Sketchy images from the previous evening crawled reluctantly through my head. Pulling my weight so that it rested differently in the seat, I put my feet on the steering wheel and closed my eyes. Though the process was sluggish and required concentration, I did my best to replay last night in my mind. My stomach muscles contracted with fear and the wound there twinged.
Somehow, even though I tried to picture it from almost the very beginning, everything snapped back to just before the time I had heard the Voice. I really wanted to skip this bit, but my own curiosity was drawing me in with ominous inevitability.
I could feel the cool metal plating leaning against my back. It made the even slices below and above my shoulder blades burn, but fear kept my thoughts elsewhere, helping me ignore the pain from there and my left leg. I remember looking down and checking my gun. Three bullets left. But it mattered not; a thousand bullets couldn't have stopped what was coming.
At this point I think I raised my arm, stroking gently the iron wall. My hand left a runny trail of blood on the flat surface. When my arm stopped moving I looked at my hand, taking note of the old scars and new openings, as yet more blood trickled down my wrist. I was about to sigh when I heard the footsteps. Footsteps I had never hoped to hear again, whilst at the same time I had half expected.
Every pound echoed on the floor, at perhaps the same pace a heartbeat would. Clunk-clunk. An uneven pulse that caused my adrenalin and fear levels to skyrocket. I noticed other sounds too, a dripping noise and a nearly unnoticable high-pitched screech of metal on metal. It was dragging something along with it, but I had no time to wonder what.
A dark hand wrapped it's fingers round the corner of the iron wall. It was even bloodier than mine, and made a slight squelch when the fingers tightened their grip. Then my attacker spoke in a high, half-laugh half-scream.