Dungeon Rescue

Rescue?

Harold crept through the dark hallway, the only sounds being his quiet steps and shaky breathing. He held the lantern firmly in his sweaty grip, shining its light on the mildew covered walls of the dungeon. It may not have been orders, but there was no way he was going to abandon Will, his partner. Even if that meant he had to sneak through an enemy dungeon.

He came across a thick oak door and reached out, gripping the cold steel handle. With a cautious tug, the door creaked open to another dark hallway. His nose was immediately assaulted by a stale sick sent that he recognized as infection and he had to take a few moments to get used to it. Harold briefly glanced behind him before continuing deeper into the dungeon.

Much like the last hallway he had been through, this one was lined with cells, each one being separated from each other by a wall of cement and closed off from the hallway by steel bars. He held the lantern closer to the wall, gazing into each cell as he passed. Then as he grew closer to the end of the hallway, Harold began to hear it, a faint raspy breathing. He sped up as he felt his heart begin to race.

At the final cell in the hallway he froze, his breath hitching. A figure lay on its side on the filthy stone floor, curled in on itself. It's toothpick like arms were bound behind its back. The figure's ribs jutted out sharply from its chest. There were red tears in its pale paper-thin skin, coated in dried blood in some places and in other places, the skin was burnt completely away to reveal yellowing bones. A few flies buzzed around it, eating away at the rotting flesh. He couldn't see the figure's face under the tangle of matted brown hair, but he knew who it was.

Knew that hair had once been blonde and in a neat buzz-cut. Knew that it once had large strong muscles and healthy tan skin. Knew that this person had once been one of the toughest and bravest soldiers he had ever known. He knew that this was Will. This figure had once been not only his partner but also his inspiration, his hero. But looking at this hollow shell of a person, Harold could not even begin to think of it as he same Will he knew.

Harold felt his stomach churn and it took all the willpower he had not to kneel over and be sick right there. Because he was too late. Too late to save one of his closest friends from whatever horrible torture he'd been put through. And from the slow cruel death of starvation.

His heart seemed to stop at the sound of approaching footsteps. He could not move, and felt himself shaking no matter how hard he tried to stay calm as the sound grew louder. A person stepped into view. He caught a glimpse of a malicious sneer and dark cold eyes before the lantern slipped from his sweaty grip and crashed to the ground, covering the room in a blanket of darkness.

The footsteps continued, growing ever closer. His trembling legs refused to move, refused to listen to his command to run and get out of there. He wanted to scream, to tell this monster to stay away, but no words would come. His heart was beating so rapidly he feared it might explode when he heard the crunching of glass. Even without seeing he could sense the monster standing before him, could smell the stench of its breath as it leaned closer. He tried to back away.

Then a cold metal sliced through his neck, and hot liquid spurted from the gash, streaming down his chest. He choked and coughed out a thick metallic tasting liquid. He was knocked onto his back as the dagger pierced his stomach and then his chest. Blood poured from the wounds, covering his body and drenching his clothes with the warm red liquid. He looked down at himself, finally getting sick as his blurring vision saw bone sticking up from his chest and torn bloody muscle. And as his world faded into a void of nothing, he thought he heard a deep chuckling and receding steps.