Saxon stands over her, chest heaving, the red mark of his hand standing stark on Nora's pale cheek. Her eyes are wide, the pools of madness receding momentarily in the shock of the impact. The slap is a punctuation, a full stop to the sentence of hysteria she had been writing with her screams.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
My heart races, each beat a hammer against my chest, a clock ticking down to our inevitable end. Henley's wheezing is a gurgling accompaniment, the sound of life slipping away. The metallic scent of his blood fills my nostrils, a reminder of the fragility of our existence.
Saxon turns, his eyes scanning each of us, lingering on me. They are the eyes of someone who has stared into the abyss so long, they carry a piece of it within them. He's seen things, things that would break most men, but here he stands, unbroken. Or maybe he is broken, in ways that are not so easily seen.
"We stay silent. We move quickly," he says, each word a command, a lifeline thrown in the tumultuous sea of our panic.
I nod, the motion mechanical. My baton is still in my hand, slick with the sweat of my palm. It's as though I'm holding on to it for life, the only solid thing in a world that's spiraling into chaos.
We gather ourselves, each in our own way. Henley's face is ashen, his lips moving in a silent prayer or curse—I can't tell which. Nora is quieter now, her body still heaving with silent sobs, the echo of her screams still haunting the space between us.
The plan is foolhardy, desperate. We have to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the Vault, avoid the other monstrosities that have surely infiltrated the building, and retrieve Saxon's artifact. It's a plan that reeks of desperation and death, but it's all we have.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
My heartbeat is a drum, a call to arms in the silence that follows Nora's outburst. The building groans, the sound of its agony lost in the void outside.
Scratch-scratch. The monster's claws seem to be getting louder, more insistent, as if it senses the shift within us. Or perhaps it's my imagination, the edges of my sanity frayed and worn, interpreting every sound as a harbinger of our doom.
The flicker of the emergency lights casts our shadows on the walls, a grotesque puppet show of our impending flight. I see the shadows twist and elongate, dancing to a tune that's inaudible but felt in the marrow of my bones.
"We move on three," Saxon whispers, his voice a steel thread in the darkness. "One..."
My muscles tense, the baton a useless talisman in my grip.
"Two..."
Nora's breath is a hiss, the sound of a cornered animal.
"Three."
We lurch into action, a symphony of quiet desperation. Our feet pad against the cold floor, our movements shadows of shadows as we make for the door that leads to the labyrinth beyond.
The monster's screech tears through the building, a sound that is both a lament and a warning. It's the sound of the world ending, the sound of reality tearing at the seams.
We sprint, our footsteps a staccato rhythm in the oppressive silence of the Vault. Each slam of a door echoes like a gunshot, a grim percussion to the cacophony of our escape. Henley staggers between us, his severed arm wrapped in a makeshift tourniquet that does little to stem the flow of blood that slips, warm and slick, between my fingers as I support him. His wheezing breaths are wet, bubbling with the effort to stay conscious, to stay alive.
Scratch-scratch-scratch. The monster's claws on the steel walls follow us, an ever-present reminder of the death that stalks us through these metal intestines.
"Through here," Saxon commands, his voice barely above a whisper, edged with the steel of a man holding onto sanity by a thread. The door in front of us looks strong, reinforced, promising a momentary reprieve.
We pile in, the sound of our heaving breaths loud in the sudden quiet as Saxon secures the door behind us. Henley collapses against the wall, his good hand clutching at the bloody rag around the stump of his other arm. The squelch and drip of his lifeblood is a morbid metronome, keeping time with our ragged breaths.
Nora is a ghost of herself, her eyes vacant, her lips moving in silent recitation, perhaps of memories or prayers—sanctuary against the horror that enfolds us. I feel the tightness in my own chest, the creeping tendrils of panic that threaten to burst forth.
There is a loud creaking roar that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, the building itself protesting against the nightmare that fills its halls. The sound is almost mechanical, a tortured metal scream that reverberates through the room and into our very bones.
I press my back against the cold steel wall, trying to ground myself in the reality of its solidness. My baton, once a comforting weight in my hand, now feels like the last vestige of a world that no longer exists.
Saxon is talking, laying out the path to the artifact room. "Two more rooms... just two more," he says, though his voice sounds distant, as if filtered through water. I catch only pieces, my focus narrowing as the walls seem to press in closer.
Screeeech. The sound of something sharp dragging against the other side of the door sends a shiver down my spine. We freeze. It's here.
I can feel my mind bending, twisting under the strain of the relentless terror. The darkness nibbles at the edges of my sanity, whispers of shadows filling my thoughts with dread. The room feels smaller, the air thicker, and for a moment, I can't tell if the blackness I see is my eyes closed or the void around us.
Henley's moans are low, guttural, a soundtrack to the nightmare. Saxon's hand signals are sharp, his face a mask of determination and barely concealed fear. Nora's nails dig into her palms, her knuckles white with the effort to remain silent, to remain unseen.
We move again, the plan etched into our actions. Room to room, each one a gauntlet, each one a step closer to salvation—or damnation. Our bloodied footprints are a macabre trail on the sterile floors, a testament to our struggle, our pain.
Crash! The sound of something heavy hitting a door we just passed. We don't look back, we can't. The artifact room beckons with a false promise of safety.
My heart no longer thumps; it screams in my chest, a howl of the damned. Henley's blood is a constant, a wet reminder of our mortality that I can taste in the air, metallic and suffocating.
The corridor erupts into chaos as a second creature emerges from the shadows, its form a grotesque parody of nature. It's a pulsating mass of flesh, slick with blood and viscera, with a maw that yawns open like a chasm to hell. No eyes grace its head, just the slick sheen of skin stretched tight over where they should be. Its tail, thin and sharp as a scythe, whips back and forth with a sickening wet slice through the air.
A visceral scream tears from my throat, unbidden, raw—the sound of primal fear that has no place in the civilized world. Henley, poor Henley, his life already a thread about to snap, becomes the scapegoat of our terror. Nora, with a wild look I barely recognize, shoves his faltering body toward the beast. The monster descends upon him with a frenzy, the sounds of rending flesh and snapping bone a symphony of nightmares.
Panic fractures us, and in the ensuing scramble, we scatter like leaves in a tempest, each to our own fate.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
I, Nora, am running—my breath comes in sharp, stabbing gulps, my mind a whirlwind of terror and guilt. The steel doors are my lifeline, each one I slam behind me a temporary barrier between life and the gaping jaws of death. But the monster is relentless, its tail finding purchase in the narrowing gap of a closing door, wrenching it open with a sound of tearing metal that threatens to tear open the fabric of my sanity.
My heart is a traitor, thudding so loudly I'm certain it's a beacon, calling the creature to me. I dive under a table, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to make myself small, invisible. The room is a tomb, and I am the unquiet dead, my sobs choked whispers, my prayers fervent and silent.
The creature roams, its presence a physical weight in the air. Its tail drags across the floor with a sound like a knife sharpening, and its breath is a gurgling rumble that speaks of endless hunger. I can smell the stench of it, like decay and copper, a smell that clings to the inside of my nostrils and coats my tongue.
I dare not move, dare not breathe, as its searching becomes more frantic, the destruction it leaves in its wake a testament to its fury. The steel door lies broken, a testament to the futility of our attempts at safety.
My mind is fraying, each moment stretching into an eternity, each sound a tolling bell that heralds my end. The edges of my vision grow dark, not from the absence of light, but from the encroaching madness that wraps its fingers around my throat.
The creature's tail slithers closer, a promise of pain and oblivion. I press my hand to my mouth to stifle the scream that threatens to escape, tears carving pathways through the grime on my face.
It's near, too near. I can feel the air move as it searches, can hear the wet slap of its flesh against the ground. My prayers become a mantra, a last bastion against the darkness that is about to consume me.
★ ★
Nora's breath is a fragile shield, holding back the flood of terror that threatens to break her. The taste of copper and fear coats her tongue as she chokes back her sobs. Each thought is a desperate plea flung into the void, hoping for a miracle, for salvation. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, I don't want to die," she whispers, her voice a shattered melody of despair. "I have a life, I don't deserve this."
Henley's fate—her doing—haunts her, a specter of her shattered morality. The guilt is a vise around her heart, squeezing with each frantic thump-thump-thump. "Please, God, oh please, don't let me die. I beg any god who can hear me, please save me! I want to live my life!" Her words are fervent, a litany against the inexorable approach of death.
Her thoughts turn venomous, bile rising in her throat. It's the hunter's fault, Saxon's fault, with his hollow promises and dangerous quests. His artifact, their doom. The unfairness of it all wells up inside her, a hot, angry sob that she suppresses until her whole body shakes with it.
Suddenly, a cold, wet sensation slithers around her ankle. She's yanked out from her meager sanctuary, dangling upside down, her world upended in an instant. The monster's tail, like a grotesque appendage of judgment, holds her aloft.
Creak... creak... the sound of the monster's joints articulating, a nightmarish orchestra tuning for the final performance. It moves closer, its stench enveloping her, the smell of the grave. "No, no, no! I don't deserve this," she cries out, her words laced with the dawning realization of her end.
The creature's gaping maw approaches, a cavern of glistening teeth and putrid breath. Its tongue, a slab of diseased flesh, flicks out, tasting the air around her. The cold, clammy touch of it brushes against her skin, a harbinger of the horror to come.
Creeeak... it groans, an alien sound that chills her blood, a noise not meant for human ears. The monster's breath is a rancid gust, washing over her as it examines its prey.
Nora's pleas turn to primal screams, her voice raw, as the creature's tail tightens its grip. She thrashes, a futile struggle against the inevitable. Tears streak down her temples, mingling with the blood rushing to her head, as her life becomes a chaotic whirl of images and disjointed thoughts.
The monster's mouth opens wider, a portal to oblivion, and with a sickening crunch, it descends upon her. The pain is explosive, an eruption of agony that obliterates thought. She hears the sound of her flesh tearing, the grotesque gurgle of her blood flooding her airways. The world spins, a carousel of madness as her vision fills with the blinding red of her own blood.
Then, a thud—her head hits the ground, a detached observer to the horror of her body being devoured. Her sight, now a fading tunnel, catches glimpses of the creature ravaging what's left of her, the wet schluck-schluck-schluck of it feasting.
The sounds of the Vault—the metallic echo of her severed head rolling, the drip-drip-drip of her blood pooling—meld with the fading beats of her heart. In these last moments, the darkness closes in, and Nora's world is reduced to the cold, hard reality of steel and blood, her last breath a whispered apology to a world she's no longer a part of.