The Hospital

[Laraqua]

His aching fingers crept up to feel around his wounded head. The mere touch sent paroxysms of pain down his spine and he shuddered. His fingers were damp. Blood? He could smell the ash, it cloyed as his nostrils, burned his lungs. He looked around but the world was darkness. His mouth tasted the ash as well and he shuddered again at the thought of what the ash once was. He struggles to sit up, unsteady, not quite sure remembering who he was or how he got here. As he sits, his right leg bangs something that rolls away. He crawls towards the sound, groping around in the dark, shards of broken glass biting his fingers.

He picks up the torch. Switches it on. The beam of light falls across the charred body of a woman that lays a foot ahead, body arched in agony, head removed, sinews and thick cords of blood connecting the torso to something... He plays his light across the gore, tracing it to the head that grins toothily at the ceiling, her lips burnt away. A Chef's Knife is embedded in her chest, in her heart. He realizes that the sinews and cords of blood are moving, slowly retracting, ever so slowly, and that there's a smear of blood behind the head, drag marks, as though it had already moved a foot.

Who was this woman? How long had he been out?

He raises the flashlight to point in further directions. He was in a large room. One of the hallways that lead out from here was covered in a make-shift barricade, as was another length of the room itself he was in. The hollow centre led upwards - it looked like it was once a stairwell. The linoleum was peeled, revealing cement beneath, and it was covered with the glass that landed from the exploded lights overhead. There is a reception desk, covered in posters concerning health. There was a vending machine, several rows of seats.

This wasn't the cinemaplex.

His flashlight roves toward the double doors, then across the stained, pitted walls.

This was the hospital.