Chapter 2

A Chapter by Sean H.

    Brock frantically scanned the room for a way out. There was the air duct, leading back to the dead end hallway, or the door, from which the sound of trampling feet was coming closer and closer. The feet sounded to be right outside the door now. Come on. There’s got to be another way! Just then, he spotted a brown, wooden door, with a small rectangle window in the corner. On the window, black letters read “Medical Supplies”.
   Brock knew it was his only choice. There were men back through the duct and the others in the hallway. Quickly, he pulled open the door to the closet. As soon as it clicked shut, three men entered the room. Brock watched out the window. “Search the room,” one of the men commanded.
   All three of them were dressed the same as the man he had seen before, all in black with Kevlar. Except the one who had given the command had a dark, blood red vest on, most likely signifying him as the leader. The men spread out around the small room, looking under and behind everything.
   One paused and took a full look around the room. “There, the closet!” he shouted.
   Brock’s heart began to race. There was little light in the room, just what came through the window. He could see some of the shelves. There has to be something in here. Bandages, alcohol, needles, test tube. Then he found something. Scalpel! Damn, they keep that kind of stuff in here? He stepped up to the shelf to grab it. As he did, he stepped on a body. He briefly looked down, but there was no time to worry about it. He snatched the surgical blade off of the shelf and removed the cover.
   The door flew open, smashing into the wall behind it. Brock was spotted. He lunged towards the man and raised the scalpel, sticking it into his neck, just at the jugular vein. The soldier (or so he seemed to be) let out a scream. Blood ran down his neck. “B******s got a knife!” he shouted. Brock jabbed the blade in again, just above the waist. The man doubled over in pain. Brock pushed him into the wall and runs out there door, not remembering there are two more.
   As soon as he’s out of the small closet, gunshots begin whizzing past him. He sprinted for the hallway. Just feet from the door, a bullet grazed his arm, tearing the flesh. Pain shot through his arm. He was staggered for a moment but pushed on, knowing he had to get out or he was good as dead. When he reached the hallway there was another room across from this one and the hallway went down to the right. The room is probably another dead end. He turned and ran down the hall. All the way there were bodies. He sprinted as fast as he could, bullets flying past him. The hallway came to a T.
    Brock went to the left, hoping to find something of aid or a way out. He passed door after door. About fifty feet down the hall there was a security door, requiring a key card but the power was out. On the door, in red lettering, it said “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY”.
    Brock ran through. Inside, to the right, there was a office with a glass window looking into the hall. There were computer monitors and a microphone. A security office probably. There was another body here too, on the floor. A black man. Brock bent down to inspect the body. There was a name tag. FRANKLIN BUCHARD. “Hate to do this, pal, but I've got big trouble, right now,” Brock said, regretfully. He went to check in the guard’s pockets when he noticed a gun at his hip. He pulled it from the holster. A nine millimeter handgun. Common for a guard. “Thanks for this.” Brock whispered to the body. He finished searching the body for anything else of use, finding a sharp pocket knife, then left the room and continued down the hall. The hall widened into a large room. Around it, against the walls, were shelves full of a variety of tools and supplies. Bandages, tape, non-perishable foods, guns, ammunition. Something else is going on here. This isn’t just a loony bin.
    “Overrrr heeerrreeee,” came a faint, airy whisper.
    Brock couldn’t tell which way it was coming from. He looked around, seeing no one. “Someone there?” he called out. No answer.
    “Help me,” said the voice, with a short whisper. Again, no reply.
    Brock shrugged it off. That reminded him of the pain in his arm. He slowly walked over to one of the shelves. He picked up a bottle of peroxide, twisted it open, and poured it on the wound. It stung like hell. Then he took a roll of bandages, wrapped it around his arm, then taped it with medical tape from the shelf.
    Brock finished his sweep around the room, collecting supplies. He liked the handgun he had found. There were so many types of ammo in the room. He went around comparing until he found the right one and took a box full, reloaded the gun, and saved the rest for later. Along with that he took a bag, several rolls of bandages, bottles of peroxide, medical tape, and a few cans of food.
    His stomach grumbled. He had no idea how long it had been since he'd last eaten. He took a can of beef stew off of a shelf and opened it with the pocket knife. He sat for several minutes, eating and thinking about what had happened. He seemed to have lost the guards or soldiers or whatever they were.
    As he was eating, he heard a low growl. Brock looked up from stew. A dark, black, dog stood in the corner, baring it’s teeth, foaming. "How'd you get in here?"

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