Trapped inside an abandoned Cold War military asylum by my son-in-law while tens of thousands watch live
Part 1
My son-in-law Derek Hollister volunteered to handle our communications rig from the mobile van outside.
Without warning, the five-hundred-pound iron blast door behind us slammed shut and locked from the exterior.
Seconds later, a thirty-year-old emergency evacuation siren began screaming through the decaying concrete corridors.
Derek had intentionally sealed us inside a decommissioned military tomb, and our broadcast feed was still running live to forty thousand people.
The air inside Ward 4 of the Pine Ridge Military Asylum tasted like dust and time. It hung heavy and still, a silent testament to decades of neglect. My breath plumed faintly in the chilly space.
Julian Kincaid, my camera technician, adjusted his shoulder-mounted rig, its whirring a low hum in the oppressive quiet. His face, usually placid, seemed a little more strained than usual.
Beside him, our sound engineer, Mark, fiddled with a boom mic, trying to capture the subtle creaks and groans of the old building. He looked less thrilled with the “authenticity.”
“This is it,” I announced, my voice echoing slightly off the stained concrete walls. “Ward 4. Where the real work was done.”
I gestured toward a massive, reinforced steel door set into the far wall. It was an intimidating structure, solid and archaic, with heavy locking mechanisms visible even from a distance.
“That,” I continued, “is the original 1958 medical vault. The primary archive for patient files and experimental treatment records.”
My flashlight beam cut through the gloom, highlighting the pitted metal surface of the vault door. Julian zoomed in, capturing the details of its archaic construction.
“We need to get inside there, Julian,” I said, a tremor of excitement in my voice. “The truth of what happened here, the details of the secret operations, it’s all in there.”
As I spoke, a deep, guttural thud vibrated through the floorboards. It was a sound that seemed to come from the very bones of the building.
*Clunk.*
The entire structure seemed to shiver. Then, with a chilling, final *thunk*, a metallic clang resonated behind us.
It was the sound of the five-hundred-pound iron blast door, the very one we had used to enter Ward 4, slamming shut. The force of it shook flakes of paint from the ceiling.
Julian spun the camera around, his eyes wide. Mark dropped the boom mic with a clatter.
“What was that?” Julian whispered, his voice tight.
“It must have been the wind,” I said, trying to reassure them, though a cold dread was already forming in my stomach. “A draft caught it.”
But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. The door had been propped open with a heavy wedge. This wasn’t a draft.
We all stared at the behemoth. Its thick iron skin now sealed off our only way out.
Then, a small, square panel on the side of the ancient door frame, previously unnoticed, flickered to life. It was a small, modern digital timer, its red numbers glowing starkly against the dull grey metal.
00:00:00.
The numbers weren’t counting down; they were simply present, an alien piece of technology retrofitted onto the fifty-year-old mechanism. It pulsed, a silent, damning accusation.
And then, as if on cue, the silence was shattered.
A piercing, guttural wail erupted from the depths of the asylum. It wasn’t merely loud; it was an assault on the senses, a raw, mechanical shriek that echoed off every surface, reverberating through the concrete with bone-rattling intensity.
The 1958 emergency evacuation siren had just come to life, screaming through the decaying corridors.
Part 2
The siren’s shriek tore through the absolute darkness, a primal sound that vibrated deep in my chest. Beside me, Julian and the sound technician were shouting, their panicked voices swallowed whole by the ear-splitting wail. The concrete corridor felt like a tomb, shaking with the force of the alarm. I could taste the dust in the air, thick and metallic.
I fumbled for the shortwave radio clipped to my belt, my fingers slick with cold sweat as I pulled out the antenna with a desperate yank. “Derek? Derek, are you there? What the hell is going on?” I yelled into the mic, my own voice thin and distant, barely audible to my own ears in the overwhelming din.
Static crackled, then a voice cut through the noise, chillingly calm and composed. It was Derek. “Lyle, the blast doors are sealed. Begin structural liquidation setup. We need to expedite before county dispatch flags the distress signal.”
My hand, still clutching the radio, went rigid. Lyle Bramwell? The insurance adjuster? The words echoed in my head, making a sickening sense of dread bloom. *Liquidation*. This wasn’t a malfunction, not a legacy security system. This was a deliberate act, a calculated move. Derek had trapped us inside, planning to dismantle the very building we stood in. All for some insurance payout.
The siren continued its relentless scream, a physical assault on my eardrums. But beneath it, another sound, metallic and heavy, began to resonate from deeper within the facility: the distinct thud and grind of thick bolts sliding into place. Security locks. One by one, he was sealing off the entire perimeter, turning the asylum into an inescapable fortress. The air grew colder, heavier, pressing in on us. Time was running out before we’d be completely entombed.
You are Arthur Pendelton. The piercing alarm deafens your team in the absolute darkness of the corridor. You know Derek intends to complete his corporate land fraud by locking down the entire perimeter, and you must act now. What do you do?
A) Run up the main stairwell toward the rooftop emergency escape tower. (Go to Chapter 2)
B) Hide immediately inside the nearest doctor’s duty room and barricade the heavy door. (Go to Chapter 3)
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