Luca: GunfireMature

Word Count: 855


I wish I knew how long they kept me like that. I was dosed up to the eyeballs with god knows what. Anything that would keep me quiet, by the feel of it. I drifted in and out of consciousness, and when they let me up out of the bed, I ended up face planting the floor more often than not.

“It’s for the safety of the other patients here, Mr. Morgan,” I was told every time I asked; “you were a danger to the health and safety of the unit. You panicked a lot of people the other day with your accusations. You’re safe here, but until you believe that and behave, we have to keep you sedated, okay?”

“I’m sure I didn’t sign up for this,” I mumbled. My only reply was another injection of something into my IV.

I was so heavily sedated most of the time that I was allowed out of my room on my own – they weren’t worried about me kicking off again, not in that sort of state. I was like a fucking zombie, just less murderous than the ones they were breeding and killing off in this unit. I saw it. I wasn’t anywhere near the normal wards anymore; this was where the patients who were a real danger went. I wasn’t the kind of danger they had designed this unit for, but they stuck me there anyway. They were more lax about what I saw here.

It was like watching it all through a window, though, or watching a movie. I was totally detached from it. I shuffled through the corridors from one room to another just to pass the time, seeing patients that were infected, rotting away in their beds, lumps of flesh hanging off them, their eyes blood shot. Some of them were just infected and dying. Some of them had died and come back, and were chained to their beds, locked up in their rooms. Orderlies in this unit wore those biohazard suits, carrying around trays of test tubes filled with lumps of gray flesh.

I didn’t get any sort of protection, no biohazard suit for me. No, I was alright to just wander around in my hospital pajamas. Because I felt so detached from what was going on around me, I pretended that I was in a horror film set. I was just an extra with no lines, and all I had to do was stay out of the way and wait for the nurses to come and look after me.

Only… only one day they stopped coming to look after me. I waited and waited for them, because I wasn’t allowed to leave my room when it was dark. The lights were off in my room, but the hall lights were on. It was odd, but I didn’t think much of it beyond wondering whether I was okay to leave my room or not.

There was this weird noise. It felt like there were pillows over my ears or something – I couldn’t quite make out what it was. Like fireworks or something maybe. I wobbled my way over to the door to find it locked. The IV in my arm tugged as I shook the door handle sluggishly. Glancing around, I saw the drip bag was almost empty. Why weren’t they here? It needed changing, didn’t it? I knocked on the door.

“Anyone?” I croaked. I hadn’t heard the sound of my own voice in what felt like months. I hadn’t needed to speak. I hadn’t felt like it either.

What was that noise? It was gonna do my fucking head in. It was familiar to me. Something I’d heard countless times in the last ten years or so.

It was getting louder and louder and louder until it was right outside my door. I stepped back, my heart beginning to pick up the pace, despite there still being an ungodly amount of drugs in my system. I slid the IV needle out of my arm, barely noticing the blood that dripped out with it.


Gun fire. That's what I was hearing. And now it was in the corridor. All that stood between me and a bullet in my brain was a locked door. Unconsciously, I started holding my breath. I didn't know why they were shooting inside, but I knew it couldn't be good and my instincts were screaming at me to find somewhere to hide.


There was a little bathroom type thing attached to my room.


Muffled groans and shouts and the thud of someone trying to get into my room filled my ears as I shuffled backwards into the bathroom. There was nowhere near as much adrenaline in my veins as there should've been. Fight or flight had kicked in, but I was so sleepy and slow that if my door hadn't been locked, I'd have probably died in there that day.

I locked the bathroom door and slid down to the floor, my hands over my ears, trying to drown out the horrible sounds in the corridor. 

The End

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