It stinks here. I mean really stinks–make you want to retch kind of stink.  It’s the sort of stink you back away from, and no matter how tightly you clamp your hand over your nose and mouth, it still wriggles its way in, takes up residence in the back of your throat, starts a family [...]

I had 45 seconds of freedom. Ms Freaky was talking to what I can only describe as the receptionist, showing her two little notebooks, getting them stamped, and peeling back the bandage on her wrist to show the woman what was underneath. I probably should have bolted then, but by the time I’d convinced myself [...]

So I have a crazy hot stalker-girl.  It’s not as cool as it sounds. Oh, and I’m supposed to call her ‘Oracle’.  And apparently we’re on a freight train, which would explain the sliding wall/door thing, but not the freaky decor.  It did make me less panic-y when the room jerked and chugged into movement [...]

The wall…moved. The Wall.  Freakin’. Moved. It just…slid open.  I guess that’s why there are no doors here.  Or, doors in the traditional sense, at least; who needs them when the bloody walls open and close? I couldn’t see for sure what was on the other side; too little light and too much steam, and, [...]

I’m sitting in…some sort of waiting room.  I have no idea where it is.  Or how I got here. I think it’s a waiting room, anyway.  There are a lot of chairs, and artwork made from…I don’t know, I think it’s trash…hanging on the walls.  There are bits and scraps of magazines laying around on [...]

Picture a fancy restaurant–candle-light, hoverng waiters, crisp white linen, muted conversation, gourmet food.  The whole deal. Now change that picture a bit– smoking candles, mismatched dishes, junk yard furniture, scraps of dirty rags.  Rotting food.  Fine dining with bums. This was Train 705. I was shown to the Fat Man’s table;  I can only assume [...]

It took some digging to find Train 705.  It’s Decommissioned.  In a Junk Yard.  Guarded by two goons posing as homeless guys and their dog. Access cost me a new jacket, an ass kicking, and I’m pretty sure a sprained elbow. I think the jacket is for the dog. But I’m in. Next