Clive’s footsteps echo softly on the second floor.
Below, the prisoners climb. First the stairs to the first floor, then onward toward the second. Step by step, they move steadily, silent but purposeful.
They reach the second floor.
One prisoner glances to the left.
He sees Clive.
He moves toward him.
Behind, the others notice Clive too. They follow, walking toward him, shadows converging.
Clive hears a sound from behind. A faint scrape of footsteps.
He turns his head slowly.
“What?!”
Shock spreads across his face, raw and unmistakable. His eyes widen, his jaw tightens — the moment freezes him.
CHAPTER - 11: ESCAPE
He runs toward the staircase on his left.
The second floor of the school feels unnaturally vast — rows of classroom doors shut, windows rattling faintly in the wind. The late light spills across the tiled floor in long, dying streaks.
His heartbeat roars in his ears.
He is panicking. Not thinking — just reacting. He has to get there. Now.
Footsteps pound against the tiles, echoing across the open floor. The sound feels too loud, too exposed.
A classroom door creaks somewhere behind him.
He doesn’t look back.
Don’t stop. Don’t slow down.
The staircase is just ahead — concrete steps descending into the dimness below.
He takes them two at a time.
He runs toward the staircase on his left.
The second floor of the school stretches wide and hollow around him. Locked classroom doors. Dust floating in thin strips of fading light. The building feels abandoned — but it isn’t.
His breath tears out of him as he reaches the stairs—
—and freezes.
From the left staircase, another group of prisoners storms upward.
Chains clatter. Boots pound against concrete. Their uniforms hang loose, faces wild, desperate.
They see him.
He stops mid-step.
“What—?!”
The word breaks out of him, raw, panicked.
Behind him—
Footsteps.
More of them.
He turns his head slightly.
Another group emerges from the opposite end of the floor.
His chest tightens.
He is surrounded.
Front. Back. No open corridor. No escape route.
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For a split second, everything goes silent inside his head.
This is it.
The prisoners begin closing in.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The prisoners advance from the front.
Another group closes in from the side staircase.
Boots scrape against concrete. Chains clink. Heavy breathing fills the air.
Clive stands frozen for half a second.
He measures the distance — only a few steps between him and the group in front.
Too close.
He glances left.
More of them.
No space. No mercy. No way through.
No choice.
His eyes snap to the railing beside him.
Then back to the prisoners.
Then to the drop below.
Three seconds.
That’s all he has.
He runs.
The prisoners lunge forward—
Clive grabs the railing with his left hand and vaults over it.
Gasps erupt behind him.
For a split second, his body is suspended in open air.
Below — a narrow concrete maintenance platform. Too small to stand on. Barely wide enough for a grip.
He lands hard against it, fingers scrambling.
Pain shoots through his palms as he catches the edge with both hands.
His body swings outward.
The drop beneath him yawns deep and unforgiving.
The prisoners rush to the railing above, shouting.
Clive grits his teeth.
Using the momentum, he swings his body toward the first-floor railing.
One chance.
He releases with one hand—
Reaches—
Fingers catch metal.
His shoulder almost dislocates from the impact.
He pulls.
Muscles burning.
Boots scraping against the wall.
Then—
He drags himself over the first-floor railing and collapses onto the ground below.
Alive.
For now.
He lands on the first floor.
For a moment, he just stands there.
Alive.
The lobby stretches wide and empty, dust floating in the stale air. Broken notice boards hang crooked on the walls. Silence presses in from every side.
He walks forward slowly.
Then sinks down onto the cold floor.
His breathing is wild. Fast. Shallow. His chest rises and falls like he has just escaped drowning.
He looks at his hands.
They are trembling.
The skin across his palms is scraped raw — red, tightening, beginning to swell. Thin lines where the metal tore into him.
He flexes his fingers.
Pain answers.
He lowers his hands.
Takes one long breath.
In.
Out.
His heartbeat begins to steady.
He lifts his gaze toward the staircase.
The same staircase.
The one leading back up.
He closes his eyes.
For a brief second, exhaustion tries to pull him down.
You can leave.
The thought flickers.
Just run. Get out.
His jaw tightens.
No.
He opens his eyes.
Pushes himself to his feet.
He brushes the dust off his clothes, straightens his shirt, wipes the sweat from his face.
Then he walks.
Not running now.
Walking.
Toward the stairs.
Toward the second floor again.
He climbs the stairs calmly.
Slow. Measured steps.
His breathing is steady now.
As he reaches the turn of the staircase, he sees them.
Four prisoners.
Standing near the edge of the second-floor railing.
They are looking down.
Still, the prisoners are in control of beings.
They don’t move wildly. Don’t shout. They just stare downward — as if whatever is below matters more than the world behind them.
Clive presses his back lightly against the wall.
Watching them.
Measuring distance.
Exhale.
His fingers curl.
Then—
He runs.
His footsteps explode against the concrete as he charges upward.
One prisoner still looks down, unaware.
Clive reaches him in seconds.
He shoves him with full force.
No hesitation.
The prisoner’s body jerks forward—
A scream tears through the air as he topples over the railing.
The sound cuts off with a sickening thud below.
The other three snap toward Clive.
Their movements are slow. Delayed. As if their minds lag behind their bodies.
They lunge—
But not fast enough.
Clive grabs the second one by the shoulder and drives him sideways.
The prisoner stumbles—
Clive pushes again.
Harder.
The railing digs into the prisoner’s lower back—
And then he flips over.
Another body crashes below.
Two down.
Two remain.
And Clive is already moving.
From behind, all the prisoners surge together.
Two from the front charge at him.
Clive’s eyes widen. Panic flares for a fraction of a second — he’s surrounded again.
A few prisoners from behind move fast, blocking the stairs. Escape seems impossible.
He runs toward the nearest staircase. Feet skid across the worn tiles. He slides sharply to the side, pivoting, momentum carrying him past the blocked path, straight into the cluster of prisoners behind him.
He’s too fast. Their sluggish reactions can’t catch him.
He reaches another stairwell. He stops, pressed against the wall, chest heaving.
The staircase is right there. A chance. He sees it.
Can I leave? Or fight?
His eyes flick to the approaching prisoners. They close in fast.
No. Not yet. I have to fight.
He crushes the fear, letting control settle in his bones.
He steps forward, deliberate, each movement radiating clear intent — raw bravery, unflinching.
The prisoners notice. Hesitation flashes across their faces.
One lunges, left hand pressing against Clive’s chest, right fist cocked to strike.
Clive reacts instantly. He stops the punch with his right hand and drives a sharp kick into the prisoner’s groin. The attacker doubles over with a hiss of pain.
Another prisoner swings at him, but Clive’s body is a coiled spring. He shifts, sidesteps, ready for the next strike.
The second prisoner raises his fist, fingers curled tight, swinging for a punch.
Clive’s eyes lock on the strike. In a heartbeat, his left hand shoots out, gripping the man’s neck mid-swing.
He yanks him hard toward the wall, slamming him against the concrete. The sound of impact echoes sharply through the stairwell.
Behind him, the other prisoners surge forward, trying to block him, to stop him—but their movements are sluggish. They cannot reach him.
Clive releases the first man and pivots. He shoves one of the approaching prisoners backward with full force, sending him stumbling.
Another reaches out. Clive’s hands shoot up again, grabbing a fistful of hair. He yanks sharply. Pain tears through the man, a strangled scream cutting the air.
Clive lets go, spins, and catches the prisoner at the very back by the neck. He pulls him backward with a sudden, violent twist. The man’s feet kick, flailing, but Clive’s grip is unyielding.
Every move is deliberate, precise, and brutal. Chains rattle. Boots scrape against concrete.
The air vibrates with the sound of struggle and the quick pounding of hearts.
The prisoners strike from behind.
Clive feels the first blow slam into his back. Pain rockets through him, sharp and searing.
Another follows, then another, each hit a hammer against his body. He grits his teeth, but his strength falters.
He releases the prisoners he had grabbed, stumbling forward, clutching his side. Pain radiates through his muscles, through his bones.
The world narrows. Each breath is heavy, ragged, like he’s inhaling shards of glass.
From the front, a fist collides with his head.
His jaw vibrates from the impact, teeth clashing. Dizziness spins the floor beneath him.
Before he can recover, another blow strikes from the opposite side. His face snaps to the side, muscles shaking. Vision blurs.
Clive collapses to the ground, landing hard on the cold concrete. He folds into himself, sitting there, chest heaving, sweat mixing with blood and dust.
He’s battered. Broken. His arms tremble. His legs feel like lead.
For the first time, he realizes: he isn’t in a condition to fight.
— — — — TO BE CONTINUED — — — —
CHAPTER - 11, PART - 2
Written & Created by
DARK_Novels_
