Last Dance Redux 22

::TWENTY TWO::

The hallway is quiet, and dark, outside the doors. The same grate floor, the same grate ceiling, higher this time, maybe fifteen feet. The only difference being that I can see the floor above me through this one. The dark, and the close pattern of the grate, doesn’t let me see much. A small spatter of diamond shaped drops of dim light, filtered from above.

Close my eyes, shut out what light there is, and let the rest of my senses open up to compensate. That same piss, fear and blood smell. Weaker, more diffuse here, in the open hallway. “Free” people don’t like that smell, wouldn’t live with it, wouldn’t tolerate it. Very few guards here, I’m guessing.

The sounds are those you’ll find anywhere, where you find afraid, bored and angry men. Swearing and cursing. A few colourful terms for female genitalia filter out of the low constant buzz. Crying. The foot-treads on the grated walkways are almost silent, muted. The weight of the men wearing them being the only indication that anyone walked there at all. Sneakers, not boots. Listen harder. No hard voices. No commands. No authority.

The men in what I’m guessing was the waiting room I just left appeared drugged, sedate. Even the shambling mess that attacked me seemed to be driven more by his own psychosis, than by anything else. The prisoners here are drugged then, perhaps. And so require less guards, less supervision. Good. That means that when the call does come for them to mobilize, it will likely be from one place, and will be unexpected.

Try to remember as much as I can about Epsilon 4. Epsilon 4 is, of course, the name of the planet beneath us, not the ship itself. Staff is rotated from the planet below. Wonder how many are on-ship at any given time. Wonder how long it would take to get reinforcements. The ship itself is standard military issue, a little bigger than the Decatur. That military practicality just walked headfirst into predictability, where I’m concerned.

Run through the plan of the Decatur in my head, accounting for size differences. Where I am now would be part of the Decatur’s old living quarters. Which means that if I make my way far enough down this hallway, I’m going to run into the engines, which, as on the Decatur and every other military ship, are in the lowest levels, due to the weight.

Wonder how well they’d guard that? Wouldn’t exactly be a hard target, not from the inside, anyways. Lots of shielding on the outside, but inside? Given the quiet down here, I’d be willing to bet prisoners are kept on the upper floors, and that access might be hardened from above. But from here? Where prisoners are first inducted? Taken in terrified, beaten, and more than likely drugged? Not likely to be entirely secure. Maybe spending all that time in the engine room trying to get over nightmares was time well spent afterall.

A girl could have some fun in there, I’m guessing. Monkeywrench a good deal of equipment. Shut down power, lights. The chaos of darkness, and the lack of manpower could go a long ways towards getting me off this level, and up top, to where I’m guessing the loading bays are located. And then what? I can’t imagine that they’d just keep a bird waiting and warmed up for me, keys inside and all ready to take me back home.

Making my way quietly down the hallway, towards where the engines should be. My disappearance wouldn’t go unnoticed. Riddick came to look for me twice already. He was to meet me after he had his leg seen to. It wouldn’t be long before someone figured out what had happened to me. Would they know where I was taken? Franks and Big Johnson would likely have a pretty good idea who would have an interest in me.

Strange, though, that my first thought should be of Riddick. That he would come for me, one way or another. A man I haven’t known that long. A man that would have a damned good reason to avoid a prison he was being sent to when all of this began. My hands run up to the marks on my neck, where he bit me, where he made a point of mentioning, making sure that I knew, that he had marked me.

The logical part of my brain tells me that I should be counting on something else, that I’m being foolish. The animal side of me tells me that Riddick marked me as his, and that he would be coming for me. It’s not the desperation of the situation I’m in that makes me hang onto that thought. It’s something else. Something quieter in me. Something I let go of for a long time. One way or another. He’ll be coming for me, coming for what’s his, and that I just have to live long enough.

The familiar radiant heat lets me know I’m close to the engines. That low thrum. Be quiet, hunker down, listening again. There. Back up into the dark, letting the shadows take me. The dull side of the blade resting along the side of my arm, hidden from sight. Breathe softly, making no sound, and wait for it. Some mechanic, technician type. Muttering to himself, his mind, all his intent, focused on a sheaf of papers attached to a clipboard. Ruffling through them, a string of numbers escaping his lips almost without thought. The shadows here would cover me anyway, but the fact that he’s so distracted helps.

Wait for him, on the other side of the barred gate, fumbling with keys, trying to balance a cup of something, coffee, on his stack of papers, as he opens the door. Wait for it to open before making my move. His head lifts at the last second, holding the clipboard in front of him, trying to ward me off. At a loss for words now. Too late to find them now. Dead before he can cry out for help. His throat cut, no voice to cry out with anymore. Quickly pull his shirt up, to soak up the blood. Don’t think any help would have come quickly enough anyways.

Pull the man inside the door, picking up his papers and the coffee cup as I go. Push him down beside a large piece of machinery, he won’t be found. It’s like he was never here at all. Did find a set of keys though. Those will come in handy. Make my way to the engines, to destroy what I can.

Propulsion and life support are hardened systems, on a military ship, but I don’t want to tamper with those anyway. Power is another matter. Feeling safe and secure in the knowledge that major systems can’t be affected, light and power are relatively easy to monkeywrench, no one thinking that simply shutting off the lights equals a big threat.

I was a little more than just a run of the mill soldier. I suppose you could say I was a terrorist, if one trained and kept by the military. The names are different. Special forces, special operations. Doesn’t matter. In the scheme of things, I did what I did by inspiring terror. By understanding it, and using it. By submerging myself in things that would have other people die inside. We’ve always been afraid of the dark. It’s a primordial human fear. From the days when the predators would come out at night, and hunt us, eat us, drive us into terrified herds.

Close my ears, and listen, when the lights finally go out. Destroy the machinery slowly, letting the lights go out, floor by floor, knowing the advancing darkness, and the terror it will inspire. Tasting it. Feeling it in my head, as each floor goes dark. Wait a moment, relishing the thought of the panic, the fear, the cursing, for someone to DO something, anything, to bring the lights back on.

The power’s next. It doesn’t have the ability to terrify the way shutting off the lights does, but it does accomplish one end. All those cell doors are operated by switch, I’m guessing. After all, there are very few guards to actually open and close cell doors, so they’re operated centrally. When the powers cut, those doors are either going to stay closed, meaning I won’t have to worry about prisoners on my way out of here. Or, all those doors are going to open at once. I’m guessing a prison riot is going to be enough of a distraction.

Take a look around the dark engine room, looking for one of those handy “you are here” maps. Glow in the dark paint. Convenient. Use the dead technicians keys to open the crawlspace above the engines, start making my way to the top floor. Don’t know how far this tube will go. I don’t count on being lucky enough for it to go all the way to the floor I need to be on. I still have to get halfway across the ship, to the loading bay. To wait for Riddick. Close my eyes, resting my head against the rungs of the ladder for a moment. Quiet, in the dark. I don’t pray, never have, never felt the need. Seen too many things to believe in any notion of a god that anyone would understand. But that small part of me that still hopes, reaches out, and hopes for Riddick.

next…