Risen from Death

Dane sat slumped on the cold metal table, his body drenched in sweat. His hands gripped his head as if trying to hold his skull together, but the pain inside felt like his brain was about to explode. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out the distant beeping of the machines. His voice barely a whisper, he muttered to himself, "Am I… dying? Or am I already dead? Is this heaven, or is it hell? What the hell is happening?"

His eyes, wild and unfocused, darted around the room. Flickering lights cast eerie shadows on the sterile white walls, where computers blinked mechanically, indifferent to the madness surrounding him. Scattered across the floor were surgical tools coated in blood, glinting menacingly under the faint light. Bodies—mangled, lifeless, twisted in unnatural positions—were strewn across the lab like discarded dolls. The stench of death hung thick in the air.

Dane's breath hitched as reality crashed down on him. His heart raced, thudding against his ribs like a trapped animal trying to escape. "No, no, no," he whispered, shaking his head. "I get it now. I know what this is... This is hell. This is my punishment. The demons—they know what scares me most."

He swallowed hard, a shiver running down his spine as he glanced around the lab. His body trembled, feeling the weight of unseen eyes, as if the walls themselves were watching, judging, mocking his every movement.

But then something caught his eye, pulling him out of his spiral of panic. He glanced down at himself, feeling the fabric of his pajamas. For a brief moment, relief washed over him like a cool wave. "Wait… everything's still here. Everything is… in place," he muttered, his hands trembling as they roamed over his body, checking that nothing had been taken or mutilated.

The relief was fleeting.

His eyes drifted toward the iron doors at the edge of the lab, and that's when he saw the glass window of the iron door—the blood, thick and dark, smeared across the glass like a grotesque painting. It dripped in uneven streaks, creating the haunting image of something—or someone—trying to claw their way inside. Dane's chest tightened, his breath turning shallow as fear gripped him in its cold, merciless claws.

"What… how does hell have blood?" he rasped, his voice trembling, eyes wide as his mind raced. Every nerve screamed for him to run, to get out, to escape whatever lurked on the other side of that door.

He slid off the table, his bare feet touching the cold, sterile floor. But as soon as he stood, pain surged through his skull like a lightning bolt, blinding him with agony. He clutched his head, gasping for breath, the room spinning around him. His vision blurred as he staggered forward, nearly falling.

Through the pain, his gaze fell on a nearby surgical table. Among the scattered tools was a scalpel, its blade still sharp and gleaming. His hand reached out, trembling, and wrapped around the handle. It was small, barely enough to defend himself, but it was all he had.

"I have to survive," he whispered, his voice barely audible as fear wrapped tighter around his chest. "I don't know where I am… but I have to survive."

The silence in the lab was suffocating, broken only by the occasional beep of the machines and the faint drip of blood hitting the floor. Dane's heart pounded in his ears as he stood there, gripping the scalpel like a lifeline, each second stretching into eternity as he braced himself for whatever horror waited beyond that blood-soaked door.

With slow, trembling steps, Dane approached the door, his heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out his thoughts. His breath came in shallow gasps as he peered through the small glass pane in the iron door. The hallway beyond was cloaked in an eerie silence, empty. There was no sign of life, no movement. But the stillness only made the tension worse. He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

With trembling hands, he slowly twisted the handle and creaked the door open, just enough to poke his head out. His eyes darted nervously from side to side, scanning the length of the hallway. Still, nothing. No one.

A faint wave of relief began to wash over him, but it was short-lived.

His gaze dropped to the floor, and his stomach twisted in horror. The floor was slick with blood—dark, congealed pools of it spreading like a grotesque flood. Body parts were scattered across the floor, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, fingers clawing at nothing, heads staring blankly upward. It was as though someone—or something—had torn through the hallway, leaving only carnage in its wake.

Dane froze, paralyzed by the sight. His legs felt like lead, and his mind screamed at him to run, to close the door, to pretend he had never seen it. His heart hammered in his chest, and his breath came in ragged gasps. Without thinking, he slammed the door shut, the sound echoing in the small lab.

He collapsed against the door, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold, hard floor, knees pulled up to his chest. His body trembled uncontrollably as he muttered to himself in a cracking voice, "Th-th-there are… human body parts out there. S-someone… someone killed them all. Brutally… Oh god… I can't… I can't go out there."

For a long time, he sat there, trying to calm his frantic breathing, the scalpel clutched tightly in his shaking hand. His mind raced, playing out every possible nightmare. Was he alone? Were they still out there? Would they come for him next?

But the silence pressed down on him, thick and oppressive. No footsteps, no screams. Just the sickening memory of what he had seen. He couldn't stay there forever, trapped in fear.