Don’t. Move. The gleaming iron girder above slipped free with a sharp crack, swooping down right infront of Ristachev’s face. By some miracle, a loose cable had wound its way around the metal support, which was preventing it from pounding the ex-President into a dark red smear. He lay there in his open cryostasis pod, trying to remain completely still. Ristachev wasn’t exactly sure what had happened, but he’d awoken from his long nap, only to come face-to-face with almost certain doom as the ceiling came away ontop of him. His pod had taken the brunt of the damage, but now it had burst open, and there was a great big stabby death pole inches from his face.
The Russian ever-so-slowly edged forwards, gently pushing himself up out of the turned over pod.
CREEEEEK!
The girder let out another strained wail, and Ristachev threw himself from the pod; seemingly in a nick of time, as the steely pillar suddenly came crashing down to the world below. He hit the ground with a thud, letting out a deep groan as he clattered against the hard floor, landing painfully on his elbow.
Heaving himself to his feet, the russian quickly dusted off his overalls, as he surveyed the damage around him.
Jagged shards of glass had been sprinkled about the place like some hellish snow storm, and great big hunks of twisted metal were dotted across the floor. The Apox centre’s once sturdy steel walls had buckled under their own weight, and a sickly gash had torn straight through the metalwork, opening up into the world beyond.
Ristachev stepped cautiously out onto a narrow hallway, and felt cool air wash over him for the first time in an eternity. A chilling wind swept in through a hole in the ceiling above, sending his pale flesh into gooseprickles. After countless years in a cramped little box, the fresh icy tang which graced his mouth had all the nourishment of a mother’s embrace.
“Savour that. You’ll never feel anything quite like it, ever again.”
A scrawny blonde figure stood not too far from Ristacehv, leaning limply against one of the crumpled steel walls. The Russian’s senses were still flickering back to life, and it was no wonder he’d been delayed in spotting the newcomer.
“My brother said something quite similar about fucking for the first time, but I found it to be much more enjoyable once I’d tried a few more positions.” Ristachev replied in a cool, calm voice. His english was almost perfect, and a light russian accent flowed softly through his words.
The blonde let out a raspy chuckle, but then scrunched up his face in pain and stumbled slightly.
“Don’t make me laugh,” he wheezed “I think my lungs might fall out.”
He shakily moved one arm, and a deep crimson smear became visible, splattered all over his now exposed side.
“Take a tumble down the stairs?”
“Something like that.”
The blonde man hissed through tightly clenched teeth, before slipping and crashing down to the ground. His head thudded against the metal wall, and his limp body lay crumpled across the floor. He let out some sort of guttural moan as his blood seeped across the floor, pooling out around him.
Ristachev took a few calculated steps towards him, leaning down so that he was level with the wounded stranger.
Too late did the Russian see the metallic glisten of the razor which was tucked inside his overalls.
A flash of steel, and the small, stubby blade had been jammed into his cheek. It bit into him, ripping through his flesh, as an eruption of blood spurted forth from his mouth, splattering out against the cold steel world around him. He gasped as blood jumped and bubbled out of him, collapsing backwards with a thud as pain rocketed through every cell in his body. His heart was pounding in his ears, and his vision was starting to shift and blur, breaking away into vivid explosions of red. His back arched as a spasm of hot agony shot from him, and he coughed up another sticky eruption of dark red.
His attacker pulled the blade free from Ristachev’s cheek, and a whole new realm of suffering shot through him. He felt his lifeblood, hot and sweet, as it pumped through his mouth, moving in perfect symphony with his heart beat.
The blonde man, now so many blurred red shapes in a void of blood, loomed over him, forcing him into the ground with his knees. Another flash of steel, and the blade was in his hand again, twinkling in the dim light.
Fighting through the pain, Ristachev sent his clenched fist shooting upwards in a burst of speed, smashing into the side of his attackers neck and connected with his vagus nerve. Spitting and spluttering, the man lost control of his body as his nervous system went into spasms, his knife clattering to the ground whilst his flailing limbs became soft and supple.
Scrunching up his face as torment raked his body, Ristachev grabbed hold on the razor, plunging it into his attacker’s throat with all that remained of his strength.
A few sharp gasps, and then the blonde man was sprawled out across the ground, his pulse slowing, and his eyes fluttering closed.
Moving quickly, Ristachev tore the dead man’s overalls into tattered strips with his bare hands, making them into makeshift bandages which he wove painfully around his bleeding likeness.
Grunting and gasping, the Russian stumbled through the steel corridors of the Apox centre, struggling to keep himself from succumbing to the agony which had wormed its way beneath his skin and burrowed into his very being.
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