My Own Prison

Plisken squeezed the trigger of his rifle, the vicious and murderous bark of fire bursting from the muzzle. A guard fell, a pool of blood quickly growing around him. Again. Another guard fell. Behind Plisken the tram holding his friends slowly departed, probably too shaken to even notice that he was gone.
He couldn’t bring Katrina back, well, that wasn’t true, but he was as sure as hell going to make people pay for it. Another burst of fire. The brass casings made a pleasant tinkle, masking the death rattles of a dozen guards lining the corridors.
The ground shook as more rocks and debris tumbled from the sky, impacting on the facility. But Plisken ignored it, pressing forward – he wasn’t going to leave her body to be lost in space here. Plus, he had to find his coat.
“Damn,” spat Plisken as the rifle clicked empty, a few guards running around the corner brandishing submachine guns and devilish smiles. He tossed the weapon away and charged at the men, a hail of bullets cutting at him. He flicked his right wrist, the metal giving a small clink. The soft leather that bound the handle of the switchblade dropped into his palm. He threw up his hand, the blade sailing through the air and thudding into the chest of a guard, their armour not designed to cope with blades. Plisken reached out and grabbed the barrel of a weapon, pulling it from the owner’s hand. The butt of collided with the other guard, a yellowed tooth freed from worn gums. A final burst of fire silenced the guards.
Plisken breathed for a moment, letting the oxygen calm his body. Then there was a growing sting in his chest. Then it was a pain. Then a blinding red fury. He searched his chest for a wound and was greeted with a growing red stain in his prison garb.
“Fuck,” he said simply, collapsing onto his knee. There was a gout of fire, erupting from a pipe. It carried burning liquid, coating the walls and floors in a lethal soap.
Get up.
Plisken looked around, trying to find the source of the voice.
Get up you fool.
Plisken’s head swivelled around but he could not see anyone. He placed a hand on his knee and, with much effort, pushed himself to his feet. He staggered for a moment, coming dangerously close to the fires. But he re-gained his balance, re-focused his mind, and reloaded his rifle.
Good.
There was a gush of fire from a joining corner, a figure walking through the flame. Just for a second then he was gone, his image consumed by fire. Plisken stood for a moment, trying to burn the memory in. It had been a tall man, dark skin and white hair.
“Garth?!” Plisken called out but he found no response. “God damnit,” he muttered before setting off for the storage lockers.

“Happy birthday,” the old man muttered as he strode slowly through the corridors the led down to the bottom of the facility. He placed the pin of a grenade between his teeth and pulled it away, tossing the small cylinder into a small room containing a couple of guards. A blast of heat burst from the door, the shock causing Plisken’s coat to billow and cast harsh shapes against the walls. Prisoners and guards alike fled as Plisken walked slowly, methodically, through the facility. A long window opened out into the space outside, a rain of rocks and discarded spaceship components falling by. In the reflection of the glass a man was looking back at Plisken, a man he knew all to well.
Happy? asked the reflection of Garth.
“You’re dead,” Plisken said back, his eyes locking with the reflection directly in front of him.
Nice, avoid the question.
Plisken kept walking, his eyes now set firmly forward.
Perhaps you’d prefer to listen to me said a reflection of a slender young woman.
“Kate is also dead.”
So will you listen to me?
Plisken stopped for a moment, the voice catching him off guard. He turned to face the reflection, trying to contain his fury at the man standing there.
Yes, we thought you’d listen to me.
In the window stood a man, the same height as Plisken and the same age as Plisken. He stood, dressed in uniform, a olive green jumpsuit, with a short brown leather jacket over the top. A black eye patch covered his right eye and a grey bandana kept his hair from falling into his vision.
You need to stop. You will only get us killed.
“Ha, that’s a nice thought. But the thing is, you are standing there. Makes it kind of hard for me to die.”
Time is in flux, constantly changing. You know this to be true.
“And time is fixed a points, “You know this to be true””, Plisken said mockingly, “My birth, my death, Davie's death, the Collapse of the Seven Systems, Katrina’s death. They are fixed points.”
Fine, don’t listen. But I warn you now –
“Shut the fuck up,” shouted Plisken, throwing his fist against the wall. The reflection vanished, his own grizzled face appearing. But then it was broken with a crack. Then another crack. Then a slowly growing river of cracks.
“Oh no,” Plisken said to himself as the window fractured. He ran as fast he could, the cracks reaching into the corners of the window, a thin layer of skin against the endless void of space. He leapt into over the threshold of a blast door, slamming the close button just before the window gave way and burst into space.
“Fuck me,” he muttered.
He pushed on, the bottom of the facility not far now. Plisken stalked the now empty corridors, his rifle held close to his chest and ready to fire. Before long, he found the maintenance hatch leading to below the tramways. Lying across a metal beam, the broken body of Katrina lay. He dead eyes were gazing up at where Jay had stood, a small tear caught in the corner of her eye.

<Part 1 of 2>