Redemption

Chapter 11: Reality Check (Part III)

Chapter 11: Reality Check (Part III)

  John was dragged, by the collar of his inmate uniform through the narrow halls of the asylum, kicking and screaming, as he was blindly led deeper into the treatment facility.

 "I swear to God I didn't kill them! I...I didn't!" John shouted, fighting the guards' hold on him.

  "Go ahead, shout all you want. No ones' going to hear you down here," Stevens stated, continuing to lead the way down a flight of stairs that descended into the basement annex of the asylum. "And by the time they find your body...if they find your body, the rats will have already eaten you past the point of recognition."

  Leaking sewer mains, dimly lit flood lights, and an overabundance of cobwebs running along the walls and ceiling of the basement corridor showed that no one had been down here in years. The annex had fallen into a state of disrepair, with pipes leaking out onto the pavement beneath their feet and plant life beginning to lay siege to the structural supports above.

  Caution signs decorated what little space on the walls that weren't already occupied by the running sewage pipes; warning of possible flood damage and the probable risk of entire sections of the tunnel caving in at a mere moments notice. The constant resounding of brick crumbling into the waterways below cementing this fact.

  "Officer Seagal. Officer Walker. Set up a perimeter, if anyone comes down here tell em' we're doing a quick sweep of the lower floor. Richardson and Baire. You two come with me." Stevens barked, pulling John to his feet.

   Stevens carefully removed John's handcuffs before, grabbing his service weapon from it's holster. "Keep walking," he commanded, pressing his pistol into John's back. "We're almost there."

"You have to believe me, I didn't..." John begged, stumbling forward against his will.

"I don't have to believe anything! Now walk." Stevens ordered.

   The group continued on as they made their way across a suspended walkway leading toward a rusted over iron doorway; corrosion and plant life giving the impression it hadn't been opened in decades.

  John heard the sharp click of the pistol being cocked as fear rose inside him.

" Go on...open it."

  John nervously gripped the damaged door handle as he pulled back against the weight of the door; the tarnished metal's rust crunching against the touch of his palms. The creaking of old gears and locks being jarred out of place echoed through the tunnel as the door slowly began to open. Chipping fragments of the entryway flew up into the air as it labored open, scrapping against the pavement beneath it.

  John's heart skipped a beat as he peered into the room and caught his first glimpse at why exactly Officer Stevens had brought him down here in the first place. He could hardly breathe as he held back the revulsion that slowly was making it's way up through his stomach and radiating all the way out into his fingertips. What lay inside the room was an utter perversion of everything that held John together; an ultimate catalog of his life splattered all over the walls, floors, and ceilings like some kind of unholy collage.

   Black and white newspaper clippings covered every square inch of the room; some dictating depraved crimes by some unknown assailant while, others showcased photographs of deceased individuals left in window shops and homes all across the city, each posed in crude and disturbing ways.

   The butt of a gun collided with the back of John's head as he fell forward into the room, rolling onto his side as he came to an abrupt stop; his back colliding with something behind him. He slowly looked up to see he was laying at the base of a weeping angel statue, that had been erected out of stone; it's broad, outstretched wings threatening to swallow John whole in it's cold embrace. It's grey, skeleton-like hands cupping it's concealed face as if to hide it's sorrow from the world.