View Full Version : The Survivor Ch4 Pt4

Jan 25th, 2012, 07:05 AM
Peter made it half way to the stairs when he heard cracking behind him. Again. He glanced back just in time to see the man loosen the axe from its hold enough to send cracks spider-webbing across the glass and for the pressure to expel the axe from the glass with such force that the spike on the back actually buried itself in the man’s forehead. Peter was surprised to feel his stomach jump at that one; I guess I’m not completely jaded.

Peter returned his focus to the stairs as the glass, once again, gave way, but this time Peter was out of the way. Not out of the way enough though. The force of the water crashing into the room created a current in the standing water that caught Peters leg and swept them forward, sending him backwards into the water, but still moving him closer to his objective.

Peter managed to get his legs under himself again and came up running, ignoring the burning in his arm. He made it to the stairs and splashed violently as he climbed out of the water. His foot caught the top stair and he sprawled out on the floor panting and wheezing like an asthmatic. He spent some time hacking up salt water and then sat up.

He looked around at where he was now. A little further and he’d be back at the front door. As he stood he took in his surroundings more; he was in the open water area, where at the bottom you could watch divers swim with the fish, and as you went up you would see different animals from different parts of the ocean. He didn’t see any bodies where he was, but there were bodies in the water, and the mad were traipsing the walkways above him screaming at each other, attacking each other, and every so often, as Peter watched, a body would drop into the water.

Suddenly, Peter heard a noise above. He looked up and saw one of the mad looking at him from one of the crisscrossing catwalks above him. The man was staring at him, and then he started climbing up on the railing, never taking his eyes off Peter. He crouched on the railing staring down, and then leapt off, arms wide.

He landed on the fake whale bones that hung from the ceiling, the ribs specifically. The sudden impact and the weight of the man caused the skeleton to sway and rattle violently, until a wire popped out of the ceiling. Then another. And another.

The man began to climb down the ribs as the skeleton sagged and wires fell around him. He had lowered himself to the head when suddenly the wires gave completely, plummeting the skeleton into the water.
It hit the bottom of the still draining tank, and the bones began to shatter, one shard in particular impaling the man through the shoulder and pinning him to the skeleton. Peter watched as the man began coughing blood from what must have been a punctured lung, still staring at Peter with rage on his face.

Peter backed up slowly, then came to his senses and looked around. Peter looked around for a weapon, but didn’t see anything. He began to panic, without a weapon he would be vulnerable. He forced himself to close his eyes and take deep breaths. He could only keep his eyes shut for a few moments, then they popped open, almost of their own accord.

Peter began toward the exit, passing through a forest of water filled cylinders. Suddenly, one exploded as two women crashed through it and landed on the floor trying to kill each other. Peter hastened his exit to the main concourse.

He turned to the door and stopped in his tracks: there was a small mob rioting in the entry way. He turned to go the other way and saw about 30 people trying to kill each other in various horrible ways. He spun around, frantically trying to find a way, and finally stopped on the 4d cinema theatre.

Peter pulled one of the line ropes into the theatre with him and used it to tie the door shut. He turned around and saw a scene of absolute horror: it was a packed house with children and adults. The smell of cordite and sulfur hung in the air like a pervasive chill that got into your bones.

Peter just stood and stared at the bodies scattered around the room as tears welled up in his eyes. They were children. Children and parents, and they were all dead, most likely at each other’s hands.

Peter suddenly realized that he was very thirsty again. He pulled out a bottle of water and drained it, the water mixing with his dry mouth to create a kind of slime that coated the inside of his mouth.

Peter stood for what seemed hours as a depression welled up inside him. It bubbled up into his throat threatening to choke him from the inside. Despite the depression he felt beyond the point of tears. His eyes grew heavy like he was waiting for them to fall, but there was nothing there.

After only a few minutes he looked for a place to sit and die, but the seats were bloody, and where blood was absent there were bodies, and where bodies were absent there was a sense of crushing defeat visible in the air. So he stood gazing into the theater, lost.

After several more minutes, he decided on a course of action: arrange the bodies respectfully. He decided that once that was complete, if he still wanted to sit and die, he could.

He walked over to a small child’s body and stood over it, examining it: maybe 7 years old, male, Caucasian, shaggy brown hair, freckled cheeks, throat ripped out, eyes open. He almost stopped right there. It was threatening to overwhelm him. He reached down to slide the eye lids down but as soon as his fingers brushed the cold forehead his arm recoiled instinctively like he’d been burned. It was completely unreal, like the child had never been alive, never been real.

He reached out again, this time steeling himself for the contact, and slid the eyelids down. But when he pulled his hand away the eyes opened again and Peter could swear they focused on him. It was unnerving. He tried again with the same results. Then again. After the fourth attempt he stopped and knelt down and scooped the child up, slipping one arm under his shoulder and one under the crook in his legs. He walked to the front, careful to avoid stepping on the other bodies and placed the child gently on the stage, feet pointing out, head to the screen.

He almost collapsed from the emotional weight. He walked over to an adult: looked to be 30, female, African American, neat trimmed hair, athletic physique, three bullets to the chest, gun in hand. Peter kicked the gun away and reached down to grab her arm and leg. As he lifted, her shirt and jacket rode up revealing a badge and holster, as well as a flyer in her back pocket. Peter grabbed the flyer and felt dirty: he couldn’t help feeling like he was coping a feel on a dead woman. He shook the feeling and read the flyer, “Bel Air PD appreciation: in recognition of the excellent work of the Bel Air Police Department, the City of Bel Air is providing a free trip to the National Aquarium in Baltimore for officers and their families. The package includes all of the attractions, plus a dinner. Excellent job officers and keep up the good work.” The flyer also listed a series of dates and times.

They were all cops and their families. He reached down and picked her up and moved her beside the child. He walked over to a little black boy who had similar features to the woman he just moved, possibly her son. He was leaning against the end of an aisle, head slumped forward, blood trail running down his chest. He lifted the boys head to get a better look.

His vision flashed suddenly there was a cacophony of sound and the smell of cordite and sulfur was thick in the air. He was seeing the events as they happened, but he could only see the boy. It was like there was a fog around him that he couldn’t see through except for the muzzle flashes. The boy had his hands clamped on his ears, mouth open screaming, eyes squinting but not shut, tears streaming down his face. Suddenly a figure stepped through the fog. It was the woman he had moved to the stage. The boy looked up at the woman’s face and his lips formed the word “mommy.” She extended her arm, looked at her son, and pulled the trigger placing one neat round hole in his throat.

Suddenly the vision was over and he had tears streaming down his face as he stared at the boy. He reached down and picked the boy up and placed him beside his mother. He couldn’t figure out why a parent would do that, but then he couldn’t figure out why cops who’d been working together for years would suddenly draw down and blow each other away. Or why people would do whatever they could to kill complete strangers, even at the cost of their own lives.

Sep 1st, 2020, 05:18 AM
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