Sacrifices

Chapter 17: Mens Rea

"Even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you dear."

-Run, Snowpatrol-

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Within the complete and utter darkness there was nothing. No footsteps, no hustle or bustle, no idle chatter or clanging of doors rippled through the air. The air reeked of rot, unlike how the wasteland stunk of decomposition. It was the rancid stench of death masked by the chloric tang of disinfectant that heaved the acid within his gut.

The distant hum of electricity coursed through the arteries of the infrastructure, a harrowing reminder that this place was alive, but for him there would be no redemption. No one survived. Not down here.

He was alone, save for his own heart knocking against his ribs, pulsing a labored whoosh in his ears, and the rasping breath struggling to leave his lungs. Had he been roused from unconsciousness or merely drifting above the surface? In his state he didn't know. Time ceased it's progression after he took an elbow to the face and a needle in the neck.

"Do not resist."

Like hell would he be compliant. He knew his struggle was in vain, but he refused to give up without a fight. So he spat in their faces and growled his curses until he was forced into submission by fist and fury and a side of sedative.

Now he lie a bloody mess, hands shackled behind his back and legs chained at his ankles. The jagged metal chafed his wrists as he attempted to alleviate the throbbing in his side, coating his hands in sticky warmth. His insides burned from broken bones cutting into his chest and no matter how he shifted, there was no relief from the agony.

Blood crusted his matted hair and seeped down his distended brow into his eyes. Swollen lids refused to cooperate as he tried to blink away the blurring and stinging of his sclerae. Perhaps the room was not devoid of light, rather his eyes swollen shut restricting the light from being received. The smell of mucousy copper clogged his airway as his body quivered and jerked.

Who knew Hell would be so cold?

The stoney floor numbed his body and nipped at his skin. His shoulder ached in protest against the unyielding ground. Movements sluggish and uncoordinated, he tugged against his restraints, managing only to roll face forward into a pool of his own blood. He coughed and sputtered as it oozed from his lungs and leaked from his lips. Rust in his mouth, he tried to spit but writhed from the crackling of his ribs as he groaned.

As he moved, desperate to reduce the pressure, attempting not to drown in his own secretions, his shirt pulled and scraped against singed wounds on his chest and abdomen. The smell of burnt flesh rolled bile up his throat, retching quaked his belly, spilling vomit upon the floor and smearing it across his face.

He had been reduced to a sniveling, choking pile of vile sickness. Tattered clothes sticking to his skin, filthy with his own excrement as he gagged and coughed. A distressing thought hammered at his battered skull - he was going to die down here. No vengeance or victory, only isolation and death. His bones would dry and no one would ever find him. Even though it was only a matter of time before he met his end, he vowed that they could beat him, torture him, kill him, but they would not break him - for in his death he would find honor and glory.

Blinding light suddenly chased away the all consuming darkness, burning his retinas with painful radiance. He meant to roll away but a boot pressed into his back kept him firmly in place.

"Subject 629." Flat, monotone...inhuman, the voice above him announced to an unknown entity in the doorway. His face dug into the ground, the image was blurred and distorted. The slits of his eyes couldn't distinguish if it was a man or a monster.