text: [Themes: modern, action]
  
  Midnight. After a few hours passing the time with creative use of lab equipment, Detective Shaw and Delilah ready themselves for the upcoming confrontation, whatever that may be. They find a sizable cabinet to hide in, the contents inside shoved into another, its adjustable shelves taken out and dispersed between similar storage units. There's enough room to stand still and upright, though any movement is inhibited, unless, of course, you count leaving. Footsteps approach.
  
  Two men, most likely. The heavy stomping and dull-sounding steps are more consistent with the way men walk. Then again, it could be two heavy-set women with long legs wearing flat bottom shoes. Probably not, though. The footsteps stop, conveniently, in front of the cabinet. To give Detective Shaw credit, this isn't his first bust.
  
  "Did you prep the 'patient' for surgery?" one asks with a gender neutral sounding voice. You know, like it could be a fruitcake man or a lifelong smoking woman.
  
  "She's secure in Lab 22," the other one replies, sounding more unequivocally like a man. "Not like she can run anywhere in her state ha-ha!"
  
  "Man, that'd be creepy, wouldn't it? It's bad enough they have us moving dead hookers. Chasing down dead hooker zombies isn't exactly in the job description."
  
  "Shut up, Jamie. You'd do anything for money."
  
  Ah. Jamie is the gender neutral voice. Of course (s)he'd have a name like that. The unequivocal man continues. "I'm actually surprised I haven't seen your body in one of the labs. I know you've been hurtin' a bit in the cash bone."
  
  "Yeah, like the scum of this city'd be so lucky," Jaime says.
  
  At which point, Detective Shaw takes the moment to burst through the cabinet door, revolver in hand, Delilah in tow, surprising the two contentious coworkers.
  
  "Alright, gentlemen. Listen up," Shaw begins, then notices Jaime open his/her mouth to speak. "And don't even try to correct my pronoun use. You're going to take us to Lab 22 and handle any security along the way. Any questions can be directed towards my metallic friend here." Shaw finishes by tapping the revolver.
  
  Jaime and the Man glance at each other, checking to see if either of them feel like being a hero. The answer's no. Reluctantly, they lead Shaw and Delilah from the lab and into the hallway. It's late, and nearly everyone has gone home for the night. The quartet pass by a single janitor, who pays them no mind, though he does move his mop out of the way for Delilah. Jaime on the other hand, has to step over it.
  
  Lab 22 is located at the end of a narrow hallway. Its door is metallic, reinforced with security bars. Several symbols marking "quarantine" are posted outside. Obviously, unwanted guests are exactly that. The man fishes through his pockets for a key card, which Delilah swipes from his hand with a gleeful grin. She's enjoying herself, perhaps a bit more than Shaw expected. She has a taste for edginess, and justifiable trespassing is a sweet flavor.
  
  With a Blip! the mechanical locking mechanism releases, allowing Shaw to swing the door open. The inside lights are off, and Shaw shoves Jaime forward, first, just in case there are any nasty traps. One of Shaw's colleagues once accidentally triggered a laser trip wire. Instead of setting off an alarm, the laser did as lasers do and took the leg clean off from the knee down. Thus, the legend of One-Knee Mcgee was born, and it's been limping along ever since. Shaw shoves Jaime forward and follows quickly behind, although not too quickly.
  
  Light bursts into the room, activated by motion, revealing an interior filled with stainless steel. Each object in the room, save for the linoleum floors, are made from the same shiny material. All eyes draw towards the operating table, the centerpiece of the room. A woman as bare as the day she was born lies on the table, lifeless, the color drained from her skin, lack of decomposition telling that her death is recent. Leather straps hold her in place at the ankles and wrists. Her face sits buried in a metal cage, like something a person with a broken neck would wear. The cage is bolted to the side of her head and locked into position at the top of the table. Long surgical lines appear at her joints, stitched together by black string and thick medical staples.
  
  "Fucking animals!" Delilah yells, sending a fist into the man's face. Shaw wraps her up in order to prevent any further damage or attention. "I know her...that's Jessica. We used to work together."
  
  "You still can."
  
  A voice echoes from behind the four, originating from a man dressed in scrubs, complete with a surgical mask over his lower face. Jet black hair, neatly combed and gelled, sticks out from the mask. Glasses, reflecting the light, cover his eyes with two fluorescent orbs. His hands hold a device, a small electronic emitter not unlike a garage door opener.
  
  "In time you will appreciate my work. I grant you everlasting life."
  
  The door slams shut, locking the four inhabitants, five if you count Jessica, inside the stainless steel room. The motion lights turn off. Everything goes black.
  
  > fade to black
  "Get your ass outta bed, lazy bones!"
  
  Andrew rolls over in his bed, pulling the covers over his eyes. The action catches sight of a poster on the wall: Metallica. He begged his mom to allow him to buy it. She wouldn't budge at first, but in the end, he managed to pull it off. "You'll have to do chores for months to pay that off!" she told him. It didn't matter. He gladly took the responsibility in order to purchase the poster of his favorite band. Besides, it covered some of the larger cracks in the wall. What do they call that? Dual purpose?
  
  The door to his room bursts open. Standing in the doorway, hands on hips, is Momma Shaw dressed in a pink nightgown with matching curlers in her hair. Momma Shaw's portly figure grazes the edges of the door frame, something that embarrassed Andrew.
  
  "The sun's up, and you should be as well," Momma Shaw scolds. "I'll not have my boy grow up lazy. We already have one lazy man in this house and I won't have you be like your father."
  
  "Yes, Momma," Andrew says sitting up in bed, wiping a few eye boogers from his face.
  
  "Hurry up, then. I have some porridge for you downstairs. You better finish it before it gets cold. I'm not wasting electricity to heat it up again."
  
  Andrew swings his feet from the bed to the stained carpet beneath. His friend, Jeremy, has carpet that's soft, unlike the kind beneath his bed. This carpet is dull, off-color from its original shade. It's scratchy, too, like your hair when you put too much mousse in. Andrew walks downstairs to the small bowl of sludge sitting on the table. He'd never call it that in front of Momma Shaw though. Jeremy has cereal that tastes like dessert, and I have muddy water, he thinks. At least it's filling. Andrew isn't one for complaining.
  
  Glass knocking together draws Andrew's attention from his breakfast. His father stumbles away from the refrigerator with three beers in hand, not before grunting a "good mornin'" as he passes Andrew.
  
  His father plops down on the recliner behind the dinner table, the only place Andrew sees him other than his head in the fridge. The TV turns on and a newscaster's voice fills the room. Andrew's father mumbles something, showing distaste towards the caster, but continues to watch for a reason unknown to Andrew. Another bite of earthy porridge distracts Andrew, momentarily, from his father. He wishes for some of Jeremy's cereal.
  
  What were those Metallica lyrics again? "No one but me can save myself...
  
  > ...
  ...but it's too late."
  
  The prophet paces back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. Significant progress was made last night. The patients are almost completely healed, at least their bodies almost were. Their soul is another matter. Still, it's troubling that a detective found his way here. Here, to the sacred place where life is made. Here, in Eden. There must be wolves in the midst of his herd. Wolves disguised as sheep. Wolves with mouths that sing. No matter. They'll answer for their sins. They all will.
  
  His newest patient shows promise. She has spunk, unlike the weak-willed, comfort-seeking street whores that landed on his table before. They didn't want to be saved. Their baptism was right in front of them, and they refused it. Whores. Perhaps, the prophet should have waved a few hundred bucks in front of their face. That'd get their attention and compliance. No. That wouldn't work. You can't buy your way into heaven. Everlasting life is a free gift brought by faith alone. They'll learn. The prophet will make them all learn. In the meantime, their suffering is well-deserved. The wheat must be separated from the chaff. Perhaps, the detective will prove to be a man of faith. His life depends on it.
  
  A dark basement greets Detective Shaw upon regain consciousness. Why does it always have to be a basement? Looking up, Shaw can barely see empty lights, absent of their bulbs. Various utility devices are scattered throughout the basement, occasionally blinking red light, the only source down here. Shaw's head feels like it ate a brick, maybe two. The last thing he remembers is...
  
  Delilah! Red light blinks in the basement, illuminating the woman's face for a mere second. As the glow subsides, her face vanishes into darkness. Shaw sits up suddenly, feeling the side of his head and the pain that accompanies. He shouts her name into the black. Nothing. His voice echoes softly, only serving to accent the looming silence.
  
  A flash of light and Delilah's face appears inches away from Shaw's. Bathed in red, Delilah's face is blank, expressionless. Steel screws appear at the side of her head, similarly to the woman they discovered on the operating table. A necklace of black stitches hang at her neck, running down her bare chest, meeting with more black lines and surgical staples.
  
  In horror, Shaw scoots back from Delilah, feeling the cold basement floor under the palms of his hands, dragging his trench coat along the cement. His worn fedora falls off, and he doesn't stop to grab it. His hand reaches inside his coat for the holster at his shoulder. It's empty. Delilah walks slowly towards him, hands stretched in front of her, reaching for Detective Shaw, disappearing into black in-between the red light's blinking. With each crimson glow, she draws nearer, closer to grabbing Shaw.
  
  Detective Shaw keeps moving backward, away from the abomination before him. The basement is sizable, but not infinitely so. Eventually, he will have to confront the monster in front of him. Whatever it is, it's not Delilah, and Shaw has no problem putting it down. Sure, he and Delilah had some good times, but let's not sugarcoat the relationship between call girl and client. Shaw's hand searches for a weapon. Anything is better than nothing at this point.
  
  His hand finds something soft, cold to the touch. It moves, coming alive, grabbing Shaw's arm. Red light flashes. Dozens of bodies stand around Shaw, stitches at their joints, screws at their temples, as lifeless and naked as Delilah. The vice-like grip tightens around Shaw's arm. They close in, grabbing more of Shaw's limbs, holding him firmly in position. Their bodies block the light completely, and just before total darkness envelops Shaw, he sees Delilah's head cocked to one side, blankly staring, approaching steadily. Detective Andrew Shaw screams at the top of his lungs. No one hears him.