The corridor

[Captain Maltese]

Jack was at a corner. Another left corner, damnit. The whole 100 feet of this straight stretch had been filled with rubble and debris. Nothing but locked doors, the smell of damp paper and extinguished fire, and the roof lights were barely flickering now. If he could only remember how the day had started, how he'd even gotten into this trap, but no. Just some blood on his hands, and that was from when he had touched his brow and realized he'd even lost that makeshift bandage he'd tied on when... when... damnit. He just could not remember.

Jack could have been working in an office here? It was hard to say; blue jeans, short armed white shirt, thankfully no tie unless maybe he had taken it off - why couldn't he remember? But there was a metal pipe in his hand; he'd found it on a broken table and it had unscrewed easily. THAT he remembered. Why had he felt he needed a weapon? Was he in danger? Jack could feel his mouth dry at the though, then set his jaw in a hard line. Fine. He could turn this game. Nothing that could not be dealt with by a, by a... by a someone something. It could be dealt with. Now he hunkered down at the very edge of the corner, using a mirror fragment to study the next corridor. It was as dirty, messed up, dark and unpromising as the one he was leaving. But the little makeshift mirror could not reveal any direct danger. Drawing in a couple of quick deep breaths, Jack held the table leg like a bat and slid around the corner like oil. In the far end he could see yet another left-going corridor. How many had there been of them now? Five, six seven indistinguishable left-turning corners and corridors? Jack cursed his swollen head as he moved on. If only he could THINK.