The door slammed, echoing down the long hall. It reverberated off the walls, growing louder.

Michael awoke at the sharp noise, and shuddered. He huddled back down on the thin mattress, curled up into a ball, buried his head in his arms and tried not to hear. It didn't work. The screams were terrifying, and there was no escape from them. Michael wondered how long they would go on for this time. The quiet was a friend. For all of them. He had no idea how many others were trapped, but there were at least four others he had spoken to.

Michael got up and started pacing around the small room, illuminated by a single, bare bulb snaking from the middle of the ceiling. Michael had stopped praying a while ago. It didn't seem to be doing any good. Maybe, because he didn't really believe. He paused and rested his forehead against the cold metal wall. The screams had stopped. He heard the rasping of rusty metal as a door opened somewhere, and then the echo as it slammed closed once again. The footsteps were heavy and it sounded as if something was being dragged.

The footsteps seemed to pause just outside his door. Michael edged backwards, never taking his eyes off the doorway. Something oozed under the tiny sliver of a gap under the door. It was thick and red. Michael realised it was blood and felt the bile rising into his throat. He held his breath, until he thought his lungs would burst, and then the dragging noises started again.

Solitary confinement was one thing, but this was something else. He couldn't even remember how long it was since they threw him in here. The door slamming and screams had started on the first night and had kept up ever since. At first he had thought it was some form of psychological torture, but now he wasn't so sure.

"Michael."

The voice cut through the silence like a dull blade. It was deep and muffled. Michael crawled over to the door and put his head as close to the crack at the bottom as he dared.

"Charlie?"

"Yeah. Did you hear the screaming?"

"How could I not, mate?"

"What the fuck is going on? Some psychological bullshit, or what?"

"Listen, Charlie. I think it's more than that. Torture, or worse."

"There's supposed to be rules about that sort of thing. The bastards can't do that."

"Wake the fuck up, Charlie. Who is gonna know? They can do what they like."

"Oh shit!"

"What's wrong, Charlie? Something happening?"

"My light just went out. I can't see a thing. Hang on, Mikey."

Michael waited for a moment or two for Charlie to start talking again. He thought he heard some muffled noises in the corridor outside, but he couldn't be sure. Then he heard another door slam.

"Charlie!" he yelled in panic.

He heard a door slam in response.

"Oh fuck, no." Michael whispered as he slunk back onto his mattress, and assumed the foetal position once again.

The silence was deafening until the shrieks started. They kept coming, assaulting his every nerve. He tried humming and then shouting to drown them out. Then, as quickly as they started, they stopped. Another door slam, then one more, before the silence resumed.

Michael gingerly edged towards the door again, and pressed his head to the gap.

"Charlie?"

No response.

"Ronnie?"

Silence.

"Dean?"

Dead quiet.

"Mark?"

Michael sank to the ground, not even noticing that his cheek lay in the pool of blood by the foot of his door. His breathing was heavy and ragged. It appeared it truly was solitary confinement now. He sat up and stared at the lone bulb hanging from the ceiling; the only company he had left. The bulb stared back, winked at him and then went out.

"Fuck."

It was the last word, Michael ever spoke as shortly afterwards another door slammed, and echoed down the long, lonely corridor.