Pandemonium: Chapter Two

Chapter Two: Endless, Nameless


by: Mark Anthony Pritchard (aka Rorshach)


I write these words by the light of a single candle, struggling for the answers that will not come. In this world of confusion, the only thing that is concrete and clear is the black animalistic terror that clouds the night sky outside, a threat too awful and real, to be denied.

It is late evening on my first day, after I awoke here, and I have no memory of my previous life, at all, if such a life did indeed exist. Am I insane, or does my mind instinctively protect itself from a truth that I will not be able to take?

After witnessing the events described in Part 1 of this journal, I followed the barked orders of the fearless young girl, and lagged behind her rapid step as she led me away from the alley, and the filth encrusted safety of my place of concealment.

The girl was not alone, and did not slow her pace for me, as she sprinted away, joining a group of refugees who were rapidly accelerating from the recently vacated tall and foreboding building where I had so-recently awoken in confused terror. I struggled to keep up, barefoot as I was, as the crowd passed me by, and watched in panic as they began to board a large articulated vehicle that was parked at the side of the road.

I wasn't going to make it. I was too slow. My body was locking up again, and the vehicle was going to speed away, and leave me here, in the slime encrusted streets, defenceless against the strange beasts that patrolled the night.

I was wrong, as panic accelerated my step, my frozen limbs kicked into gear, and I flew past the crowd, into the waiting vehicle, as it’s engine roared into life, and it sped away into the cold night’s streets, leaving dozens of desperate faces behind, to fend for themselves.

I had made it. I was safe, for a while.

Struggling to keep my balance in the uncomfortable, cramped quarters of the steel-floored vehicle, as it sped through the dark silent night, I looked from person to person, and what did I see?

Reflected in terrified faces, eyes avoiding contact with the people around them, focussed on the metal floor, wide open in horrified recognition that the nightmare was real, I saw fear, and the awful truth about myself, and the situation that I had found myself in.

There I was amidst the horror, confusion, vulnerability and fear of a shipwrecked people, battered remains of torn humanity, slowly drowning, in a deep pool of shark-infested brutal, horrific inevitable demise.

There was no comradeship there, no bond of familiar or tribal loyalty, just helpless individuals in a horror show of predator and prey, treading water, with the mute understanding that the jaws of death could drag them down, at any moment, into the depths of the black abyss, forever.

But I survived, and now, by candle light, I record events, surrounded by my fellow survivors, in another building, dark, cold and foreboding as before, and my memory returns to the brief interactions that I have had, in this quiet world of terror and confusion.

Seated on the hard floor of the canvas covered vehicle, shivering with cold, my feet bloodied and sore, I began to study the blank faces alongside me, searching for the blonde hair of the young girl who had bade me to follow. At first I did not see her. The people blending into each-other, crouched in shivering balls of cold fear, their bodies covered in dirty brown clothes and blankets, attempting to retain their rapidly diminishing body heat as the chill night air throttled through the vehicle as a whip to the rear of a broken beast of burden.

How to detect a ray of hope in a sea of brown misery? The thought splintered through my mind as I failed to detect her, then suddenly, there she was, in the middle of a row of filthy and unkempt people, a mixture of old and young, men and woman, of different ethnic types, most speaking in tongues that I did not understand. Her hair was covered in a grey hooded top, protection against the ruthlessly cold night’s air, but one stray blonde lock dangled down, a smile of colour in a sea of brown and grey.

Apologising for my rudeness, not that any complaints were forthcoming, I haphazardly forced myself through the packed carriage, eventually muscling into a space alongside the girl herself.

‘Thank you for warning me out there,’ I said, as way of introduction, and her fierce eyes starred directly into my own, in a look far closer to irritation than friendship or concern.

Waiting for an answer, that did not come, her aggressive glare returned to the floor, and she tucked her blonde hair back into the hood that was now wrapped tightly around her head, and obscuring most of her face.

I pressed again for a small titbit of information.

‘What is your name?’ I asked, the answer to which came in the form of look of extreme astonishment, and a tremendous bout of laughter, a reaction that confused me, for what was so amusing about asking for a name?

A response to my look of confusion came immediately, but not from the girl herself, instead from a haggard looking old man alongside her, having heard my question, he could not help but to interject his own words of mockery.

‘Don’t ask stupid questions,’ he said, a look of incredulity writ large upon his heavily lined face, ‘a man your age should know better than that.’

Leaning back, his head rebounding against the soft canvas cover, he began to chuckle softy to himself, and as I struggled for something to say, a sharp dig in my ribs diverted my attention, again, to the young girl beside me.

‘You’ll get used to things around here,’ sighed the girl herself, finally speaking, and there was a resignation in her voice, sad to hear from somebody so young, ‘if you survive, of course,’ she continued, ‘and nobody survives for very long.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I stupidly replied, feeling instant embarrassment at my verbal ineptitude as the confusion in my mind intensified to a fever pitch of incomprehensible panic.

‘Of course you don’t understand, none of us do,’ she replied, her voice lowering now as a sense of deep melancholic resignation set in.

‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist about it mister,’ she continued, looking up at me again, revealing sorrowful brown eyes of long-suffering truth, though there was a return of the previous defiance in her tone that I was happy to hear.

‘They chase, we run,’ she said, ‘what else is there that you need to know?’

Hearing these harsh words of hopelessness caused some kind of metaphysical breakdown in my soul, and I sat back in horror, understanding at once that what she had said was true, horribly, horribly true.

Hours passed by in silence, and the vehicle thundered through the streets, to eventually stop, and deposit me here, in a decrepit old city house, where I sit, surrounded by my fellow survivors.

I record these experiences now, with a thick stub of a pencil, and on a voluminous notepad that I found stashed away in this new hiding place, and I still do not know the name of the young girl who bade me to follow her here.

I asked her again, later on, as we settled into this house, and she replied with a question that finally gave me the answer that I required, even if the answer itself was as terrible as not knowing at all.

‘Tell me your name first, and I will tell you mine,’ she said, a knowing look of strange sadness writ large upon her small child’s face, as she established her claim on a tattered sofa, where she will sleep for the night.

Struggling to recollect a name that did not come, realisation dawned, and harsh reality numbed me into a somnambulist epiphany that was there all-along.

I did not know my own name.

There are no names, not here, and thus ended our conversation, terminated on the terrifying fact that here I am, a nameless mass of flesh, hiding in the night, from black lumbering beasts, moving from building to building, hopelessly lost and confused.

Now, as I recline on a wet mattress, in this broken windowed, wind swept, decaying old building, struggling to find a soft space free from damp, I finish this journal entry, and hope for sleep to take me away to a better world.

Will the beasts find me here? Will I be awoken again and told to run? I do not know, but I do know this. Somebody has to do something, as words alone will not change a thing, and if solutions to do not present themselves to me, I shall find them, for myself.

Yes, I am nameless, confused and afraid, but in this dying candle’s flame I am reminded of something old, eternal, and thus new.

There is the faint light of warmth here, and it speaks of life and hope, and when I awake tomorrow, I know exactly what to do. I will not surrender, and I will not live like the shipwrecked survivors around me.

To run, and hide, waiting for the inevitably of death, that is not life, and though I do not even know my own name, I know these facts for sure.

I will not surrender, and I will not run. Tomorrow morning, whoever I am, wherever I am, the resistance against the monsters outside, will officially begin.



Chapter Three: Out next week.