Page 18 of Writhe
Others require more pressure.
I smile faintly as I flick off the office light and step into the corridor, heading for the basement.
The patient thrashes, body convulsing in a blind panic as the orderlies drag him down the corridor, his bare heels scraping against the cold, filth-streaked floor. His screams are raw, high-pitched, feral. Like an animal being led to slaughter. The sound bounces off the cracked tiles and I let it wash over me, the trembling resonance settling deep in my bones.
Stockton and Raines remain unmoved. Their grips are vise-like, their expressions as vacant as a butcher at the chopping block. Efficient. Unfeeling. As they should be.
I follow at a leisurely pace, clipboard in hand,documenting every detail with meticulous precision. The patient’s resistance is remarkable. Most are too broken by this point to put up much of a fight. His terror fuels him, muscles quivering with the desperate strength of a cornered beast.
But will is brittle. And brittle thingssnap.
The metal door groans as Stockton wrenches it open. A thick, putrid heat slithers up from the basement, wrapping around us in humid, rotting tendrils. The stench is unbearable to the uninitiated. Full of mildew, urine, and the festering decay of what was once living. But there’s something deeper beneath it, something that clings to the walls, the air, to my very skin.
Something very much alive.
The patient’s breaths come in frantic gasps, his eyes darting between us and the yawning darkness below. “No, no, please.Please, God.”
They always beg. As if that will change anything. Stockton and Raines don’t need instructions, they know the procedure. They hurl him forward, and he collapses onto his knees with a ragged sob. Snot and saliva webbing between his lips as he pleads.
Pathetic.
Raines drives a boot into the back of his ankle, pressing down until something pops. The shriek that follows is nearly inhuman.
I check my watch. “Forty minutes of resistance. Not bad—log that.”
Stockton grunts in acknowledgment, moving to thefar wall where the rusted crank sits embedded in the stone. With a deep, rattling clatter, the floor gives way beneath us.
The pit gapes wide and the patient’s breath stutters. He stares at the edge, barely a foot away. From below, a sound stirs—claws against metal. Wet, eager chittering.
I crouch beside him, tilting my head. “Do you believe in God, Mr. Alden?”
His frantic nodding almost makes me smile.
“And do you believe He’s listening?”
His lips part, but nothing comes out. Just a wet, broken breath.
Stockton grips the back of his collar and he releases a strangled cry.
Then he’s falling.
The impact is wet. Not the sharp crack of bones breaking, but a sickening sloshing sound as his body sinks into the filth below. He flounders, kicking his limbs. The pit is deep enough to discourage climbing but shallow enough to keep him from drowning too quickly.
I step to the edge, peering down. The dim light catches on the shifting mass below. Beady, black eyes. Twitching whiskers. Clawing feet.
The rats move in a single, undulating tide.
His screams rise—a wretched, throat-tearing thing.
I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the recorder.Click.
“Subject three-two-seven has been introduced to thepit,” I say evenly. “Initial reaction: extreme panic, pleading, hyperventilation. He has begun to struggle against the substrate, but movement will only accelerate the process.”
The first bite is hesitant, a testing nip at the ankle.
He shrieks.
Another.
