deranged mutterings

“God, I'm s-stuck...”

The chasmic groan of compressed air presses in on Shaggy’s ears… the agonized cry of a place forgotten by time, forgotten by everyone. The sterile echo of absence.

Evidence of the collapse is all around him; massive pieces of rock and earth spill from the former opening in the ceiling. Even now it bows towards the site of the incident, threatening a second cascade - and this one might be lucky enough to do what the first one had just tried to do - bury him alive.

Shaggy splutters, trying to lift his head. A hewn slab of limestone sits just above him, pressing down on his ribcage, restricting motion and respiration. He struggles for each breath, none of them full, all of them stale and laced with the remaining dust and grit that has yet to settle to the dusty ground a few feet below him.

None of them know I’m here.

Panic seizes him and he scrabbles desperately at the rock above him, trying to shift it, move it. It doesn’t budge. 

“I’M DOWN HERE! HELP! HELP…” His cries are feeble and send him into a half-coughing, half-sobbing fit. The free space he has to breathe seems to shrink as he hyperventilates. Sucking for air, for freedom, kicking at everything around him, pushing against the stone - his coffin lid. Tears spill down his cheeks.

Nobody knows where I am. I’m going to die down here.

His limbs go limp and he sobs. Occasionally the sniffling is broken by another futile cry for rescue. 

No answer comes. 

Why did I have to be brave?? It’s only my luck something like this would happen… and did I even learn anything? I’m still here sniveling like a baby. I’ll always be a coward. 

 He squeezes his eyes shut - it’s not like he can see anything anyway. 

“I was just… just trying to help,” he says to the hollow darkness. “I’m always running off and hiding, and, and leaving all the hard things for them to do. Fred ‘n the girls. Figured I sh.. should, like... start pulling my weight, you know? The dog is more helpful than I’ve been, but… just, just look where it landed me.”

A second frantic heave is unleashed against the rock. No dice. It’s either firmly lodged in place, or simply too heavy to be budged. He has no idea how much rubble is above or around it… if only he could see!

His eyes snap open. He blinks tears away, blood tingling beneath his skin. The weight of cool metal presses against his outer thigh.

There’s a flashlight in my pocket. 

Unable to sit up, he knows he’ll have to reach for it. He pushes a scrap of wood to the side, dropping his shoulder to the left as far as he can, extending his long fingers to the point of strain.

His fingers just brush the pocket flap.

Tears reappear in his eyes and his breathing begins to pick up again - 

Think about the girls - Vee and Daffy! Think of Fred! Think about that… that double decker meatball abomination you made with Scooby that one time. Remember how fast he ate it, and how he forgot to save you a bite? 

It’s not much of anything, but his harried breathing slows. Try again. Do it for them.

With a grunt he shifts his shoulders and reaches a tad further than the first attempt - but it’s still not close enough. He exhales forcefully and tips his head to -gah, no, it’s still too dark to see, you mook. He waves his arms along the rough surface beneath him as if he were making a snow angel - 

His fingers bonk into that piece of wood he’d brushed aside. Immediately he grasps it and pulls it closer to his body. With a shaking hand he feels it. Yes, it’s plenty long. It’ll reach. 

Holding the oversized splinter out at a forty-five degree angle, he’s easily able to stab it into his pants pocket. Now his heartbeat accelerates with hope. He continues jabbing at the pocket, using the fabric as a flimsy fulcrum to leverage the flashlight up, up, and out. With a sharp exhale he relaxes as the flashlight rolls out of his pocket - And continues rolling - 

With a yelp he jerks his leg out, slamming his knee against the stone in the process - but he catches the flashlight, barely stopping its escape with his kneecap. He kicks the light up to his hand, eagerly closing his fingers around the metal casing with white knuckles.

Crunch.

Silence. Ripley nods once and begins slowly pressing down on the syringe's plunger until it reaches the bottom, then withdraws it from the flesh with a smooth motion. At first, nothing happens; but Payne leans slightly forward, focusing more of his weight downward. Ripley's hands hover over the dead man's forearms in practiced precaution.

And rightly so; the body begins at once to twitch, and not even seconds later to convulse. Blood squelches and sprays across the floor and onto Ripley’s suit, but he makes no indication of being bothered by this as his hands close around the corpse's thrashing arms, lips pursed. Payne closes his eyes and looks away as a wet, retching sound like mud being pushed through a pipe gurgles out of the corpse’s throat.

"Here we go,” Ripley mutters, watching their patient’s midsection with an unreadable expression.

The exposed tissue begins now to writhe and squirm as if sentient; wet, sucking noises reverberate off the walls as the flesh sluggishly knits itself back together with pulpy crimson tendrils and sinews. Several feet of small intestine, still strewn across the floor, begin to bunch and squirm, gathering and folding its length back into the open abdominal cavity. The crushed bones are quickly encapsulated with gleaming white cartilage, under which they can be seen reconstructing themselves into proper vertebrae and realigning themselves with moist cracking noises. Subcutaneous fat and muscle grope back towards their respective places, and over it all stretches raw, red skin - fresh skin, which immediately breaks out in waves of goosebumps. 

Both men watch with mingled expressions of disgust and interest.

"He's her pet," Payne grumbles, curling his lip. "She oughta feed and water him. And do this crap herself."

"Easy," Ripley warns, snapping his head around to glare at Payne. "I wouldn't say such things if I were you. Watch yourself."

"Just sayin'." Payne's expression dims in annoyance, but he drops it.

The gurgling sounds from the body begin to diminish quickly over the next minute. It has miraculously twisted and contorted itself back into order; and if not for the tattered bloodsoaked clothing, one might never have known that he had been beyond saving only seconds prior. As the final layers of skin stitch themselves together, his chest rises once, then drops. And then the body finally lies still. 

Ripley releases the man’s arms and Payne quickly stands, brushing his hands off on his pants. 

As soon as the men move away, the body heaves with a single croaking cough. Then a second, followed by a burst of small phlegmy coughs that send spittle spraying into the musty air above him.

And then, wild-eyed and wide awake, he sits bolt upright as if struck by lightning, desperately sucking air into his lungs.

Two hulking male figures drag a body towards the center of a featureless room, its sole occupant a weary aluminum chair. A trail of congealed blood like a mangled tongue unfurls behind them, smearing the gritty concrete with viscera that steams up in little wisps in the cool air.

Their quarry's shoes drag and squeak against the stained floor as if protesting their transport. Limp arms are twisted backwards at disturbing angles; the head lolls back and forth like a bent pendulum, one synchronized to no familiar method of timekeeping.

The two men bearing his weight take no care in moving the body, and don't even attempt to set it upon on the chair; instead, it is dropped unceremoniously at the base of the chair, and they step away from it. They're both neatly dressed in crisp gray suits, with close-cropped hairstyles and shining black boots. One man is dark skinned with foxlike eyes and a black tactical bag hanging across his chest, the other a blond man with a heavy crooked jaw that appears to have been broken in the past. Slim rectangular bulges under their suit jackets suggest concealed firearms; these men are both dressed and armed to the nines.

The blond kicks at the body, digging his boot into their ribcage, snickering. He pulls out a slim polaroid camera from his breast pocket and with a squint, lines up the shot so the body's badly mangled spine - sections of crushed yellow vertebrae protruding through webbed and mangled skin, stuck throughout with chunks of pink-and-white sinew, glistering blobs of fat and white cartilage - is clearly visible. A mechanical click-and-whirr rattle the stagnant room's air for a second, and the camera dispenses an image. The man snatches it out of the camera and immediately begins whipping it back and forth, stopping occasionally to watch the photo develop.

"Payne," says the darker man, chiding his coworker exasperatedly before stooping near the body. He shrugs off his bag, and after rummaging inside for a moment he produces a slim white cylinder, about the length of his forearm, and a small clear plastic case. He pops the case open, taking out a pair of disposable nylon gloves and pulling them on with a snap. Then from a smaller box he produces a short silver needle. The fat hypodermic gleams, catching light from the overhead cyan fluorescents. He inserts it into the end of the cylinder with a snap and a hiss.

"Wall of Fame, Ripley, Wall of Fame," Payne replies, shaking his head with a smirk. He gives the photo a few more shakes for good measure. "He'll wanna see these when he wakes up."

Ripley only shakes his head in reply, then with nimble hands he straightens the body so it lies flat and straight on the ground, and this takes considerable time given the condition of the body - although in spite of the carnage endured, the face and head are still remarkably intact.

The man's face is defined, with a bony, crooked nose and high cheekbones shadowed with dark stubble. His hair is neatly cut and ebony brown, though flecked throughout with a hint of gray. He's blood-drenched and windswept, wearing a tattered white button-up, black slacks, and an abused pair of leather dress shoes. Most of his midsection is indistinguishable from roadkill.

"When you're done," Ripley drones, pulling the remains of the corpse's shirt back and positioning the tube just above his heart.

Payne places the camera and photo back into his pocket and stoops beside Ripley. With a sigh of familiarity he presses his palms against the cold shoulders of their patient, holding him firmly against the concrete.

"Ready," says Payne tonelessly.

"He got a concussion last time. You got his head?"

"I got his head."

"Alright." Ripley's eyebrows ripple into question marks - his look of intense focus - and the needle shivers just above the pale veined flesh. He takes a breath, and inserts the needle.

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