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Stumbling across the floor with sweat pouring down his face, he reaches for the handle and presses down until he hears the click. Nothing is heard as the glass of the bulkhead fogs up from his panicked breath. He twists around, his back against the steel, his hand on his side and his finger twitching his trigger. The iron sights pointed in the bloody darkness ahead, only illuminated by the waning flickering lights that cast shades of crimson into the abyss. Clattering beyond his sight can be heard echoing across the panels of the submersible. Buzzing and humming his radio hidden in his once clean jacket mutters static into barely comprehensible speech.
Soaked in blood and sweat his spare hand reaches into his pocket, the red dyeing the green into a dirty brown. He pulls out his radio, now covered in scratches and dents nonexistent twelve hours ago. Up to his ear he raises the radio. Up to his eye he raises his firearm. Up to his chin he raises his chest.
In one ear are the reverberating sounds deep into the hallway and in the other the random sputtering of the electronics. One two three, he counts as he begins to feel cold and his blood runs out of his side and down his torn pants. His vision tunnels as his brain is pressed with pressure from the primal fear he senses in the deep deep dark.
He knew this job sounded too easy. A protection job in a submarine. He thought the pay was good strictly based on the isolation he felt. He was used to isolation all his life, thought this would be a good paycheck. Surely an advanced prisoner ship would be secure. He realises now as he is living the same moments over and over again. The flashing scarlet lights. The slight waving of his arm held forward. The continued buzzing in his ear. The slight heat pulsing out of his side. He realises that he was a fool or that he was lied to. He didn’t know he was going to transport that or he didn’t know he was the only English speaking member on board. He was expecting isolation not abandonment. But now he questions what the difference is.
Guttural growls and the scraping ground approaches him as he drops the radio to the floor. Cracks splinter across the plastic shell as he reaches back to the handle again. He slams it down. Clunk. And again he does it. Clunk. And again it steps closer so that down the hall the silhouette of it is finally revealed. To him not much is seen. To him that's enough.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. He repeats. At this point his firearm joins his radio as he faces the glass once again, pressing all his weight onto the handle now coated in a layer of sweat and blood.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. He wants to check behind him so much. His neck strains in desire but his mind tries to focus. Focusing on the handle that makes the same repetitive sound every time he slams down on it. Eyes twitching and filling up as the metals tiles groan under the weight of what's approaching from the hell behind him. For a moment he falters and glances at the glass up in front of him.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. He slams quickly and painfully. Blood spurts out his sides as he slams on the handle over and over in desperate panic.
Click. As the bulkhead moves ajar. Pushing against the rough metal he moves the bulkhead out into sterile white light. Turning only to grab his firearm both stumbling forward up the stairs, not caring to close the bulkhead behind him. He just wants to leave this hallway.