“It’s time for you to come with me, Callum, and I shall show you the extent of my collection.”
Mr Memory turned on his heels and headed for the second doorway. Callum stared at his exposed back, the sudden temptation to attack overwhelming. But as fast as the feeling appeared the equally stark realisation of defeat caused them to retreat. Callum was left despising his own cowardice, and did nothing but watch stoically as the two dogs followed obediently.
He hesitated then slowly followed through the open door and into the unknown.
Seven
02:40 Hrs
The secondary corridor was much like the first, only shorter. Callum had been right to think it reached to the front of the house, but at the end was greeted by yet another metal doorway.
In front of him, Mr Memory walked slowly, flanked by his two dogs that would every now and then look back and assess the stranger behind them, diligently keeping watch over their master.
Callum remained silent, inwardly relieved to be released from the chains but terrified of what lay ahead. There was no way he could escape his subterranean prison. That was painfully obvious. Maybe he could somehow kill the dogs then torture Mr Memory into revealing the location of the secondary override switch. He immediately shook the thought from his mind; he seriously doubted that his captor would give up the information, regardless of how much pain Callum inflicted upon him. For the time being it appeared he had been well and truly out manoeuvred.
To say it pissed him off was an understatement, yet somehow this man had a hold on him. It was if he commanded unseen tentacles dragging him helplessly into the darkness.
Callum once again thought of Rebecca and once again felt the crushing sensation of sorrow. He couldn’t even manage to save himself, let alone his sister.
“Here we go, Callum,” stated Mr Memory, forcing Callum to come back to the present. Scallywag looked up to see that they had reached the doorway, the heavy door firmly secured by what appeared to be a thick metal bar attached to the framework.
Mr Memory continued in his mournful tone. “If we go through this door together, we will be bonded for the rest of our lives. And what you see will affect you in ways that you could never have dreamed possible. It is the secret knowledge that will define you and your very existence. I can assure you that you will never be the same again. Once the hand of friendship is taken it may never be rescinded. You should be honoured by this gift I am presenting to you, for you will be the only person to have seen my inner sanctum.” He paused, then continued in an even more subdued tone. “Or if you wish, or indeed ask for it, I could end your suffering now. I would make sure it was painless and quick. I give you my word you wouldn’t feel a thing. That would be my parting gift to you, Callum.These are your options. Choose now.” He then remained silent, awaiting the choice to be made.
Callum let out a heavy sigh. His mind was all but lost amongst the madness of the past couple of days. His head swirled with a cacophony of static, every thought contradicting the last; he was unable to sift rationality from the insane. Is this what being crazy is like? Had he really descended into some sort of mental discord? How could he trust his own thought patterns and reasoning now? The fact remained that he was trapped in a bunker with a serial killer and two attack dogs, while his sister had been kidnapped by a gang of gun-wielding mystery men.
He started to laugh, quietly at first then a little louder as his self-deprecating delirium increased.
Mr Memory stood, silently watching the young man descend into his own personal oblivion. “Well?” he asked softly. “Have you made your choice?”
Callum wiped his welling eyes and, with a heavy heart, succumbed to the inevitable. He had no desire to die in this subterranean hole. “I wish to enter.”
Mr Memory raised his left hand and placed it gently on Scallywag’s shoulder. “Then come with me and relish in the delights of the harvesting.” He reached out with his right hand and lifted the bar from its housing, placed it upon the floor, and pushed open the door. “Let us begin”
The room was about twenty-feet square and entirely lit by candlelight. On the far wall was a large bookshelf, extending from each wall and reaching up to the ceiling. Callum reckoned the unit to be at least eight feet high. Across the frontage was what seemed to be a sliding door that concealed what was stored upon them, the antique wood time-stained and worn from heavy use.
He looked around, studying the room’s other features. To his right were four cages, each a little bigger than the one the young woman was being held in. And, to his horror, but as expected, two of the four contained people, all of whom looked beaten and withdrawn, their clothes torn and sodden. They blankly looked on at the room’s new arrivals, but said nothing, their will to fight and to resist extinguished by unseen brutality and sadistic endeavour.
Callum swallowed hard. His stomach tumbled at the sight of these incarcerated souls, yet he felt powerless to help or even intervene.
To his left was a long workbench running the length of the room, and an equally large wall plaque containing myriad tools and what appeared to be implements of torture, each more vicious than the last. At the centre of the room was a small coffee table, complete with two chairs, three candles, and a stack of books placed upon it.
Callum looked at Mr Memory, his eyes asking the question but not needing to physically speak. His captor nodded. “Why are there two chairs?”
Callum remained silent, knowing he had been understood.
“I knew this day would eventually come, Callum. I knew one day someone would venture forth and join me in this place of quiet contemplation and humble serenity. The only thing I didn’t know was when it would be. But here you are. I have been waiting for you for a very long time.” He walked towards the chairs and sat down, facing Callum and the doorway. Romulus and Remus followed and quietly lay down beside their master. Callum followed suit and eased himself onto the second chair, all the while scanning the room.
As he sat he turned to his captor. “Tell me what this is all about,” he pleaded, his voice close to breaking. Mr Memory smiled
“I have already told you, Callum, that I am not some sort of deviant serial killer, nor some ritualistic murderer, but merely a harvester of memories. And I am speaking the truth. I have never killed anyone that didn’t deserve or ask for it. In fact, I have only ever killed one person. My guests are never killed nor harmed here.”
Callum once again stared at the two prisoners, one female the other male, both silent and huddled in their cages. “Then why? What’s the point?”
Mr Memory chuckled.
“I collect their final memories, Callum, then I let them go.”
Callum was confused, there was no way of disguising it. “I don’t understand.”
Mr Memory stood and walked to the bookshelf. With one hand, he opened the sliding door, revealing ten shelves of what looked like jam jars, each with cloth tops held in place by elastic bands. Callum rose to his feet and moved closer, strangely eager to inspect their contents. Mr Memory broke the silence.
“You asked me what it was all about and I shall educate you.”
Callum remained silent, desperate to hear the reasoning of this man.
“After choosing a suitable supplier, I bring them here. Then, after evaluation, I decide the best way of extracting their memories. I may use a knife or even a hammer; sometimes I just use water or some everyday item. Regardless of what I use, or how long it takes, I always find what I seek. It can be a long, arduous process that takes courage and patience. Do you understand?”
Callum shook his head, unable to fully comprehend what he was being told. His captor sensed his confusion and continued.
“Some in the world above our heads might call it wanton brutality or deem it torture, Callum. But those narrow-minded fools that spew such nonsense fail to grasp the beauty of the harvest. And it is nothing more than just a simplistic response and, put simply, not the case at all. I am certain that they feel no displeasu
re within. Their bodies may hurt but the true self, their “essence”, is unaffected. Please understand it’s not because I enjoy the process but because it is an absolute necessity. It is true that I may take off a finger or some other body part, or I may inflict discomfort upon them and administer pain, when needs must, but I never kill them.
“You see, Callum, the sensation of pain in this reality is the key to unlocking the mind. Once the door has been opened it is just a matter of gradual exploration, a great quest to obtain their memories. Just as every door has its own key, every supplier has their own individual locking mechanism. A drill may work on one, for another, broken bones. I expend a lot of time and effort to discover their personal key and to get to their memories. It is at the point of the supplier straddling the bridge between this world and the next that I harvest their memories and, after which, store them securely in my jars.” He motioned to his bookshelf. “I keep them all here in my memory room for safekeeping, Callum. Their last memories, for when I let them return to the world above. They remember nothing of me, nor this place or even their lives before their contribution. They are sent back into the world as memory-free clean slates, joyful new-borns eager to explore the world around them. The harvesting is reciprocal. They provide me with memories and, in return, I give them a fresh start in the world. So, you see, Callum, the statement is not metaphorical. I truly do have their last memories.”
Callum was stunned at how crazy this sounded, yet it was somewhat logical. He cleared his throat, ready to ask questions
“How do they not remember you when you return them?”
“When I bring them back from the verge of crossing over I give them a very special and specific cocktail of drugs of my design which severely dampens cognitive reasoning. In fact, it is so effective it all but erases the mind, causing it to revert back to a more primitive state. Their “essence” is locked away, still intact, but their body is nothing more than a meat vessel, ready to act like a sponge and collect new experiences and memories. You could say it’s akin to wiping a computer’s hard drive and rebooting the system. Of course, as with any piece of technology it may take a little time to get up to speed, but once it does it works better than it ever did before. It truly is a wondrous gift.”
Callum rubbed his forehead, his temples aching from the information bombardment. “What exactly is in this cocktail of yours? Surely there would be a record of all the people being afflicted with the drug’s effects?”
The masked man shrugged his shoulders
“No two suppliers have ever been linked. I cover my tracks extremely well and am confident that my identity and calling will remain unchallenged. With regards to my cocktail, it is a specially-researched mixture of Dimethyltryptamine—which aids them to reach the place of stored memories—followed by a rather liberal helping of south America’s finest devil’s breath, scopolamine, to help them attain the status of clean slates once again”
Callum exhaled softly. “Jesus.” No wonder these poor bastards were acting the way they were. Those were two of the most dangerous substances on the planet, but combined? He let the thought trail off, not wanting to comprehend what they had been through.
He looked at his captor then at the bookshelf, his curiosity now in overdrive. “So, you really do have their last memories, don’t you? For when they leave here they will never remember anything ever again.” He paused and made his way to the bookshelf. “That’s why you have never been caught and why no-one has ever heard of you, isn’t it? If there is no body and no witnesses, how could there possibly be any crime? The police stand no chance in catching you. You send them back nothing more than living, breathing vegetables.”
He turned to face the masked man. “How many suppliers have you harvested?” he asked, quietly, torn between not wanting to know the extent of his endeavours and the need to know more.
Mr Memory reached up and pushed the sliding door all the way back to the far wall. Callum looked on as row after row of jam jars lined the shelves. He shuddered with a mixture of fear and excitement. “There must by hundreds here.”
Mr Memory raised his hands. “I lost count at two-hundred-and-twelve,” he said, flatly.
Callum moved closer to the bookshelf, his eyes never leaving the jars. He reached out and took one in his hands, eager to see what it contained, his pulse beginning to race. He drew it nearer so as to get a good look at it in the dimly-lit room. His stomach churned as he brought it closer, his mind working overtime at what the jar could contain. He held it closer and examined it. It was empty. Callum silently returned it to the shelf and retrieved another. It, too, was empty. He chose another further along, the same thing. Callum gasped in disbelief.
All of the jars were empty.
Mr Memory giggled like a hyena, his excitement building at seeing Callum’s reaction to his impressive collection. “See, Callum, did I not say you would see such glorious wonders? Behold my life’s work. It has taken me thirty years to harvest these memories, and it is my sincere wish that you should join me and become part of my legacy.” He paused and turned to face Scallywag. “What say you?” he asked forthrightly and somewhat hopeful, the elation in his voice audible.
Callum experienced a sudden epiphany; it was if he had been snapped from a downward spiralling daydream. The situation instantly became clear; he knew what he had to do.
Under such an unrelenting barrage he had actually begun to doubt his own sanity. But upon seeing the empty jars, he reasoned that Mr Memory was, in fact, quite clearly insane.
Callum manoeuvred his body so that he faced the large rack of implements on the wall. He grinned inwardly as he caught sight of the familiar shape of a sawn-off shotgun upon it. He began to rub his forehead, feigning serious contemplation at the offer presented, all the while recalling the shotgun cartridges in his backpack discarded in the other room. A plan was formulating, the specifics tumbling around his mind like some military whirlwind. He edged closer to the 12 gauge.
“Well?” he heard from behind him. Callum sighed
“Why me? Why am I so special?” he asked, trying to buy himself more time and to pick his moment. Mr Memory chortled, his breath shallow due to the constricting mask.
“Because it is predestined that you should be the one to help me carry on my work, should I die. I need time to train you, to show you the beauty of the harvesting. It won’t be an easy path, but I assure you the rewards will be unimaginable. Together we can achieve wondrous things. And once I go it will be your turn to lead.”
Callum smiled but remained calm, making sure his back was blocking his captor’s field of vision. “Ok,” he said with as much mock enthusiasm as he could summon.
Mr Memory began to laugh hysterically. He whooped with joy. He held his arms up and started to clap, then began to dance on the spot, his elation overwhelming.
Callum shot an urgent glance towards him and instantly knew this was his chance. Without saying a word, he lunged forward, reaching for the shotgun. Then, as soon as it was in his grasp, he turned and sprinted for the open doorway.
It took Mr Memory a few seconds to realise what was happening. Callum bolted through the entrance and accelerated down the corridor, desperate to get to the ammunition. He heard a roar from behind him that echoed throughout the subterranean prison. “Romulus! Remus! Engage!” swiftly followed by the sound of intense barking.
Callum kept going, his limbs aching from the sudden exertion, adrenaline surging at the thought of the dogs being unleashed upon him. He powered on and burst through the second doorway, leading into the room in which he had previously been held. He spun around and, with all his strength, began to slam the door shut, just as one of the dogs reached the doorway, the other only three feet behind him.
The first Alsatian launched itself towards him, its teeth exposed for attack. Callum didn’t expect the big dog to be as quick as it was, and looked on in terror as it leapt through the doorway just before Callum managed to seal the entrance. He heard a thud as the
second dog ran headlong into the closed door, then continue to bark, desperate to join its sibling.
Callum turned just as the dog lunged at him, eyes focused on its target. Callum hefted the unloaded weapon and, using it as a club, swung the shotgun towards the dog’s incoming mouth. The dog yelped as the metal connected with its jaw. The impact sent it sprawling to the floor in a mass of snarls and whimpers. Callum didn’t hesitate; he had to press his advantage and threw himself forward, the shotgun raised to once again deliver a blow.
The dog sprung to its feet and, with its head low, once again charged at Scallywag, even more eager to inflict its masters will.
Callum swung the makeshift club once again, this time catching the incoming dog squarely on its temple. The dog whimpered and backed off, shook its head, then cautiously eyed his target. Callum glanced to his backpack and edged towards it, all the while maintaining eye-contact with the dog. The dog remained silent, its ears flat back, its shoulder-blades raised, a guttural rumbling emanating from its throat. Callum swallowed hard. There were only so many times he could get lucky, and he knew his only chance was to get to the ammo.
Just then there came a knock at the door, followed by a soft chuckling. “What are you doing, Callum? How exactly to you expect to escape my home? Is your intention to torture me until I reveal the location of the override device?”
Callum didn’t dare rise to the obvious taunt and kept edging towards his rucksack. He was close now, only a matter of three feet. “Fuck it!” he roared as he dived for the bag, just as the Alsatian accelerated towards him.
Callum hit the floor and frantically scrambled with the bag, desperately tearing at the zip. He clutched it to his chest as he rolled onto his back and, upon doing so, lashed out with his foot, catching the incoming dog in the chest. The impact of the blow once again sent the dog tumbling away, but this time it managed to make an immediate recovery, and came back at him with sickening speed.
Scallywag TYPESET Page 7
