Sanguinary

The Agent wiped blood from his face and clothes, then walked on, dreading what he might find. In the next room he froze. It was almost impossible to describe the carnage before him. He had no qualms about what he did. He only killed who it was necessary for him to kill, however violently he went about it. Most people that he killed were murderers themselves. Or drug dealers. Or pimps. Or all three. Most people that he killed deserved to die. But this… this was sick.

The room was coated in blood from wall to wall. There was barely a space without blood flesh or pieces of organs on it. There was a body in the centre of the room which had been torn apart, and it was from this cadaver that the bloody mess had come from. The Agent swallowed back the bile. Whatever the dangers, he would have to proceed.

The Agent resented going through the asylum when he could have just walked out after opening the cell doors. However, his employer had given him one final instruction; after releasing the inmates, he must go to cell 47B on the second floor and ensure that the man inside had left. He hadn’t explained why, and The Agent hadn’t asked. The more he knew, the greater the chance that he would be killed after he had completed the assignment. He prided himself on doing a thorough job, and if his reputation was damaged in any way, then he might not get any more assignments, which meant no more money. So, whatever his reservations, he decided to continue.

At first he tried walking around the blood, but he soon realised that it was futile and walked straight through the mess. He walked through the door on his right. In this room – which was much longer than it was wide, so it appeared to be more of a corridor than a room – was a scene almost as gruesome as the one in the room that had preceded it.

Just to the right of him was a body without a head. The corpse looked as if someone had put their hands in the mouth and pulled the top of the head off, leaving only the jaw. The Agent was sickened by what he saw. To think that someone could be driven mad to the point where they could commit such acts. Before he could really comprehend what he was seeing, he heard a door slam at the other end of the room. He looked up. A man stood by the door, wearing a straitjacket that had been torn open, leaving the buckles dangling loosely. The man was covered in blood, and had the top of the guard’s head under his belt hanging by the hair, like some kind of macabre trophy. He smiled broadly and laughed, then ran towards The Agent.

This time The Agent was ready for such an attack. His machete was already free and ready to stop the charging madman. As the lunatic neared, The Agent sidestepped quickly, then swung the machete – which made a skirling sound as it cut through the air and cut cleanly through the inmate’s muscle, spinal cord, and windpipe. His head fell to the floor as it came away from his neck. Because of the momentum his body kept running for a few paces, fell to his knees, then fell forward, blood already pooling around the wound. The head rolled around on the floor, then stopped, it’s dead eyes looking accusingly at The Agent, who shook his head. He hadn’t wanted this. He checked the back of the inmate’s straitjacket for his cell number. 21A. Thankfully. If it had been 47B, then his employer would have been furious. The Agent carried on forward, through the door, and ascended the stairs in front of him.