.: Chapter Uno :. The Escape

Jasan sat in the cold, steel cell, as time wasted away his body. Famished and thirsty, he felt death's cold embrace. He was serving a death sentence; but this punishment felt worse than death. Death controlled him, filled his emotions, controlled his actions, affected him, physically and mentally. He had committed murder, and as such, treated with a mental and emotional murder; a murder that left nothing but the shell of a man, driven by insane desire and lust for revenge. Above anything else, he would prefer condemnation; even the thought of living among free men seemed an atrocity he couldn't bare, and condemnation promised a confinement away from the tortures of capture, and imprisonment. Two thin rays of light entered the room, the darkness trying to fight them off; trying to capture Jasan totally. Those thin survivors among the lethal dark where the only way Jasan tracked time. Seventeen times they had faded, and re-appeared; seventeen days. Fatigue consumed Jasan's appearance; the starvation had taken it's tool. Several times he had been fed, for the guards, dressed in cloth completely, as to ensure total silence, left a leather tray, with a loaf of fresh bread, and a cold glass of water. One day, it happened thrice, and Jasan attacked the food, eating wolfishly. But this, what he felt now, sitting alone, was a different kind of hunger.

As the light began to fade, Jasan rolled his eyes. Another day; the eighteenth day of imprisonment, had just ended, and the eighteenth night began. As Jasan's weak, degrading eyes began to shut, he heard sound. A bullet. The crumple of a corpse; or a man knocked-out. A second bullet, and another, closer crumple. Several yells, and another two crumples. Four dead men; a quadruple homicide, in, supposedly, the most secure prison complex in the world. An explosion went off within the complex; possibly just outside Jasan's room. Light flooded the confinement, and Jasan tried to cover his eyes, to no avail; his hands were tied behind his back. Another explosion, and flames seeped into Jasan's room. The cold was instantly abolished, replaced with a searing heat. Jasan felt the flames lick at his face, even as he was right at the back of the room. For a single split second the flames engulfed Jasan; the ropes binding his hands were chared and scorched, essentally weakened. With all his diminishing strength, Jasan thrust his hands apart; the ropes gave way. Blood quickly rushed back, restoring long lost feeling. Guns erupted into a violent state of attack, and bullets killed more men; all prisoners, whose voice had long ago betrayed them. Weakly, Jasan stood, unknotting the thin ropes constricting his legs. It had been almost three weeks since Jasan had used his muscles; almost three weeks since he had killed. Some animal instinct gripped him, as he threw himself quickly into the corner of the room. Gruff voices shouting various mangled languages could be heard outside; just over the din of machine gun fire. Jasan stood up against the wall, his chest heaving. Suddenly, bullet splintered through the dark, scorched wall. A man, stupidly, stepped into the room, still firing. Jasan, his hand flat, like a fleshy blade, lashed out at the man. The blow caught the man's neck; bruising the jugular. Weak as he was, Jasan felt exhausted, and the blow was just another burden to bear. Instantly, the unconscious man crumpled. Time was of the essence; Jasan grabbed the man's gun, and, without checking whether he was dead or alive, fired a single shot into the man's head.

Another explosion; more heat. Air was scarce enough, without constant explosions, filling the corridor Jasan had been dragged; blind-folded, down eighteen nights ago, with smoke and debris. The heat had also become difficult to bear, the haze obscuring his vision. Without knowing, sweat was dripping from Jasan's face, dripping almost soundlessly in the loud corridor. For days, Jasan had gone without sound, sight or hearing. Now, he wanted it to go away. His eyes stung in the blistering heart. All he saw was the dead corpse of a man, and all he heard was the constant drumming of machine gun fire. Several difficult, never-ending minutes passed before the attackers realised they had a man down. His boots were all that could be seen; muddy and stained as they were. Light flooded the corridor; a strange occurence during the early night. A bare bulb hung from a suspended wire on the roof, swaying casually to and fro in the midst of ruthless violence. Suddenly, the firing ceased. Several feet began to step simultaneously. The rythmic chorus of feet ceased to be in time, as some men began to run; others to walk.

Jasan's breathing slowed almost to a halt, as fear gripped him. He was alone; against a strike force of experts. He had killed once; these men had killed hundreds of times, collectively. They were no strangers to triggers, knives, bullets and blood. Another step. Time grinded to a screeching halt; almost audible in Jasan's mind, as he rounded the corner. His finger hovered over the trigger for a split second; A split second too long. The other man opened fire. Jasan dropped the gun and turned to run. His loose, dirty, scorched shirt was no protection against the raw power of a bullet. The guns erupted all at the same moment; the sound loud in Jasan's ears. Another explosion; above him. Jasan felt the solid ground above him collapse, as more and more explosions tore through the ground. Debris collapsed from the roof, filling the air with dirt and dust as it landed, crashing. Still running, Jasan sheltered his eyes, covering them from the debris. Flames licked at his heels, as more debris collapsed, and more explosion went off. H could still hear the din of machine gun fire behind him; and now, above him. As he turned to look, he was horrified. The tunnel was sealed off; for tunnel it was. The light began to fade, and the cold return. The explosions had ceased; the dust and debris had settled. Still no fresh air, but Jasan had escaped. He stopped running, and walked back to the debris, exhausted completely. Amazed, he rested against a loose patch of dirt. Breathing heavily, he relaxed, lying back. The moonlight slowly replaced the sunlight over the next few minutes, and Jasan, eyes closed, opened his mouth; for the first time in almost three weeks. "I'm alive."

Jasan awoke; an eery, cold sunlight covering his body. Bright as it was, it provided no heat, no warmth. Despite the long, peaceful sleep, Jasan was exhausted. His muscles ached, his heart was pounding and his breathing was hard and heavy. Dirt had covered him during the night; a natural blanket Jasan was now grateful for. Cold, and alone, Jasan stepped in the musty morning light. Scorched, blackended ground surrounded a small pile of bodies. The guns belonging to the dead victims were scattered around their corpses, almost as grizzly reminder of their deaths. An MP5, a .45 Magnum and an AK-74 Grenadier lay unused and unclaimed near the corpses. Caution to the wind, Jasan stepped into the cold, Romanian winter, barely a singlet and boardshorts to protect him. The metal guns were cold against Jasan's hands, as he cocked them; bullets inside. With a piece of rope, he strapped the AK-74 and the MP5 to his back, and held the Magnum.

Several hoarse, deep voices carried through the emptiness, slicing the tension in half. Jasan was in the open, completely vulnerable. He had only barely survived the first burst of machine gun fire directed at him; and then, only by a miracle. He doubted he could survive another, out in the open, as he was. A few more voices, different to the first ones, pierced the cold air. A team of men, all armed, by the sounds of the gruff conversation Jasan could overhear. A small, tin box was the only nearby cover, in the open, dusty prison ground. "Shit!" As the men rounded the corner, Jasan flattened himself up against a nearby wall. Then men rounded the corner, all armed. The biggest of all the men had a large RPG launcher, of German make, strapped to his back. Jasan's breathing slowed to a crawl. Blood streamed one man's face, and Jasan inspected him carefully. He seemed familiar. There was a memory Jasan couldn't put his finger on. But, it was there. He knew this man, but he didn't know how. The thought left Jasan's mind as he saw tha assortment of weapons the men were carrying. They all carried light machine guns, mostly RPKs, one carried an FN Minimi, and several fragmentation grenades; M67s.

Jasan stepped into the dim light, AK-74 Grenadier at the ready. "Bitches!" He muttered, as he loaded a grenade into the lower-mounted launcher. One of the men turned in his direction, lining up his pistol. Jasan half-smiled. With a quick trigger finger, a grenade shot out of the Ak, bursting into flame and smoke. One of the man was engulfed in the blast, the others blinded and disgruntled. Ten men were too difficult to fight against. Instantly, Jasan sprinted in the direction of the gate. Bullets sliced through the smoke, forming large holes, through which the men watched as Jasan dived behind a truck. A man inside was laying motionless; whether dead or sleeping, or maybe unconscious was to be found out.