic music swells and the image of my melting body gives way to the credits. It’s the end of another absurdly nonsensical Halloween blockbuster, and the film critics in the first two rows only have one more showing to attend before they can go home to a well-earned rest. What do they care about my “corpse?” I’m getting paid a cool $800,000 for my first acting role, as they well know, and that’s more than enough to make up for “dying” in front of hundreds of thousands of moviegoers.

[Close]

This is a tale that all began with 3 men standing in a room. This was your ordinary room. It had tables and chairs. And an observation deck. It also had many surgical tools as well as hoses and tanks of oxygen and anything else you'd expect to find in an operating room. Oh yeah, it's an operating room, did I mention? So anyway, as you'd expect 3 men standing in an operating room to do, they were performing surgery. Doctor Steinberg headed out the operation, doctor Sketsky was learning, and on standby in case of an emergency, and doctor Brandt assisted Dr. Steinberg with tools.

"Doctor I need a clamp over here, now!" shouted Steinberg, as he held his hand out and waited for the clamp. After almost 5 seconds had gone by he yelled again. "NOW!"

"Just a second, I'm almost"

The EKG monitor overlooking the table stopped beeping, and began to sing a single high note, cutting off Dr. Brandt.

"WHEN I SAY NOW, I MEAN NOW. SANITIZE AND GET IN MY OFFICE." shouted the first doctor.

Dr. Brandt sighed as he walked away and into the surgeons bathroom at the far end of the room. He removed his coral colored get-up and thoroughly washed his hands. He went over to his locker, got his things, showered, and proceeded to Dr. Steinberg's office in the hall opposite the OR.

"You wanted to see me?" Asked Dr. Brandt, in a tone of shame.

"I'm sorry." Proclaimed Dr. Steinberg

"But we have to let you go. This is the 3rd time we've lost a patient due to your own error and inability to follow procedure. Please sign out at the desk and the hospital will do the rest. Consider this a good time to re-evaluate your career."

Dr. Brandt, left speechless, sighed and left the office. He dragged his feet along the 3rd floor of Oldbrush Hospital for the last time. He gathered what few items he kept and rode the elevator for the last time. He walked through the parking garage over to spot A14 for the last time, and for the last time, made the 14 minute drive home. And for the last time, he went to bed with a purpose.

The next evening, 10:23 pm

Dr. Steinberg made one final trip around the station, making sure that everything was situated for the next group of staff, and giving a farewell to his coworkers.

"Goodnight everyone, see you all tomorrow" He half-yelled from the elevator door. He was met with a few faded goodbyes and a seeya.

As the elevator made its descent, it screeched, and shook. It had stopped. He looked behind him, through the glass window that showed the lobby. Blackness. The elevator gave one last whirr and then the light's turned on again. The elevator moved for a few more seconds and when it arrived to the garage floor, Mr. Steinberg turned around to it's high pitched ding. When he did, he was met shortly with the barrel of a revolver.

"Hard day of work?" asked. Dr. Brandt menacingly

"What are you doing here? Please...I just want to go home." Dr. Steinberg pleaded

Saying nothing, Dr. Brandt pushed Dr. Steinberg back into the elevator and pushed the button for floor number 3. All the while keeping the gun pointed in Dr. Steinberg's face. The elevator dinged once again, and for a moment they stood there.

"Now listen to me. We are going to walk to the OR. You are going to pretend everything is fine. If anyone asks what I'm doing here, you are going to tell them you made a big mistake and that we are working things out. Got it?"

"Yes...I unde..i understand" Stuttered Dr. Steinberg, nervous as all hell

The pair walked to the OR, uninterrupted, and upon arrival. Dr. Brandt got to work. He Instructed Steinberg to lie down on the main operating table, a long, cold steel bed raised about 4 feet above the ground. He then secured Dr. Steinberg in all 12 of the restraints the table offered, meaning 2 long black belts went across his body every foot or so. Steinberg was trapped.

"What are you going to do? Kill me?" Steinberg asked in a worried tone.

Dr. Brandt laughed. "No, I'm going to kill everyone. Your just the main event."

He then proceeded to pick up his cell phone and hit redial.

"Lights again, this time for good. The generator will pick up after about 30 seconds. When it does you need to manually break the gear. I don't know, just do it, god damn. I think it's time for a swim." And with that, Dr. Brandt hung up, and walked over to the surgeons bathroom, and came back with a device on his head.

"The better to see you with, my dear." He said just before he broke into hysterical laughter."

The light's turned off. They waited. 30 seconds later, as he had said, the generator came on. The light's were on again, slightly dimmer than last time, but on nonetheless. Again they waited. About a minute later, those were gone too. Suddenly, something loud, super loud seemed to explode all around them, and Dr. Brandt left the OR. He exited, and turned right, where the entire staff would be waiting for the lights to come on. He looked down at his watch: 10:33.

"I'm making good time." He thought to himself as he approached the lunchroom full of people. He was looking for one in particular, however. Dr. Sketsky. He was a newer doctor at Oldbrush, but a target nonetheless. He was always brown-nosing Dr. Steinberg, and because of this, they formed some sort of companionship. They would put him down daily, and finally he would have his revenge. He spotted him. Standing in the corner, having a conversation with the beautiful nurse Julie. God was she gorgeous. She was tall, around 5'7, and slim, boy was she slim. She had blonde hair, a nice full chest, and definitely wasn't lacking in the rear. Dr. Brandt had tried to take her out once, but she simply laughed. He hated her. Dr. Brand drew his revolver, and like a trained gunman, shot, swung, shot again, nailing both of his victims in the chest. Screams everywhere. Cursing too. Mainly fleeing. Cowards. The 30 some people all ran for the door, other than Mrs. Julie and Dr. Sketsky, of course.

"There is a gun pointed at your heads. You will stand up and walk with me to the OR, or you will die."

The 2 nodded, and they made there way to the door, slowly. Dr. Brandt. guided them out of the lunchroom and into the OR.

"It's a party now. Your buddy is here, Sketsky, why don't you say hello? Oh yeah that's right, your lungs are collapsing from the bullet I put in them." He said, laughing hysterically."

He drug the Nurse to another table and lay here there, the same for Dr. Sketsky.

"Surgeon's log. I'm dealing with two identical wounds. Gunshot to right chest. Through right lung middle lobe with pulmonary contusion
Cardiac injury at right atrial appendage & junction of right atrium and suprahepatic IVC. Planned way of treatment is breathing tube through trachea with oxygen mask to aide. Peptide cocktail to stop the bleeding, crossover stitching with one staple to seal wound temporarily."


"Brandt! That won't help but to prolong their death. They won't last more than an hour." Yelled Dr. Steinberg

"Exactly. Hopefully it's painful."

Dr. Brandt quickly performed his treatment, but certainly not quietly. The screams they let out could be heard on any floor of Oldbrush. Dr. Brandt walked over to Dr. Steinberg and laughed. He then took the scalpel from the tray next to the bed, and made almost 20 small incisions all across Dr. Steinberg's body as he moaned.

"All non fatal wounds. Alone that is. You have a while. About 3 hours, actually, before you'll bleed out." Said Brandt as he walked towards the door.

Something splashed a few times under his feet.

"Oh god damn it.!" Yelled Brandt. Realizing that the water main break he'd called in for earlier was starting to catch up to him. "I'm still making good time." He thought.

As Dr. Brandt opened the door and walked out of the OR, he heard a woman ahead yelling.

"Quick! Everyone! They're here! The police are finally here! To the roof!"

"Perfect." Thought Dr. Brandt. "But why the roof? OHHH, elevators don't work underwater, do they."

Dr. Brandt ran towards the stairs past the crowd of people fumbling in the darkness and ran up the remaining 6 flights toward the roof escape. He then took the helmet and threw it down against the wall, smiling as it smashed and rolled down a few stairs. He opened the roof escape climbed out, then locked it behind him. He looked up and there they were. A group of policemen, waiting to rescue him. There was also almost 100 other people, presumably from the higher levels.

"We are so glad you made it out, are there others?" Asked the Policeman.

"Yes they were making there way up the stairs when I saw them. There is water on the 3rd floor, which is where I came from."

The policeman nodded, and led Dr. Brandt to a ladder connected to a helicopter. He climbed up and sat eagerly for his departure. 20 minutes went by and no one else showed up. One of the policeman tried to open the hatch, but it was stuck.

"I think it's stuck!" Yelled the Cop.

He shot the hatch open, and jumped backwards as water surged onto the roof, bringing nothing other than a group of bodies with it.

"Looks like the water got to em before they could get out...what kind of monster would do this...Jim...wrap it up.."

The Helicopter took off and headed to a nearby town's hospital so everyone could be treated and released. Dr. Brandt was enjoying his vacation.














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