Torthane
Resident schmuck.
- Joined
- Jun 1, 2007
- Messages
- 14
The screeching stopped. Just gurgling, and something splattering and bubbling onto the floor of the cell next door.
To much noise to be a cell. To much splashing echoing off the stone. It was from one of the cages. One of the cages she had never seen. She had heard them, and it was the only way she knew they were there at all. The sound they made, a metallic rasping as the soul inside died, was with her every hour of her life.
The splashing stopped. She saw the girl in the cage, drained, white, dead, lucky to be finally free. She saw, though she had no eyes. They had been the first to go so she wouldn't have to see their faces, twisted with animal ecstasy. It had been so simple, she had held her thumbs against her sockets and thrown herself into the wall.
They had tied her down then, so she couldn't destroy anything else, but she had bit her tongue off. To show them that she still had some control. To show them that she would never be their puppet. And so they would never hear her scream again.
And now they force fed her so she couldn't die. They let most of the others die after a little while if someone didn't kill them first, but she knew she was different. They loved her because she was cold. She made them freeze, she made them hurt, and they loved it.
The door of her cell squeaked open. A hand slid up to her waist, and her skin burned as a man's thick fingers pawed at her.
He let out a shudder, “You're as cold as they promised.”
Another scalding hand was on her thigh. “I've never copped with a stiff before.”
There was a blast of hot breath on her lips and the man pinned her against himself. “I'm going to make you warm, little corpse.”
The rifle slammed against his shoulder and clouds of dust erupted from the cracked wallpaper. A quarter mile away a man toppled to the ground with most of his head spattered over the narrow alleyway.
The shooter took a sip from a can sitting on the table next to his steaming rifle as it chambered another round. The spent .50 casing clanked to the tabletop and rolled off to join its brothers as the small room exploded again.
The shot ripped it's way through a stairwell, a young woman, and her bedroom wall. She reached for her stomach to hold her intestines in, only to find that there were really none left. A diced second later the report of the bullet that had disemboweled her reached her ears. She never heard the shot that stoved her boyfriend's head in as he bolted towards her punctured apartment.
A car alarm bleared away in the dark and the shooter scanned the apartment block with his thermal scope. A cat, a group of college guys cowering behind couches on the second floor, another guy screaming at someone on the phone, a girl curled up in her shower, no number four.
He snatched up his weapon and drink and headed for the door. He'd stayed here too long, in any case he needed a different angle if he wanted to spot his fourth target. His hand closed around the doorknob and he caught a burning bottle of everclear sailing through the window in the border of his vision.
There was a pretty tinkle of glass and and his face was doused with alcohol. And then everything was in flames, his hands, his rifle, the scruff covering his cheeks, the whole room. He dropped his gun, wrenched the door open, and stumbled out onto the stairs.
The fire licking up his body stopped. He heard a door open two flights down, just before his Barret cooked off. A hail of half-inch bullets knifed through the walls as the rifle thrashed like a drowning fish.
The firing stopped. He reached for his sidearm as the grossly oversized shadow of a pistol wielding man appeared on the wall down the first flight of stairs. The man's head appeared. Number four. Two flashes and he was sprawled on the dripping steps with a pair of 9mm slugs in the back of his skull.
The suppressed Glock was shoved back into its holster and the shooter peeled the melted can out of his left hand and let it fall to the concrete. He clutched the rail and tottered down the stairway.
He stopped in front of a vending machine sitting in the moonlit lobby and pulled a soft quarter out of his blackened pocket. The coin clattered it's way into the bowls of the machine and he pressed the button for apple juice.
(Sorry if this creeped anyone out too bad. More on the way soon. Feel free to comment on it. I would love any input, but especially story or character related stuff. Thanks!)
To much noise to be a cell. To much splashing echoing off the stone. It was from one of the cages. One of the cages she had never seen. She had heard them, and it was the only way she knew they were there at all. The sound they made, a metallic rasping as the soul inside died, was with her every hour of her life.
The splashing stopped. She saw the girl in the cage, drained, white, dead, lucky to be finally free. She saw, though she had no eyes. They had been the first to go so she wouldn't have to see their faces, twisted with animal ecstasy. It had been so simple, she had held her thumbs against her sockets and thrown herself into the wall.
They had tied her down then, so she couldn't destroy anything else, but she had bit her tongue off. To show them that she still had some control. To show them that she would never be their puppet. And so they would never hear her scream again.
And now they force fed her so she couldn't die. They let most of the others die after a little while if someone didn't kill them first, but she knew she was different. They loved her because she was cold. She made them freeze, she made them hurt, and they loved it.
The door of her cell squeaked open. A hand slid up to her waist, and her skin burned as a man's thick fingers pawed at her.
He let out a shudder, “You're as cold as they promised.”
Another scalding hand was on her thigh. “I've never copped with a stiff before.”
There was a blast of hot breath on her lips and the man pinned her against himself. “I'm going to make you warm, little corpse.”
*****
The rifle slammed against his shoulder and clouds of dust erupted from the cracked wallpaper. A quarter mile away a man toppled to the ground with most of his head spattered over the narrow alleyway.
The shooter took a sip from a can sitting on the table next to his steaming rifle as it chambered another round. The spent .50 casing clanked to the tabletop and rolled off to join its brothers as the small room exploded again.
The shot ripped it's way through a stairwell, a young woman, and her bedroom wall. She reached for her stomach to hold her intestines in, only to find that there were really none left. A diced second later the report of the bullet that had disemboweled her reached her ears. She never heard the shot that stoved her boyfriend's head in as he bolted towards her punctured apartment.
A car alarm bleared away in the dark and the shooter scanned the apartment block with his thermal scope. A cat, a group of college guys cowering behind couches on the second floor, another guy screaming at someone on the phone, a girl curled up in her shower, no number four.
He snatched up his weapon and drink and headed for the door. He'd stayed here too long, in any case he needed a different angle if he wanted to spot his fourth target. His hand closed around the doorknob and he caught a burning bottle of everclear sailing through the window in the border of his vision.
There was a pretty tinkle of glass and and his face was doused with alcohol. And then everything was in flames, his hands, his rifle, the scruff covering his cheeks, the whole room. He dropped his gun, wrenched the door open, and stumbled out onto the stairs.
The fire licking up his body stopped. He heard a door open two flights down, just before his Barret cooked off. A hail of half-inch bullets knifed through the walls as the rifle thrashed like a drowning fish.
The firing stopped. He reached for his sidearm as the grossly oversized shadow of a pistol wielding man appeared on the wall down the first flight of stairs. The man's head appeared. Number four. Two flashes and he was sprawled on the dripping steps with a pair of 9mm slugs in the back of his skull.
The suppressed Glock was shoved back into its holster and the shooter peeled the melted can out of his left hand and let it fall to the concrete. He clutched the rail and tottered down the stairway.
He stopped in front of a vending machine sitting in the moonlit lobby and pulled a soft quarter out of his blackened pocket. The coin clattered it's way into the bowls of the machine and he pressed the button for apple juice.
*****
(Sorry if this creeped anyone out too bad. More on the way soon. Feel free to comment on it. I would love any input, but especially story or character related stuff. Thanks!)
