Ruins

The sixth turret

His feet wandered off on their own accord, and Mac followed them. He should not have, as meandering in the palace was strictly forbidden, though, with his current status, he couldn't think straight. He had ruthlessly scrubbed the thousands of dishes and was so worn that he couldn't comprehend doing the other two thousand grubby cutlery tomorrow.

He took the path to the left, then right, then the fifth route, and the- he lost tally. The palace was like a labyrinth– with the endless rows of hallways and corridors, it was easy to lose your way. And the watchful cameras fixed everywhere didn't ease the pressure. If you appeared even a little bit askance in the recordings, that might be your last day at the palace.

He stopped to catch a breath, resting his palms on his knees– phew! He'd been working so tirelessly that his hands might fall off at any moment. The only thing he had the energy for was to traipse to his cot and drop down dead– and that's what he was conspiring to do. He'd been doing fine until he heard the angry barks of the old cook and rerouted his path (This had nothing to do with the cook being intimidating or anything).

ZOP!

Mac yelped. The back of the wall he'd been leaning on gave away, shoving him into complete darkness.

He got to his feet unceremoniously but tripped again, landing flat on his nose. It took an effort to make out anything, but he managed to piece out a bundle of rags in the left corner. He wasn't the nocturnal type of person, although his vision was just as pathetic during the day.

Of course, the first thing he did was to whimper.

He looked around– still unwilling to get up– inspecting the place, even though his instincts were screaming against it. The pale light glistened through the open doorway, but except for that, there was no natural source of light present. The ambiance indicated that Mac should put as much space as possible between him and this odd place. A creeping miasma swept through, churning his insides into a frozen smoothie.

Curiosity killed the cat, eh? He thought glumly as he slowly stood up. KILLED? Wrong example at the wrong place. He hadn't been here before, had he? The floor dusty, the air still, more dust, total darkness, and dust. Did he mention the dust? There was nothing here except for a handful of chains and the rag heap on the right edge. Huh. Wasn't it located on the left?

Suddenly something– or rather someone– seized his chin, lifting it up. He lay on his stomach again. A frail-looking, wrinkled hand with razor-sharp nails appeared for seemingly nowhere and had decided that Mac was an excellent plaything. He gasped, probably twisting his rib cage into a concoction of broken bone and flesh, and flailed his arms wildly. Next, he did the most sensible thing to try when one is smothered by a... whatever that was– He screamed.

Mac heard a sudden vociferous squawking of ducks– a lake nearby outside, perhaps?– clearly indicating they were none too pleased about his yelp.

It's like those times in that movie, The Smiling Shadow where the sallow, green zombie rips his arm off and drags the hero into a dark room with his other, somehow intact, arm, thought Mac, followed by: Really cool last thoughts!

A face, connected with the hand (Oh god, if the hand had just been floating in the air all this while...?) emerged from the shadows– A coppery face, smeared with dried blood, grinned– Its teeth glinting enough to blind him for a couple of seconds. It had a snag of a nest where its hair should have been, and empty voids of curling black smoke filed in its sockets.

It didn't take a professor to catch the scent of delight emanating from the... what would you call that? The gross-looking monster which resides under your bed? Zombie-killer on loose? He was reasonably sure he'd testified a walking corpse.