by Woods, Shane
SHEOL
The Scott Pfeiffer Story Part 2
By Shane Woods
www.severedpress.com
Copyright 2020 by Shane Woods
In loving memory of
LCpl Jake Pettit,
the 22,
and all those we’ve lost along the way.
PROLOGUE
I pressed my foot down firmly and felt the warm sand beneath give way. The further in it went the more granules rushed to fill in the void, more than happy to race to the front of the line to begin wrapping my foot in a cocoon of sun baked warmth.
I leaned back in my chair taking it all in as I closed my eyes. The steady light breeze blowing mixing with the scents of barbecue and an aroma of the breaking saltwater. The sun blanketing my body, keeping me separated from all I touch with a thin film of sweat and sunscreen.
‘This is it,’ I thought. ‘All the loss, the drama, the tears and smiles, the smooth sailing and the struggle. This is it. This is what we worked for.’
I felt a light tickle on the side of my thigh as the ash dropped off of my cigar, tracing the tips of my nerves as it fell. Bringing the stick of blended tobacco to my lips, I took it all in, visually this time.
The beach was sparsely populated at best. I was lounged upright in a folding chair, the majority of my view being the stark white of the sand split cleanly by the gently rolling cerulean waves. The scene was interspersed by the occasional human sloth, laid out and doing much the same as I. Nothing. Some read books, I myself had my buddy’s latest zombie novel on the table next to me, my most recent stopping point marked by a little collapsed paper umbrella.
Opening the cover just a bit revealed the scribbles on the title page:
“Hey Scott, thanks for the laughs. We still owe each other that beer!
-R”
I smiled as I considered this. Maybe, just maybe, we still would. But it was going to take more than beer to peel my ass from this collapsible beach chair.
May take something closer to a pina colada, I realized as I looked at the empty bar glass next to the paperback on my table.
Turning to my other side, I eyed the most perfect rear end I’d ever seen. A little bubble, not too small, not too big, and startlingly pale despite the coating of sunshine. The paleness was contrasted in stark relief by a black bikini bottom wrapped tightly around the curve of each cheek and disappearing into a wonderful ending.
As I eased myself up to move from my seat, I grabbed my drink glass with one hand, and brought the other back, palm-forward, to give a firm, playful slap to announce my departure.
My hand glided forth through the air anticipating touchdown. It landed spot-on, creating a gentle ripple in the soft flesh that met with the solid CLICK-KLANK of my hand, marking the point of impact.
Wait.
CLICK-KLANK?
On this realization, the beach scene was torn clear of my grasp, as well as that round butt.
I let out a moan as my eyes opened, regaining sight as the comforting sunlight was stolen from me and replaced by the same harsh million-watt fluorescent glare that hadn’t left since I got here. The ass under my hand quickly dematerialized, becoming the thin excuse of a mattress topping the metal wall-bunk.
Rolling away from the wall, the full recollection of where I was flooded into my mind. Grayson and Munoz and all the other faces until the Colonel last night flooded back into my thoughts. I sat up on my poor excuse of a bed, my shackles jingling in mockery at my every move.
They said it’s just interviews, just getting a feel for what happened, and gathering information from someone who’s been outside. If that’s the case, why the hell am I shackled? Why are we kept separated? Where are my family and friends?
Then the icing on the cake was shown to me as the sleep finally left my eyes. I knew it. Asses don’t click or clang. I’ve never in my life met one that did. It was my food slot on my door being thrown open. Just as I cleared my vision, a tray was pushed through to balance precariously on the ledge.
I groaned again, rubbing my eyes, then nursing my dead sore shoulder and hip. Apparently, I hadn’t moved all night, and my body let me know as much. Twisting around, I located the Polaroid image I’d fallen asleep holding onto. I studied it once more before allowing it to fall to the bed as I encroached my way lazily to pick up my food tray and grab the accompanying drink off of the ledge.
2% milk and red fruit punch in their own tiny cartons. On the sectioned tray sat a pile of dry Frosted Flakes, cold watery scrambled eggs, an orange, and a single piece of toast. I’m really getting the star treatment here.
I plopped back down on my bed, the thick plastic tray resting on my legs, and began to tend to my breakfast. Just like my youth, when I spent more than a few short stays in county, the process was very similar. Cover the eggs with the supplied black pepper packet, milk on the cereal, choke it all down before you can taste it and follow with the full carton of juice.
As I did so, I found my mind wandering. Thoughts of my family and friends who were also present in this facility, those left behind, those unaccounted for, and sadly, those lost. Trying to divert my train of thought, and the inevitable emotional buildup to follow, I turned back to my now empty tray and wondered if this was standard fare for the facility, or just those of us here against our will.
Setting the tray aside and finishing my juice in one big gulp, I stood and stretched once again before making my way to the paired stainless-steel toilet and sink combo, dropped my trousers, and took a seat. There, I’d contemplated more of our situation, as well as what had passed and what was to come.
Though not just such mundane things as recollection of the recent past, but thoughts of the near future’s possibilities, as well. What if this wasn’t just interviews? What if, as my jail-food-filled gut told me, this is imprisonment? What if, at the end of all the story telling and explanation, they found it simply easier to just lock us away?
Surely that couldn’t be the case though, right? It would be a smarter use of resources to just give us the boot, tell us thanks for sharing, then have us pack our things and leave.
Actually, I realized, that may be preferable on our end, as well. We’d been ‘outside’ since the beginning, more or less. It would probably be safer, even more comforting to go back to familiarity and live out our lives, short or long, waving our asses in the face of danger. Certainly, it would be preferable to having to escape from wherever we were at now, at least.
Before long I had finished and my right leg had begun to go numb, so I cleaned up, pulled up my bottoms and turned to the sink. No shower in this room, but the sink had running water, so I began brushing my teeth with the supplied tools then I grabbed the lone washcloth and got it nice and wet.
My intentions were a basic bird bath. Or, hobo bath, restroom clean-up, bird wash, whatever it is where you’re from.
I was halfway through the “ass” portion of that when my door swung open to show Munoz and a half-dozen Privates standing there. Shit. Even my towel a few paces away seemed to be on the other side of the planet in that, pun partially intended, bare moment.
There I was, fully exposed and in all my glory, tainting a once-clean washcloth with my drawers around my ankles and my shirt off and pulled down to my wrist shackles. I think I handled it gracefully, but the others didn’t seem impressed.
“Oh, hey! You’re early!” I called to Munoz, who wore a single butterfly bandage and had a single crutch from the night before. “Just tidying up, y’all can come in and have a- ”
“Enough.” He cut me off. Christ these guys love their interruptions. No wonder why everything military or government is an acronym.
&
nbsp; “Oh, no, I insist!” I retorted, trying to keep my demeanor level, while reaching to turn the faucet back on. I then handed the soiled washcloth out to Munoz, my hand containing the offending rag just inches from his face. “Can you hold this for me? No? Okay, okay, my bad, dude.”
“We are here to lead you to another interview,” he instructed. “We are also under order that if you try anything at all, anything, puto, we are to fill you with bullets and let the janitor take care of the rest. Comprende?”
“Anything you say buddy!” I replied cheerily, watching his eyes grow as I flung the washcloth into my unflushed toilet. “Is that coffee?”
He retracted the coffee cup in his hand, so I reached for the little button to flush the toilet.
“What?” he started, then put his hand out. “Don’t you flush that. Yeah, here, coffee.”
“Oh, thank you so much!” I replied, still upbeat as I received the cup and took a sip before the taste found the proper receptors and I ended up spitting it right back out. “Is that fucking chicory? Really? Christ this is county jail, isn’t it?”
“You ready?” he asked, returning my previous mischievous grin. “Get dressed. We got thirty seconds and we’re walking.”
As he spoke, I noticed a younger orderly walk by, then back up a step as she saw me in my full nude state. I took to ignoring Munoz and flashed a few poses, grinning ear-to-ear as I did, until two of the guards directed her away. At that point, I grudgingly complied and in moments I was making my way through the door and into the hallway. The orderly was nowhere in sight, but that was okay, I had a feeling Munoz wouldn’t be allowing any more of my public displays today.
“Do you think housekeeping will go through my things?” I asked over my shoulder as we left. “I have souvenirs for family back home, and my unmentionables.”
“Just shut up, and stop being difficult,” Munoz instructed. “No more talking until it is time to talk.”
“Well,” I inquired, clearly testing my luck, “when will I know?”
“I’ll tell you,” he replied, cold as ice as he shoved my back to get me moving more quickly.
The others nearly naturally fell into step with each other until the hallway resounded with marching footsteps and my own rattling chains. The parade tones only broken occasionally as the guy in front would call to clear the hallway as we passed curious orderlies, a couple of doctor types, and several in either civilian attire or military uniform. This place seemed to be a child’s set, Skittles bag mix of professions. We really just needed the police officer standing with the mayor and a construction worker to complete it.
From somewhere far off down a slightly darker hallway I could just barely hear the telltale shriek I’d grown to hate as it floated like a ghost train down the corridor.
“What the fuck was that?” I asked sharply, nearly freezing in place.
Munoz shoved me hard as he shot back, “The fuck I tell you about talking, asshole?”
“Ooo,” I replied, “insults in English now, it must be serious!”
He shoved me again.
Okay. Point taken. I made sure for the remainder of the walk to pace myself to be almost in step with the others. Almost. This resulted in me inevitably falling behind, Munoz having to shove me forward again, which I’d counter with something along the lines of, “But mooooom, I’m just so tired. Billy kept me up all night with him playing video games!”
Eventually, and somehow without Munoz getting tired of my shit and ending me in the hallway, we made it to a door. This time, I was instructed to turn and face the opposite wall while I had three rifles trained on me. Apparently, our little ring of trust was broken. It’s okay, Munoz and gang, the feeling is mutual.
A heavy, windowless steel door unlocked and was swung open, then I was turned back around and led through it. A room nearly identical to the one from yesterday was on the other side of the threshold. For a moment I thought it was the same, until I realized the mirror was on the opposite wall.
I was led to a seat on the far side, same as before. As I was sat down, I was instructed to turn in the chair and my shackles were removed. Where the restraints lay across my skin had turned an angry discoloration and still bore the marks of the cuffs. I rubbed my ankles and wrists, elated to be free of the bindings, and turned to Munoz as he took his seat.
I watched him casually as he began setting up the same equipment from the day before and doing so in the same ways.
“Can I talk now?” I asked him.
“I’d prefer you didn’t.” He glared for a moment before returning to the task at hand.
“Well, I’m a sucker for fine print, and preference doesn’t mean set in stone,” I informed him, then, trying to chill the temperature of the room, “What do you miss the most about the way things were before?”
“My wife and kids,” he replied flatly, bringing his brown eyes up to meet mine. “My dog. My parents. My aunt. Everyone and everything I’ve lost. Now, about my preference…”
“Point taken,” I deferred, sitting back in my seat heavily, now focusing my attention on the mirrored wall.
“So, what is it?” I began anew. “One room like this, a funhouse box like that, then another of these rooms? So, I bet, on the other side of that wall is another of these, then another mirrored wall?”
Munoz didn’t reply as he made a sharp sucking sound before spitting something onto the floor, a toothpick working again furiously between his teeth.
A few quick beats later, and I could hear sharp footfalls, then a moment after, the door swung back open as Grayson entered followed by three more young military men, identical to those Privates from the day before, and then Nurse Hannigan. I stood to meet Grayson, my hand outstretched to shake his. He started to sit down! What nerve!
“You should shake a hand when it’s offered,” I commanded softly, the words dripping from my teeth, and, bringing my soft demeanor back as quickly as it had left. “It would be rude not to!”
“Ah, sorry, a bit more than usual going on this morning, I’ve been distracted,” he replied kindly, but still keeping the strength to his voice. “Good morning, Scott, how are you?”
“Is that maple syrup?” I asked, motioning to the one amber drip still clinging to his white button-up shirt. “You bastard!”
“Hopefully we get things finished and cleared up today,” he said, trying to placate. “I know, the meals in holding aren’t exactly fulfilling. You remember Nurse Hannigan?”
He motioned to the blonde nurse with her little kit as she took her place next to me and went to grab for my sleeve.
“Yes, I do,” pulling away, and to the nurse, “No headache today, I feel fine, thank you.”
“Just a follow-up shot, Mr. Pfeiffer,” she smiled. “We don’t want the meds to leave your system too quickly, it’s rough if they do.”
“Right,” I replied, and in a few moments, she had her injection finished up, applied the cotton ball and tape to my arm, cleaned up and left.
By the time she had done her job, Grayson nearly finished organizing his files and bringing his tablet to life. Munoz had gotten his recording equipment to come on as well. One of the Privates had also returned with a stainless coffee pot and another water jug. He arrayed cups on the table for each and retreated back to the other two men by the door.
It was difficult to tell the three young men apart, aside from skin tone. They were the same recruitment-poster perfect as yesterday. Maybe even two of the same. All cleanly shaven, identical uniforms except for patches. All three had their cover pulled low and tight over their heads. They all even carried identical M4 rifles.
“Let’s see the tablet,” I asked, remaining as informal as I could to see how far I could get.
“Way ahead of you, Scott,” Grayson replied as he turned the tablet around to show me. All the same or similar images before, live shots of various parts of the facility, or maybe even right next to where we were. All of my friends and family I expected to see were still alive and acco
unted for.
“Can you tell me anything yet?” I inquired. “Where we are? How long will this take? What’s going on? Why I heard one of those freaks shriek earlier?”
“Same as before, Mr., ah, Scott,” Grayson replied. “Let’s hear your story first. We need all the facts you can give. We’re still in sort of a discovery process here. We need the main events that led to your tangles with Uncle Sam and Colonel Parker, but also any intel you can provide as to what life outside is like.”
“You make it sound like you’ve never left this place,” I observed, trying to feel out whatever info he would give me, even if not directly.
“We have limited resources topside while we try to get a handle on things,” Grayson replied. It sounded programmed to me, but I went with it. But that word. Topside. Where the hell is this place?
“Well,” I began. “Pour me a coffee? I believe we left off with Tony. After we saved those people.”
“The coffee here is self-serve,” he replied, turning the handle of the insulated carafe toward me, then, “but, yes. Your friend. Your second-in-command you’ve called him. He was…shot?”
“Yeah. Through and through. Back to front,” I stated, pouring coffee into a paper cup and allowing the aroma to reach my nose as I anticipated something hopefully better than fucking chicory. Even in the end of the world you should always have a standard about coffee. Shitty brews make shitty mornings of course. Don’t believe me? Try it.
“And the shot was long range, you said the sound came after the impact?” Grayson interrogated.
“Yeah,” I replied, then pushed, “not a whole lot we could figure out beyond that. At least, not initially. Actually, the next few weeks went by with just the basics. Work, eat, scavenge, recover. The basics.”
“Well, let’s just start then,” Grayson instructed. “Whenever you had new intel, or new happenings.”
“Okay,” I relented, smelling the aromatic steam from the top of my cup, relishing actual hot coffee. “It was maybe a few weeks after Tony got shot. After your infallible Uncle Sam left my best friend on that rooftop choking on his own bl-”
