He's alone, pacing the edge of the room. There are only walls, no doors, the walls black, the outside beyond blocked from his eyes. He walks around and around, like an animal caught in a cage. He breathes, his breathing echoing from the walls, his thoughts unheard.
Scars of bright light rip down the walls, the echo of his scream increasing, the walls disintegrate around him, the walls subsiding with the force of his rage. He plunges his hands into the wounded wall, ripping and widening the scar, the scar in the wall bleeding light as the walls disintegrates. He looks around him, his laugh booming, his eyes flashing with unknown intent. He is free, free to enter the world once again, a new modern world unveiled before him, a world ripe for the taking, a world ripe for the slaughter that will follow. With one last effort, he opens the scar and walks through.
* * * * *
Jack wakes up, his heart beating, perhaps beating faster than it should. He raises a hand to his forehead, his forehead damp with sweat. He throws the bedclothes over, walking to the refrigerator, not bothering to adorn any clothes as he walks through the hall. He opens the door, the cold air hitting him as it emanates from the chilled cabinet. He reaches for the water bottle, drinking some, tipping the rest over his head, his heart still beating faster than it should.
He switches on the bedroom light, the light illuminating the godforsaken rubble of his life. The pictures on the wall, a picture of Cassy, she left him, a picture of his kids, one died, the other was with her mother. The whiskey bottle on the table, no mixer, he drunk it neat these days, it might be a problem, but that wasn't his main concern. The collection of magazines, the only contact he had with the world. The computer, the only contact he had with the others, with one exception.
He walked to the bedside table, grabbing the packet of cigarettes. He knocked a cigarette from the packet with a tap at the base, flicking it into his mouth, the lighter moving to the cigarette in one smooth fluent motion. He filled his lungs with the soothing cancer cloud, the cigarette calming his nerves slightly, but the heartbeat was still there.
He sat on the bed, holding his head in his hands. He had felt him ripping through the walls of his prison. He had heard his laugh, his evil sadistic laugh. It wasn't just a dream that was making his heart go faster, it was him. He knew the others would have felt it, the others would be awake, just like him. He knew the others were thinking the same things he was. The others were just as terrified. The others didn't know what to do.
