Desolate The Complete Trilogy

15



They checked all the rooms and locked the doors and windows. Besides the puddles, there were no other clues of anybody else in the building. They decided to have one person stand watch while the other two slept, just to be sure. Reg took first watch and sat by the fire with a loaded shotgun on his lap.

Sometime after dawn, the shotgun slipped off of Reg’s lap and hit the floor, startling him awake. He must have dozed off. Lazy wankers didn’t even notice, they just kept on sleeping in their cozy beds. Well, no need to let them know he knocked off. He’d just say he decided to let them sleep, is all. He got the fire going again to chase away the morning chill in the room and took a leak. The daylight coming in through the windows made him feel a lot better.

Reg looked across the yard at the shitty barracks he’d slept and lived in for the last two years. God, he was glad to be out of there. Once all his mates started getting sick it was even worse than usual. Each building held around thirty men. It was crammed with bunks and a few tables and not much else. It was rubbish when everyone was healthy, but when they started crapping and yakking in their beds? Bloody nightmare, that.

At first, the bosses had them help the sick ones to the infirmary but when it got full, they had to stay in the barracks. Pretty soon they were just left to die in their beds, bloated and stinking and moaning. The doc and the orderlies were some of the first to go down so there was nobody to help them. After a while, the stiffs were stacked in a big pile in the infirmary and when that got to be too much trouble they were dragged outside and left there to rot.

When the inmates noticed the guard population was thinning out, they knew it was their chance to take advantage. That’s when things really got rough. The guards were bastards but at least they kept order. After all of his mates died, Reg laid low until he worked his way in with the two yanks. He didn’t trust them but they saved his dangly-bits by letting him come along to the ship. If it wasn’t for that, he’d surely be dead.

He walked over to the table in the middle of the room and picked up the bottle of scotch he’d been working on the previous night. His head was pounding and a pull from the bottle would put it at ease. Hair of the dog. It slid down his throat like liquid fire, filling his belly with a satisfying warmth. Too long, too goddamn long without a drink. If it weren’t for all the shenanigans last night he surely would have drunk himself into an early grave. He took another drink and sighed. “But what a bloody way to go,” he muttered to himself.

Reg lit a fag as he walked walked back over to the window. The buzz from the bourbon and tobacco stirred desires he thought had left him after years of oppression and suffering. He absently rubbed the inside of his arm with his fingers. The needle tracks had long ago faded into scars too small to be noticed by anyone but himself. If only he could spend the rest of the day on the nod. But the chances of finding any brown sugar around the camp were slim to nil and he knew it.

He looked over at the infirmary and an idea trickled through his aching head, past his heroin daydreams. Last year he developed a nasty case of kidney stones. The pain was so severe the guards were finally convinced he wasn’t bullshitting to get out of work and sent him to the infirm. He was in such agony and making such a fuss that the doctor shot him up with Dilaudid before he could give him a thorough examination. Bloody Dilaudid, what a delicious treat it was. All his pain and worries and transgressions were washed away by that wonderful little vial drip, drip, dripping into his IV.

There had to be some nice narcotics left in the infirmary somewhere. He tiptoed over to the room where the yanks were sleeping. Still no stirring. He’d have a quick run over, check the supplies, and be back before they even knew he’d left.

Reg slipped on his boots and quietly opened the door. He ran as fast as his frail legs could go across the yard towards the infirmary. Booze was all right, but even if he drank a whole bottle, it would just make him want it more. If he couldn’t mainline some smack, a hefty dose of Dilaudid might do the trick. He knew they was f*cked anyhow. Whatever got to that poor cock in the supply room would surely be back for them. Damned if he’d be sober for it.

He reached the infirmary and placed his hand on the door. The adrenaline was wearing off and the cold was setting in. What was he doing? He realized he’d forgotten the shotgun back at the guard house. He had to look in there but he would have felt a lot better with that bloody twelve gauge in his hands.

Reg pushed the door open, his hopes quickly fading as the room came into view. The place was a mess and it was obvious all the useful equipment and supplies were already picked clean. He walked through the carnage looking for any stray pill bottles or vials but couldn’t find anything stronger than aspirin.

He was just about to say the hell with it and leave, when he heard a sound coming from the back room. Sounded like silverware or metal instruments being moved around. Reg opened his mouth to shout out if anybody was there and snapped it shut again. Did he really want to know who was in there? Did he want to know who sabotaged the genny and left the puddles on the floor?

His feet slowly shuffled to the door. He knew he should turn around and slowly creep outside. He’d grab the shotgun and the yanks and come back to investigate. His feet didn’t listen.

There was definitely somebody in there. The clinking noises stopped but he could sense movement on the other side of the door. He quietly got down on his hands and knees and tried to look under the door. Nothing.

There was about an inch of space between the bottom of the door and the floor. He could make out a few broken bottles and some surgical instruments scattered about. A shadow moved into view and a foot appeared just a few inches from his face.

Reg’s heart decided to stop beating and his mouth opened to produce a silent scream. The foot didn’t belong to a man. It was a hoof unlike any he’d ever seen before. Instead of being attached to an ordinary hairy animal leg, it was covered in scales.

The doorknob turned.

Reg scrambled to his feet and started for the door. His feet, which seemed to have a mind of their own, were betraying him once again. This time they just didn’t want to move fast enough.

He heard the door burst open behind him and the hoofy scaly thing coming after him. Whatever it was moved much faster than he did. As he reached the door he knew it was too late. The only thing Reg had time to do was turn around and get a quick look at the thing chasing him.