Breakout

Breakout 

By Sean Hess 

Chapter 1 

Brock Douglas woke up one morning and found he wasn't in his bed. His first thought, Where the hell am I? He attempted to survey his surroundings. He could barely move his head. He struggled to turn it. It felt heavy as a boulder. Why can't I move?  

To his surprise, he was lying in a metal bed, with a thin mattress. His arms and legs were strapped down. When he tried to lift his hands, he couldn't bring them up. He was in a small room, maybe ten feet by eight feet. There was a dirty, steel toilet in the corner. Next to it was a sink, the bottom caked with grime and scum. It was a cell. But not a jail cell.  

A massive, blue door with chipped paint stood in the middle of the wall at Brock's feet. Brock again tried to move, this time to get up. His legs felt numb. They wouldn't budge. He wanted to call out for help, but he couldn't form the words with his mouth. What the hell is going on, here!?  

With a loud 'buzz' the door slid open. A tall, stocky man in white walked in. He had an apron and a mask on. Out of his pocket he pulled out a large syringe with a needle the length of a grown man's index finger. "Time for another dose Mr. Douglas," he said, with a smug smile.  

Jesus Christ! He isn't gonna stick that in me? What the hell! Let me outta here!  

The man stepped up towards Brock's bed with the needle. All of the sudden, there was a loud crash and the building shook and groaned. Another explosion. Another tremendous shake. The wall at the head of the bed crumbled and fell in on top of the man. The bricks barely missed Brock. Oh, thank God.  

Buzzing, the door slid open. Brock heard door after door after door. From outside his door a woman screamed "Shit! The power grid's been knocked out! Contain the patients! Contain the patients!" People ran through the halls. Everyone was in a panic.  

A brick fell on Brock's head.

When Brock woke up his head was pounding. There was no noise outside. He reached his hand up and rubbed his head. It seemed like nothing at first. Wait, I can move again! The drugs have worn off! His hand was sticky. When he looked at it, there was blood.  

With his free hand, Brock reached to his left arm and unstrapped it. He sat up. Sharp pain shot through his back. He let out a scream of agony and arched his back like a cat. 

Once the pain subsided, he leaned down towards his feet and loosened the straps on his ankles and slipped his feet out. He swung his feet over the side of the bed. The floor was tiled and ice cold. When he stood up his legs shook, very weak. How long have I been laying in this damn bed?  

Brock shuffled his feet across the floor until he reached the door. He looked out, both ways. Fires crackled and popped in piles of rubble. There were bodies all over the place. It's a psych ward! They locked me up! I'm a loony! But how did this happen? He couldn't remember anything but the explosion. He turned left from the door and started down the hallway. As he passed, he looked in all the rooms, hoping to find somebody alive. Room by room, he searched, but found nothing. There has to be somebody here! 

He searched the building for hours, not anything but rubble, fire, and empty rooms. Finally as he rounded a corner he saw someone. He was rather tall, though not as tall as Brock and was dressed, head to toe, in black. He wore a bullet proof vest and carried a long black gun across his back, like a machine gun you would see in a game. "Hey, you there! Help me out here! I heard an explosion and was knocked out! Next thing I know, I'm waking up to this! What's going on, man?"  

The darkly dressed man quickly spun around and pulled the gun off his back, aiming it at Brock. Brock raised his hands in front of his chest. "Hey, hey! I'm not an enemy! I'm just lookin' for some help! Take it easy!"