Immobility

Chapter Twelve

Stationing the penlight just inside the opening of my mouth with my teeth—barely aware of the acrid taste of the floodwater gnawing at my taste buds—and curling all eight of my fingers around the handle of the ax, I position myself, preparing to strike the door mightily with the impeccable metal blade, specifically where the inbuilt lock into which a combination must be programmed to be granted access to the interior lingers. Mustering every ounce of strength within the muscles in my arms, I send the blade careening gracefully and swiftly through the water, and a second or two later, it smashes into the hard material of the locker with a muffled thud and a wretched sound somewhere between a groan and a screech—the door lurches uneasily, instantaneously becoming fodder for my confidence; I draw back the blade of the ax and propel it toward the barrier preventing me from reaching the platform of freedom once again, though with a greater degree of strength, which deals more damage than the previous strike and gifts me with another spark of optimism.

After just another handful of smashing the ax blade into the flexible metal door of the confined locker, the interior of which produces before the eye of my mind a vivid photograph of a sarcophagus consisting of the same adamantine material rather than of stone, it seems that all I need to do at this point is smash my shoulder into the metal to guarantee my escape. Anxious to swim out of this confined space, I plow my uninjured shoulder into the incapacitated door of the locker with all of my weight, and it yields to my burst of strength, flying open with force. Jubilation dampens the wrinkles of my brain as I push against the edge of the opposite side of the vandalized door and propel myself out of the locker and into the openness of the unilluminated room, practically unaware of the pain echoing through my body—I grin inwardly at the sight of the white beam of the penlight cutting through the darkness and am drenched by a breaking wave of supplementary gladness as I think of how fortunate I am to have this.

I draw my left hand away from the handle of the ax, which is surprisingly light for its size, and take the penlight from between my teeth and shine the beam around the room, scanning the walls for the doorway, which is discovered in just a tiny spoonful of seconds; I immediately begin to kick toward it, my pulse thumping inside my neck. 

I am suddenly staring at a vivid image of the corpse of Zachary, splayed out on his back on the ground, his ribs showing through his sleeveless shirt as a consequence of extreme undernourishment resulting from an inadequate supply of food, and I shake my head to abolish the psychological maltreatment. I cannot let my own thoughts distract me to an extent that I am unable to concentrate. Swimming through the open doorway of the room wherein my confined imitation of a casket lies inertly, I point the beam of the penlight to the left, shining it down the corridor, and I remember that in that direction lies the stairwell, which I can just barely differentiate from the remainder of the unflawed walls and sparse doors. While I'm stroking toward the stairs, another photograph flashes before my eyes—this time, I am staring at the dead body of Melissa, her unseeing eyes frozen wide as saucers with fright, the skin of her neck in front of her shielded larynx ripped open and pouring blood, adding to an already massive puddle resembling a semicircle around her shoulders and midsection, the result of several of these ponds of blood converging, since there are multiple stab wounds on her body, including her torso and abdomen; it is obvious that she was ambushed and transpierced several times before ultimately having her carotid arteries and jugular veins split open, condemning her to die from the excessive loss of blood. Again, I shake my head, though more violently than before, not even noticing the flash of pain, hoping that no more of these haunting images are forthcoming.