Transmission of Guilt

Wesker huffed his remaining equipment into the back of his truck. Metallic shavings splashed from an unknown tear and fell into a corner, crunched together like sawdust and wood flakes. He latched the back, placed the cover, and double checked all four sides until he was absolutely sure nothing was misplaced.
He locked the doors with a simple press, and rushed over to the double, iron doors.
Wesker gently pushed them open, far enough so they wouldn’t swing back closed.
The oddly frigid air blasted by like a violent wave of a typhoon.
He tossed his backpack next to a pallet of old mining equipment, with makeshift lights strung from wall to wall, all connected to a generator.
Wesker bypassed his piles of cinder block, cement, and ground rubble and entered an underground grove lined with gold. Veins seemingly scratched through the rock and designed to meet in one single point at the absolute top.
Except for one stubborn, jagged stretch of shining yellow that showed painfully out of place, yet the reflections attempted to hide it.
Wesker, of course, knew the exact freckle, the exact tiny deviation, while never even looking at it.
He hesitated three steps forward, but continued after a lengthy wait. Stopped another few feet. But managed to reach the center.
When Wesker caught red and white–the gums and teeth–punched through the floor like a stamp, it whispered its secrets. Screamed the truth directly at him.
There was no turning back anymore.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s