Lothar felt the day pass him by as he did nothing. There was no specific routine for the prisoners. The guards were lazy assholes that just barked their weight around when someone was being too loud. And nobody stopped them. He half-expected the prisoners to clap as metaphysical curtains get drawn since this mockery of authority was more suited to a play than in real life.

He kept himself busy by reciting every song he liked enough to memorize, and make idle conversation with other prisoners. Most of them seemed tame. In his opinion, they didn’t sound like murderers or drug lords, but he just assumed he was in a low security prison. The grim setting and awful treatment contradicted this thought.

The only time they were let out, he inquired from the prisoners, was during outdoor time, bathroom breaks or shoveling duty; whatever the last one was.

It seemed more archaic than the rehabilitation systems from earth–Not that he was anything but dreaming, of course.

There were only a few prisoners in his block, maybe around forty with over fifty empty cells. He realized that only he and the Viking were given a private cell in this block.

He did not know what to make of that.

Lothar still had not seen the prisoners who had been taken, nor had the Viking returned to his cell. Dinner arrived in the form of stale bread and more stew. He wondered how the Viking guy retained his physique, if all they offered was shit and breadsticks.

He asked the guard for a plastic spoon because he really hated using his hands like an animal; they ignored him obviously. Lothar was getting tired of this never ending dream. Wasn’t he supposed to be the god of this realm? Why can’t he change the setting? Or at least make it less dreary?

He tried, obviously; it was the first thing he tried. He pictured himself in the Himalayas mountains, sipping whiskey with a group of beautiful women combing his beard.

He might or might not have pictured himself with the Viking’s long braided beard. He found it very stylish.

He shook his head and munched on his bread.

“Does anyone know when the others will come?” He voiced the question that had been on his mind for a while.

“When they’re done shoveling, dumbass.” Lothar did not appreciate the contempt in the inmate’s voice but he knew not from which cell it came from.

“What about the bearded guy?”

The voice seemed to hesitate.

“Is that the newbie asking stupid questions?” Another voice chimed in. It grated on Lothar's ears, and he had the urge to tell the man to clear his throat.

“Nobody knows where they take him but they always come for him four times a week”

Lothar didn’t believe the first half of the first prisoner’s statement. Rumors circulated in prisons faster than in a middle-aged white women's tea club, at least based on Hollywood’s depictions.

He was the ‘new guy’ however, so he doubted they’ll handle out information easily.

“Thanks, mate” there was no shame in showing gratitude.

His mother always wanted him to be the calculative manipulator sort, but he found out through experience that he could gain more information by just being a decent human being.

He heard a grunt that he assumed was a half-hearted ‘welcome’.

Suddenly, the door burst open and guards came in. Lothar sighed.

I just don’t understand why they need to be so dramatic about it.

“OUT NOW” Lothar’s heart leaped as they started opening the cells of his row like they did to the others.

His turn came quickly “Where are we goi–” The back-handed slap came before he could react. It stung a hell of a lot. More than any of his father’s punches. Damn.

“Move.” His assigned guard hissed, yanking his long arms behind his back and securing them in cuffs.

Lothar grit his teeth but moved otherwise. He really hated being treated like an animal; There were still rights for prisoners, dammit.

He rolled his shoulders and examined the formation of the cells. It reminded him of capsule hotels, how they were stacked one over the other.

What kind of place is this, anyway?

One guard pushed him forward, and he began his march.

His cell was on the lowest floor and he realized the corridor wasn’t as big as he thought it was first.

He theorized the place to be built like an echo chamber, for its dimensions did not explain how well sound transmitted between cells at all.

It was a cruel thing to build. He was sure the engineers did this on purpose. Not even the privacy of their little holes was safe from prying ears. You couldn’t cry yourself to sleep without drawing attention to you and usually prisoners aren’t merciful. Show weakness, even in private, and you might just have wasted more than your tears.

Once everyone was out, he observed the other prisoners with keen eyes, trying to memorize their faces as much as possible.

No one I know.

He ignored the heavy thudding inside his chest and how quickly his palms turned moist.

He noticed four cameras. One above each door, he doubted the narrow corridor left much of a blind spot. The models were nothing he’d seen before. In fact, they looked quite old.

The guards called to line up, and he followed the crowd. His neck prickled, and he looked back. A man with matted brown hair and deep green eyes regarded him with a frosty glare.

What’s up that one’s ass?

He turned back and ignored him, falling in line next to a middle-aged man with too much stress lines on his face.

The guards shouted some orders and guided them forward. Lothar’s expression turned in anxiety, they were escorted out from the left doors, like the other prisoners.

The corridor exponentially expanded, once out of the room, leaving Lothar slack-jawed.

It looked like a grand, circular Hall illuminated by lightbulbs all around, with metal doors on each side of the room. Another band of prisoners appeared from the farthest southeastern door, escorted by other guards.

They came out from the southern one. The prisoners that went out hours ago were the same ones he noticed. He tried to catch someone’s eye, but they never looked at their surroundings, ignoring his block completely. He noted that the elderly man who put up a fight was not among them.

Once they all formed a queue in the hall, the guards led them to the Northwestern door

“I can’t shovel today.” Lothar looked down at the middle-aged man who stopped walking, biting his lips until they leaked blood.

“I can’t shovel today.” He had a twinge of light in his eyes that lacked in others’.

“I can’t shovel–

“Shut up, old shit.” the man behind them whispered-yelled, “You don’t want to shovel, then we shovel you with the rest. Just don’t make us late with your blubbering and move.”

A guard snapped his eyes at them and Lothar made sure to look as small as possible.

The middle-aged man continued moving when he felt the guard’s gaze, but he was still mumbling, eyes cast on the ground

Lothar worried about this ‘shoveling’ business. It didn’t sound too horrifying, but from the way everyone looked, he was getting more than worried. They were entering a tunnel, then coming out of another. The interior designer team of the prison must have wanted the place to look as morbid and monotonous as possible because Lothar couldn’t tell one tunnel from another. Tall stone walls encompassed them. He felt oddly claustrophobic even with the spacious hallways.

The only light source around was the yellow lightbulbs that flickered now and then.

His nose picked up on a foul smell, and it seemed to get stronger as they kept walking.

They stopped in front of a large metal door, the same as every other in the prison. The only difference was the dried blood and rust covering its frame.

Lothar blanched and stumbled back. The man behind him hissed and shoved him forward.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

The smell was so putrid that some prisoners were gagging; him included.

Suddenly the middle-aged and elderly men’s mumblings repeated inside his head and realization dawned on him.

Alas, the guards opened the door and a horrifying scene he never thought possible, something he thought too evil to exist, presented itself in front of him. He was shoved inside by the crowd behind. No matter how much he pushed back and struggled, the door behind them shut, sealing him in a room full of corpses.

No matter where he stepped, his naked feet left footprints of blood, not his own. He felt mushy things cling between his toes, but didn’t dare to check them.

Everywhere he looked was a corpse, either too clean or too mangled. Limbs scattered around like Lego; from eyeballs to clothing items, shoes, or headwear.

Trash, even bags of garbage, were dumped on top of it and leaked plastic utensils and mundane objects. He keeled forward and puked his meal. Once nothing was left in his stomach, he dry-heaved until his abdomen muscles cramped.

“Remember, THREE HOURS ONLY. Go earn your meals!” one guard shouted.

“Hey, you!” Lothar was struck across the back with a baton, falling unceremoniously into his own puke.

“You’re here to clean, not make things dirtier!” the guard yelled as he beat the living shit out of Lothar. The beating abruptly stopped. The guard walked away as Lothar crawled away and grabbed onto a prisoner’s pants, trying to ask for help.

A kick knocked his jaw back, and he heard a soft crack.

“Don’t touch me.” The prisoner walked away, towards the pile of shovels in the room's corner. Lothar’s eyes stung from static tears as he willed his body up. Once stable on his feet, he looked at the prisoners who were shoveling up body parts of different creatures, some he’d seen before some not, and dumping them into a gigantic, cylindrical tube connected to the wall farthest to the entrance.

Madness, this is madness. What place is this? Where did all those bodies come from? Those poor…

His expression twisted from horror into rage. He practically was fuming. He wanted to say something, to do something. How could those guards look so nonchalant, so bored.

It was wrong. An arm wrapped around his shoulder just then, stopping him from bursting out.

“Easy there, scholar. You been shoveling like good scholar before. Now not time to grow righteous balls.” a lean muscled man muttered and grabbed his balls in emphasis. He spoke with a heavy accent and stood equal to Lothar with a face too mean and twisted to be loved by anyone.

He had a bushy beard coupled with striking red hair. A scar ran from his lips down to his chin, eyes blue twinkling in amusement.

Lothar aggressively shoved him off “You think this is funny? Am I the only sane man here?”

The man smirked “Sane? Of course we are. We want to eat, to live. Men who don’t want to live are not sane, so start shoveling or you–” he pointed at the nearest, limbless torso of a dog “–end up with them”

Lothar jerked his head towards the pile of corpses "Where is the tube connected to?”

The man shrugged “Who knows? Wipe shit off your face and move.” he shoved his shovel into Lothar’s arms.

Lothar suddenly was conscious of the smear of puke on the side of his face and neck.

“You got something that can help?”

The man’s toothy smile was a bit too wide to his comfort "What are you talking about? There’s plenty on ground.” he pointed at the discarded items of clothing that are obviously covered in blood and dirt.

He walked away with a booming laughter, leaving Lothar gagging.

Lothar reluctantly tightened his grip on the shovel and looked around. Everyone was working but the middle-aged man. He sat on the ground next to a body that used to look like a human. The body was is good state compared to the other horrors around but the face was still contorted in an expression too painful to look at.

The only reason he didn’t call it a human was because of the horns on its head, tree-trunk like arms and hooves.

Chimera, this is some kind of nutcase lab.

Lothar did not start working immediately. He ordered his body to move, but his eyes were glued to a corpse that laid a few feet from him.

He did not have the heart to shy his gaze away, giving these lost souls a moment of acknowledgment and respect.

His stomach clenched, threatening another wave of vomit. His eyes studied every part of the mutated humans around him, memorising the looks of pure terror that spoke volumes of their last battle that no one saw them lose.

His hand shook as he adjusted his grip on the shovel and turned his eyes away.

He glimpsed at small bodies that did not have faces, and faces that did not have bodies. And in every vacant eye, he saw the devil standing proud.

Were they humans? Were they not?

What were they, and who were they?

He started working, discarding the voices in his head, telling him that this was wrong. That this place was wrong. He was clueless and weak. He had no other choice than to go along with the crowd. There were only animal and monster bodies, but the clothes were definitely for humans. He eyed a shiny object between the discarded clothes and picked up a pendant. He opened it, the picture inside was blacked out. Lothar dropped it like it burned his hand and swallowed the lump inside his throat.

When I wake up, I need to book a therapy session. Something’s wrong with my head.

He closed his eyes and picked up a pile of guts then walked towards the enormous tube that was around ten meters in diameter. He dumped them inside and waited to hear the echo of their splash.

Someone shoved past him and dumped the content of their shovel inside. Some of the gore splashed unto Lothar’s arm and he yelped in disgust.

“Watch it.” he snarled and shook his arm furiously. The man didn’t give him a second glance and walked away, grabbing another pile.

They work like robots.

He didn’t catch the sound of a thud this time either, which he found was weird. Where was this tube connected to?

“MOVE” Lothar jumped at the guard’s voice and hurried back.

He kept his head low and worked as diligently as possible until a commotion picked up near the biggest pile of corpses.

One prisoner, the man who was kneeling next to the monster’s body, was standing up straight. His eyes closed, eyebrows set in a deep frown, head tilted up, and tears running down his face. He was yelling something at the top of his lungs, so much so that Lothar thought he was calling for god and the devil to listen.

He recited a poem that Lothar didn’t recognize, some verses going over his head all together. He doubted half what was said was in English.

It took no less than two breaths before a guard was upon him, his baton raised. It swished open like a saber, turned into a sword, and impaled the prisoner through his stomach. The prisoner fell next to the body of the one he was obviously crying for and died wailing.

It all happened so fast, the death came quick but the wails left a sour echo that kept ringing inside his head. Lothar barely registered the events. He didn’t know the man and yet felt angry at the brutality of the guards and the lack of care from the other prisoners.

What the hell is this? Why do they keep killing everyone?

Only a few stopped working and looked at the falling man. One of them locked eyes with him. He had brown peppered hair and unnaturally big eyes. his lips were twisted in a frown but he managed to tip his head and raise an imaginary hat.

Lothar merely nodded back and turned. He was quite frankly exhausted and just wanted to finish work and go back to his little cell.

They worked for hours until all the bodies, including the guy who was impaled, were dumped into oblivion.

They stood in line, like cattle, the guards leading them back into their cells. Lothar didn’t mingle or ask why the man was killed, who was he or what was he saying. He just walked, pushing down feelings he knew were bound to kill him and ignoring the little piece of soul he lost back in the tube.

This is all a dream.

The statement felt hollow; he felt hollow. It took everything of him not to break down.

But at least he gets to eat for another day, right?

“Another day... Tomorrow is another day” The heaviness of his voice trailed behind them, leaving echoes for the dead to hear.

.....