SCP WiPs that I'll never finish.

Icy release chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Tick tick tick. Why was it so hot? Charles was burning. Tick tick tick. His body rapped with aches. Couldn't move. Tick tick tick. So itchy. So hot. An old bite on the back of his left calf throbbed. Tick tick tick. Scratching was useless. He couldn't move. Carles felt himself coughing, shaking, burning. Tick tick tick. He tried to call out. His body crumpled in worse pain. His stomach tried to empty itself. It would've if he'd eaten anything in the past few days. Tick tick tick. Itch. ITCH. He glanced down. His body was rashed, welted bright red. The pinch came. The sharp little stab on the back of his left calf. He swatted the pest away. Another took its place. He swatted again. Tick tick tick. Little legs skittered across his skin, violating his body with their air light touch. The vermin wormed their way, slow and torturous, under his skin, stabbing those horrible pincers into his thin flesh, feeding on his life. Charles screamed. He tore at himself to no avail. He clawed away his skin finding more Ticks, some were laying eggs in the creases of his musculature, others had ripped holes in his veins for his blood. Thousands scrambling around. ITCH. He scratched them away, hysterical. It was so hot. He felt boiling heat kiss his back. He jumped away. Surrounding his bed, flames. Licking and kissing his flammable sheets, they climbed on to greet him. Tick tick tick. More came. They crawled under his clothes, on his face, into his mouth and ears and nose. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The flames ate his discarded flesh quickly, moving toward his skinned legs. Charles could feel the little bugs worming their way down his trachea and in his ears. The flames sucked up his thighs. Ticks crawled over his tongue, teeth, gums. He wanted to curl in toward himself. Again, screams blew out as silent hot air from his mouth. Tick tick tick. ITCH ITCH. Charles wept. The flames melted the flesh off his torso.

Charles' eyes opened, his chest felt as if it were made of bricks. The room was akin to a slow cooking iron pot or a rice cooker left on for too long. He had trouble feeling his limbs.

'Why is it so hot?'

It was hard to breathe the stuffy, pungent air. He coughed. His throat felt like a furnace, burnt raw by hot coals. Carbie meowed by his left. Nausea hit. Charles lurched upwards. Nothing came up. A dry heave. Another heave came. He went to lean over the bedside, resting on his nightstand, but missed. He tumbled forward, slamming his temple on the wooden table and then his crown on the bed. He tasted blood and bile. He lay in a heap, resting awkwardly on his neck and head, by the bedside coughing and heaving. His body had erupted in pain by then. His joints, chest, face, everything hurt. Slowly he forced himself to stand, his knees and ankles screaming at him to stop, his skull sloshed forward as if full of water. His mouth felt like a desert. Carles felt his weak legs shake, knees knocking together hard enough to break. It was like learning to walk all over again. He trudged forward through the molasses like air, his flesh tender and raw with every shuffle. After what seemed like minutes, the door handle was in reach, his excited arms threw open his bedroom door hoping for some semblance of relief. The hall was just as hot. A shuddering cough made his chest sore, more dry heaving worked out his core. He leaned on the wall, giving his legs a light break. It was so hard to breathe. Water, need water. He pressed forward. Water, cold water. The sludge like feeling in his head got worse. Almost there. The counter was in view. Almost there. The linoleum floor was cool. Charles was grateful. The pristine fridge looked like the gates of heaven. A wonderful gust of cool air blessed his face when he opened the fridge door. His head still ached and slugged on his neck. He grabbed a water bottle and downed it, then another, and another and another. He'd finished close to five before any wetness returned to his mouth.

"Dr. Gears? What's going on?"

Carles turned around, clutching the bottle in his hand like a lifeline.