Post by Jet Somers on Sept 15, 2009 20:36:49 GMT -5
Lost somewhere along Route 50, the United States' loneliest highway, in the deserts of Nevada, sits a bunker.
Once the bedding down area for itinerate workers in the gaping sore of a strip mine behind it, it lies abandoned, forgotten by all but it's current deed holder--and the victims within.
----------
The mysterious tip off lacks a name or a clear voice, but it gives the one clue needed for Jet Somers, KvK, Salem, and Nathan Korpi to seek out their precious lost counterpart. Hours ago, a minor spat between the practical Jet and the more passionate, uneasy allies around him ended with them all clad in appropriate clothing. Black turtlenecks, slacks, stocking caps, gloves, and soft soled shoes, all at the suggestion of Jet, although only he elected to don faceblack. His forebears in this motley crew tried to pass these adornments as a waste of time, but Jet insisted due to the unknown and possibly volatile nature of the situation they might find themselves in; the rescue would only bring about the unexpected, and the best they could do would be to be prepared.
Now, the four thus cloaked figures stand at the threshold of the eerie, desolate quarters, buffeted by gritty wind, not knowing they perch on the precipice of madness, the brink of the mind of Mickey Dragon.
Each man carries a weapon. Nothing lethal in the hands of an amateur, of course; unknown subordinates of Dragon may need to be subdued, but not killed, although Jet's comrades may feel otherwise once they see the horrors visited upon Jezebel.
Jet's hand tightens on the taser he has brought along, hoping to deliver retribution to one Doctor Torres, and he glances over his shoulder at the massive Salem, who brandishes a railroad spike in each hand, one turned either way, to deliver the maximum potential of the weapon both as a piercing implement and a bludgeoning instrument. There was a bit of a tiff between Salem and Jet when it came to who was going to lead the charge into the building, but Nathan came through, reminding Salem that, due to his massive size, he would be blocking the view of his allies should he be the engineer of their entrance. He settled for third place, leaving only one person to bring up the rear and be the eyes in the back. Nathan himself carries a full draught of Jameson, his earlier explanation only being that, should they meet with resistance, he'd send a message in a bottle to Dragon. His intense and serious stare as he confessed the reasons behind his choice brought only confused looks, a scratch of the head, and a facepalm from KvK. Little does Nate realize that it's a message that will never be delivered.
KvK, the designated eyes-in-the-back, isn't going in for subtlety, and he is zwiehanding a twelve pound sledgehammer in place of his customary clawhammer. As Jet mentally checks off the last of his partners-through-circumstance, he thanks his lucky stars that KvK was able to come out of his injury in time for Jet's true debut match. In a tag team match, although he doesn't particularly care for or trust Klaus, Jet couldn't count on a better partner. Salem's mind is understandably distracted, as evidenced by his attacks on the remaining members of the Covenant which turned up fruitless, and Korpi is still quite green. KvK shares no lack of concern for the well being of Jet's sister, and in this they are equals, but he is probably the most focused in his insanity, and can be counted on to show up mentally as well as physically.
Jet's mind momentarily wanders to the upcoming bout. Now, knee deep in the den of the very thieves and madmen he so recently abhorred and decried aloud, he is forced to shoulder the responsibilities that come with the protection of his sister. And that means reporting for duty against the endless parade of degenerates his forced contract subjects him to. The requisite research on their opponents turned up little of use. He just doesn't have the time needed to go over their histories and develop a lasting degradation to rake them over the coals in promo form as is the habit and practice in this arena. He could find little more than evidence of a straight man/funny man act; one Alex Kiseragi, sporting a nickname never before used by any Asian known to man, given to over the top seriousness, and one Brandon Brown, given to over the top partying and antics and even claiming a man of a different race as a family member. Even a man as far from a mark as Jet Somers recognizes these predetermined molds in the professional wrestling universe, and their stereotypes fold easily under pure talent. That's all the information a quick search could turn up. No matter. He'll bring the required intensity and experience as he would in an MMA fight, and together he and his moral opposite KvK will bring them to task.
Enough introspection and guessing for the future... the time has come to breach the hull of this ghost ship on an ocean of sand, and brave the world of the unknown.
----------
Interior: Hallway. So long as to be foreboding simply to gaze down. The very measure of it lends thought to pathways into madness, each of the many doors leading to myriad nightmares ad infinitum, should the mind be allowed to follow it's natural and all too human course along the crash course of imagination. Silence is the understood tyrant here, only silence, save for a constant, low whirring. That whirring is nearly at the bottom of human perception, and our heroes won't notice it at first. At the end of this hallway the terminus is marked by a heavy exterior door. Imposing as it seems, it is no match for the practiced kick of a seasoned Muay Thai kickboxer, and the silence is shattered when Jet Somers crashes uncermoniously through it, rolling into a crouch to the right, flattening himself againts the north wall. Korpi dives in, covering the south wall. Barrelling in next comes Salem, huffing like steam engine possessed. Eyes dart left and right, looking for purchase, begging for satisfaction... if not his love, then some victim in the night to receive his vengeance. KvK backs in slowly, tossing head patiently scanning the intimidating and arid landscape outside one last time.
Wasting no time, once the hallway is secured, the men spread out and begin to throw open doors, frantic for their fallen Jezebel.
----------
Having spent the most time with the Covenant, KvK has seen acts so heinous they would turn the normal man's stomach. Working with the slackers and ne'er-do-wells of the world, and having to rise above them to overpower multitudes of them at a time, Nate has had to resort to guerilla and mercenary tactics at times to keep himself and his brothers in his former business from ending up on a hospital gurney, or worse, a slab with a toe tag. Salem, tormented his life long by demons inside and out, living a hell that perhaps only one other man in GIW, let alone the world, would understand, looks out from behind a mask that hides his tended horrors from a world that would never understand them. Jet has made more than one circuit of the world during his career, and in the less civilized, dark crevices of humanity, especially in those given to brutal fighting as entertainment, he has witnessed his fair share of the depths of man's depravity. But nothing, separately or collectively, could have prepared them for what they would find in these rooms of ruin.
----------
Door opens; Salem stumbles into a well lit room. Inside is a monstrosity of an aquarium. Chains attached to wrists, neck, and ankles suspend upside down the body of some poor child, back to the door, hair shaved into androgeny, skin bleached white by water-logging. Shallow breaths, along with vital equipment, show the child to be very much alive. A digital timer on the side of the tank has just reached it's finale, and the child utters a whimper before being plunged headfirst into the tank. The water is dirty, and the room stinks of it's stagnation, and much of it sloshes over the side of the tank at the unholy mechanical baptism. As the flood washes toward the toes of Salem's boots, he shuffles backwards, too stunned to react otherwise. An analog timer begins at 3:20, and as the big man watches, the child begins to fight at around ten seconds left. When the analog runs out, the chains drag the suffering body from the water into glorious air again. The child hitches a few times, trying to fight down panic. It seems no notice has been taken of the interloper. Salem watches in horror as the digital timer, the one timing the child's period of rest, resets to ten minutes, and then all support goes out of his knees and he swoons against the doorframe as the analog timer, the one that times the child's torment, resets itself to 3:30. Salem is hypnotized by the counting down of the digital clock, but the sound of breaking glass snaps his attention back to the task at hand, and he knows to waste time freeing the child, who isn't in mortal danger, per se, could spell Jezebel's death. He remembers that the lack of communication from Dragon lately has had them all on edge, and the former panic which sped him along returns, and he backs regrettably into the hallway. It's all he can do to turn away from the child. As he does, he hears the whirring.
---------
Door opens; Jet steps gingerly into a dim room. He immediately flattens himself against the door, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light. Instinct takes over, and before he realizes it, he is focused on a heap in the center of the room. Wheels, cranks, and gears of all sizes appear under the figure as the gloom gathers itself in his retinas, and realization dawns upon him. Jet makes a cautious advance, his mind putting the puzzling machine together before his disbelieving eyes can take it all in. The machine was designed to test the limits of the human musculoskeletal system. Each joint, every socket, has been stretched, bent, twisted, rotated, and in some cases compressed. This is the extrapolation of every compression lock and pain compliance hold he has ever been taught in his training, and it goes beyond that a hundredfold. There are machinations of the human system that only the mind of genius, or the designs of insanity could have conceived. Knowing what he does about the limits of the body, he knows that person in good shape could bear this torture and still come out more or less intact. Sadly, this overweight man was anything but in shape, and he has been stretched beyond his capabilities to survive the shock. Jet reaches out to close the poor victim's eyes, but just before he touches the corpse, the sound of breaking glass startles him out of his sorrow for this unknown soul. He snaps around, remembering Jezebel. Nothing can be done for this poor fat man, and Jet remembers to focus on the task at hand. That's when he hears the whirring.
----------
Door opens; KvK walks into a brick wall of stench so palpable he actually switches his sledgehammer to one hand and puts the empty one in front of his face as if to push through the aroma of human waste. Hanging just inside the door are a pair of goggles. He shrugs, throwing caution to the wind, and straps them on. Predictably, they are night vision goggles. He smirks, wondering what sort of kooky bullshit mindfuck Dragon has dreamed up this time that requires such a technological aide. The smirk dies on his lips. Before him is a simple bed, one that might have appeared in a late World War II field hospital. On the bed, covered in sores, maggots, flies, and earthworms, lies the twisted form of a human being. Her matted hair cascades to the floor, tangling around the bedposts, crawling with cockroaches. Her hands, shackled to the frame, are set off by nails so long that they reach past the manacles. The nails are black. Defecation and urine swim together in a pool beneath the bed, the final stop from the trickle climbing it's way down the dragging bedsheet. Following it's backtrail, KvK looks in horror upon the soft spot in the bed mattress that is actually rotting away beneath the woman's posterior--if you can call bone jutting through stretched skin so malnourished she looks like a holocaust victim a posterior--rotting away from the chemicals in her untamed bladder emptying and bowel movements. The back of her hospital gown is soaked through with her waste, and her legs are covered in it, furrowed in it to be honest. A twitching in catches KvK's eyes, and he notices the feeding tube, that machine which keeps her alive despite her slovenly captivity. Truly a soul forgotten lies here, and when her cataracted eyeballs swivel in fear toward KvK, he's had all he can take, and he sinks to his knees to promptly lose his lunch right there in the doorway. He dry wretches, the planted sledge the only support keeping him from going over face first on the cold floor. He loses himself in his stomach lurching for a few moments, but the sound of breaking glass brings him back around, and he regains control of his convulsing insides. Using the sledgehammer to raise himself to his feet, he suddenly hears the whirring.
----------
Salem, Jet, and KvK rush out to a pooling puddle of Jameson whiskey on the floor of the hallway. Broken glass litters the floor around the feet of Nathan Korpi, who stands grasping the doorknob of the room he had just recently entered, obviously pulled back closed in a hurry. Korpi rests his head against the wood of the door, dragging gasps of air into his lungs. A single tear escapes from his left eye, the vision of horror he just experienced escaping his sight finally.
"Nate? Nate!" KvK snaps near Korpi's face. "What is it? What'd you see?"
Nathan shakes his head, "Nothing, man. Hey, you got a cigarette?"
To everyone's surprise, Nate is serious about the request as he raises his head from the only barrier between him and a nightmare he wasn't ready for. KvK looks around at the rest of his allies as he shrugs and hands Nathan a stick of instant cancer. Salem presses a lighter into his hand, and pats him on the back.
"Come on, man, you'll be ok," Jet reassures him. "Let's go find Jez."
Each man nods, but they all steal glances into the rooms the others had been exploring. Wide eyes are followed by quick shying away from all four men.
"What is that whirring sound?" Nate asks. He lights the cigarette, grimaces, then tosses it away. It rolls unnoticed toward the puddle.
"Wait a minute," Salem says. "Didn't Mickey have Jez on a dialysis machine?"
Realization dawns on everyone's faces as they unanimously make the snap decision. They are off down the hallway as if shot from a gun, and they barrel into the door of the room where the whirring is obviously originating. The door splinters on impact, and each man freezes for a split second and the earth stops turning.
Jezebel is slumped over in an armchair. Bruises, blood, contusions, and glass cover her lithe form. Her hair, slick with sweat and glistening a bloody red, is pulled back from her face. She is unresponsive as each man comes out of his trance and begins to call to her. The scramble across the room seems to take miles as they surround her chair. A scant tv dinner sits on a spindle legged table next to the chair, barely picked over. It is several days old, indicating abandonment at mealtime. All around are various Rorshach cards, some all the way across the room as if flung away in frustration. Limp electrodes on the floor lead to an ancient sine-wave ECT machine, and while the obvious smell of charred flesh isn't apparant, perhaps faded over the last few days, there are still burn marks on Jezebel's skin, most notably around her temples, and a much chewed bit lays on the table next to the tray. Also on the table are rubber gloves, the kind you'd use to clean superhot cooking equipment, the kind that go all the way up to the elbow. These are filled with shards of glass and not a little bit of blood. There is a lot of ketamine on the table, and since her eyes are taped open, the guys assume she is awake but catatonic. A quick examination of Jezebel reveals her to be alive, but she is suffering from multiply breaks in her nose and collar bones. Blood seeps from her right ear. Her hands are mutilated, and it looks like both shoulders are dislocated, along with her left knee being shattered. Jet moves in for a closer inspection, and he begins to tremble as he sees tell tale signs. Bleached and waterlogged skin. She's been in the aquarium. He checks, and sure enough, he can see marks from the stretching machine. He ignores the obvious smells coming from the chair. Carefully, he checks her spine leading up to her neck, and that's when he notices the headphones.
He gently pulls them off and holds them up to his own ears to hear such niceties in Dragon's voice as "Salem is fucking Sherry. Jet molested Havyn on her fourth birthday. Raenius couldn't handle the rejection of your friendship, and he has killed Syn and Nyx, finding no solace in the companionship of women. Jerry has connections in a major crime syndicate, and his partners are searching for you. They've already killed a large portion of your family. Do you ever even check on your family? Do you care? Do they care about you? They've forgotten you. You are out of their way now, and no one is ever coming for you, Mommy. You're all mine. "
Jet yanks the headphones out of the looping CD player and grabs both to sling them across the room. The tinny sound of Dragon's voice died quickly, and the CD player follows quickly.
"Let's get her out of her," he demands.
It takes a few moments, but they get her unhooked from the dialysis machine and more or less patched up using their own black clothes. Salem carefully lifts her up, a tattered black rag doll, and they turn to see the flames licking at the doorway.
"Nate, what happened to that cigarette?" Jet asks.
"Uh..." is his only response.
"Oh you fucking moron," KvK intones.
Three of the men rush for the small window in the room, but Jet is racing for the door.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Salem asks.
"There are other live victims here, we have to get them out," Jet reminds the rest of the crew.
"Fuck them, they are as good as dead, probably better off!" KvK screams at the determined Jet. He seems callous, but his voice is choked with emotion.
"I can't leave them," Jet turns to exit the room. KvK and Nate turn to Salem, who is already struggling to kick the window out. He looks at the doorway, where Jet is now using his hat to cover his mouth and nostrils and looking for an opening.
"If we leave him behind, and he dies," Salem warns, "She'll wish we'd have left her instead. Trust me on this."
KvK and Nate share a look, a sigh of resignation, and shake their heads. They change direction and head for the doorway. KvK makes quick work of it, tapping Jet hard enough at the base of the skull with the sledge to take him to his knees. He and Nate each duck a shoulder and begin dragging him toward the window. Salem nods, then turns back to kick the window all the way out.
----------
The dirty winds tapering around the pit feed the flames as the bunker is swallowed by the very Hell that conceived it. It's victims are too wasted to cry out in agony or for help; maybe they even welcome the embrace of the flames, a catharsis delivering them from the purgatory they were subjected to here in America's forgotten badlands.
Three figures, carrying two more, march across the desert hardpan toward wherever they have parked, lost somewhere along Route 50, the United States' loneliest highway.
Once the bedding down area for itinerate workers in the gaping sore of a strip mine behind it, it lies abandoned, forgotten by all but it's current deed holder--and the victims within.
----------
The mysterious tip off lacks a name or a clear voice, but it gives the one clue needed for Jet Somers, KvK, Salem, and Nathan Korpi to seek out their precious lost counterpart. Hours ago, a minor spat between the practical Jet and the more passionate, uneasy allies around him ended with them all clad in appropriate clothing. Black turtlenecks, slacks, stocking caps, gloves, and soft soled shoes, all at the suggestion of Jet, although only he elected to don faceblack. His forebears in this motley crew tried to pass these adornments as a waste of time, but Jet insisted due to the unknown and possibly volatile nature of the situation they might find themselves in; the rescue would only bring about the unexpected, and the best they could do would be to be prepared.
Now, the four thus cloaked figures stand at the threshold of the eerie, desolate quarters, buffeted by gritty wind, not knowing they perch on the precipice of madness, the brink of the mind of Mickey Dragon.
Each man carries a weapon. Nothing lethal in the hands of an amateur, of course; unknown subordinates of Dragon may need to be subdued, but not killed, although Jet's comrades may feel otherwise once they see the horrors visited upon Jezebel.
Jet's hand tightens on the taser he has brought along, hoping to deliver retribution to one Doctor Torres, and he glances over his shoulder at the massive Salem, who brandishes a railroad spike in each hand, one turned either way, to deliver the maximum potential of the weapon both as a piercing implement and a bludgeoning instrument. There was a bit of a tiff between Salem and Jet when it came to who was going to lead the charge into the building, but Nathan came through, reminding Salem that, due to his massive size, he would be blocking the view of his allies should he be the engineer of their entrance. He settled for third place, leaving only one person to bring up the rear and be the eyes in the back. Nathan himself carries a full draught of Jameson, his earlier explanation only being that, should they meet with resistance, he'd send a message in a bottle to Dragon. His intense and serious stare as he confessed the reasons behind his choice brought only confused looks, a scratch of the head, and a facepalm from KvK. Little does Nate realize that it's a message that will never be delivered.
KvK, the designated eyes-in-the-back, isn't going in for subtlety, and he is zwiehanding a twelve pound sledgehammer in place of his customary clawhammer. As Jet mentally checks off the last of his partners-through-circumstance, he thanks his lucky stars that KvK was able to come out of his injury in time for Jet's true debut match. In a tag team match, although he doesn't particularly care for or trust Klaus, Jet couldn't count on a better partner. Salem's mind is understandably distracted, as evidenced by his attacks on the remaining members of the Covenant which turned up fruitless, and Korpi is still quite green. KvK shares no lack of concern for the well being of Jet's sister, and in this they are equals, but he is probably the most focused in his insanity, and can be counted on to show up mentally as well as physically.
Jet's mind momentarily wanders to the upcoming bout. Now, knee deep in the den of the very thieves and madmen he so recently abhorred and decried aloud, he is forced to shoulder the responsibilities that come with the protection of his sister. And that means reporting for duty against the endless parade of degenerates his forced contract subjects him to. The requisite research on their opponents turned up little of use. He just doesn't have the time needed to go over their histories and develop a lasting degradation to rake them over the coals in promo form as is the habit and practice in this arena. He could find little more than evidence of a straight man/funny man act; one Alex Kiseragi, sporting a nickname never before used by any Asian known to man, given to over the top seriousness, and one Brandon Brown, given to over the top partying and antics and even claiming a man of a different race as a family member. Even a man as far from a mark as Jet Somers recognizes these predetermined molds in the professional wrestling universe, and their stereotypes fold easily under pure talent. That's all the information a quick search could turn up. No matter. He'll bring the required intensity and experience as he would in an MMA fight, and together he and his moral opposite KvK will bring them to task.
Enough introspection and guessing for the future... the time has come to breach the hull of this ghost ship on an ocean of sand, and brave the world of the unknown.
----------
Interior: Hallway. So long as to be foreboding simply to gaze down. The very measure of it lends thought to pathways into madness, each of the many doors leading to myriad nightmares ad infinitum, should the mind be allowed to follow it's natural and all too human course along the crash course of imagination. Silence is the understood tyrant here, only silence, save for a constant, low whirring. That whirring is nearly at the bottom of human perception, and our heroes won't notice it at first. At the end of this hallway the terminus is marked by a heavy exterior door. Imposing as it seems, it is no match for the practiced kick of a seasoned Muay Thai kickboxer, and the silence is shattered when Jet Somers crashes uncermoniously through it, rolling into a crouch to the right, flattening himself againts the north wall. Korpi dives in, covering the south wall. Barrelling in next comes Salem, huffing like steam engine possessed. Eyes dart left and right, looking for purchase, begging for satisfaction... if not his love, then some victim in the night to receive his vengeance. KvK backs in slowly, tossing head patiently scanning the intimidating and arid landscape outside one last time.
Wasting no time, once the hallway is secured, the men spread out and begin to throw open doors, frantic for their fallen Jezebel.
----------
Having spent the most time with the Covenant, KvK has seen acts so heinous they would turn the normal man's stomach. Working with the slackers and ne'er-do-wells of the world, and having to rise above them to overpower multitudes of them at a time, Nate has had to resort to guerilla and mercenary tactics at times to keep himself and his brothers in his former business from ending up on a hospital gurney, or worse, a slab with a toe tag. Salem, tormented his life long by demons inside and out, living a hell that perhaps only one other man in GIW, let alone the world, would understand, looks out from behind a mask that hides his tended horrors from a world that would never understand them. Jet has made more than one circuit of the world during his career, and in the less civilized, dark crevices of humanity, especially in those given to brutal fighting as entertainment, he has witnessed his fair share of the depths of man's depravity. But nothing, separately or collectively, could have prepared them for what they would find in these rooms of ruin.
----------
Door opens; Salem stumbles into a well lit room. Inside is a monstrosity of an aquarium. Chains attached to wrists, neck, and ankles suspend upside down the body of some poor child, back to the door, hair shaved into androgeny, skin bleached white by water-logging. Shallow breaths, along with vital equipment, show the child to be very much alive. A digital timer on the side of the tank has just reached it's finale, and the child utters a whimper before being plunged headfirst into the tank. The water is dirty, and the room stinks of it's stagnation, and much of it sloshes over the side of the tank at the unholy mechanical baptism. As the flood washes toward the toes of Salem's boots, he shuffles backwards, too stunned to react otherwise. An analog timer begins at 3:20, and as the big man watches, the child begins to fight at around ten seconds left. When the analog runs out, the chains drag the suffering body from the water into glorious air again. The child hitches a few times, trying to fight down panic. It seems no notice has been taken of the interloper. Salem watches in horror as the digital timer, the one timing the child's period of rest, resets to ten minutes, and then all support goes out of his knees and he swoons against the doorframe as the analog timer, the one that times the child's torment, resets itself to 3:30. Salem is hypnotized by the counting down of the digital clock, but the sound of breaking glass snaps his attention back to the task at hand, and he knows to waste time freeing the child, who isn't in mortal danger, per se, could spell Jezebel's death. He remembers that the lack of communication from Dragon lately has had them all on edge, and the former panic which sped him along returns, and he backs regrettably into the hallway. It's all he can do to turn away from the child. As he does, he hears the whirring.
---------
Door opens; Jet steps gingerly into a dim room. He immediately flattens himself against the door, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light. Instinct takes over, and before he realizes it, he is focused on a heap in the center of the room. Wheels, cranks, and gears of all sizes appear under the figure as the gloom gathers itself in his retinas, and realization dawns upon him. Jet makes a cautious advance, his mind putting the puzzling machine together before his disbelieving eyes can take it all in. The machine was designed to test the limits of the human musculoskeletal system. Each joint, every socket, has been stretched, bent, twisted, rotated, and in some cases compressed. This is the extrapolation of every compression lock and pain compliance hold he has ever been taught in his training, and it goes beyond that a hundredfold. There are machinations of the human system that only the mind of genius, or the designs of insanity could have conceived. Knowing what he does about the limits of the body, he knows that person in good shape could bear this torture and still come out more or less intact. Sadly, this overweight man was anything but in shape, and he has been stretched beyond his capabilities to survive the shock. Jet reaches out to close the poor victim's eyes, but just before he touches the corpse, the sound of breaking glass startles him out of his sorrow for this unknown soul. He snaps around, remembering Jezebel. Nothing can be done for this poor fat man, and Jet remembers to focus on the task at hand. That's when he hears the whirring.
----------
Door opens; KvK walks into a brick wall of stench so palpable he actually switches his sledgehammer to one hand and puts the empty one in front of his face as if to push through the aroma of human waste. Hanging just inside the door are a pair of goggles. He shrugs, throwing caution to the wind, and straps them on. Predictably, they are night vision goggles. He smirks, wondering what sort of kooky bullshit mindfuck Dragon has dreamed up this time that requires such a technological aide. The smirk dies on his lips. Before him is a simple bed, one that might have appeared in a late World War II field hospital. On the bed, covered in sores, maggots, flies, and earthworms, lies the twisted form of a human being. Her matted hair cascades to the floor, tangling around the bedposts, crawling with cockroaches. Her hands, shackled to the frame, are set off by nails so long that they reach past the manacles. The nails are black. Defecation and urine swim together in a pool beneath the bed, the final stop from the trickle climbing it's way down the dragging bedsheet. Following it's backtrail, KvK looks in horror upon the soft spot in the bed mattress that is actually rotting away beneath the woman's posterior--if you can call bone jutting through stretched skin so malnourished she looks like a holocaust victim a posterior--rotting away from the chemicals in her untamed bladder emptying and bowel movements. The back of her hospital gown is soaked through with her waste, and her legs are covered in it, furrowed in it to be honest. A twitching in catches KvK's eyes, and he notices the feeding tube, that machine which keeps her alive despite her slovenly captivity. Truly a soul forgotten lies here, and when her cataracted eyeballs swivel in fear toward KvK, he's had all he can take, and he sinks to his knees to promptly lose his lunch right there in the doorway. He dry wretches, the planted sledge the only support keeping him from going over face first on the cold floor. He loses himself in his stomach lurching for a few moments, but the sound of breaking glass brings him back around, and he regains control of his convulsing insides. Using the sledgehammer to raise himself to his feet, he suddenly hears the whirring.
----------
Salem, Jet, and KvK rush out to a pooling puddle of Jameson whiskey on the floor of the hallway. Broken glass litters the floor around the feet of Nathan Korpi, who stands grasping the doorknob of the room he had just recently entered, obviously pulled back closed in a hurry. Korpi rests his head against the wood of the door, dragging gasps of air into his lungs. A single tear escapes from his left eye, the vision of horror he just experienced escaping his sight finally.
"Nate? Nate!" KvK snaps near Korpi's face. "What is it? What'd you see?"
Nathan shakes his head, "Nothing, man. Hey, you got a cigarette?"
To everyone's surprise, Nate is serious about the request as he raises his head from the only barrier between him and a nightmare he wasn't ready for. KvK looks around at the rest of his allies as he shrugs and hands Nathan a stick of instant cancer. Salem presses a lighter into his hand, and pats him on the back.
"Come on, man, you'll be ok," Jet reassures him. "Let's go find Jez."
Each man nods, but they all steal glances into the rooms the others had been exploring. Wide eyes are followed by quick shying away from all four men.
"What is that whirring sound?" Nate asks. He lights the cigarette, grimaces, then tosses it away. It rolls unnoticed toward the puddle.
"Wait a minute," Salem says. "Didn't Mickey have Jez on a dialysis machine?"
Realization dawns on everyone's faces as they unanimously make the snap decision. They are off down the hallway as if shot from a gun, and they barrel into the door of the room where the whirring is obviously originating. The door splinters on impact, and each man freezes for a split second and the earth stops turning.
Jezebel is slumped over in an armchair. Bruises, blood, contusions, and glass cover her lithe form. Her hair, slick with sweat and glistening a bloody red, is pulled back from her face. She is unresponsive as each man comes out of his trance and begins to call to her. The scramble across the room seems to take miles as they surround her chair. A scant tv dinner sits on a spindle legged table next to the chair, barely picked over. It is several days old, indicating abandonment at mealtime. All around are various Rorshach cards, some all the way across the room as if flung away in frustration. Limp electrodes on the floor lead to an ancient sine-wave ECT machine, and while the obvious smell of charred flesh isn't apparant, perhaps faded over the last few days, there are still burn marks on Jezebel's skin, most notably around her temples, and a much chewed bit lays on the table next to the tray. Also on the table are rubber gloves, the kind you'd use to clean superhot cooking equipment, the kind that go all the way up to the elbow. These are filled with shards of glass and not a little bit of blood. There is a lot of ketamine on the table, and since her eyes are taped open, the guys assume she is awake but catatonic. A quick examination of Jezebel reveals her to be alive, but she is suffering from multiply breaks in her nose and collar bones. Blood seeps from her right ear. Her hands are mutilated, and it looks like both shoulders are dislocated, along with her left knee being shattered. Jet moves in for a closer inspection, and he begins to tremble as he sees tell tale signs. Bleached and waterlogged skin. She's been in the aquarium. He checks, and sure enough, he can see marks from the stretching machine. He ignores the obvious smells coming from the chair. Carefully, he checks her spine leading up to her neck, and that's when he notices the headphones.
He gently pulls them off and holds them up to his own ears to hear such niceties in Dragon's voice as "Salem is fucking Sherry. Jet molested Havyn on her fourth birthday. Raenius couldn't handle the rejection of your friendship, and he has killed Syn and Nyx, finding no solace in the companionship of women. Jerry has connections in a major crime syndicate, and his partners are searching for you. They've already killed a large portion of your family. Do you ever even check on your family? Do you care? Do they care about you? They've forgotten you. You are out of their way now, and no one is ever coming for you, Mommy. You're all mine. "
Jet yanks the headphones out of the looping CD player and grabs both to sling them across the room. The tinny sound of Dragon's voice died quickly, and the CD player follows quickly.
"Let's get her out of her," he demands.
It takes a few moments, but they get her unhooked from the dialysis machine and more or less patched up using their own black clothes. Salem carefully lifts her up, a tattered black rag doll, and they turn to see the flames licking at the doorway.
"Nate, what happened to that cigarette?" Jet asks.
"Uh..." is his only response.
"Oh you fucking moron," KvK intones.
Three of the men rush for the small window in the room, but Jet is racing for the door.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Salem asks.
"There are other live victims here, we have to get them out," Jet reminds the rest of the crew.
"Fuck them, they are as good as dead, probably better off!" KvK screams at the determined Jet. He seems callous, but his voice is choked with emotion.
"I can't leave them," Jet turns to exit the room. KvK and Nate turn to Salem, who is already struggling to kick the window out. He looks at the doorway, where Jet is now using his hat to cover his mouth and nostrils and looking for an opening.
"If we leave him behind, and he dies," Salem warns, "She'll wish we'd have left her instead. Trust me on this."
KvK and Nate share a look, a sigh of resignation, and shake their heads. They change direction and head for the doorway. KvK makes quick work of it, tapping Jet hard enough at the base of the skull with the sledge to take him to his knees. He and Nate each duck a shoulder and begin dragging him toward the window. Salem nods, then turns back to kick the window all the way out.
----------
The dirty winds tapering around the pit feed the flames as the bunker is swallowed by the very Hell that conceived it. It's victims are too wasted to cry out in agony or for help; maybe they even welcome the embrace of the flames, a catharsis delivering them from the purgatory they were subjected to here in America's forgotten badlands.
Three figures, carrying two more, march across the desert hardpan toward wherever they have parked, lost somewhere along Route 50, the United States' loneliest highway.
x2