I kept swinging, feeling my muscles flow through the movement, accepting the jolt of each impact, allowing the shock to travel up and out through unresisting tissue, before tugging the blade free again. And again. The wood was thick and did not want to break apart, but the ax and my own brand of personal rage offered a more compelling argument.

Suddenly, the whole lock assembly toppled onto the floor, and the door swung inward. I shifted the ax to my left hand and drew the Snellig with my right, then kicked the door open and stepped in, fading to one side, sweeping the room with eyes and gun barrel tracking together.

I have long ago stopped requiring proof that you don’t need to die to enter hell.

What I saw was out of something by Dante or maybe Bosch. Or maybe this was what the U.S. Seventh Army’s Forty-Fifth Infantry Division saw and felt when they liberated Dachau. The people were chained to the beds with leg irons and bound with leather belts across waist and chest, wrists secured by cuffs. Many were naked, their bodies punctured by wires and IV lines and electrodes surgically drilled into their skulls and sternums. They were a cross section of humanity with no apparent bias toward one race. More than half were. The room stank of urine, feces, blood, sweat, antiseptic, and human misery. Stepping into that room was like being punched in the soul, and that blow was damned near crippling.

Eyes turned toward me with fresh horror, seeing a big man dressed for combat, armed with an ax and a gun and a combat dog with blood on his muzzle. Those who could scream, did. A few begged for mercy from God or cried out for their mothers. The little ones merely screamed.

And behind the beds were a dozen technicians in stained lab coats. They cringed back against the far wall as if they could distance themselves from my awareness of what they were doing here. As if holding up hands was all that they’d need to escape punishment for their crimes. As if trying to look weak and helpless and pitiable would be effective.

I heard Bunny calling my name, asking about my status. The Snellig slipped from my fingers and clattered to the concrete floor. I tore the coms unit from my ear and ground it underfoot. I slammed the door through which I’d just entered and pulled a heavy steel worktable in front of it. Then I began walking toward the cringing technicians. I passed between rows of children covered in surgical scars, some still with stitches from god only knew what kind of obscene experimentation.

I don’t know why these technicians, nurses, and doctors were not infected by Rage when the facility fail-safe was triggered. Maybe they were too senior, too valuable to what was going on. To what Kuga and Santoro had intended for this place.