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               "We're on an express elevator to Hell, goin' down."

                Hudson, Aliens

                I turn right from the woman’s body, walking down to the next intersection. My steps are a bit wider now, walking on my heels since my toes are too cold to even be in pain. The cold starts to get to me even more because I’ve begun sweating. As I look over my shoulder, glancing behind me just about every time the red lights flash, I can feel the sweat droplets on me, like pins that have frozen in place. Each move sends them sliding sickly down across my skin, only making me colder.

                I come to the next intersection, slowing as I draw near.

                I stop.

                I listen.

                Nothing.

                I check off to the left, then dart my head around to the right.

                Nothing.

                I turn around, looking down the hallway to my right. This was the hallway that he, the big guy, turned down. But he turned to what was might right then, what is straight for me now.

                Looking down the hallway, I see only one turn, and that’s at the far wall.

                My mind comes to a complete stop.

                “Wait, what?” I say quietly, my head tilting in confusion.

                I check around me, then turn and walk towards the far end of the hallway. As I approach the familiar intersection, I see him and them as they lay in piles on the ground. But beyond them, where he turned and walked down to what had been my right, now there’s only a door and a wall.

                I barely even glance down the hallway I had been down, where I woke up. I just reach out and touch the wall.

                It’s real.

                I stare at it.

                “What the hell?” I breathe silently.

                I step back down the first hallway I was exposed to, staring at the wall.

                It’s still a wall.

                “What the . . .” My voice trails off.

                I recognize him and them. I recognize the door I came out of. But I stare at the wall that shouldn’t be. He walked down into a hallway.

                I walk back up to the wall and touch it.

                Still solid.

                I look at the door, feeling the handle. It doesn’t move. I pull out Anton’s wallet and take out the four keycards. I look around the door for a slot, but I don’t see one. So I wave the card with the green triangle in front of the handle.

                Nothing.

                I wave the triangle with the blue handle.

                There’s an unlocking sound.

                And I freeze.

                I don’t move.

                I don’t breathe.

                I listen.

                I listen.

                I listen.

                The door locks back.

                I don’t move.

                I don’t breathe.

                I listen.

                Nothing.

                I breathe out.

Nothing.

                I check behind me.

                Nothing.

                Check to my right.

                Nothing.

                I look back at the door. I swallow with a great deal of trouble. I put my hand on the door handle and pause. I take a deep breath. I try to slide the keycard in front of the handle, but my hand doesn’t want to move. I chuckle to myself. “Sometimes the only thing worse than opening a door out is opening a door in.” I say; the sound of my own whisper seeming alien.

                My hand fights the act, but I finally force it to slide the card over the door.

                Click.

                I push down on the handle and push the door mostly open.

                And the stench is so great, I lose all control.

                I fall back from the door, my entire body convulsing as I vomit explosively. The putrid stink of rotten flesh and stale blood pours out from the lab like a viscous soup that creeps across the stale frigid air like the specter of death.

                I stand up from the pool of my empty stomach and cover my face with my arm. Inside the door is a lab. The florescent lights broadcast the tragedy as bodies lay across the tables, vials of chemicals litter the floor, while expensive equipment is shattered on the ground.

                I stand still, holding my breath.

                Nothing moves.

                I look for any of the monsters like him or them. But I don’t see anything.

I enter the room, being wary of my every step. I pan off to the right, then the left. I lower my arm, the stench still foul and ever-present. The room is wider than most of my college classrooms, with familiar black-topped science tables filled with vials and beakers of all types of liquid.

                The bodies are all torn apart. Backs ripped free. Chests torn clean. Rib cages sprayed open like fruits. Limbs torn off.

                Blood mixes with the chemicals indiscriminately.

                I enter further into the room, staring at the ground as much as I try to take in the scene. The cold air keeps the bodies somewhat fresh, their blue skin only matching off with their white lab coats and off-white walls and tabling.

                I come to the first table, seeing a binder. A man’s lying on the ground in front of it, his hand reaching for it. I look at the black binder and open it up.

                “They have to eat what dies. They’re bodies are decomposing. They’re after our bodies!”

                I stare at the words written in hasty letters. I look down at the man at my feet. He doesn’t look much older than me. His hair is frosted and he’s got a goatee. “You had the presence of mind to leave this.” I whisper, staring at the binder. “Is this Project 525?” I ask quietly, looking around. “Is this what the Ever-After project was all about?”

                I look back at the door that stands open. I move back over to it, and close it quietly, watching the hallways as I shut it.

                With the door shut and the room closed off, I consider the space. I look down at the scientist reaching for the binder. He looks about my size. I walk over and pick up his foot, holding up my foot against his loafer.

                It might fit.

                I pull his shoe off, then reach down and get the other. I slide my feet into his shoes, wiggling my toes. They’re a bit tight, but they fit. Standing up on them, I feel far more confident on the floors littered with glass and chemicals.

                I turn to the scientist and pick up his right arm, sliding the sleeve of his lab coat off. The edges are dipped in blood, but I try not to mind. When I grab his left arm, the whole limb comes free and his body falls over, the left side of his chest torn open.

                Strangely, the only thing that bothers me is the body moving.

                I stare at his gaping chest wound for a long time, trying to be bothered by it.

                But I’m not.

                I turn away from the gruesome sight in disgust.

                But it’s myself I’m disgusted with.

                I look around at the other scientists, men and women, young and old. I see a man on the ground. His legs are mangled and twisted. But then I see his arm braces. I walk over to him and grab up one of the braces. The modified crutches are aluminum, light but sturdy. I swing the metal pole around like a baseball bat, then twirl it between my fingers like a baton, feeling its heft. With a sigh, I stare down at myself.

                I have keys.

                I have a shirt.

                I have shoes.

                And now I have a weapon.

                And more importantly it seems, if these things are Project 525, I know what they’re after.

                Strangely, that doesn’t bring me any comfort.

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