The Closing

Posted: August 6, 2007 in Crime, Dark, Death, Fan Fiction

This is a piece of writing based off the video game Condemned: Criminal Origins.

I only hear the sound of my own panicked breath and the crunching of glass and debris beneath my feet.I pause every few seconds to make sure that the sounds around me don’t belong to someone else. I haven’t seen a single soul in two hours, but I know they’re hiding from me.
Who are they?
It doesn’t matter.
Paranoia pays off in my business.
I hold my service pistol steady in front of me along with a flashlight that illuminates the path ahead. For the thousandth time I curse myself for only bringing a single clip of ammunition. Nine– no, eight slugs. I check again, just to make sure that they haven’t taken my bullets.
But it works.
I stopped asking myself why I do this long ago, because I still couldn’t find an answer. I’m a field agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation and I spend most of the workday in fear for my life. My specialty is tracking down serial killers, though lately it’s been a wash.This last psycho is nicknamed Jesus, because all of his victims have been crucified in every way imaginable. On crosses, walls, floors…anything.
So far he’s gotten away with it.
The next room I enter is worse than the rest, charred and burnt to a crisp. Several blackened bodies litter the floor, arms outstretched in a plea to whoever might have been there.
The place I was in used to be called a department store, but all it was now was a gateway into hell. A helicopter had dropped me off on the roof, and I had been working my way down through the various levels to finally reach the clothing floor.
Nothing is creepier than the sight of a mannequin standing in a friendly position in a horrifying place. All the mannequins were slightly aged and perhaps a bit charred but otherwise in good condition. Though the mannequins were fairly surreal in the desiccated store, I began to feel a little better with a feeling of a sort of companionship.
Then one of them moved.
Five bullets left.
I had nailed the mannequin in the chest twice and once in the head.
At that point I noticed it was missing an arm and that the stain on the wall behind it was not red but whitish and dusty.
A rat scurried across the floor, obviously startled by the sudden loud noise that I had made. The culprit.
I had wasted three bullets on a rat.
I shrugged it off but could not stop thinking about how those three bullets could make all the difference between life and death.
I continued through the store. Nothing but my own breathing. It appeared that the place was abandoned, but I doubted that.
Nothing more but the crunching of debris beneath me again.
And again.
But now…
An obstacle.
The door in front of me has the knob smashed off. It’s a long shot but it’s possible that Jesus is behind this one. I backtrack a little but until I find a fire axe secured behind a pane of old glass. With the butt of my pistol I smash the glass away from the case, retrieving the tool.
I walk back to the door and smash into it with the axe. Chunks of wood fly back into my face, but I don’t care. Little injuries don’t bother me at all, as I’ve been through worse, much worse.
The door breaks down with a mighty crash, and I cautiously step through.
The first thing that catches my eye is the bloodstain on the wall. It’s old, so it probably has nothing to do with Jesus or anything current. The second thing is the fragments of mirror glinting up at me. Apparently the mirror had been on the back of the door, breaking at the impact of my axe.
All I could think of was the seven years of bad luck I had just received. I’m not superstitious but this thing seemed too coincidental to be anything besides an omen.
I continue through the narrow hallway that leads away from the door. Gun held high and footsteps slow, I round a corner and hear a crashing sound. My eyes automatically flick to the ground, noting a pile of syringes that lay abandoned there.
The crashing was soon joined by a mad set of mumbling– two voices. Shit.
“Excuse me!”
My voice sounds weak and useless, but the junkies stopped gibbering.
“Please let me pass. I mean you no harm, I’m simply here on police business.”
A pause. Did I really think I could reason with druggies?
“Hello? I–”
Another crash and a hideous sound of screeching metal. I panic and pinwheel back to the door but already the junkies are rushing towards me, both of the stinking bums holding pipes torn off the walls and wearing manic expressions of psychotic joy.
I lift my gun.
Two in the chest of one bum and one in his head. The next psychopath charges me with renewed fury and the gun rises again.
The bum is lying on the floor, two gaping holes in his chest. He’s still breathing and upon seeing his chest rise and fall I raise my pistol once more.
I grip the barrel tightly, and a cold sense of purpose and madness embodies me.
The butt of the pistol falls onto his head once, twice, too many times. I pound and smash with all my heart and strength, until a sick sort of popping noise makes me stop.
The noise stops me not only because of its tone, but as though it was a judge’s gavel banging down and down, again and again, sentencing me to this bloodlust forever.
I scream.
The scream lasts a long time, stopped only by my weak throat and the feeling of not being alone again.
It’s not much but it works.
Clapping sounds issue from the darkest corner if the room, and I can only look at the corner and weep as the serial killer known as Jesus creeps out from the shadows.
He doesn’t say anything, just smiles. He has a hammer in one hand and what I must assume is four metal spikes in the other.
Even now the pain blocks out other distractions, like the noise of the nails as they pierce my flesh and secure me to the floor, or even the sounds of Jesus’s footsteps as he walks away from my body.
There is only pain.
And I scream.

  1. lawn says:

    blam blam click ness luke

  2. very nice luke i rally liked it, each story i read gets better and better, youve got talent and its growing, keep it up luke your only getting better

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