RAGE by Carnage---more added----

The man's head throbbed unending, pounding in his skull like the heart in his chest. He had waken up surrounded by sweaty covers not even two minutes before, and now he was sliiping on his tennis shoes and creeping down the stairs, heading for the exit to his hotel so he could run down to the new mart that had opened up across from it. He hadn't seen it being built, it was somehow just there, a small, dimly lit little structure with a silent bald man standing rigidly at the counter, drumming his fingers. It was a pharmacy, and at the moment, a strong pain killer was all he cared about. Grasping the side of his head he crashed through the swinging glass door and flopped down onto the counter. The sudden action had no effect on the man standing there. "Oh man," he said, wincing in pain, "I need somethin strong. This is the worst i've ever had." The tall bald man, who's slightly askew name tag read simply "Clark" smirked, slowly turned and reached high up on the top shelf, retrieving a small blue bottle. He shook it, smiled, and handed it to the man. "New stuff. Works on the nervous system. Instantly," he said, his voice low and grating. He folded his hands and smiled, his dull gray lips quivering as if attempting to stifle laughter. "How much for it?" asked the man, his head throbbing endlessly as he slapped his pockets, feeling for a bulge that was his wallet. The bald man smiled again, and said, "No Charge. Only take one. Give the rest to the people in your building. They are too amazing to give to just one sufferer." At that, his whirled around and ducked into a shadowy little room in the back. The man hesitated, then popped the top of the bottle off. He shook two out into his shaking hand, then tossed them down his throat. In a matter of seconds, he lips seemed to go numb. And the pain stopped. "Wow," he muttered. He remembered the old folks who lived above him, constantly racked with arthritis, and in a rush of excitement and wonder, he stormed out of the store and jogged back into his room, where he proceeded to stuff the bottle in his drawer until he could pass them out to the other tennants. And when warm sunlight shone through his window, he did just that. The red mercedes glided along the windy little road, heading into the small huddle of buildings glowing like embers of a fire. The cold northern wind had been blasting in Tim's face for over eight hours on his trip to Canada, and he had been searching for a small town that may hold a hotel. Tim planned to spend a night or two to rest, and then continue northward until he could get to Quebec. He finally spotted a glowing "Inner City Hotel" sign suspended over the road, flickering slightly, and he swerved into the dark parking lot next to it. When he opened the door, it was completely silent. There was only the rustle of papers blowing around the parking lot, and a faint whistle of wind. He figured most of the tennants were asleep, and he tugged his jacket around him and strode toward the front entrance. He paused when he saw the left door. It was slightly open, and Tim did not see that if it was closed, he would not be able to open it from the inside. The glass was smudged with red liquid. A few splotches were scattered across the red carpet, which was dotted with shards of wood and plant dirt. He saw no one behind the counter, only an overturned bell, some scattered papers, and a kitchen knife. He slowly stepped in, glancing around him as he went, hearing the slight hiss as the door closed behind him. Silence. He walked toward the counter. There was a bloody hand print. Behind it, a young man dressed in a crumpled uniform was slumped against the wall, a red drop seeping out of a cut in his forehead. He looked dead, but Tim wasn't for sure. He rushed to his side. "Hey! Hey, you!" he cried, shaking him. The man's head lolled on his shoulders. "What happened here? What happened?" Tim shook him violently and glanced over. Protruding from a slightly ajar drawer was a blue bundle, held together with a rubber band. Blue prints. "These could come in handy," Tim muttered, tugging them out. "WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING HERE?!" Exploded a sudden, rasping voice from behind him. Tim whirled around and saw the man stagger to his feet, tugging his hair out in tufts, kicking the wall so hard it cracked, saliva spurting out of his mouth. He lunged for the knife, tripping over a crumpled box of old letters that Tim had toppled when the man suddenly regained conciousness. Tim saw the man's hand brush the blade and he staggered off balance, so Tim gave him a hard shove. The man slammed into the wall, and regardless of the pain it must have caused, whirled around and ran at him again. Blood was dribbling down his face from a large crater-like gash in his scalp, and as Tim watched it drip he noticed the man's pupils were bright red. "DIE! DIIEE! DIIIIEEEE!" Screamed the man. Tim wrapped his hand around the knife, brought it up over his head, and swung it down with a thick Kachunk sound into the man's back. Still, he screamed and thrashed exactly as he had before as if the pain was not present. Finally, his wild eyes relaxed, his mouth dropped open, and he slumped to the floor once more. His chest was motionless, and he was dead, lying in a pool of blood and saliva. Tim gathered himself and stooped to the body. The nametag, now stained with a deep maroon color, read Mark Renner: Desk Clerk. In the tiny thumbnail picture, he was slightly smiling, nothing like the rage of emotions he had been in his final moments. Tim hopped up and ran for the door. He slammed into the glass hard, his knees making squeeking noises as they slid through the red splatters. Tim felt a wave of sickness run through him. Outside, just inside the door, was a small keyring, with a yellow keychain dangling from it. It read "Entrance Key". Tim began to kneel and scan the door for some sort of latch, but instead found only a keyhole-- Meaning you could be locked in as well as out. He brought one leg back and swiftly kicked the glass, expecting it to shatter or at least crack. But he saw with bitter frustration that it was not glass but plastic, and it barely even vibrated. He ran his hands through his hair and saw a small white notebook through the corner of his eye, and hoping it would tell him something he grabbed it and began to read. SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED HERE. NEARLY ALL OF THE TENNANTS ARE DEAD. OUR ENTIRE SUPPLY OF KITCHEN KNIVES AND OTHER OBJECTS SUCH AS GOLF CLUBS AND WRENCHES HAVE BEEN GRADUALLY DISSAPEARING, ALONG WITH THE ENTIRE SECOND FLOOR OF OUR GUESTS. ONE OF THE MAIDS WAS ATTACKED MY A MAN WHO WAS WEARING ONLY UNDER CLOTHES. HE SAID SOMETHING ABOUT A PILL, ONE THAT HE HAD GIVEN TO MOST OF THE PEOPLE ON ALL THREE FLOORS. HE BECAME VERY ANGRY WHEN SHE QUESTIONED HIM, AND HE PROCEEDED TO THROW HER TO THE GROUND AND BEAT HER WITH HER OWN SHOES, PLANTS VASES, AND EVEN AN EXPRESSO MAKER FROM HIS ROOM UNTIL SHE WAS NO LONGER ALIVE. HE COULDN'T EVEN RAISE HIS ARMS BUT HE WAS LAUGHING LIKE A CHILD... I TRIED TO PULL HIM OFF AND HE BIT ME, HARD ENOUGH TO BRING BLOOD TRICKLING DOWN MY WRIST. HE GRABBED ANOTHER ORDERLY BY HIS HAIR AND BASHED HIS HEAD INTO THE WALL OVER AND OVER, UNTIL IT LOOKED LIKE A DEFLATED BASKETBALL AND FRAGMENTS OF SCALP WERE DANGLING FROM HIS HANDS. WHEN HE CAME FOR ME, I BROKE A NIGHTSTICK OVER HIS HEAD, AND I'M PRETTY SURE I KILLED HIM. HIS EYES WERE OPEN AND HIS MOUTH WAS BLEEDING. I SAVED THE FINAL THREE PILLS AND A GUN. THEY ARE ON THE THIRD FLOOR IN A MAINTENANCE CLOSET. I HOPE IF ANYONE SHOULD FIND THIS IT WILL BE HELPFUL. I DON'T KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE TOOK THOSE PILLS. AS I AM WRITING THIS THERE ARE THREE OF THEM AT THE STAIRWELL DOOR, POUNDING AT IT AND KICKING IT. ONE OF THEM HAS A VERY BIG HUNTING KNIFE, THE OTHER HAS WHAT LOOKED LIKE A FRAGMENT OF WOOD, POSSIBLY FROM A TABLE OR CHAIR. THE THIRD HAD A SECTION OF PIPE, PROBABLY FROM HIS BATHROOM. ALL I KNOW IS I TOOK ONE OF THE PILLS... I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER I HAVE LEFT. I KEEP WATCHING PEOPLE DRIVE BY AND I WONDER WHAT THEIR INTESTINES LOOK LIKE; I FIND MYSELF WISHING I COULD SLICE THEM UP THE MIDDLE AND TUG THEM OUT. I PLAN TO FIND THE GUN AND END MY LIFE BEFORE I BECOME ONE OF THEM. ----MARK RENNER, DESK CLERK----- Tim felt pity as he looked over at the man he had murdered, feeling as if he had known him and what he went through. He at least felt the comfort of knowing where a gun was, but it was the fact of making his way up the stairs that he did not like. Tim jogged over to a silver door at the back of the room and shoved the cross bar in. With a clank that echoed up the shadowy stairs, it slowly opened. Tim stepped in, smelling a rotten stench that he could not identify. He crept around the stairwell, letting the door slowly begin to shut behind him. His eyes had no sooner adjusted to the dark than when he saw another body, sprawled on the stairs like a biology lab's frog specimens. This one was definately dead, the head twisted on the shoulders backwards and then sideways again, the entire right side (now on the left) dented in. Blood seeped down the stairs like a miniature, hellish waterfall. Tim covered his mouth at the stench and tugged the door back open, gagging as he stepped into the lobby. That was when he remembered the knife. It would have to do until he could find another means of protection, and fighting against his own fear he walked around the counter again where Mark lay in death. The knife was protruding from his shoulder blade. Tim wrapped his fingers around it, and yanked and twisted it out of the body slowly and sickeningly. It reminded him of tugging a spade out of the ground, after you have stuck it in deep enough that it would not fall over. He now knew that there was a storage closet on the third floor that contained a gun. He told himself he would sneak up the stairs, get the gun, and then shoot his way out of the hotel. With the blade poised in front of him, he headed into the door again. The stairs seemed darker the second time around, seeming to stretch farther up. And as Tim slowly climbed towards the second floor door, the body's lifeless eyes seemed to shift in their sunken sockets and stare through him, watching him climb the stairs where a raving man was waiting with an iron poised over his head, prepared to bring the red hot pointed end down in between his eyes,where his skull would shatter and his eyes would plop out. Tim kept seeing the vision over and over, his crude little weapon clattering to the carpet and his eyes splattering out through his nostrils. Beofre he knew it, he was a mere step away from the door. He found himself hoping it would be locked, hoping that he would be forced to give up, but then he remembered he wouldn't be able to get out and he turned the knob. He breathed harder and harder as it opened. He waited a second or two, then jumped in. The hallway stretched before him, another body