v-s.net v0.6

Thursday, 5:35 pm in Storytime

The boat had been sailing for a long time before Nails finally hit a shore. He stepped out, pulling his now-hat out of the water as he did so. He was back in the mists, but this time they had pulled awya in front of him, leaving a long, swirling, mist-walled tunnel stretching out ahead as far as he could see. Nails sighed, and began to walk, boots cruching on shale like bone. Walking down a corridor…
It was dark. He didn’t even know why he was down here; he was the tech guy, he was supposed to sit in the van, watch the feed on the screens. Except the screens had gone dead fifteen minutes ago, and he’d lost sound at five. He wished he’d lost it at ten. Actually, he really wished he’d stayed home. Called in sick. Never taken this mission in the first place.

They called it the ‘Jehovah Project’; he had no idea why. Most of the details were still classified; the pet-project of some Grey. All he knew was they were after a set of serial killers; same MO, but seemingly random in both perps and victims. The perps were all straight-laced, middle-class types with stable jobs. good families, no knowledge of each other and no history beyond the odd parking fine; always expediently paid. They’d never caught one; either being already dead on Protectorate arrival, or forcing such a confrontation that the agents had no choice but to shoot them down.

And as for the crimes…

Every slew of paperback horror torture was there. He’d seen photos of previous crime scenes, bloody orgies of pain and voilence, the bodies of victims piled up like some horrid testament to a great war as the survivors – unlucky few that they were – lay gibbering, tied down with ropes of intestine, and shot through with barbs like some insane act of body art. And in the centre of it all, clea and immaculate and sparkling, had stood their perp. Just waiting. Smiling. Sometimes hands outstretched like some waiting messiah. “Look what I’ve done, children. Isn’t it glorious! The time is at hand!”

They’d all died, eventually. Mostly suicides when whatever delirium they had been in ended. No-one present at one of these sites while they were active got out undamaged.

That was what had been different about this raid. As James had watched the rest of his team on the screens it had become painfully obvious that something was going on down there. That whatever happened before their usual arrival was happening now. They were early.

The team’d treked down what seemed like a neverending tunnel, following the sounds of screams and drums and insane laughter. The camera had cut out half way. The lights a little after that. The last coherent thing James had heard had been, “There’s a door, Maher. Do you hear me? A Door. it’s got… something… A symbol? I can’t make it out.” A pause, then, “We’re going in.” The sound of rusted metal, a cry of, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” And that was it, nothing after that had been any kind of coherent. It hadn’t even sounded human. It had sounded, to James at least, like Hell had opened up.

He was beginning to get worried. Especially when his light went out. “Entropy field,” he muttered to himself. “It’s okay, you expected that…” Which is why he’d bought along a the flares. He lit one, the blood-red glow doing nothing to dissuade his apprehension. If anything, it deepened the shadows. Made them longer.

“Okay, James. Survival horror. You’re going in alone to a situation which has killed a great deal more skilled men… You’re going to survive. Laws of the genre, and all that.”

He didn’t feel any better. He wondered if he had a better chance of surivial if he’d been born a woman. And was currently wearing a revealing nightdress…

And then, up ahead, was the door. It did indeed appear to have some kind of sigil scrawled on it; scratched into the metal then filled with a whole bunch of red gooey things James didn’t even want to speculate on. It glistened in the flare-light. Alive. If he strained hard he thought he could hear something, just at the edge of consciousness. A wet, clicking noise. Like maggots, or cockroaches.

He swallowed hard. “Well, Maher. This is it. Behind that door is… whatever’s left.” The screams were over by the time he’d made it into the tunnel, and all had been mostly silent since. “You’ve seen the photos… You know what to expect… It can’t be so bad… right?”

Cautiously, as if it might burn, James Maher of the Red Ops division of the Protectorates put his hand on the door, and pushed…

• Tags » creative writing, drabble, et tu assiah, short fiction, writing