13 Unheard yells for salvation

In the suffocating blackness, James's mind was the only source of light, thoughts sparking like flint against steel. The silence was oppressive, an entity in itself, wrapping around him like a shroud. It was a vacuum, drawing out his fears, exposing his vulnerabilities. Yet within its depths, James discovered a wellspring of determination, a deep-seated refusal to yield to despair.

The bindings that held him were impersonal in their cruelty, the ropes or straps—whatever they were—biting into his flesh with every shift he made. "Think, James. You've gotten out of tight spots before," he coached himself. Memories of past trials came to him, whispering tales of resilience: the time he'd repaired his mother's car in the pouring rain, the hours he'd spent practicing escape techniques after reading a survivalist manual for fun, the countless challenges he'd faced and overcome.

The stillness outside was eerie. It was the calm of desolation, the quiet of a world holding its breath. James wrestled with his options, the internal debate a tumultuous storm. "If I call for help, I could be inviting those horrors right to me. But if I don't, I could be here when she returns, at her mercy..." His thoughts churned with the reality of his predicament.

He weighed the odds, contemplating the nature of the threats. The creatures, though terrifying, were at least known entities—animals of instinct and reaction. The woman, however, was an enigma. Her actions had been deliberate, calculated. Between the wild unpredictability of the creatures and the cold, human intelligence of the woman, he found his choice.

"Better the devil you know," James mused. And with that, he made his decision. Taking a deep breath, he summoned every ounce of strength in his lungs and shouted. "Help!!!" The sound of his own voice was jarring in the absolute silence. It bounced off the walls, a desperate plea that seemed too small, too insignificant against the dark.

"Help!!!" he cried again, his voice rising, each call a mixture of hope and terror. He imagined the sound traveling through cracks and crevices, finding its way into the open air, drawing whatever it might to his prison.

BOOM BOOM

The cacophony of bangs, moans, and groans outside the walls surged into a nightmarish symphony, each beat of it hammering against James's heightened senses. His heart rate spiked, every thump loud in his own ears, a staccato counterpoint to the chaos beyond the walls. The cold tendrils of fear attempted to snake their way around his thoughts, but he fought them with the fire of adrenaline.

"Stay sharp, James. Whatever's coming, you're not done yet," he commanded himself. In the dark, James had only his thoughts for company, and they became his generals, planning each potential move in the chess game of survival. The sounds were too rhythmic, too persistent to be the random movements of the creatures. This was something else, something new.

His mind raced, crafting scenarios, plotting responses. "If they get in, play dead? No, no good. They'd know. Fight? With what? You're tied up, genius." His mental voice was tinged with the sarcasm he'd often used to defuse tense situations, a familiar coping mechanism that now provided a sliver of comfort.

The groans grew louder, a sign of effort, of exertion. It was as though something—or someone—was trying to get in, or perhaps... trying to get out? The distinction was critical, a fork in the road that could lead to salvation or further damnation.

"Could it be other survivors?" The idea flickered in his mind like a candle in the wind, fragile but persistent. "Or could it be her, summoning those things, using me as bait?" Doubt gnawed at him, a familiar enemy in these unfamiliar times.

James had always been a man of action. Before the world had changed, he had made decisions with confidence, led projects with authority, trusted in the predictability of a stable world. Now, that same decisiveness was shackled by his bindings and the unknown variables of a new, treacherous reality.

The moans and bangs seemed to crescendo, reaching a peak that suggested an imminent breach. James's breaths came in quick gasps, his mind working furiously. "If I'm going to die here, I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me break," he resolved, summoning an inner fortitude that had been hardened in the crucible of survival.

But part of him rebelled at the resignation. "You're not going to die, not here, not like this. Daisy could still be out there. You made her a promise," he reminded himself fiercely. The thought of her was a beacon, the image of her face in his mind a rallying cry. She had shown him kindness, had saved his life. He owed her his all.

His muscles tensed, preparing for the instant he'd need to act. James was no longer just a victim of circumstances; he had become a warrior in the darkness, his mind his most potent weapon. The darkness around him seemed to pulse with the intensity of his will.

James braced for impact, for the walls to give way, for the darkness to be breached by whatever force lay outside. He was ready to face it, to confront it with every fiber of his being that screamed defiance.

The walls, once a barrier between him and the outside horrors, crumbled under the ferocious assault. Dust and debris filled the air, particles dancing like malevolent spirits in the faint light that now pierced the darkness. The beast's scream was the herald of doom, a guttural declaration of intent that froze James's blood in his veins.

The creature had heard his cries for help, and it had come—not as a savior, but as the reaper, eager to harvest the soul of the trapped. "No, not like this," James's mind raged against the unfolding scenario. His body responded with instinctive urgency, twisting and wriggling in a frenetic dance, a desperate attempt to reposition the chair between him and the incoming terror.

Time dilated, each second stretching out as the creature bore down on him. James's mind raced, firing thoughts like a machine gun. "Use the momentum, use it!" he instructed himself. His entire being was focused on the imminent collision, on turning the dire situation to any sort of advantage.

The impact was monumental, a clash of wills—the chair splintered as the beast's bulk hit it full-on. James felt the chair give way, his body thrown backward, a projectile launched by the brute force of the collision. Pain exploded in his body as he hit the ground, the jarring thud reverberating through his bones. The wooden chunks of the chair remained bound to his hands and feet—improvised weights that now served as makeshift weapons.

Gasping from the impact, James's mental voice was a roar in his own head. "Fight, James! Fight for life!" The room spun, a maelstrom of shadow and splinters, but James's spirit was a lighthouse in the chaos, steadfast and resilient. He had been knocked down before—by life's challenges, by personal losses—but always, always he had gotten back up. This time would be no different.

As he struggled to right himself, the creature recovered from its headlong charge. It turned to face him, its grotesque features a mask of hunger and rage. James, despite the throbbing pain radiating through him, writhed and kicked, the remnants of the chair serving as extensions of his will to survive.

"Not today, you monster. Not today," he seethed internally, a silent war cry that lent strength to his limbs. He swung a piece of the chair's leg, connected with the creature in a satisfying thump that seemed to stun it momentarily. "Keep going. For Daisy, for yourself. Survive!"

His body moved on primal instinct, each strike a blend of fear-fueled strength and the precision of panic. The creature was relentless, but James had something more potent than mere hunger—he had purpose. Each memory of Daisy, each moment of laughter and warmth from the world before, fueled his desperate defense.

The dim illumination that trickled into the once-dark room cast elongated shadows on the walls, turning James and the creature into monstrous figures engaged in a deadly dance. The splintered remains of the chair, now bound grotesquely to his limbs, made him an awkward marionette in his own desperate fight for survival.

As the creature regrouped from its initial failed onslaught, it let out a harrowing roar that echoed off the bare walls—a chilling sound that promised death. It charged once more, its eyes reflecting a malevolent purpose. But in its blind ferocity, it overshot its mark, its massive body crashing into the wall with a thud that reverberated through the room.

The impact seemed to stun the creature, if only for a precious few seconds, and James seized the opportunity. His fingers worked with frantic urgency, untangling the knots that bound his legs. The rope bit into his skin, leaving raw, angry marks as he finally pulled free. "Move, James. Move!" he silently implored himself, even as his hands shook with the rush of adrenaline.

He was about to attend to the ropes binding his hands when a new terror entered the room. More creatures emerged from the shadows like wraiths summoned by the scent of the impending kill. Their eyes were hollow pits of hunger, their forms a nightmarish gallery of mutations and malice.

James's heart plummeted, a stone dropped into the well of fear that threatened to drown him. "Not like this," his mind screamed, a chorus of defiance against the approaching doom. He retreated as best he could, his legs free but his hands still encumbered by the remnants of the chair. He was a cornered animal, but one with a fire still burning bright within.

The creatures approached cautiously, perhaps aware of their kin's misjudgment, their heads cocking to the side in a grotesque mimicry of curiosity. James backed into a corner, his bound hands awkwardly positioned in front of him—the wooden stakes his only defense.

"Think, James, think! You're a survivor, not prey," he coached himself internally. Every lesson from every survival book he'd read for leisure, every movie he'd watched where the hero escaped impossible odds, played in his mind. They were a reservoir of knowledge he'd never anticipated needing to draw upon so desperately.

The first creature lunged, and James swung with all his might, the wood connecting with a sickening crack. But there were too many, and he was only one. He needed a miracle, an intervention, something—anything—to turn the tide.

In that desperate moment, as the creatures closed in, a flicker of movement caught James's eye. A shadow detached itself from the wall—a figure, human-sized, wielding what looked like a pipe. The figure moved with a swift, purposeful grace that spoke of a survivor's instincts, much like his own.

James felt a surge of hope. Was this the cavalry, a band of survivors come to the rescue? Or was it another threat, another human scavenger looking to capitalize on his plight? He couldn't afford to be choosy. Any help was welcome when the alternative was the maw of the creatures before him.

The shadowy figure swung the pipe with precision, the impact of metal against flesh sounding above the creatures' growls. One by one, the beasts turned their attention to the new threat, giving James the precious seconds he needed.

"Come on, James, this is your chance," he silently urged himself, working at the ropes on his wrists with a renewed vigor. The creatures, now divided in their focus, became less coordinated, more chaotic—a confusion he could use to his advantage.

In the ensuing melee, James finally pulled his hands free. Armed now with both stakes from the broken chair, he stood alongside the mysterious figure, ready to fight back the darkness, to cling to life with everything he had. It was a standoff, two humans against the fallen world, and James's silent resolve was louder than any war cry: he would survive, he would endure, and he would never stop fighting.