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“I have been studying how I may compare this prison where I live unto the world; And, for because the world is populous, and here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it. Yet I’ll hammer it out.”

                King Richard, the Tragedy of King Richard the Second

                They lay Slate down on one of the white tables that line the far right wall. Her body still dangles limply from the pull of the wheel. In the luminescent light of the room, every pain and wince of agony is evident, even to me as I’m held by a single goon on the far side of the room.

                The other goon comes back into the room, carrying a steel briefcase. He hands it to Morcean, who takes the case and lays it down on the table next to Slate. During all of this, the weasel is sliding Slate’s wrists and ankles through the leather straps. Pulling them tight, I can see Slate’s fingers start to go purple almost immediately.

                “Leave her alone.” I whisper.

                Morcean takes out a small syringe and walks over to Slate. He doesn’t do any of the usual precautions as he stabs the syringe directly into her arm. He pumps the clear liquid inside into her arm as she tries to buck. Morcean pulls the syringe free, then grabs Slate’s long hair and slams her head down onto the steel table. “Shut up.” He scolds as he replaces the syringe. He turns back to her and like a cat spreads out over her as he leans over the table. He leans in low; his hard eyes locked on her every move. “Where are the others?” He demands of her.

                I watch Slate’s head turn as she get even more delirious. Her eyes flutter at different speeds, while her head turns a bit. “There . . . there . . .”

                “The others?” Morcean repeats with an annoyed voice, his voice dripping from his mouth as he glares down at her.

                “There . . . the others . . . there are no the . . . others.” Slate stumbles out, her eyes closing. She looks like she’s about to fall asleep, but her body keeps moving like she’s trying to get comfortable on the hard table top.

                Morcean grabs her throat, squeezing hard, forcing her eyes open again. Her cheeks start to get red while her mouth moves without any sound. “What do you mean? Where are the others?” He says, his lips curling up like a rabid dog.

                Slate’s eyes roll over to the wall of the room. “Dead. They’re . . . dead. They’re killed.”

                “Who killed them?” Morcean demanded with slow words, squeezing even tighter.

                Slate’s voice comes out with a collection of wheezing, her words almost unintelligible. “You . . . you . . . did.”

                “You mean,” He asks with a voice of delight, slinking in low, leaning down next to her ear. “That little bunch of squatter punks? That was the whole resistance?”

                “No, no, no resistance.” She said, rolling her eyes again as he head bobs in and out of consciousness. “Just, just, just, just, just . . . just us.”

                Morcean steps back, a surprised, but pleased look on his face. He glances over to the goon that brought him the briefcase. “This is turning out to be a pretty good day.” He looks down at Slate. “You’ve been very helpful. But I need to do a few things.”

                Morcean looks up and glances back at me. “Take them and lock them at the end of the hall. We’ll come get them after I confirm this.”

                The goon grabs me up from behind by my hands, making me tilt forward to keep my arms from being pulled out of their sockets. I’m forced out of the room and into a familiar surgically-white corridor. I’m swiveled right and carted down to a small steel door that looms before me at the far end of the hallway. We pass a few closed doors and the goon shoves me up against the wall. I watch out of the corner of my eye he opens the door and takes a key out from inside the cell room. He grabs me by the back of the neck and shoves me against the inside wall.

                The room is barely a large closet. With two benches barely large enough to even ball up on, the room’s just barely tall enough for me to stand up in. But as soon as I hit the back wall, I hear movement. I look up and I see the other goon thrust Slate in after me.

                I catch her, the door already shutting as we slide gracelessly down to the floor. Darkness surrounds us, leaving only the few haunting slits of light from the top of the door and around the edges to give us any light at all. I try to shift Slate into a more comfortable position, but laying her diagonally is about the only way to give her room to lie down.

                I try to look over the wound by her neck, seeing it still bleed a bit. I look around the cell, but there’s nothing at all in here. Not even a light. I look down at the wound, then close my eyes.

                Bending over Slate, I lick the cut. The scabbed blood is harsh against my skin, but I remember somewhere someone saying that saliva can help clean a wound. And right now, it’s all I’ve got. I pull the tie off her hair, letting it lay down as something close to a pillow. I slide off her shoes and try in any small thing I can to make her comfortable.

                I sit up on the bench next to her, pulling my feet up. I yawn, barely even aware that I do so.

                Sam stood before the mirror. In the infinite darkness all around, the only thing that existed was the mirror that floated in space, the lights surrounding it casting a reflection off his pale face. He breathed in, staring at his own reflection, barely able to recognize the gaunt, hungry face that stared back at him.

                He leaned in close, for the first time noticing the face looked a bit off. He reached up with his fingers, feeling his face. He stared into the mirror’s eyes, leaning in closer.

                The face that stared back looked almost familiar.

                Sam’s eyes went wide.

                His face stared back. But it wasn’t his face. It was the face of a zombie.

                The zombie grabbed the empty frame and shoved it out of the way, leaving him standing alone before Sam. Sam turned and rushed into the darkness. Running as fast as he could, he threw himself with all his might away from the zombie.

                But when he glanced back, the zombie hadn’t moved. And it wasn’t farther away. Sam turned again to run, but now the zombie was right in front of him. It grabbed his throat, its sickly fingers puncturing through the skin of his neck. Blood spilled out over the monster’s arm as it lifted Sam up. He tried to struggle, but the force of the battle caused his skin to give. The rotting muscles and fragile bones gave way and Sam’s head ripped free of his neck, his face falling from his body.

                But he wasn’t dead.

                The head landed, the life draining from his mind. But he glanced up, looking past the darkness and the blurry death that encroached on him. And he watched as the zombie pulled his body close, biting into his flesh. He watched as his own blood spilled out over his body and the zombie’s body as the monster greedily lapped up the spilt blood.

                But it turned.

                Sam’s eyes went wide as the zombie tossed aside the body and bent down. Wide-eyed with delight, the zombie grabbed up Sam’s head, reaching down with its jaws wide.

                “Sam!”

                Slate’s shaking me hard. I look up suddenly, my breath caught shallow in my chest as I try to gasp for air. She falls back from me, sitting exhaustedly on the other bench. Even in the darkness, she looks drained and beaten. I take a moment to slow my breathing down, then I fall back against the bench I half fit on, pulling my legs up until I can lay completely off the floor.

                “You were moaning.” She whispers softly, leaning her head down over her knees.

                “Sorry.” I say, sitting up. “It was a bad dream.” I rub my head, trying to swallow, but my ragged mouth won’t have it. “I feel sick.”

                “I don’t doubt it.” She whispers whispered. “I haven’t had anything to eat since we crashed in the alley.” She looks up. “Did they get you too?”

                “No, I tried to find you. And I got picked up by Morcean’s goons when I broke into the church.” I explain, feeling a bit embarrassed.

                “Dumbass.” She curses, looking away. “When something bad happens, don’t try to fix it. Just get as far away from it as you possibly can.”

                I smile. “Not my style.”

                She’s quiet for a few moments, as she stares at the light coming in from the doorway. I try to look at her, but her hair blocks out the light, keeping her face hidden. “Speaking of style,” She says after a moment, her voice not sounding as tired as her body looks. “What martial art did you study? You look like you know some Escrima.”

                “Arnis, actually.” I say. “With a bit of Wing Chun thrown in. the riding team I’m part of, we study at this gym where we all work out. We collectively pay for private lessons for the whole team, twice a week from each teacher.” I look over at her. “You?”

                “Escrima, along with any other style that came through my gyms in all the years I’ve been working.” She says with a smile. “I’ve studied more styles than I think I could remember. If it was taught at the gym I worked at, I took it.”

                “Sounds cool.” I say, wincing as I lift my foot up, trying to get comfortable. “So, you’ve worked at a gym, lived at a gym, most of your adult life?” I say, trying to keep her talking. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel better.

                “Pretty much.” She smiles. She looks up at the door and shivers a bit. “My shoulders hurt.”

                “I can imagine.”

                “We need to get out of here.” She says, as if the previous conversation was forgotten.

                I smirk. “I’m up to suggestions.”

                Slate looks at me, but says nothing. She starts to consider the room. “Morcean said he’d let us go if we told him what we know. And we did.” I say, almost hopefully.

                “He might let us go,” Slate says. “But he won’t let us live.”

                “You seem to know him pretty well.” I say, sitting up, swinging my legs over the side of the seat. “And he kept asking you about a resistance. Against him?”

                “He seized control of this place almost as soon as they lost contact with Ever-After.” She says. “He owns one of the radio stations and one of the television stations. So he controlled a big source of the news. And when he kind of took control because he became a vampire, well, that just kind of sealed the deal.” Slate shifts, getting comfortable. “A friend of mine was working as a DJ at his radio station and figured out that Morcean was controlling the news and that he was actively trying to keep us from reestablishing contact with the Ever-After Project.”

                “Why didn’t he want to reestablish contact?” I ask.

                “I don’t know.” Slate says. “We tried to find out, but we kept getting hit with dead ends.”

                “Who’s we?”

                “Just some of my friends.” She says. “When we couldn’t make any headway in figuring out what Morcean was after, we decided to make a break for it and either get outside or at least to one of the other bio-domes.”

                “And how many of you were able to get out?” I ask.

                But when Slate’s expression gets remorseful, I realize the truth of what she said earlier on the table.

                “Just me.” She says sadly. She turns away, letting her long hair fall over her face as if to block off any more words.

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