I wake up in a cold sweat, my throat hoarse from the chilling, loud, screams that greet my bruised lips as visions of the terrifying creatures that had visited me in my sleep fade from memory.

My eyes burn under the harsh white lighting. I lift my sore arms to my face, and groan, lifting myself up from the sweat-soaked beddings. My bones feel twice as heavy under my skin and every slight movement amplifies the pain that throbs like a dull phantom ache.

I take deep breaths, waiting out the disoriented sensation in my head that makes the world around me sway. The fingers on my idle left-hand comb through my matted bed hair finding the incision, right beside my left ear, through which my communication chip has, without a doubt been extracted. 

My body jerks up from adrenaline as I search through my hospital scrubs and any other equipment for an identification tag. This is bad, I think to myself.

If anyone who isn't a part of the sanctuary comes into the possession of the chip then I'll be compromising my safety and the safety of hundreds of thousands of innocent lives.

I pull out the needle attached to the IV bag from my left arm, wincing at the sharp pain that follows and instinctively apply pressure on the vein to curb the gentle trickle of blood that pours out.

Beneath the bed, I find a pair of slippers that I slip on before heading for the door. It's only when I get to the door that I realise that there is no doorknob.

In its place, however, is a digital screen pad with a fingerprint scanner. I stare at it, pondering for a moment on the implications of my irrational behaviour before my index finger meets the cold glass touch-sensitive surface of the scanner. The scanner reads my print and beeps, emitting a green light that immediately unlocks the door. 

How can it be this easy? I wonder.

Perhaps it's a trap.

Still, I'm way too curious to back out now that I've started. I push the door open, peering into the open well-lit hallway for a second before venturing out. My eyes scan the doors, looking for a label or any sort of identification that could give me clues as to where I am but the bland, white, sterile wall to wall minimalistic interiors do little to tell me where I possibly might be.

I reach the end of the hallway where an elevator door is and from staring at the sequence of the moving floor indicator, realize that I am on the first floor of this building. So I press my index finger once again, against the fingerprint scanner to signal the elevator to open on my floor.

The scanner grants my request for the second time, my curiosity growing from the reoccurrence. 

Could this be a dream? Am I a prisoner or am I where I think I am?

"Hey! Hey! You're not supposed to be out here!"

I turn around, coming face to face with a man in blue scrubs standing at the opposite end of the hall.

"Come back to your room. You're in no shape to be walking around!" he orders, as he begins to advance towards me.

I turn back, my anxiety growing and press the scanner so many times it stops working. I can hear the sounds of his heavy footsteps approaching whilst repeating his order in an angry, monotonous voice.

The elevator doors open and I shimmy through, not giving the doors as a chance to open all the way through before I press the close door button.

"Hey! Stop! For the love of god, stop!" He yells, reaching a minute too late as the doors close in on him. But before they do, I catch a glimpse of the logo embroidered on his left breast pocket; the sigil of the white castle and a minute later it registers in my mind.

I'm at the sanctuary.

I'm safe.

I have nothing to worry about.

Still, I can't seem to calm my nerves as the elevator goes onto the next level. The dull ache in my head turns into a splitting headache that brings tears to my eyes as I stand, hunched over, trying to take deep, laboured breaths.

Calm down, we're safe. We're home, a voice in my head says calmly just as the elevator doors open.

I look up at the indicator. I'm on the ground floor? I have never been this far down, or even on the floor I was recuperating in, which explains why I was confused about my whereabouts, to begin with. I step into the ground floor which is similarly poorly labelled and boasts of the same stripped back, white, sterile, shiny floors and bland empty walls that the floor above had.

Except this one is different. There is no hallway but in its place, a large white door on which a bold black sign that reads 'MORGUE' is plastered.

The morgue? I never heard of the Sanctuary having a morgue. I know about the incineration room and the mortician's offices in the 'hall of funeral arrangements and successions' where all the deceased bodies are taken to be cremated as per the law, but never about a morgue.

The elders had been very incessant on speaking about the growing housing problem that was infringing on the sanctuary's desire to go forward with various frozen projects due to lack of space and over the years the housing rules had been scrapped to discard private and temporary housing units in preference to a group-based modules where two or more people shared a set amount of square footage.

Permanent members in the sanctuary had fixed, permanent housing quarters which they shared with their housemates while out-house agents like I, had the option of temporary sleeping quarters or not taking up live-in assignments.

I had never slept in the sanctuary as I was strictly working in the capacity of an out-house informant but a week before, when my housing permit was cleared, I was meant to come in and prepare my quarters in preparation for my boyfriend Quin's arrival.

"Quin..."I whisper, my memories coming back in bits.

I feel my eyes water as I falter through the door and into the secret morgue. 

My field of vision is filled with brightly coloured spots as my eyes adjust to the poorly lit room. I reach out for a switch on the wall and find a string. I pull it, hear a single click followed by an echo that reverberates as rows and rows of large silver boxes fill the large hall. The room feels like the inside of a meat locker. It's cold and smells of harsh chemicals.

I let out a cold gasp, and stare at the cloud of mist that forms in the freezing cold room. My body begins to shake in the dense, cool air. The paper-thin hospital gown does little to offer the warmth I desperately need but before I think to exit the room, I hear an unfamiliar grating sound of a closing door and when I turn o my heel, come face to face with the knobless interior of a sealed shut morgue cold room.

Then the sound of clinking metal fills the room, echoing softly until it vanishes into the eerily silent hall.

"Hello?" I yell out loud, getting only the echo of my sound in response.

I hear the clinking metallic sound ring again, this time followed by a scraping noise that makes my skin crawl. I spot a table filled with various surgical tools and grab a pair of forceps, gripping it tightly in my right arm, as I slowly walk towards the direction of the strange sound.

"Is anyone out there?"

I pass through rows of the elongated silver boxes, my teeth chattering and my body shivering with unease from a phantom breeze that hits my back, and seeps under my skin conjuring images of the creatures from my nightmare.

I can clearly make out the sound of a familiar hum coming from the back that makes my knees grow weak. My fingers grip the forceps tightly as I unwillingly approach with garnered interest. The smell of chemicals grows harsher as I get closer to the end of the hall, and it makes the pain in my head grow worse. 

I bury my nose in my elbow and breathe through the hospital gown, staring warily at the blinking fluorescent at the furthest end that flickers off, triggering the rest of of the lights into a fully spread out blackout.

Then somewhere close behind me, I hear something ask, in a mangled, inhuman voice.

"Where is...my daughter?"

Then my suppressed memories rush into my mind, all at once, reeking of the scent of death and rage; the smell that now inhabits my every breath...

A/N

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