by Sean Platt
She held him back, her hands circling around his waist. He felt the warmth of her flesh against him, hardening his cock. He pulled away, embarrassed, then looked to the side, awkwardly.
The other prisoners started pounding on their cells, eyes and mouths wide open in likely pleas to be released.
Callie turned to Charlie, “What do we do?”
Charlie looked at the closed door in front of them, with its black glass hand panel to the right. Then he looked down at the dead men, trying to formulate a plan. Did they have keys, codes, or something he could use to get away? He bent to search, but the lights went black before he was halfway down.
“Fuck!” Charlie screamed.
The door in front of them opened, the light from the hallway beyond illuminating another four men in black coming toward them, armed with infrared goggles and rifles.
The door closed and cast them back into darkness.
Charlie turned to cover Callie with his body, shielding her from their intent.
Arcs of blue light shot from one of their weapons, sending Charlie to the ground, twitching in pain.
He tried to fight, but whatever bit of strength he’d been given was failing him now.
Charlie’s world was nothing but pain until it was nothing but black.
Twenty
Boricio Bishop
Other Earth
Black Island Research Facility
Level 7
July 17, 2011
One week after the accident …
I’m a monster. A fucking monster.
Boricio stared at his reflection, unable to turn away from the ugliness.
He was on edge, his body in pain, and he was doing his best not to give into the swelling darkness within. Part of him just wanted to punch the mirror and let the rage out.
He clutched either side of the bathroom sink to keep himself from giving into impulse. As he stared at the ugliness in the mirror, his growl turned to laughter, dancing along the thin fissure between humor and pain, comedy and sorrow. If he didn’t laugh, the rage would swallow him.
He looked like a goddamned action figure, with a patch over his right eye like a pirate. With his freshly shaved head, giant scar, and semi-permanent scowl, Boricio was a catchphrase away from a Saturday morning cartoon.
Boricio snarled into the mirror. When life gave you lemons, it was time to get the salt and tequila.
“Staring all day won’t change a thing,” Will said, surprising him as he opened the bathroom door. “Don’t worry, you make bald work,” Will slapped Boricio affectionately on the shoulder.
Boricio was nervous as hell.
It had been three days since he and Rose were transferred to the Facility for rehab and treatment. Today was going to be the first time he saw Rose since the accident. The doctors had made him wait, saying she needed some more time, and that things were still fuzzy for her. Apparently, she was having trouble remembering stuff, though Will said it was a normal thing following head injuries, and that they shouldn’t be too concerned yet. Will warned that she might not remember Boricio, but Boricio couldn’t believe it.
Boricio had quipped, “Ain’t nobody ever forgotten me yet. Even if they wanted to.”
Though he’d been confident when he said that to Will, the fear was starting to take seed.
What if she did forget me?
Boricio wasn’t sure what to expect, but his stomach was in knots as the moment drew closer. He looked down at the ring box on the sink — the one the cops pulled from the water — and hoped Will hadn’t noticed it.
He didn’t want Will to talk him out of what he was planning. He knew what Will would say — wait and do it right. Wait until she’s out of the hospital and all this is behind you. But Boricio didn’t want to wait any longer.
He’d waited too long already.
It was that hesitation that had kept him lonely for so long. Perhaps if he’d asked Rose sooner, they’d never have gotten into the accident. Perhaps they’d already have a child.
“Are you ready to see Rose?” Will asked.
Boricio nodded, but stayed silent as he palmed the ring box and put it in his pants pocket.
“Well, then let’s get going,” Will said, turning to leave the bathroom.
Boricio said, “I’ll be right out,” then stared at his reflection for another minute, feeling the anger rise again, his right hand shaking as he again resisted the urge to punch the mirror.
It shouldn’t be like this.
When his right fist finally stopped shaking, Boricio left the bathroom, grabbed a sweater, and followed Will from his room.
The walk down the hall was silent as most of his time had been with Will since the accident. Boricio wasn’t in the mood for Will’s misguided efforts to cheer him up.
Boricio wanted to go somewhere to let off some steam, but didn’t know where, or what to do when he got there. Will didn’t have any ideas either. He kept telling Boricio that he had to just let it all out, and had to give himself permission to grieve the loss of their child because if he kept everything inside, it would all turn to venom. But Will was full of bullshit. What did he know of Boricio’s pain? He didn’t have to live in the icy shadows of his past, and had never lost a child.
Boricio didn’t want to be angry with Will for not understanding, since it wasn’t his fault, but the dark thoughts crawled through his mind like cockroaches anyway.
Will turned to look at Boricio. “You ready?”
What kind of a goddamned question is that?
Boricio tried not to snarl as he stepped past his adopted father and into Rose’s room. Will stayed outside.
Boricio gasped, devastated, swallowing his shock as he looked at Rose. She barely looked like the same person.
Her face was puffy and pale, save for the bruised parts. Her hair was clean and brushed, but hanging from her face without any life. And when she looked up at him, there wasn’t the slightest spark of recognition.
“Hi,” she said, and then turned her attention back to the TV that was showing CNN Headline News. As if he were some kind of stranger.
No, this can’t be happening.
She thinks I’m an orderly or something!
Will was right. And Boricio hated him for it.
“Hi, Rose,” he said.
She slowly moved her eyes from the TV back to Boricio, giving him the thinnest of smiles but saying nothing. That nothing killed everything inside Boricio, then turned it inside out and black and rancid.
That nothing made him want to give in to the swirling darkness within him.
“Rose?” Boricio tried again, giving the light one more chance before he let the darkness come to claim him.
Twenty-One
Charlie Wilkens
Charlie woke to find himself in another shroud of darkness, lying on another mattress. He thought his body should have been aching, but it wasn’t.
He was tired, though. And his brain was foggy. Memories fell in snippets, glimpses of impossible playing out in his head — how he had somehow leapt impossibly far, knocking a Guardsman to the floor before thrusting his hand through another’s glass helmet.
Impossible.
Unless I’m infected.
Where’s Callie?
Charlie sat, trying to pull shapes from the darkness. When he sat, a bright light whitened the cell, blinding him with its sudden intensity.
“Remain still,” a man’s voice said through speakers above the door. “Do you understand?”
Charlie said yes, nodding as an uneasy feeling swirled through his gut.
“I’m going to explain something to you, so you need to pay real close attention.” The voice paused, then said, “Do you understand?”
“Yes!” Charlie shouted, annoyed, and terrified of what was about to happen.
They’d better not do anything to Callie.
“I don’t like a single dingleberry on this shit-laced ass crack,” Boricio said, appearing beside Charlie again, still in the black du
ster and hat.
Boricio paced the room, looking around, “Come on, do some of that voodoo hoodoo that you do so fuckin’ well, Charlie Brown.”
Something tapped on the cell beside Charlie, and he jumped, surprised.
Callie was now in the cell beside him. They’d not taken her, after all. Or they’d taken her and brought her back. She was still naked, and looking exhausted as she set her hand against the glass. Though the light in her cell was off, it had a faint glow from the light of his cell that allowed him to see her well enough.
Callie said nothing. Charlie smiled, then looked up at the ceiling.
“Good, you see your girlfriend,” the voice said. “Now, I’d like to direct your attention to the holes above you. Notice, there are 16 holes per cell. You’ve probably noticed them already.” The voice paused, then added, “Am I correct?”
Charlie nodded, assuming they were watching him from a hidden camera.
“Good,” the voice said, confirming his suspicion.
“Now I’d like to direct your attention to the cell directly across from you.”
A light went on in the cell across from Charlie. Beside that cell, Charlie saw his old one, glass still shattered. The lit cell led Charlie’s attention to a naked man lying on his mattress, looking up at the lights, confused. Though the man appeared around 20, he was gaunt, and extremely tired-looking. Dark circles painted the undersides of his eyes, and his long, dark hair was a rat’s nest. The man muttered something toward the ceiling.
“Are you watching?” the voice in Charlie’s cell asked.
“Yes,” Charlie said.
“Pay close attention. And I suggest you direct your girlfriend’s attention to the cell as well.” Charlie looked over and saw Callie nervously looking at him, rather than the guy. Charlie pointed at the cell across from them.
“Watch closely,” the voice repeated.
The guy began to cough and cover his mouth, as if some sort of gas was getting piped into the room. They’re gassing him! Charlie wanted to tell the voice to stop, but knew with a cold certainty that the Guardsman in charge wouldn’t. Charlie wanted to look away, but morbid curiosity wouldn’t let him.
Flames suddenly shot from the ceiling, igniting the entire cell in a single explosive ball of fire. Charlie jumped to his feet and stared, mouth open without any words, screams, or whispers of terror.
“WOO-HOO!!” Boricio cackled. “Let’s get us some marshmallows, because THAT right there is a fucking fire!”
Charlie turned to Callie, who was still staring, unable to look away, her eyes wide and brimming with tears.
“What did you think?” the voice said.
Charlie said nothing, just glared at the ceiling.
The voice moved from calm to sinister. “Well,” it said, “it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is your understanding that if you try another stunt like the one you pulled earlier, I will roast your bitch alive and make you eat her for fucking dinner.” The voice still deceptively pleasant, said, “Is that clear?”
Charlie stared at Callie, fear twisting like a serrated blade through his stomach.
The voice waited through a long minute before it said, “I asked you if that was clear. I suggest you answer the second time since I never, ever ask a third.”
“Yes!” Charlie roared.
“Good,” the voice said, almost hissing.
The lights went black.
Charlie ran to the wall beside Callie’s and ran his fingers across it as flames continued to lick the other cell’s interior, casting a faint, orange glow inside both of their cells, barely illuminating Callie.
Charlie touched the cold glass opposite her, their hands separated by inches that may as well have been miles. He wanted nothing more than to be anywhere else with Callie and a couch, where he could wrap his arms around her and fall gently to sleep.
Charlie didn’t even want to have sex. He just wanted to lie beside her and feel not so alone. So devoid of hope.
The fire died inside the old man’s cell, and the entire block went dark. Charlie lay on the mattress, his hand on the glass, and cried himself to sleep.
“Wake up!”
Charlie woke to the voice again.
A few hours probably had passed since the fireworks. He’d fallen asleep with his hand on the glass, meeting Callie’s, their mattresses propped against the dividing barrier.
A light went on above him, about a tenth as dim as it was before, just enough for him to see, but far less blinding. Charlie glanced over and saw the shadow of Callie, still asleep on her mattress, her hand against the wall.
“You have a visitor,” the voice said. “Someone interested in what you did yesterday. Someone who would like to have a word with you. Remember the rules. One more stunt, and your bitch is dinner. Understand?”
“No, he’s fucking retarded,” Boricio snarled, suddenly in the room, wearing the same outfit as before, except now he had on a miner’s hat, with a light that wasn’t working.
“Yes,” Charlie said. “I’ve got it.”
The door at the end of the hall opened to a single set of footsteps owned by another yellow hazmat suit, without any clipboard or weapon.
The footsteps made their way down the row of cells.
“What the fuck does he want?” Boricio asked.
I dunno, Charlie thought, not wanting to speak out loud since they were monitoring him.
“Well, this should be good and goddamned interesting,” Boricio said, plopping on the mattress and crossing his legs. “Looks like you’ve made yourself someone worth talking to, Charlie Boy! Maybe you can ask for a raise!”
Boricio looked at Charlie’s dangling dick. “You mind tucking the turtle away, Charlie Brown? I didn’t come here to give you a conjugal visit. Though, I’d love to step on over and give ole Callie a bit o’ the bone and splatter, if you get my drift.”
I’d have to be an idiot not to get your drift. You’re as subtle as a forest fire.
“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna bang on Callie’s precious backdoor. Remember, I’m in your head. And well, let’s just say, that makes me part of you, and you know she ain’t gonna have any part of you in any part of her, so I’m sorta screwed, fuck you very much.” Boricio shook his head.
Charlie watched Boricio’s hat turn back and forth and wondered why he’d imagined Boricio wearing a miner’s helmet — a broken one, at that.
The man in yellow reached Charlie’s cell, then pressed something on the panel outside his door.
The voice above Charlie crackled to life. “Remember,” it said, “be a good boy, or … ”
“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie shouted as the man in yellow entered his cell.
The man looked Charlie up and down, then spoke, his voice now coming through the speakers above. He wasn’t the same man who’d been taunting him over the speakers, but his voice was oddly familiar.
“That was some show you put on out there,” the man said from inside his hazmat suit as he continued staring at Charlie like some kind of lab animal.
Something about the man’s accent was unsettling in its vague familiarity, as was his appearance, though Charlie couldn’t quite place where he might have seen the man before.
Boricio jumped up and down behind Charlie. “Holy shit, Charlie Brown! What the fuck is this?”
What?
“You don’t see it?” Boricio said, pointing frantically at the man’s mask. “Look closer, you dumb, lanky pile of shit, squeeze those beady fucker eyes of yours together and tell me you don’t recognize who in the fuck-all you’re looking at!”
Charlie examined the man’s face. He was in his early to mid-30s and bald, with an eye patch over his left eye and a long, ugly scar running in a deep ravine from the high above his patch to the low of his cheek below.
Something about him was damned familiar, like a word on the tip of Charlie’s tongue he simply couldn’t remember.
“Dude,” Boricio said stepping right beside the man in yellow, poin
ting manically back at the man and then himself. “Look, Charlie! It’s me! It’s me!”
Charlie’s jaw dropped.
It was beer-battered bullshit, no doubt, but Boricio was right.
TO BE CONTINUED …
::Episode 15::
(Third Episode Of Season Three)
“Team Building Exercise”
Twenty-Two
Teagan McLachlan
In the dream, the sun had kissed Teagan’s skin. But when she woke, it was darkness that met her. Darkness and the sound of whistling. Above her, a dark cloud engulfed the inside of the car.
But the dark cloud wasn’t a cloud; it was something else — pulsating with serpentine motion, shifting form, and hovering its attention toward her as if it were alive.
Her eyes widened in fear, and the cloud seized her terror, using it to multiply its mass into a swiftly spinning billow, melting through the air on its way toward Teagan’s trembling body, crackling with a cool current of live electricity that made the tiny hairs on her arm dance.
Teagan was paralyzed, unable to move.
Her father was asleep, slumped over the steering wheel, and her mother an echo beside him. The car slowly rolled forward, the headlights slicing through the inky silence of the highway, flashing on a guardrail quickly growing larger as the car rolled forward.
Teagan panicked. She wanted to scream, but had to move first, needed to reach across the front seat, but couldn’t. The cloud started spinning faster and whistling louder — an angry tornado tearing through the tiny interior of the car.
The whistling kept screaming, splitting the sanity inside her head. Teagan reached up to cover her ears and cried out as if that might mute it.
Light suddenly appeared — brighter than anything Teagan had ever seen.
