by Carl Damen
And then came the time when the light turned on and they were not alone. Three humanoid forms stood among them, wearing a harness of armored pads, with thick metal bracing at the knees and hips. Their faces were completely obscured by helmeted gas masks.
Once they noticed the intruders, Jack and Suzanne scuttled away, pressed into the far wall. They waited, wondering if their presumed captors would speak.
They didn't. The humanoid—no, it had to be a human, there were tiny english words stenciled on the armor—closest to them raised a short club at Suzanne. He jerked the end upwards, waited a moment, repeated the gesture.
With a glance to Jack, Suzanne carefully stood, her body trembling. The man nodded, turned to Jack, jerked the rod down. Jack slowly sank to the floor, lay prone, looked back up to the man. The man nodded, brought his hands up to his chest, pushed them forward, returned them, repeated the gesture.
Becoming increasingly unsure of what was happening, Jack pushed himself up, then lowered himself. He looked to the man, and the man nodded. The club pointed again, flicked back down and back up. Again.
Having no other idea of what to do, Jack performed another push-up, then continued, occasionally glancing back up at the man. The man wasn't nodding anymore, nor was he giving any other indications. Jack continued.
At twenty-five, his arms began to ache; at thirty-five, he was ready to collapse. He hadn't been exercising since his incarceration. Mostly, he had been eating and talking, trying to remain sane. At forty-five, his arms gave out, and he collapsed to the floor. He cautiously looked up to see the man's reaction.
The man stood for a moment, then approached Suzanne. She flinched away, but he lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She straightened, and the man struck out with the club, catching her just behind the ear, sending a spray of blood down on the concrete.
"No!" Jack found the strength for one final push-up, coming up to his feet and lunging at the man.
The two other in the room stepped forward and caught Jack, holding him in place while the first man reached down and delicately helped Suzanne to her feet. Jack noted with some pride that while her eyes glistened, she didn't cry. Quite the opposite; she fixed the man with a glare so fierce Jack was surprised the three didn't turn and leave right then and there.
The man looked away from Suzanne and repeated his earlier gestures to Jack.
This time, he made it to twenty before the man struck out at Suzanne again.
When they were finally alone again, Jack sat slumped in the corner, his arms hanging limply at his side. Suzanne, blood slowly seeping from the four wounds across her head and right shoulder, lay curled up next to him, her head in his lap.
As Jack stared down at the glistening brown ridges that protruded from the dark skin, he realized that he was never going to see Lauren again, and that all he had in the world was this woman before him. No matter what, he couldn't let her be hurt again.
The men returned again, following no discernible schedule. On their first trip back, Lauren was made to perform pushups while Jack was beaten. When he tried to fight back, the two followers held him while the head man beat Suzanne. It was the last time they tried to resist.
For the most part, the exercise/beating schedules were even. First Suzanne, then Jack, then repeating. But just like everything else in this private corner of hell, even that couldn't be counted upon. The longest run had been three sessions in a row where Jack was forced to watch Suzanne suffer as his arms gave out. Through it all, he couldn't help feeling as if he were the one hurting her...
When they were alone in darkness, or during the bright times when there was food, but no tormentors, the two were never more than a foot apart, trying to remain in physical contact at all times. The had ceased to speak, to dredge up the past. All their communication was physical now. First, simple touches: I know how you feel, I'm there for you. Then, prolonged holding and caressing: I won't let you go, I won't let them hurt you. Finally, copulation: Why are you letting them hurt me, why can't you do better?
At some point amid the haze of light and dark and pain and pleasure there was a change: the visitors began to come during mealtimes. As Jack watched Suzanne work herself to exhaustion, as he flinched and fell under the head man's blows, he saw one of the other men stoop and proffer the bowl of bean past to Suzanne. As she ate, as she rested, as Jack continued to suffer, he hated her. He was hurting, while she was thriving.
As the pain and isolation continued to drive them together, the sudden lack of reliable nutrition drove them apart. Now, when a visit was over, and one of them was hurt and ashamed of their powerlessness, the other would be full and sleepy. The sex became rougher, became less communication and more accusation: You're doing this to me, you're the reason I can barely stand to live.
Then water became a bargaining chip. As the lights turned off, as the visitors left, the unlucky victim was forced to drag themselves to the drain, to summon enough blood and saliva to activate the flushing mechanism, to try to lap up some of the stinging water that bulleted from the sky.
Soon, even physical communication passed away. Between visits, Jack and Suzanne would huddle together in the corner, oozing with half-healed sores, each silently hating the other for what had been done, each silently feeling shame at what they allowed to happen...
And then the imprisonment ended. The lights turned on, and they shook themselves awake; it was the one routine they had left. They looked around, tried to see what was different. Food? No. Visitors? No. It took them several long moments to notice that the great metal door, the unmoving behemoth, stood open, letting their bright white world drift off into the void beyond.
Almost as one they stood, slowly crept forward, cautiously poked their heads around the corner. Outside was a hall of dark grey concrete, a strip of fluorescent light locked behind a wire cage running overhead.
Jack took a step back, hunched his shoulders, drew in on himself. He wanted to be out there, to find Lauren, but suddenly the unknown outside this portal seemed too great compared to the relative safety of this little room. Here there was pain, yes, but there was food, there was water. What was there outside?
Suzanne glanced at him, back at the open door, back at him. The call of freedom was so strong...
Tentatively, all too aware of something like the flush mechanism laying in wait, she stepped through the portal. Nothing happened. She turned back to Jack, beckoned. He hesitated a moment longer, then stepped through.
They continued down the hall, slowly at first: there was so much to explore. Some twenty feet from their door was another, same size, same shape, but firmly sealed. Twenty feet beyond that, another, another, another... They were running now, doors rushing by on their left, never ending grey on their right.
They were three doors past it when they realized that they had missed something. Without speaking they both stopped, both turned, both walked back the way they had come.
There was a door in the endless wall. What's more, it was open. This time, there was no hesitation as they stepped through the portal, as they looked around at this new world. In many ways, it was like the one they had left: a concrete cube, too bright lights lost in the glare overhead. In other ways, it was different: two low armchairs sat facing each other in the middle of the room.
Behind each chair stood a man, dressed in loose grey fatigues, just slightly lighter than the wall outside. To Jack's right, the man was short, wide-faced, with a fringe of red hair extending down in sideburns. To Suzanne's left, the man was a little taller, brown hair topping a square face. Both men were thin and bony, fairly swimming in their uniforms.
"Hello," the redheaded man said.
Jack flinched; it was the first voice he had heard in... in... It was the first voice he had heard.
The man gestured down at the chair before him, and Jack felt a sudden urge to sit in it, to feel the smooth black material against his bare skin.
Beside him, Suzanne was stepping forward to take the seat the othe
r man has offered her. They both sat, both sighed as the smooth coldness touched them, soothed them. They looked up, into each other's eyes, and Jack was almost willing to forgive her what had been done to him.
Then the taller man spoke. "You are now unable to move."
Jack tried to look up at him, to try to pry meaning from his expression, but found himself unable to move. Oh.
"Only your left pinkie is able to move."
Jack saw movement in his peripheral vision; Suzanne was testing.
"We're going to play a game now. You are both going to not move your pinkie. The first one who does, lives. The other dies. Your entire future is now up to you."
Jack's body spasmed as the words sank in. He tried to breath, found only the smallest give in his diaphragm. Across from him, Suzanne's pupils widened, despite the brightness.
And suddenly, nothing else mattered except for Suzanne. Jack was determined to remain still, to let her kill him, to let her live, to survive, to find escape, to thrive—
To live on through whatever interminable hell came after this. If their time in the room had been any indication, this place was not one that accommodated the living. Death would be the greatest escape. Life... life would be the best punishment for her, after all the pain she had caused him. She deserved it for all the beatings, all the times he had gone hungry, all the times—
All the times he had failed, and she had been beaten. All the times he had eaten while she had starved. As much as he resented her, he realized that she must resent him just as much, hate him blow-for-blow, bowl-for-bowl... Feel the same guilt for failure that he did.
What could he do, what could he do, what could he do... He had to be sacrificed, he had to take the blame for all that had happened, he knew that, it was the only way. But which was the worst fate, which was the last parting gift he could give to her for all the had done to keep him sane?
Have to choose, have to choose, have to—
Suzanne slumped forward, slid from the chair, a pained groan escaping her lips, a thin stream of liquid feces smeared across the chair and dripping down onto the floor.
Jack could suddenly move again. He screamed, threw himself forward, clutched at the limp body, screamed her name over and over again, began murmuring babbling, saying all of the words that had been held inside for so long.
Why? Why had this happened? He hadn't moved his finger, had he? He had still been thinking, still been trying to find a way out. No, it was too soon, too soon, he wasn't ready to be alone, not yet—
The lights turned off. There was the sound of boots scuffling on concrete, of two heavy object being pushed aside, then the feeling of a presence behind him—
And there was morning and there was evening the last day, and then Jack rested.
9
Chapter 24
Chapter 24
This time there was light, soft and blue, wrapping around shapes and giving the whole world a faint glow. Jack lay in a large bed, his arms held to side-rails by short padded lanyards. Tubes and wires descended from a cluster of devices that hung around him, and beyond those he could see milky-white curtains, cutting him off from the shadowy forms beyond.
This time, there was order, a dependable schedule. There was a day of discernible length, a night of dimmed light. Four times a day a person in a thick green plastic suit would come in, check the devices, check him, leave. After that would come a vibration in the thick tube that ran through Jack's mouth and down into his body, and then he would feel full and satisfied. Compared to what had come before it was a good life.
Except he couldn't sleep. Every time his mind began to drift away, every time his stomach felt full and ready to digest, he would see Suzanne slumped lifeless on the floor. Would wonder again if he had really moved his finger, or if the two men had chosen arbitrarily. Compared to this place of rest, was it really better to be dead? Was Suzanne in the best place he could have chosen for her? Had he protected her, or once again hurt her? Or had she chosen quick escape for herself, leaving him the painful choice and the even more painful life beyond? Every time he thought of her, he missed her. Every time he missed her, he hated her. Every time he hated her, he longed to have her back.
After twenty days, solace came to him; he had made the right choice. The person in the thick green suit had come, like always, had checked him over. But this time the person didn't leave. This time, Jack's straps were tightened, new straps were added to his ankles, across his legs and chest. He was trapped in the bed, unable to move.
His attendant left, returned a moment later with a large handled box. Inside were row upon row of syringes holding a clear, faintly yellow liquid. A syringe was selected, fluid was injected, Jack was infected.
That night, as the lights dimmed and Jack tried to sleep, he felt suddenly hot. He was sweating now, his eyes stinging, his body aching. He tried to move, to curl in on himself to escape the pain, but it was no use; the straps were too tight.
By morning, he was not alone. Suzanne and Lauren lay beside him, both resplendent in frilly wedding gowns, the white lace pouring over the sides of the bed. They caressed his forehead, reassured him, told him that he had made the right choice. Suzanne had no one to return to; Jack had Lauren. It was is if the weight of the world had lifted from his chest.
They both leaned close, tried to kiss him around his feeding tube—
The attendant returned. Jack was poked, prodded. Notes were made on a small tablet. As the attendant left, as the food returned, Jack was able to come to his senses enough to see the women fade and vanish, to look down at his own body, strapped to the bed.
He was thin, his stringy muscles standing out in sharp detail. All along the pale skin were patches of purple-tinged red, like bruises, rising up above the underlying muscle. As he watched, the red patches slowly grew, connecting in places. They bulged, hardened, oozed with pus, retracted, formed again. With each new growth, each change in his body, he became hotter, began to gasp for breath, faded away into the inferno that was boiling just beneath his skin.
His last thought before passing out was that perhaps he had died, and what he was feeling were the flames of hell...
This time there were voices. They spoke softly, incoherently, mumbled from every side. They slowly woke Jack, brought him out of the pit with Suzanne and back to the bed. His body stretched out before him, pale and smooth, the thin matrix of scars completely gone. He didn't know how long his mind had been away, but it must have been for a considerable span.
His mind... it must be playing tricks on him. The voices continued, but they were too clear. Thick plastic sheets still cut him off from the rest of the world, but they didn't muffle the sounds. In fact, they seemed to be completely unmodulated. The voices came to him, free of echo, tonally pure. It seemed less like he was hearing them so much as directly perceiving them with his mind.
Trying to really listen to the voices, to take in what they had to say, was stranger still. There seemed to be no thought behind the words—or rather, too much thought. One voice would start: Oh, God, how could I let him... I shouldn't be here... Then another would break in: Kill then all... as soon as I can move, I'll kill them... Then yet another: How much longer, how much longer, how much longer...
The more Jack listened, the more the words broke down, the more he heard—felt—raw emotion. Images floated along with the words: hundreds of faces, all ages and races, most out in the sun, living in the world. Many, thin and naked, their hair shorn and pain evident in their eyes.
Whoever the mysterious speakers beyond his walls were, they seemed to have suffered just as he had.
And the voices continued.
The attendant came, the feeding tube vibrated, and the voices continued. Day dimmed into night, Jack tried to sleep, and the voices continued. He tried to block them out by thinking of Suzanne. As he focused on her, the whisper-pictures of the other victims became louder, and he quickly shifted to Lauren. This brought about even louder whispers, but now of friends,
of family, of good times out and about in the world of the living. As the whisper-pictures continued to flood his mind, he was able to drift off to sleep, nearly convinced that this had all been a bad dream.
And the voices continued.
Just before sleep claimed him, another voice joined the din, strong and sure, and completely clear in meaning. I'm sorry... I didn't want to, but you are the first sacrifice for the new world... there is no solace for you in this life, but there will be for some of you in the life to come...
Falling asleep in one impossible situation only to awaken in another was becoming routine by now. This time Jack was in a gymnasium-sized room, made of the same dark concrete as the halls of this place. This time when he woke to find a sea of clothes-less, hairless people around him, he didn't panic; neither did the others. As they would come awake, as they would realize they were not alone, they would merely nod greeting to each other, then scoot away and become obsessed with their own misery.
