In the ruins...

[Nealosi†]

"Are you awake?"

"I'm awake."

"What are you thinking about?"

"I dunno."

"Sometimes I just lay here and think about Mom and Dad."

"Why?"

"I dunno I just do..."

"Hmm..."

...

"Horace?"

"Yeah?"

"When are we getting out of here?"

Horace Malcolm awoke drenched in sweat and muscles tense. His vision was blurred by the edges of lingering sleep and his senses were dulled by the lingering effects of the tranquilizers.

Horace jumped to his feet. His head spun as his eyes darted from east to west and north to south. His surprise subsided as he finally realized where he was, and what they had done to him. All emotion was simply replaced with anger.

"Arrraaaggghhh! You fucking bastards!"

His cries echo throughout the mansion ruins, his arms where held high in the air like a raging monolith carved from iron. The bag sat right next to his feet, small and inviting.

His arms fell back by his side as he looked down at the small bag they had given him. He rummaged through it like a hungry animal, looking for something, anything that could lead to the whereabouts of his sisters, or escape.

It the first thing on his mind at all times, his sisters. He was all they had, even if he was a screw-up, he could still protect them. If he could only escape, the last thing he would ever do was kill somebody, especially at the behest of these bastardizing terrorists.

"Sick bastards..."

He picked up what he thought to be some sort of club or nightstick and began lumbering about the burnt down remains of some large building. Picking random assortments off the ground in search of some sort of indication of where he might be and searching for supplies that might get him out of here.

All he could find was a corpse; leaned up against one of the remaining walls of the ruin, with her neck blown right open. Horace cringed but looked on awkwardly, she looked younger than he was, and this definitely was not the nicest place to die. The blood was already drying and coagulating all over her body. Horace reached over and searched her decaying form for any sort of help... nothing.

A small pack still resided next to her, Horace reached over and picked it up, avoiding as best as possible, contact with the bloody cadaver. He wrapped his stern grip around the handle and hoisted he bag, heavier than his, over his shoulder. He didn't wait around to look at the body any longer. He picked up the bag and left; his free hand pawing nervously around his own collar.

He found a small trench that might have been a basement hallway when this place was still standing, and sat down inside the musky shaft. He began sorting through the bags and hoping that this was all just another dream.