The sign “BLOCK C” with an arrow pointing down loomed above the metal door in front of them. They found themselves in a staff locker room, in as pitiful a state as the rest of the prison: perhaps it was the prisoners who had vandalized all the lockers, ripping off some doors, or maybe it was teenagers who had come to play in this abandoned place and took the opportunity to damage the site without getting caught - perhaps some really did get caught, but not by the city police. Dusty clothes and safety equipment were scattered on the floor. In a corner, behind a partition, pieces of ceramic urinals lay on the ground turned brown by years of slow water leaks.

“Where are we going?” groaned Emilie.

She was still clinging to Raphaël's shoulder, but an alarmingly large pool of blood was beginning to form under her entirely red sock.

“We need to cross the building and find the entrance,” he replied. “Once there, every block entrance should be connected to this prison's entrance, right?”

“What are you, some kind of civil engineer in a penitentiary center? Stop pretending you know something and admit you're lost.”

He didn't know what to say, caught off guard.

“Sorry,” she apologized, “it just hurts like hell, that's all.”

The truth, he thought, was that she was right: he had no idea where to go in this labyrinth of walls and gates, and they were going to need a lot of luck to get out of here. Especially with a mad killer on their heels.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I don't have any other choice with my leg in fucking shreds. Shit, my mom's going to kill me if I come back with only one shoe...”

“Your mom will be glad to see you alive,” he tried to reassure her, “we're going to get out of here, don't worry.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, “it would be quite convenient for her if I disappeared like all the others. It would save her all the trouble I cause her.”

He couldn't find any comforting words that didn't sound hollow; he knew what it was like to have a parent who struggled to manage themselves before thinking about their child. But there was no time for introspection; it was time for action. He began to remove his belt, and Emilie suddenly looked outraged, her cheeks momentarily regaining a pinkish hue on her pallid face: “What the hell are you doing, you pervert??”

“It's not what you think!” he apologized, realizing the misunderstanding. “You need a tourniquet, you're going to bleed out!”

At first, she didn't seem to understand, then she looked at her leg, wincing at the extent of the puddle.

“Is it going to hurt?” she asked.

“A bit, but it's going to keep you alive.”

“Then do it, and don't make a fuss.”

He wrapped his belt around her thigh, just above the knee. She leaned on him: she was breathing heavily and her complexion was pale. He then tightened the tourniquet, eliciting a cry of pain that she had tried to suppress. The wounds were deep, and he hoped it would be enough to stop the bleeding.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“It's fine,” she said between her teeth, “let's go.”

But before they could set off, a bell chimed in the room. They both jumped, and Emilie groaned in pain as she dug her hand into her pocket. She pulled out a mobile phone blinking insistently.

“Damn it, not now!” she groaned, looking at her screen.

Raphaël leaned over her shoulder and saw that she had a notification. A message from Thomas.

“Where are you, little darlings? Why don't you want to play with me?”

Then, they almost screamed when a new message appeared on the screen, accompanied by the notification sound:

“Come on, give me a hint! Scream my name once so I can find you!”

They looked at each other, unsure of what to do, when another bell chimed in the room: this time, Thomas had sent a video. Emilie started the playback, too terrified to do anything but obey. At first, they saw nothing but a mass of black and gray pixels, accompanied by a saturated cacophony, as if he had filmed in the middle of a storm. Then they made out branches, and the electric sound transformed into the rustling of leaves. The cameraman was sneaking through a bush.

He emerged from the foliage to the back of a house. It was night, and not much was visible except for a window emitting a yellowish light. The person filming moved silently until pressing against the wall directly under the window, and the lens turned to reveal a face half-hidden under a hood. His pupils were fully dilated.

“What's up, girls?” Thomas whispered in the video. “You won't believe it, I found Eustass's old house! No kidding! According to my sources, I can find his famous book in his old room! If you're nice, for a joint or a little something, I'll let you read it!”

Then he raised the phone and placed the camera on the window ledge, inspecting the interior of the house like a periscope: there was an old living room with two sofas worn to the threads, and several paintings half-hidden behind a ton of cheap knick-knacks. In the back, the hallway light was on, but apart from that detail, there didn't seem to be a soul in sight. The camera spun around in all directions, almost nauseating, as Thomas climbed through the half-open window.

“I'm in...” he giggled.

He crossed the living room, the phone still in front of him, and headed towards a bedroom. He took a tour of the room, scanning it with his phone with a wrist movement: there was a simple single bed, and the little furniture that adorned the room was empty; but when the phone pointed at the nightstand, Raphaël jumped at recognizing Eustass's book.

“Damn, it can't be!” exclaimed the cameraman.

He approached slowly, lowering the phone which now filmed his legs. Between his thighs, the barrel of a gun was visible.

He then tossed the device onto the bed, perhaps to pick up the book, when a voice exploded from the other end of the room.

“WHAT IS THIS? screamed a woman. A THIEF! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!”

The phone was filming the ceiling, but Thomas was heard begging the woman to be quiet. But the poor lady screamed, demanding someone call the police, that she would give him a beating. A crash of falling objects followed, sounds like two people fighting, then a burst of gunfire saturated the sound of the video.

Then, silence.

No, someone crying. And vomiting.

Suddenly, a panicked and bloodied face filled the entire screen, and the video stopped.

“My God,” whispered Emilie, trembling.

A few moments later, a new message appeared under the video:

“Thanks, I heard my name! I know where you are now ;)”

Then, directly after, a photo appeared: it was the door of the block through which they had entered moments earlier.

Emilie moaned.

And finally, one last photo: a close-up of Thomas's face. His eyes were red, and his skin, streaked with blue veins, was beginning to necrotize. His lips hung, full of blood, and his nose had disappeared, exposing the black flesh of his nostrils. There was a text with the photo: “I'm coming.”

Emilie dropped her phone.

They started running.

***

Block C was the most dilapidated of all: the corridors were all stained with dark marks, some accompanied by gouges in the wall. Given their number and size, Raphaël understood why it had taken so long to recover all the bodies. The massacre that had taken place here might have even been more significant than that of the mine. He thought of the voices that the miners heard in the dark corners of the galleries and the piercing eyes that the prisoners saw in solitary confinement: was there a connection? Was this town really haunted, and did the monsters feed on carnage and desolation?

He looked at Emilie's leg, clinging to his shoulder: even though the tourniquet seemed to be working, her injured leg had doubled in size. It was now purplish, and he wondered how much time she had before the leg began to rot. No sooner had he finished this thought than he felt her weaken and almost fall off.

“Hey there!” he said, “stay with me!”

“Yes, sorry...” she replied in a weak and sleepy tone.

His stomach knotted: she was really in bad shape, she needed care as soon as possible. She was rapidly losing strength, now putting all her weight on Raphaël.

“Maybe I can take her to the infirmary?” he thought. “No, I don't even know where it is, and besides, they must have emptied everything before abandoning the prison.” There was really only one solution, to find the exit as quickly as possible. But with all her weight on his shoulder, they were moving slowly.

“Damn, it's a real maze in here!” he cursed, disheartened.

They had entered through the back of the building, which seemed to be on the staff side. He needed to find something to orient himself, like an atrium, or a main hall, which would be connected to the exit, that is, the block's entrance. Then, he had to see what this entrance led to: was it connected to the administrative building, the one they had entered through with the four of them? Or would he end up in another courtyard? Would they have to cross another block, A and B, to finally find the parking lot?

“Damn it,” he thought, “how am I going to make it moving this slowly?”

He passed by a room and glanced inside: it was a bathroom. An idea came to him. An idea he didn't like at all, but he told himself – or rather, he was telling himself – that it was the thing to do.

“Emilie!” he called.

“Mmmh?” she replied as if she were being pulled from sleep.

“I'm going to put you somewhere safe, just while I find the exit. I'll find a way out of here, and then I'll come back for you. I'll carry you if I have to, but we're going to make it.”

She groaned, her eyes almost closed: she was so weak that he had to carry her so she wouldn't collapse. He took her response as a yes, and dragged her into the room until they reached the stalls. He managed to seat her on the toilet: she was now as white as a sheet, blood continuing to slowly ooze from the wounds on her leg.

“Especially, don't fall asleep,” he told her.

“... You're going to leave me.”

“What? No, I'm just going to look for an exit, and I promise I'll come back.”

Her eyes were half-open, but she was looking at the floor. Her breathing was slow, and she was too weak to move. The only part of her body that wasn't milky white was her leg, which was turning almost black.

“Yes,” she continued as if in a trance, “you're going to find the exit, and you're going to run away without me. You're going to leave me here.”

“No, that's not true! I swear, I won't leave without you!”

But she didn't respond. He thought she had tried to shrug her shoulders, but he wasn't sure. He stood there for a few seconds, not knowing if he had made the right decision.

“But yes,” he thought, “you couldn't walk around carrying her throughout the entire penitentiary. Now, you can move quickly and effectively, but you have to hurry!”

So he left the stall hesitantly, walked out of the bathroom, and started running down the corridor.

He ran randomly through the various turns, sorely lacking direction signs, turning back when he encountered a staircase: he didn't know if it was the staff who had deliberately made the building impractical to prevent prisoners from roaming, if it was them who had torn off the signs like they had destroyed everything else during the riot, or if it was the administration who had removed everything after the penitentiary's closure. Then, an answer suddenly came to his mind, and he was convinced it was the right one: it was the monsters. They had removed them to more easily trap their victims. To corner them here like laboratory rats.

He finally arrived at a guard post: this one seemed to separate the staff area from the prisoners, with its system of double gates, open and inert. He ran through, out of breath, and stopped at the kitchen of the cafeteria.

The place was completely empty. The refrigerators were missing, their shapes having left a specter of dirt on the wall. The carts that had contained the meal trays to be cleaned were still there, but some were overturned on the floor. The bins that must have once contained food were empty, all the cupboards were open, there were no dishes or cutlery.

“This is where he hid, thought Raphaël, during the night of the riot.” He wondered which cupboard it was, and even if he could imitate and hide in it too. He concluded that it would not serve much purpose, except to condemn Emilie. He left the kitchens to enter the dining hall with overturned tables and folded chairs, when he heard a sound coming from behind him.

He turned around: it was a growl. It came from the kitchens, where he had been a little earlier. He thought he saw a shadow move in the darkness, but maybe it was his imagination; the animal noise, however, was very real, no doubt.

Another movement, as if the thing lurking in the shadow was slowly advancing.

He stepped back: something was there, deep in the kitchens, waiting to pounce. He heard a yelp: yes, it wasn't his imagination.

He began to walk backward, convinced that if he turned his back on that kitchen for even an instant, a monster would leap from the darkness and grab him. That was when the loudspeakers of the block spat out a piercing crackle, like an electric tongue snapping, resonating throughout the room. He shouted, caught off guard, then he heard a voice, crackling and panicked, coming out of the speakers:

“To everyone in block C... The death squad is coming... God have mercy on your soul... They're entering through the kitchens...”

The speakers went silent, leaving Raphaël paralyzed with fear with the thing that emerged from the dark to reveal itself: the man on all fours was naked, his bulging eyes pointing in opposite directions. Drool dripped from his lips as he barked. He moved slowly towards him, carrying on his corpulent back another man seated. This one wore a prisoner's outfit, a butcher's knife in one hand and a human head in the other. His carnivorous smile undulated as his rows of teeth ground against each other. Suddenly, right behind him:

“What are you, mate, a snitch or a queer?”

A third man arrived, a metal bar in his hands:

“Doesn't matter Mathia, I say we shove a bar up his ass to his throat, there are so many others to wreck tonight...”

Raphaël spun around: already four men were surrounding him, a fifth still approaching.

“I have no way out, he thought, I am dead.”

The man with the iron bar swung it wildly, like a drummer warming up for a baseball match. The guard-dog barked and snickered at the same time, relieved to no longer be the victim for the next few minutes.

“Or worse, he thought, the next few hours.”

The death squad was now upon him, just a few steps away. He began to tremble, ants crawling up his spine.

“This is the end, he thought.”

Then, a flash of thought crossed his mind, quick and fleeting, and he thought it moved too fast for him to catch it. An idea, materialized like a virtual particle, and almost immediately gone. But he managed to catch it:

“I know where Eustass is hiding,” he said with a trembling but assertive voice.

The men stopped, wary. Or rather, dumbfounded, as if they had haunted these corridors for decades and had gradually forgotten why they were there. Maybe they even took him seriously.

“Good God, this might be my chance... he thought to himself.”

“Man...” Mathia began behind him.

Then he raised his arm and pointed to the kitchens:

“He's hiding in a cupboard.”

And miraculously, they turned their heads in that direction, frowning and baring their teeth, as if the solution was obvious, as if it was indeed the very last place they hadn't searched.

“Go on, now you run, he thought.”

His feet remained glued to the ground.

“Go on, damn it, run, it's your only chance...”

He was so afraid, a voice in his head telling him that if he didn't move, if he let it happen, everything would be fine for him. His shoes were in cement.

“Come on, take control...”

The confusion lasted only a moment, but it was enough for Raphaël to react. He lunged, bumping into the man who called himself Mathia. The contact with his shoulder was sharp: his body was cold and slimy, and the unpleasant sensation stuck to his skin.

“Shit, catch that son of a bitch!” he heard behind him, but he was already speeding out of the dining hall.

“You can always run, but we'll always catch up to you, mate!” shouted another.

He crossed a large corridor, thanking whoever would listen that all the gates were still open in this block. Then, he arrived in the atrium and stopped dead: a hundred corpses were hanging along the floor, their feet swinging at the height of his head. The bodies were decomposing, some greenish in color and with a texture resembling moss.

“Release the dogs!!” he heard snicker in his back. He turned his head and saw the naked guard chasing him on all fours, screaming and barking. He resumed his run towards what seemed to be a guard post, but in the panic, everything was blurry around him. A rope snapped and a body collapsed just in front of him, but he jumped over the obstacle to avoid it. He looked up: a member of the squad had sawed the rope from the floor above, laughing heartily. Ahead, another man also cut a rope. The corpse also crashed about ten meters in front of him with a sound of broken bones, but as he approached, still in full run, the body began to rise. It helped itself up with its skeletal hands and stared at Raphaël with its eyeless sockets. He swerved, just in time for the revenant to brush his elbow, but failing to grab him. He passed the post, his lungs on fire and acid running in his veins. He passed two turns barred by several gates, when in front of him, he discovered swinging doors marked “RECEPTION”. A wave of hope passed through him, a delicious wave accompanied by a whip crack: he increased his speed and threw himself against the swinging doors which opened on their own just before he reached them. Taken by surprise, he stumbled out of the corridor, and crashed against an obstacle anchored to the ground. It did not move; it was Raphaël who sprawled on the ground.

He looked ahead and saw a pair of dirty socks in front of his eyes, containing two feet. He screamed and jumped up: the obstacle was a man standing upright, completely motionless. At first, he thought it was a mannequin, dressed in a pair of jeans and a hoodie. Moreover, his position was not natural: his legs were stretched, but his body bent in half as if he wanted to touch his feet. His arms were raised in the air, his fingers stretched in different and improbable angles, as if he was being electrocuted. Even though he did not move an inch in this improbable position, Raphaël immediately knew that it was not a mannequin. Next to him, a man stood with his forehead against the wall, a urine stain at his feet. Not far, a completely naked woman in her twenties was arched, her head and feet on the ground, her breasts pointing to the ceiling. Her face was frozen in an expression mixed with terror and amazement. On his right, a shirtless man sat cross-legged, his head resting on his knees. The fingers of his left hand were eaten away by necrosis, the tips black contrasting with the completely exposed white bone on the rest of the phalanges to the palm, like five decaying lollipops. Another had one foot and one hand on the ground, the other two limbs stretched in the air, a drool thread reaching the ground. A woman leaning against the wall still had her needle in her arm. Several were simply standing, others lying down and curled up, sometimes with three layers of sweaters, sometimes naked.

The room was filled with motionless zombies, frozen in time: Raphaël's heart sank in his chest, facing a scene from his past he thought he would never have to relive.

“Dad?” he said.

He slowly approached a man standing with his back to him. His pants were down around his ankles, revealing his frail and thin legs. His head was pointed towards the sky and his arms arched backward. With a fearful gesture, he placed his hand on the man's shoulder. But at that moment, all the heads turned towards him, staring at him with their vacant faces. His gaze returned to the man he was gripping, and he too was staring. Or rather, he was staring through him, as if lost in his cosmic contemplations: it was indeed his father. How could he be there? It was impossible. His chest began to rise and fall in a frantic rhythm, and he felt each breath spread panic through his body like poison.

Then he ran.

He continued through the room to the other end: he vaguely distinguished the counter to his right, the one he had seen when he first arrived, and the door still lying on the floor. Crossing it, he was surprised to find himself in the external parking lot, facing his car. Barely had he felt the fresh, dust-free air on his face, he was already in the driver's seat, inserting the keys into the car's ignition, as if he had had a lapse. The car started, as if time was leaping forward. His hand was on the gear shift, when he stopped abruptly:

“Emilie...” he said aloud.

He had to go back for her. She was still in the same place, he knew the way now. He just had to get out of the car and go back into the building.

His hand did not move.

He looked up: already, the squad was crossing the parking lot to meet him.

All he had to do was get out, avoid them, go back in, cross five or six rooms.

Risk getting caught.

Risk encountering Thomas again.

Risk stumbling upon the motionless figures.

“All you have to do is not panic,” he told himself. “Just go straight, go back for her. No question of running away.”

There were three men on the left side of his car, two others on the right.

“Come on, courage.”

The guard was shouting at him, held back by a leash on the wrist of the gang leader:

“YOU’LL BE THE ONE ON A LEASH SOON!! YOU’RE GOING TO STAY HERE FOREVER WHILE THEY TAKE CARE OF YOU!!”

The rest of the gang was approaching, they were only five or six meters away.

“You get out, you run. Everything will be alright.”

The leader threw the severed head against the car, which crashed onto the hood with a bang, as if he had thrown a brick.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic...”

He pulled out the butcher's knife, a smile stretching to his ears, and mimed mutilating his groin, then pointed the knife at Raphaël.

“It’s now or never, no more doing nothing, I’m getting out now, now I get out and I go.”

One of the men was now right next to the driver's door. He tapped the window with his stick like a police officer in a traffic stop.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic. Think of a plan...”

The man reached for the handle and triggered the mechanism.

He panicked.

The tires screeched on the empty parking lot, and the car sped off, the bumper scraping against the slightly elevated concrete of the very last guard post. Raphaël sped onto the road, swerving between the left and right lanes while dialing Jordane's number. After what seemed like an eternity, she answered.

“Jordane!” he shouted, “we're getting out of here, now!”

Interlude: Letter to the Police, June 17th

Dear Commissioner Voglth,

I passed by the station late last night, and your light was still on. Were you still poring over my case? I am flattered, yet so angry that the taxes we pay (including mine!) go to funding idiots as incompetent as you! 21 times and you still haven't figured it out! How many more will there be?

Each of my thoughts is invaded by the darkness that dwells within me. This rage and violence swirling! Each time the phone rings, I hope it's you. Each time there's a knock on my door, I pray it's you. The relief I will feel when you finally catch me!

Only the death penalty can free me.

Yet here I am, still here, still killing. I cross a police car, blood still on my hands, but it's as if I am invisible. Your stupidity disgusts me. If I am not caught in the act, you will never catch me. And too bad for you, I leave no witnesses.

Sometimes, I pass by your house. And I think to myself that you wouldn't even be able to stop me even if you found me with my hands around your wife's neck.

The truth is, you can't stop me.

I am violent because society is violent.

I hate women because society hates women.

I am everyone's instrument.

There is a part of me in each of you.

You will not stop me because I am you. Wearing your mask. Carrying your sins.

Let the carnage continue.

P.S.: You'll find a gift in the bedroom at 122 Tilleuls street. It's number 22.

Catch me before number 23.

Cold Blood.