Terror

Inside a moving van, men clad in black camo shuffled. Imam loaded his weapon. It jolted to a stop, then the sliding doors reeled open. Corinthian pillars, with ornate designs, towered above. They stepped out into the courtyard of a prestigious academy, brandishing their weapons. After a short jog a flight of white brick steps, they entered the academy. Once inside, darkness met them. So black it seemed to devour the beams of sunlight. Suddenly, the door closed. Sunlight was locked out, and they were locked in.

             Imam turned on a small flashlight. Light danced on the walls of the main corridor, revealing fine auburn wood walls. Portraits of prior headmasters hung on the walls, each face more stern than the last. He turned to his men and spoke.

“In the name of Allah and his messenger Muhammad, the western infidels will be punished for their transgressions against Islam. Kill any man you find, but take a handful of women and children hostage, we do not need them all. This will be an event that the infidels will weep for time immemorial.” said Imam, in a confident voice. In his grip was a Avtomat Kalashinikova Model 1947�"more commonly referred to as AK-47. Imam’s dirty fingernails dug into the wooden frame.

“Imam, I hear footsteps” a man beside him whispered. His beard had the colors of salt and pepper. A figure of a woman materialized out of the darkness behind Imam. She held a candle, it’s dirty golden glow radiated the room with more heat than it should have.

“Good afternoon gentlemen.” She said in a calm voice. “My name is Elizabeth Turner, I am the headmistress of Yorktown Academy. How may I assist you today?”

Imam turned around, and examined her. She stood within arm’s reach. The white lace of her fine dress hovered over the tile floor. Candle light flickered, then the butt of his rifle crashed against her left cheek. She stumbled, shifting her weight to her right foot. The hem of her dress flicked with the strike. It swayed in the air for a few seconds, then slinked back into its hover position.

“Shut your mouth you western w***e.” He growled, as his men chuckled. “We are taking over this school, and we will kill everyone here if you do not obey!”

Elizabeth stood with her face pointed away from the candle light. She held her twisted posture as he barked. A ghostly golden lock of hair fell over her cheek. When his ranting came to an end, a disgusting shade of blue and purple grew on her snow white cheek. She turned back to face him.

“I think I understand the situation.” She said with a gentle smile. A line of crimson blood dripped from her nose to her upper lip. An unfamiliar chill slithered down Imam’s spine. No one had ever been this compliant. He pointed across the hallway.

“Are the classrooms down this hallway?” He demanded. She pushed the loose lock of hair behind her hair and nodded.

“Take your time, the children are in class, they are not going anywhere.” She said, then soft clanking of rifles filled the room. Each man ran where Imam pointed, then disappeared into darkness.

“Take me to your office, I want to you to give an announcement over your PA system.” He ordered, pointing his rifle at her.

“Of course.” She said with a humble bow of her head. She turned. “This way if you please.” She lead him deep into the dark hallway. The only light radiated from her left hand. He kept his rifle trained between her shoulder blades. Any heroics will be a death sentence, not that he was planning on letting her live long anyhow. Curiosity still nagged at him.

“Why is this school so dark?” he asked, letting the question slip past his lips.

“The children here are sensitive to bright light.” She responded, in a matter of fact tone. Every step they took reverberated off the hard wood, and echoed through the hall.

“What are they? Vampires?” He said with a huff, then relaxed his shoulders. The rifle drooped. He looked at her a*s, its curvature was hard to examine under her dress. Still, he stared.

“Of course not!” She turned her head over her left shoulder, then put her right hand over her lips, making a poor attempt to cover her modest grin. Her cheeks were rosy in the glow of candle light. “They are much worse.”

Blood rushed through his body. He gritted his teeth while listening to a soft giggle. Each step he took was a humiliation. He was doing god’s work. Any act mocking him, mocked god. He tensed his shoulders again, then he took aim at her back. He braced himself and squeezed the trigger. For an instant, the hallway lit with a violent flash, while percussive crackling invaded the air.

Hot ammunition made contact with her skin. Three, seven millimeter rounds buried themselves deep into her flesh. Her body dropped, as if his bullets were tackling her to the ground. The candle she held fell beside her, illuminating a growing pool of blood. He walked to her corpse and kicked her, then spit on her. S**t, he thought. He unstrapped a hand radio, then held it to his lips.

“Saad, I killed the woman, looks like we can’t lure the kids out, so just go room to room, make sure it’s messy. Remember to keep one class alive, hostages are useful.” After he spoke, only static whispered out of the radio.

“Saad? Do you copy?” He repeated. Again, only static. However, a pattern in the static stood out. He pushed the radio closer to his ear. It was a voice, a faint voice. It whispered his name. Imam. Once he recognized his name, the voice shrieked out in a high pitched tone, as if a person’s vocal cord was being stretched to a tear. He dropped the radio. It hit the ground with a plastic clank, then slid into darkness. The static returned. Imam couldn’t control his breathing. Candle light was dimming with a pool of blood encroaching on a dying ember. Imam looked toward Elizabeth’s corpse. It was gone. Then the candle light drowned in blood.

             Imam ran, sprinting with all his might. In the blackness, he collided with a brick wall. The rough sediment grinded against his nose, and his skull rattled. He crouched and leaned against a wall, his head pulsing in pain. He held his hand out in front of his face, then inched it closer and closer. He could see nothing. Footsteps softly echoed out of the blackness. Imam gripped his rifle tight. Each soft thud growing louder. Until, it was silent again. Imam’s eyes were darting back and forth, searching for any outline or figure. There had to be someone or something near him. The butt of his rifle was pressed into his cheek. His back against the wall. With no means of escape, he had only one option.

             “Who are you?” a voice asked in a hushed tone. Imam whipped around. It was there, whatever it is, it is right behind him. Close enough to whisper in his ear, but not close enough for his rifle to touch.

             “I am a servant of god.” Imam’s finger was shaking on the trigger.

             “If you shoot, she will hear.” The voice spoke again. “She is looking for you.”

             “Who are you? Why should I trust you?” Imam steadied his finger. A soft scratch came from the same direction, then a hiss. Imam winced his eyes against a small orange glow. The glow revealed the hand that was holding it, and the small boy it was attached to. The boy’s eyes were solid black, like an ocean of onyx. When the match’s glow approached the boy’s face, both black pools shrank to the normal size of pupils. Neither eye had an iris.

                           “Take me out of this place!” Imam whisper shouted, his breathe tickling the small flame. The strap of the rifle rattled against the metal barrel when Imam shook it.

             “Sure, I don’t want to go back to class anyway.” The boy said, then turned away from Imam. “This way.”

Imam followed the boy, but kept his finger on the trigger. As they walked the light only illuminated his hand, making it appear as if his arm was floating down the hallway. Imam heard something in the air, it sounded like wind, but that was impossible. Until he realized it was muffled screaming.

             “What are they doing to my comrades?” Imam asked.

             “If I recall, the first years are doing their first dissection today.” There was a sweet hum in his answer.

             “What is this place?” Imam inquired further.

             “It’s a school, obviously.” This time the answer was bitter.

             “Why is a school dissecting human beings?” Imam’s voice was low and nervous.

             “Have you never snuck out of class before? Shut up.” The boy’s words stung. Imam watched as the boy flicked the match, putting out the light. Its smoky scent lingered until it hit the ground. He watched the embers of the match disappear into blackness. Then he heard a click. “We’re here.”

             A low metal squeal filled the immediate air around Imam’s ears, he followed the sound. He put his hand out and felt a cold door frame in his hand. Once he stepped over the threshold, he felt a chill. Then he heard the metal squeal again, followed by a soft click.

             “We should be safe in here, for now.” The boy said, his voice drifting away.

             Each step he took away from Imam squeaked. Imam followed, his boot making soft thuds. Every step they took echoed, bouncing around the room. Without warning, the boy’s squeaking steps stopped. Imam froze.

             “Where are you?! You said you were leading me out of here!” Imam whisper shouted.

             “Calm down, we are going to hang out in the gym for a little while.” The boy responded, Imam heard a hand slap against thin metal. “Keep your voice low and take a seat.”

             Imam walked toward the sound, and banged his shin against metal. He winced and gulped down a yelp of pain. He reached down to feel the bumpy metal, then sat. Imam rested his rifle on his thighs. The weight of the rifle and its ammunition sunk into his flesh.

             “Why did you come to my school today?” the boy’s young voice whispered.

             Imam was silent.

             “Did you think this school was filled with little rich white kids for you to murder?” the boy asked. Imam sighed, then spoke.

             “You should not skip class.” Imam said in a monotone.

             “I’ll keep that in mind.” The boy said. There was a cold silence after he spoke.

             “What are you?” Imam asked, staring at where he felt his rifle.

             “They only tell us we are not like you. They teach us that we have to learn to be human.” Imam heard the boy shuffle. “When you live in a human world you have to act like a human!” the boy said in an authority mocking tone. Imam could imagine the boy wagging his pale finger. I have to kill them, but bullets… No, there has to be a way, Imam thought.

             “What did you learn when you were a kid?” the boy asked.

             “I learned that god is great” Imam rubbed his cold hands together. He ran his fingers over the scars on his hands. “We had to memorize the sutras of the Quran, any time we made a mistake the teachers would strike our hands.” He remembered how bloody his hands were. He never understood the word of god when he was boy. After a particularly bloody day of school, he told his father he didn’t want to be Muslim anymore. His father beat him mercilessly that day.

             “I am told to pray to the great maw before every meal.” The boy said.

             “Whatever the maw is, it doesn’t exist, there is only one god, Allah, and his messenger…” Imam was interrupted.

             “Hold that thought. I saw someone, come over here.” The boy said. Imam followed his voice.

             Imam could hear the whine of ungreased metal, then footsteps. Light clacks of hard heels against hardwood. For a moment the steps stopped, followed by the loud steel click of the heavy door shutting. The clacks resumed, echoing around the gymnasium. Imam felt something whip through the air, just past his face. A loud clang echoed through the large room. Deafening silence followed. Imam’s blood rushed.  Then, he heard a loud crash, then a nauseating squeal. Imam felt a violent tug on his arm, then ran in the direction he was pulled.

             After running for several minutes. Imam’s adrenaline faded. His breathing advanced into wheezing and huffing. He leaned against a cold slick metal surface. He couldn’t stop panting.

             “Looks like the old bag found us.” The boy was still there, in the blackness.

             “Lead me to the front entrance.” Imam hissed through gritted teeth.

             “Can’t, we will get caught, there is another exit, I’ll get you there.” The boy said. Imam composed himself and stood up straight.

             “light another match, I can’t see.” Imam demanded.

             “Not this time, they are on to us now.” The boy said. Imam felt another tug on his sleeve. “I will just guide you.” Imam swam through darkness, led by the nose. Until he heard a familiar click and metallic squeal.

Finally, Imam could see again. However this room was only a slight improvement from the former pitch black. The far wall of the cafeteria had dozens of symmetrical square windows, neatly aligned into square patterns. Each window appeared to be painted over with black paint. However, sunlight battled with the withering black paint, making each straight edge resemble a glowing hot steel rod. A humble orange glow illuminated rows of dining tables.

Beneath a large blacked out window, there stood a pair of double doors. Imam breathed a heavy sigh of relief and sprinted to the door. He threw his weight against it, but it wouldn’t budge. He pushed and pulled, but it refused him.

“What is this? Boy it’s stuck!” Imam shouted. There was no answer. “Boy?! Boy?!” Imam cried.

The room was silent. Imam squinted his eyes and examined the room. There was a small stage on the opposite side of the room, near the door he came in. Imam spotted the boy, sitting on the stage, silently watching Imam struggle. Imam’s eyes widened and shot to the left corner of his eye, when a familiar metal squeal pierced the air. A tender voice spoke.

“Wonderful job, he is trembling terribly. He is sure to taste delicious.” Elizabeth said, putting her hand on her right cheek. “Did you have fun prepping him?”

“Yes ma’am!” the boy said, putting his hands on his hips. She patted him on the head, then turned to Imam. He could see the low orange glow reflecting in her obsidian black eyes. Imam turn, clicked his rifle into full auto, then let out a burst of gunfire. Screaming violent metal crashed into the blackened windows, shattering many.

Rays of sunlight flooded the room. Imam squinted, and looked back to Elizabeth. She was still walking toward him. The black of her eyes shrank to pin pricks, swimming in an ocean of white. She let out a high pitched giggle, then covered her mouth with an elegant lift of her right hand.

“That might have worked. If I were his age.” She glanced back to the boy. Who had his hands over his eyes. Imam sprinted to a shattered window, then threw his body into bright sunlight.

             Metal wires crossed across Imam’s face. His body weight had pushed sharp wires deep into his skin. He pulled back, slicing off a small portion of his cheek. Straight red lines scarred his face, while streams of blood dripped down his cheek. Imam cried out in pain, kneeling over, pressing his forehead into the cold linoleum and broken glass. He gripped his rifle and tried to lift it, but his arm failed to rise. Elizabeth was already upon him.

             “Please don’t kill me, I don’t want to die. Please….” Imam begged, tears streamed down his cheeks. “Not like this please. I can change.”

             “Hmmmm” She hummed, “I thought you came here to punish disbelievers”

             “Please” He begged, crimson blood dripping down his cheek.

             Imam looked up. Elizabeth’s elegant fingers danced over shining buttons. She pulled back the top of her dress, and exposing snow white skin. Only, there was a black hair line running from her forehead down to her belly button. Her head, neck, torso, and stomach opened, as if it were a jacket made of flesh. Saliva stretched out from edge to edge, sagging like thread.

In the sunlight, Imam could see everything. Lining the pink interior of her flesh were hundreds, if not thousands of small black oval holes. None of which shared the exact same shape. Each hole squirmed and pulsated. Imam’s face tensed, the pain from his cuts spiked as he did so. She fell onto him, her sagging wet flesh drooping onto him. Imam struggled, pushing his hands against her disgusting flesh. He screamed. Each pulsating hole gripped onto his skin, the edges of the ovals were as sharp as razors. The more Imam struggled, the more harm he did to himself. After each slice, he yelped in pain. Imam felt her flesh wrapping around him, tightening and suffocating him. Until finally, her flesh had overcome his face.

For a handful of minutes, he struggled violently, but in vain. The pushing slowed, and his muffled screams became painful groans, then only soft thuds. Eventually the room went silent. Elizabeth stood, buttoned her dress, then examined it for stains. Scrubbing blood stains out of her gown was far too time consuming. It was best to avoid them.