Morgan Karga, Everywhere and Nowhere – Part 3

An empty shell clanks out the chamber of my gun and concrete chips at the edge of the wall not even five inches from the side of my head.

“George!” Straining my voice, “The fuck is going on?!”

Another shot, and another. Shadowy figures drop from the outside and the pouring rain, drowned out by the popping and crackling. The empty clip slides from the bottom of the pistol where my finger lets it drop and I jam the only other one I got into its chamber with the palm of my hand. A bullet pushes past the fluttering of my hair in the frantic air and I slide down to the ground onto my hip.

“Fuckin’ George! Come on!” I shout again.

I empty another couple of rounds into the darkness outside but they’ve got me outgunned and I dunno where the hell anyone else is. I don’t know how this all even started. Everything that’s been going on is like a splintered mess in my head and it barely makes any sense.

But it needs to start making sense, else I’m gonna die here.

“Give it up!” A gruff sounding voice commands, coming straight from the front of the underground compound. “Ya’ll ain’t got enough bullets for all of us!”

Using my feet against the wall adjacent the door behind my back, I bend my knees and shove myself backward in a sliding motion across the rubble littered flooring. In the corner of the room, a woman sits in a chair, hair in front of her face and she doesn’t even look as though she’s aware of what the fuck’s going on.

“Hey!” Pushing myself up to my knees, and then my feet, boots torn and loose, “Hey, what are you doing?”

Her head comes up and the strands fall away from her eyes that glow a magnificent blue. And her skin. Skin dead and gray, as dead as a rotten cadaver made up in cheap pale makeup.

I go in closer and push the rest of the hair out of her face and—This is impossible.

A chill rolls up from my legs to the top of my spine and I lose my equilibrium, my balance. The room starts to dance around me like a merry-go-round and my chest begins to convulse in sharp, stabbing jabs.

“Morgan.” The woman who looks exactly like me, exactly, to the point, except I’m a fucking corpse. “You have to wake up.”

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