New story! Yay!

This is just the prologue. Please tell me exactly what you think!


If I lie very, very still, and maybe snore a bit, she'll go away.

No such luck.

"Eliza," she calls sweetly, "are you awake?"

It takes me a while to work my tongue. "Noo..?"

I wait for her to reply with some silly comeback, but she says nothing. I open my eyes, expectling to see my mother standing in the doorway of my room.

Instaed, my eyes are met by a blank, metallic grey wall. Lights are flickering overhead. The floor beneath me is a pale blue carpet, the faded version of what we had in my old primary school.

My body is stiff, like I have been lying in the same position for far too long. I try to stretch out.

A deep voice yells at me, but I can't tell waht it is telling me to do. The words don't mean anything but a niggling part of my brain recognises that I should be able to understand. It makes no sense, the voice must be speaking in a foreign language.

A second voice, higher and slightly musical, says something, I think in reply to the first voice.

Then the first voice snaps at the second in the 'you idiot' tone that my dad almost always uses on my brother. I manage to pick out the word 'insane' and everything comes back to me.

I am insane. Depressed. Self-destructive.

I must be back on the ward for 'troubled teens' again. Hey, at least the meals are free, my mother had said the very first time I had to go there, and there was still hope for me.

My hands automatically run up my mutilated arms and a tear forms in my eye.

"Mother, I'm so sorry," I sob, "but it's just so hard! Please, mother, I'm so sorry. I promise I won't cut again, I really mean it this time!"

"Shut up!"

"Have a heart, Keith. It's upset," says the musical voice.

"Don't tell me what to do, Aubrey. And don't feel sorry for it, either. How do we know it didn't send the thing that blew our families up?"

What are they talking about?

Maybe I'm hearing voices. I'm getting even crazier by the day. Funny that, because my head is the clearest it's been since I lost it.

"I think we should call Base," says a third, softer voice.

"You're not in charge, Goddammit!" Keith shouts.

There's the soundof elevator doors opening, and I'm pulled onto my feet and forced to stumble out into what looks like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie. I see a solid black shape and realise that the three other people with me in the lift are holding guns.

This can't be a psychiatric ward.

Unless, of course, I'm starring in the sequel of that Leonardo DiCaprio film, Shutter Island, or something. Except this time, they threw in real crazies.

"Where am I?" I ask.

A tall man with dark hair looks at me in disgust.

"This used to be a popular retail centre. It's a ruin now." The third voice says from behind me. I crane my neck around and see a black man who looks like he should be in a hospital somewhere, bringing pateints back to health.

"Ruin?" I repeat. I look more carefully at my surroundings and see smashed-out cars burried under tonnes of concrete rubble. Plastic containers and dented cans little the ground. When I turn to my right, I see that chunks from what appears to be escalators have been ripped away. Parts of the building above still stand, although there are holes varying from the size of my bedside table to that of a double decker bus punched ito the ceiling. Live wires hang from above, occasionally glowing or sending off sparks.

The air is full of the stench of decay.

Three people walk up to us pushing a woman in her ealy twenties and a middle-aged man.

"Found these two in the staff room eating into our supplies," says a stern woman with a pistol in her belt. The way she said it made it sound like we weren't supposed to be here.

The younger woman, who I notice wears a stud in her nose, retrives a tin of hot dog sausages from under her Tesco emblazened body warmer and pops part of a raw hot dog into her mouth.

"Give me that!" A man screams at her then snatches the tin from her boney hands. "Savages."

The hot dog woman swallows her mouthful and breaks into a grin. "Who's up for a sing-song? I am!" Then she starts to sing 'Old MacDonald Had a Farm.' Or, I should say, starts to screech 'Old MacDonald Had a Farm ."

The middle aged man, who I note is wearing a janitor's uniform, laughs spastically and joins in with all the animal sounds, but not neccessarily the appropriate ones.

Unless cows bleat now.

"Is this it?" Keith asks. Keith, I learn, is the one who glared at me like I was some-sort of micr-organism that might give him food poisoning.

"No," replies the stern woman, "Williams found another ina freezer and a fifth in the family changing room. Where'd you get that one, then?" She jerks her chin at me.

"Found it sleeping in a lift. Did a DNA on it. You'll never guess who it's the sibling of." Keith taunts.

"The son of a bitch that started all this?" Another, I can't tell if they're a man or a woman, gestures to the area around us.

"Like I said before, must've been a really powerful cryo to do this much damage. Why they had to waste it on such a small town I'll never know." Says the musical voice from beside me. I t belongs to a short girl who's black hair is scraped back into a high pony tail. She must be Aubrey.

"Well, maybe you would if you'd pay attention to modern history," retots the black man.

"When does the chopper arrive? I want out of this madhouse," Keith interrupts.

"Not long. Maybe you could do me a favour and knock them out if your bored," suggests Aubrey.

Keiths shrugs then swings the handle of his gun around the singing/screeching woman's head. The man making the animal noises doesn't notice that his partner has stopped singing, or Keiths gun coming around the back of his head. They're both out cold, and now it's painfully silent.

The gender-neutral one nods at me. "That one, too. It looks way to calm."

Why are they calling me an it? I am female. I am Elixabeth Cutter, the cutter.

I am about to be hit by the handle of a gun.

Please leave a review, and I hope nobody takes offence in anything in here. It kinda gets worse as the story goes on.