I expect him to already know my name, though I couldn’t say where the notion comes from, and I’m not comfortable disclosing my notions to a stranger.
“Me? I’m just the janitor. I was minding my own business, you know, cleaning up the dust, and these boys started shooting at me.”
“Carl, that’s stupid. We know you’re not the janitor.”
“We? Who is
we?
”
He chuckles. “You know, you and me.”
Upstairs, the blasting continues, a ruckus so loud it reverberates throughout the building. The Bobs don’t give up easy, and they’re awfully noisy in their effort to make sure I’m good and dead. Except, to be dead . . .
“Jared, if this thing doesn’t hurt them . . .” I indicate the rifle in my grasp. “And it’s the same weapon they have, it won’t hurt me either, will it?”
He grins like he knows too much. “I never said it doesn’t hurt, Carl. I’m sure it would knock you out for a while if nothing else. It can be quite painful, trust me.”
I don’t like it when someone uses the phrase
trust me.
It usually means they intend to screw me. He swings around and continues into a short hallway. I follow behind, keeping a safe distance, but close enough to make sure this weapon doesn’t miss.
From the hallway we emerge in a large room on the lower level. Countless shelves fill the space, but no products fill the shelves. Well, unless thick layers of dust could be called a product. A product of something. In one corner is a large roll-up door where trucks might load materials. From the looks of the place, it seems little has been manufactured, delivered, or otherwise processed around here for some time. It’s like a tomb.
Jared points to the loading door. “We can make our way out over there. Go get it open.”
“I think you should open it.” I keep a ready finger on the trigger.
He shrugs. “Okay, if that’s how you want it.” He turns away and walks toward the door before I have a chance to act further. I didn’t even have to threaten him with the rifle, he agreed all on his own. Have I misjudged him? Of course I have. Here’s a guy offering to help, and what am I going to do? Shoot him? No wonder I have no friends.
As he walks away, the racket upstairs ceases. Did the Bobs give up? This realization is unsettling—if they’re not upstairs tearing the room apart, where are they?
“Hey, Jared, what happened to the goon patrol?”
On his way to the loading door, he turns back. “The what?”
“You know, the guys upstairs. The goons trying to kill me.”
He laughs. I guess he thinks it’s funny. He continues to the loading door and wrestles with the latch. “Them?” he says, and glances over his shoulder. “They’re not trying to kill you. They were just keeping you busy until I got here.”
Huh?
He gets the latch loose, then turns around and grins.
“I’ll take care of making you dead.”
* * *
Chased by a gang of thugs is one thing, an understandably terrifying circumstance. But having someone pretend to help you, only to stab you in the back when you turn around—
infuriating!
Jared has sealed his fate, he will die. If not by this ineffective weapon, then by these murderous hands clamped around his neck. But then, he could be lying about the rifle. He has lied about everything else. At the higher setting, the strange weapon will erase him from existence, and he knows it.
I target the bastard and squeeze the trigger. The whizzing begins, terribly loud but with some delay. A sizzling beam erupts and instantly strikes, knocking Jared off his feet and crashing into the roll-up door.
However, the full-powered blast has not vaporized him as I had hoped. At least, not yet. Vicious spasms escalate until his body becomes a tremulous mass of flesh, tortured by intense vibrations, the frequency so rapid he almost appears translucent.
The spastic vibrations change frequency, getting slower, though he still wiggles like a bowl of gelatin. He struggles up onto one knee, and steadies himself with one hand. The intensity fades and he stands upright, undulating like the reflection in a wavering crazy-house mirror, and I can see him—grinning? Does this torture not hurt? He said it would.
Still pulsating, he speaks and it sounds funny, like he’s underwater. “That won’t do any good, Carl.” He opens his coat to indicate a small box clipped to his belt. “I have protection.”
Jared must be a villain, with that idiotic urge to explain everything, that my weapon will do no good, how he’s unbeatable, gloating over the glory of it all. Typical.
“This is a wave canceller,” he says, holding out the little gadget. “It matches the frequency of that weapon and makes it useless. Too bad you don’t have one.” He laughs like he’s so smart, and I’m so stupid.
The swell of fury grows—I won’t be laughed at any more than I’ll be double-crossed.
Considering what he said about the building, I get a new idea. My turn to be a cocky smart-ass. “So tell me, Jared, is that magic box of yours going to make this building any lighter when you’re buried under it?”
The loading door rolls up and crashes at the top. Of course, waiting outside is an army of Bobs. So that was the surprise. Jared darts into the mob and scrambles to escape. I quickly target above the loading door, squeeze the trigger, and the whizzing begins. The pitch is torturous. What I need is ear protection.
A blistering pulse strikes and spreads out like a scatter of lightning bolts. The shuddering intensifies and the concrete explodes—most of one wall and half of the ceiling. Chunks become deadly projectiles that take out a good number of Bobs, though plenty remain unscathed, scrambling past the carnage of fallen comrades. Weapons blazing, the survivors advance. I duck for cover in a corridor, clear of their whizzing blasts.
A low roar grows in volume. I spy around the corner to see an entire wall is gone, leaving behind twisted steel beams and the second floor unsupported. Concrete slabs thunder down and entomb the Bobs. That’ll teach you to mess with me. Except Jared was right. The avalanche will bury me next.
Crashing debris nips at my heels as I scramble deeper into the warehouse. The monster is at my back and I have no escape, except—a window. Not that again. I charge ahead and dive into the fragile pane, shatter past and soar out with a spray of glass. I land on the sidewalk, roll off the curb, and the weapon slips away. Over my shoulder, the building is coming down. Where’s the rifle? No time. I hustle across the street as chunks whack me from behind, adding incentive to move faster. This battered body resists, like the damn thing is wearing lead boots. Get moving, body. I’m trying to save your poor ass, too.
A blast of dust overtakes me on the other side of the street. I turn around, wave off the obnoxious powder, and witness the final consequence of my efforts. The building pours in on itself, a quake of tumbling debris then a billowing plume, slowly rising into the still night air. The cascading roar subsides, and the last stray particles trickle down through the rubble, finding their way to the bottom.
Dust covers me from head to toe. The fine layer clings to the blood leaking from the crude bandage, and the mixture creates a messy, mud-like goo. If only it was raining. The rain has ceased for a rare moment, and dawn is breaking, getting lighter at the horizon. Today’s first light brings a lively color, pink and orange behind the clouds.
This brief moment each day is my favorite. The colors in the sky are beautiful. I yearn to witness a sky full of these hues, I dearly long for that. As I drift off, indulging in the marvelous sight, the pains torturing this body fade. I should be collapsing now from the damage done this night, but the beauty of this vision is intoxicating. If only the dreamy experience would last forever.
“Like I said, too bad you don’t have one of these.”
* * *
I twist around and there he stands, calling attention to the little box clipped to his belt. Similarly doused by a generous layer of dust, he has also escaped the building’s collapse. He does possess the gift of stealth, which I might admire, but under the circumstances, I cannot bring myself to admire anything associated with Jared.
He holds a blast rifle point-blank, perhaps the same one I lost along the sidewalk. There is no time to react.
“You can’t win.” He unleashes a smug grin, the trigger clicks, and the whizzing begins.
I am filled with horror. If only I hadn’t daydreamed about the morning sky. If only I had run the instant I hit the sidewalk. If only . . .
Regret is useless. Nothing can save me now.
A sizzling beam emerges from the barrel, and a wave of terror converts every perception to slow motion. Like a thousand hot needles, the assaulting energy unleashes a sadistic dance that penetrates deep into every muscle, a hideous torture as I am burned alive—from the inside out. Bright flashes obscure all vision, lightning storms so intense there is nothing else to see, and bombarded by unbearable booming thunder, there is nothing else to hear, only this body’s every molecule slamming into every other.
A furious vibration rattles my bones. Jared failed to mention the weapon’s effect on bone, and only now does the truth strike—bones are much harder than the rest of the body. Perhaps not as hard as concrete, yet apt to shatter just the same. A terrifying thought—my entire skeleton disintegrating, leaving behind slush held in a bag of skin. A horrible end.
Every circuit is shutting down, the pain is too great.
Sight dissolves, sound fades.
I feel no more, I am done.
All is black, all is numb.
Chapter 2
I am floating through space. Outer space. Countless points of starlight dot the blackness. The sensation is wonderful, gliding across an expanse of unrestricted nothing, a taste of total freedom. Alone in a calm, there is nothing I must do. I may never grow tired of this experience.
But it can’t be right. My blood should boil. My body should explode. Yet here I am, serene, and without fear. The reason—I am without a body. There is nothing to me. I simply exist, surrounded by endless space.
An immense pull summons me. My bodiless nothing is drawn into a narrow space, long like a straw, that stretches to infinity. Captured by the mysterious force, I am taken away and accelerated to an immeasurable velocity.
My journey ends when a solid object crashes into me. Or I have crashed into it. In either case, the result is pain, which only a body could provide.
Everywhere is dark, thick smoke, I can hardly breathe. Dread strikes—smoke means fire, feeding this burning temperature.
I must not die by fire.
Beyond the obvious fear of burning alive, there is more—I must avoid fire at all costs.
Another person is present. She is looking for something in a cabinet. Scattered remnants of memory surface. There was a battle, and we are traveling to join others, but our vessel has suffered a malfunction.
The woman hurries across the compartment, darts back again, and stops when she notices me. Her eyes are mesmerizing, tender blue with an electric dazzle. I sense another kind of heat emanating from this beautiful woman. I’ve made a mistake, and she’s unhappy with me.
“What are you doing?” she says. “Put it out.”
I want to say something, but I can’t. I am a spectator, a lifeless rag doll, yet subjected to every unpleasant sensation associated with being here.
“They’ll get us if we burn,” she says. “Hurry! Put it out.”
I don’t understand what she means, but in a way, I might.
An intense flash—the flames surge brighter, roaring out of control, there is no hope of fighting the blaze. The small compartment becomes an efficient crematorium.
Somewhere in the flames, I hear her screaming. I don’t want to hear that, anything but that, then I don’t—my ears have melted, and my eyes, I want to cry, but there is nothing left that cries. I am coming undone.
Our vessel collides with something and the compartment explodes. My remains scatter to the wind, a mist of ash going all directions.
I am lost. I no longer have a body.
* * *
A burning sensation is concentrated on my shoulder. Opening the eyes I’m surprised to have, I find Jared poking me with a long stick, painfully hot at one end.
“Stop that!” I cry.
Take me back to the dream, the part without a body, without this antenna of pain reception.
He withdraws the instrument of torture, a telescoping rod that he collapses and slips in his coat. “Nice of you to join us,” he says. “You didn’t have to pass out, you big baby.”
My head is still full of cobwebs. I was having the dream again. I’m not dead. But not much better off, after getting zapped by that damn microwave oven on a stick.
I’m lying on a plush armless sofa, a sort of padded bench. The soft fabric is cool and soothing, I could rest here awhile. The spacious room is dimly lit, walls covered by dark paneling trimmed by lighter molding high above. Beyond the border, the ceiling curves inward, painted so black its height is difficult to estimate. An abyss, leading up rather than down. An unsettling sight, to imagine it was the floor instead.
As I gaze upward, Jared leans into my view. “Everything working in that pea brain of yours?”
“No thanks to you, asshole. What am I doing here?”
“I brought you in, that’s all. You could have come along quietly, you know. There wasn’t any need for all that ruckus.”
When I sit up, a door opens and a Bob enters the room. “We thank you for your assistance with the subject. We shall take over now.”
“I did my part,” Jared says. “When’s the Association planning to keep their end of the bargain?”
“We shall not discuss our arrangement in the presence of the subject.”
“He nearly killed me!”
Nice to know I’ve caused grief for Jared. He’s a damn bastard in my book. The jerk deserves a few lifetimes of grief.
Bob says, “There shall be little delay, I assure you.”
“I want no delays,” Jared says. “We’ve all suffered enough.”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “Might I have a say in this? I’d like to go now, if you don’t mind. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I need a bath.”
Jared whirls on me. “I’ve had it with you and all your clowning around. Always a smart-ass remark.” He sandwiches his skull in both hands. “I’m sick and tired of hearing your voice. Shut up, shut up,
shut up!
”
I have annoyed him. Good.
“Ease your mind of the subject,” Bob says. “We shall discuss the terms of our agreement when all is in order.”
“Fine,” Jared says. “Just make it soon.” He goes to the door and Bob follows. On the way out, Jared glances back one last time, his exasperation replaced by a slimy grin, and that slippery, casual tone. “Do as you’re told, Carl, and talk to the nice folks. You’re in good hands, trust me.” He snickers and slaps the door shut.
I hope to never see that bastard again, but then, I wouldn’t mind under different circumstances, like when I have the upper hand. I’ll torture him, then I’ll kill him. Twice. Ten. A thousand times.
* * *
Alone, there is time to gather my thoughts. It’s no stretch to imagine these people intend to hurt me further. I need to compose a plan of escape. I require information. I must study the surroundings for a weakness.
My first instinct is to check the door. I wiggle the handle. What was I thinking? They wouldn’t go to all that trouble just to let me walk right out.
I’ve been given a change of clothes, plain white trousers and a button shirt. Bland. Someone even cleaned me up a bit, but nothing to help my greasy hair and beard. I check my arm and expect to find a gory mess, but no, someone has changed the cluster of grimy rags to a proper bandage, taped up nice and clean.
Daylight streams in through a window across the room. No, I’m not crashing through this one. I’m curious as to what’s outside, and windows are good for that, too. Past the glass, the street is five or six floors down, confirming the window as a lousy escape. The sky is the usual gray, no evidence of sun other than a dim glow behind the clouds. I’d guess it’s late afternoon, nearly evening, but I couldn’t say what day it is. There’s no telling how long I was unconscious.
On the sidewalk below, people move along going about their business, but the scene is creepy. They wear matching suits, black coats and white shirts, thin black ties, and they carry slim briefcases. They look like a colony of ants, scattering all directions without colliding as they serve a higher purpose, like the queen ant or something. The sight of businessmen scurrying about downtown should come as no surprise. The disturbing part is how closely they resemble one another, like the Bobs—they all look the same. But not like the Bobs, those goons don’t wear ties. But still, these folks have their own brand of sameness, like a matching fleet of corporate associates late for an important meeting. Although they dress different, the businessmen share one feature with the Bobs—the black helmet hairstyle. Blended in the crowd are women as well, conforming as the men do, wearing smart business suits all black, except for knee-high skirts instead of slacks, and their longer hair is assembled into a bun.
The room is filled with rows of matching furniture, dark red armless sofas with tufted padding. A number of poor souls could occupy this space at the same time, but I’m the sole occupant for now. Across the room is a flat screen mounted to the wall. I step closer, find the power switch, and the screen brightens with a video image. I ease back, sit on a padded bench, and watch.
“You too can have all this,” a man says. “Now how much would you pay? Well don’t answer yet, you also get . . .”
The scene is a kitchen with a guy wearing an apron and chefs hat, operating a countertop appliance. He tosses in vegetables and the gadget spits out neatly diced chunks. Now he grinds some meat. And the entire time talking, talking, he never stops talking. Next he demonstrates an array of attachments, then shows off plastic bowls for mixing ingredients. He insists that I must have all this, as everyone else does.
“You get all this for the amazing low price . . .”
For a bunch of plastic garbage?
“Three easy payments of . . .”
Three? One is too much for the whole thing. He keeps talking and talking, it seems without a single breath between words or sentences.
“Call in the next fifteen minutes and we’ll also include . . .”
More? Oh, just more plastic crap, big deal.
“Operators are standing by.”
The mountain of plastic garbage one will receive appears endless. A phone number zips past faster than anyone could possibly read, though he does repeat it six or more times during the final seconds, and the program ends.
Now an attractive woman fills the screen. That’s better.
“Feminine odor can ruin that crucial first encounter. Avoid embarrassment, and maintain status among your peers. Regular douching with the fresh, springtime scent of . . .”
She’s not talking about what I think she’s talking about, is she? That’s disgusting. Now she’s going to show us how it works. No, I can’t watch this.
I spring up and switch the channel. Now an older fellow comes on.
“John Thompson here with some helpful hints for improving your home.”
He’s in the backyard of a house. This show looks better, maybe even something of educational value, like a do-it-yourself remodeling program.
“The color you choose for your home is an important decision. Here we have Jackensteen’s Brand Extra Durable Exterior House Paint, available in approved colors, now on sale at your local . . .”
This show has zero value. They only want to sell more products.
Armed with a bucket and brush, he paints a small area on the back of the house—the same color it’s already painted. The camera backs away to shows the entire neighborhood. What? Every house is painted the same boring gray color.
I feel violated, invaded, infected with the desire of others, that I desire what they choose I desire, which I don’t, and never did in the first place. A creepy feeling, like getting brainwashed. I turn the stupid thing off.
Back at the window, I gaze down on the sidewalk and the flock of individuals moving past, all of them anything but individual. Don’t tell me I have to join these mindless drones that have no sense of variety. I resist that, but I may be without a choice, which is the sickening part. I would never choose that lifestyle. It’s not right, not where I belong. But why would I think that? The feeling is unjustified, without a clear memory giving reason to feel anything. But still, I feel a detached memory—I am not one of these people.
Little good it does. The baseless notion lacks any answer, such as how to escape. It only tells me that I must.
* * *
The door opens and two Bobs haul in another fellow. They toss him onto one of the padded benches, then exit and lock the door. The poor guy slumps over, either severely beaten or just plain tired. He’s had a rough time, hair mussed and skin dirty, covered with scrapes and bruises. He’s wearing the same white trousers and button shirt, like me. A fellow loser?
“You okay?” I ask.
He looks up. “Huh? Oh, I don’t know, not really.” He tries to straighten up, groans and grimaces, and reaches around to rub his back.
I move closer. “What happened to you?”
“I don’t understand,” he says. “I was minding my own business, and some guys wanted to talk. But they were scary, so I ran. I guess I shouldn’t have run. Maybe I’d be all right if I just didn’t run.”
Stalked by the goon patrol is one thing, but to see another in pain, having suffered the same, now that hurts. The bonds of friendship form quickly when you share a similar experience, perhaps more so when the experience is unpleasant.
I sit down across from him. “What’s your name?”
“Me?” His tired eyes focus on me. “Vincent, but you can call me Vinnie.”
“Okay, Vinnie. I’m Carl, but you can call me Carl.”
His eyes pinch and he sinks inward, as if replaying my words, trying to make sense of them.
“Vinnie, I’m just kidding. It’s a joke.”
That probably wasn’t such a good idea, and only confirms how lousy I am with jokes. I should know better, but sometimes I can’t help it.
“Oh, I get it, ha,” he says, hardly a laugh, then he scans the room.
“There’s no other exit.” I point to the door. “And that one’s locked, so it looks like we’re stuck here awhile. I wouldn’t suggest the window, either. We’re up a few floors, probably just bust our necks.”
He looks around the room, nods a few times, then sighs. “We’ll just have to tell them what they want to know, and hope they let us go after that.”
Nice optimism, though difficult to share. “I don’t know, Vinnie. After the rough treatment so far, I doubt the rest will be much different.”
“Maybe, but that was probably because we ran. I guess you could be right, heck, I don’t know. But if you are, what difference does it make? I don’t think there’s any way out besides talking to them. What happens next is beyond our control.”
He could be right, except the part about what happens next. The future is not written, and what happens next is not beyond my control. I can change it.
“So tell me, Carl, what’s your story?”
“About the same as yours, Vinnie. I was minding my own business and they wanted to talk, but I had other ideas. So I ran. Didn’t do me much good, I ended up here anyway.”
“Looks like we’re in the same boat. Wonder what’s so interesting about us. Tell me, Carl, what do you do for a living? Maybe that has something to do with it.”
“Nothing special, whatever I can get each day. I load trucks a lot, and trains, too. All sorts of boxes, I don’t even know what’s in them, not that I care. As long as they pay me at the end of the day, I’m happy.”