Falling into the Siphon; [09]

Few people notice the absence of Victor Lewis, an Urbex that targets one building a month, taking pictures and recording video. Two weeks ago, he targeted an abandoned mall, and told friends of his plans – only they made the connection to his plans and disappearance, and share it on a small local forum. As the rumors spread, more follow after Victor’s footsteps.

Mature | Death; Body mutilation; Body horror;

How long have I been walking along these walls?

Every step heaves me deeper into the dark, taking me around from the dying camp to the dying teenagers. Their eyes, always watching and waiting, they can barely speak but I hear them whispering for death. They plead to me each time I come around, sobbing in strained tones.

Kill us, please, everything hurts.

They are too much like me – I walk past them again.

All of them whisper to me, all except the decomposing Chip with a hole in the back of his head. Flies hover around the bent over bloat that he became, completely solid and clothing stained dark from the off-white it once was. The flashlights went out a long time ago, still sitting among their bodies.

The shadow of their spilt blood covers the ground, heaving with each sudden choke or squirt of blood. Something could be taking form, both areas covered in blood within a perfect circle – but  how can I trust my eyes anymore? People, torn to shreds, bloody and torn, they are still breathing, sobbing.

Why isn’t anyone else like Chip?

I stumble around from one mass murder to the other, leading a dark trail away from the side walls and into what once was a camp of homeless, or runaways I begin to figure. The young woman, her body strung over ashes and her stomach completely stripped, she’s the first one I see the face of. A bullet hole leaks down her strung face, her lips whispering for some peace – death.

A chair still sits among the spilt blood, not far from the young girl.

It is light enough to pick up, and I use it as a crutch to wander back to her.

Standing at her side, almost on top of her torn out intestines and liver, I take the chair between two hands and stare at her. She’s still whispering. “Please don’t, please,” in the state she’s in, why would she want to stay alive?

I swing down at her face. Lifting it back over my head, as blood drips down from the seat, I swing it again, and again, and again. She’s still crying, pleading for me to stop. Stop, she cries, and I swing the chair down, there’s a crack. I pull it back, blood drips down, and she’s still crying, asking for me to stop. Stop. Crack. Lift. Again and again, I bludgeon her. My eyes stay closed, listening for each plea come from her mouth, and again I swing down. Each cry leads to the crunching of her head, the crunching of her mangled arms, and the crunching of each hope that there is some way to end this.

It only stops when my arms give out.

I put it back on the floor behind me and sit on it, feeling my stomach twist into a knot and jerk. She’s still alive – crying, pleading, bleeding. Oh god what have I done.

Her face is completely smashed, her teeth lay scattered on the floor.

The blood in her face pulses through skin turned black and blue before dripping free in the massive gashes in her forehead and cheek. Clumps of her hair and skull lay off to the side, swimming. A second clutch in my stomach makes me hold it, double over, and feel the rush of blood and bullet shells coming back up. The copper taste stings what remains of my tongue and the bullets clang against my teeth.

She’s still fucking sobbing, pleading for life and death – in the same breath.

I have to get up and walk away, holding my stomach and my face. Why did I try to kill her, Why did I not try to help her. Oh god, someone, help me, help them.

Stumbling through the darkness I pull at my face, dig my fingers down deep into the hole perched on my chest. It’s tight, I feel the heaving breaths and the blood bubbling past my fingers, and I loop a finger into my lung and pull.

Pain surges through and I collapse, coughing and gagging on the rushing blood. Spasms force me on my back, blood pooling in the back of my mouth. I put another finger into my lung, one from the other hand, and try to pull it open. Another spasm of pain, choking on blood, forced to pull them out. Blood from the pool in my lung that was once trapped by intruding fingers pours out as I roll over, holding my arms against the floor and my head upon them.

Heaving, gasping, I sit there.

I’m a fucking disgusting mess.

A huge fucking mess of blood and bile.

A biohazard, a goddamn toxic dump.

Oh god, please let all of this end.

In the distance I hear a man shouting, two of them, and a gunshot, a scream.

It’s not my fucking problem. It’s not my problem.

And I still drag myself up against a pillar, pulling myself over to the dim light coming through the staircase. I hear more sobbing, someone crying for help, another person telling the crier to shut the fuck up. Each step up the stairs takes all the strength I have, and then some. The sobbing fades out but the soft pleading remains, a voice holding thick dominance still remains. At the top of the stairs my knees strain to stay upright, but they continue to work me around the glass fencing and through the mall, towards the crying and the shouting. Each sickening bloody step brings me closer to storefront mostly blocked with wood boards and graffiti, one pointing to the broken window and into what would be an empty store.

My first step lands into a pool of blood, the second hit a body, and the third stood on top of the dead man. The crying and the shouting was deeper in the skeleton of a store, a light beaming out of another room. I could hear someone whimpering, crying ‘please’, ‘stop’, over and over.

“Shut the fuck up!” shouted the voice of a man, and the first person, a guy, screamed.

“You’re hurting me,” the guy cried, I stumble closer to the door.

“Fuck yeah I am,” the older sounding man yells, the sick sound of an object smacking skin. “I ain’t gonna stop until you tell me where in the fuck has Tyler gone? The fucking shit hasn’t come back and he owes me money!”

Another smack. “I told you I don’t fucking know! He packed up and got out of town. That’s all I know. I swear!”

Rounding the corner and taking a step into the beam of the flashlight on the floor, I watch as the larger guy hits the younger one with a pipe and drops it back onto the floor. In the next step I kick the flashlight across the room, hitting a jar in the darkness. For an instance I can see the scared and bloody face of the teenager sitting against a wall.

“Who the fuck are you,” the man picks up the pipe and takes a step forward before he turns on his small light. When the light comes on, he freezes and I hear a strangled sound come from his throat. “What in the fuck,” he whispers, dropping the light onto the floor and taking his pipe in both hands. “Oh god what the fuck,” his voice is trembling.

I force myself to take a step forward and blood drips from my mouth, “Ge-“ I force out.

He takes a step back, the pipe held out before him. “Get the fuck away!”

“Out-“ I choke and cough.

“Get,” I take a step, spit out blood.

The fucking guy won’t move, he’s still holding the pipe.

“Out,”  bubbles make their way across the side of my neck.

Why the fuck is he still standing there.

“Ge-“ he slams me in the head. I wish I where dead.

Pain just pulses from the impact it made to the side of my head, hearing the crunching is a whole lot worse. I kneel down, holding it, spitting out the few teeth that were still attached – then a jolt of pain races through my arm and my body lunges forward, cutting him with jutting finger bones through his stomach. His screams and then his cries consume the darkness, cursing in whispers and trying to stand.

You stupid shit.

“I,” my voice croaks, I spit out a tooth. “T-olddd,” the pain in my head spikes and I fall onto my knees, hands against my face, “youuuu.’ The guy sobs, trying to pull himself together in the realization his kidneys are gone, his liver torn, his intestines spread out over his knees.

“Oh god, please no,” he’s sobbing, choking, coughing.

The teenager is still sitting there, stunned silent staring at the sobbing heap of a man that, a few minutes ago, was knocking him around with a pipe. I don’t move, except to spit the blood pooling behind my tongue. I don’t want him to be like me – what if it spreads on contact; what then?

“G-goooo,” I gargle, forcing myself up and away from the exit. “N…” bubbles roll down my chest, “ooooooow.” He doesn’t even attempt to move, only lays there staring. That silence rolls out so long that I have to collapse back on the floor, landing beside the pipe-guy. It’s broken by the chuckling of the teenager.

“I, I can’t move my legs,” He’s desperate “I’m going to fucking die here, aren’t I?”

I struggle back onto my feet, croaking out, “s-oooooooooorry.” He’s still silent while I stumble out of the room, half of my face still feeling numb from the metal that kissed it. Musky light from outside the store exposed the body lying across the entrance, a knife gleaming from its post in the guy’s side. They must’ve entered together, know each other somehow.

I pull the corpse by the hem of its shirt, dragging it over shards of glass and scattered papers stained with dust and dirt. He’s heavy, I have to struggle to keep holding on. The teenager is still quiet inside the room – I hoped he passed.

Hope is something I shouldn’t have.

The teenager is still there, still a beaten mess and away when I came near. Even with the dragging and constant dripping of blood, he still looks away, holding something around his neck. I break him from his soft whispering prayer he made below his own breath with the dropping of his friend’s body, the knife handle smacking the floor. “K-kriss?” he’s staring at the corpse, “Oh god, that fucker actually killed you.” He can’t help but look past me, to the crying, blubbering mass still trying to hold himself together. “You fucking piece of shit, I’ll kill you!”

“T…too,” bubbles crawl from my lung and throat, “laaaaaaaate.”

“How the fuck is it too late? He’s fucking still breathing isn’t he!”

I pull the knife out of Kriss’ corpse and drag myself over to the other man, then kneel.

“Please don’t!” the guy cries as I stab him, then pull it back out. “No don’t!” he cries again, and again, and again while he begs for an end. I know far too well the truth, there is no death here. The knife, soaked in blood and glinting in the light of the man’s small chest mounted light, drops onto the floor and sings against the tile.

“T….tooo,” I puke blood again, a tooth falls loose, “laaaaaate.” I stumble back over to the teen, who took the corpse into his arms. “Noooo…” Oh god, why does my heart hurt so much. “Deea-thh.”

“W-what? What do you mean ‘no death’ what kind of bullshit is that?” I begin to wander out, barely listening to the shouting teen telling me to come back – to explain to him – to let him know what the fuck is going on. I don’t even know.

I’m a wandering corpse.

And they are the dying without death.


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