Vessel

by Matthew Bryant

  Trying not to lose heart, I map out a route to the stairwell and leave the pharmacy closet only slightly more barren and slightly more occupied than I’d originally found it.

  There are no markings on the wall this far in. No fire escape plans. Only alpha-numeric labels on the resident doors. I half-heartedly peer into the rooms as I walk past, not expecting to see my target in question, but silently hopeful nevertheless.

  The attendee’s security pass gets me through another set of double doors and into a different hallway, this time the rooms are occupied by males. I spend less time looking through, just enough to satisfy my morbid curiosity of spying a familiar face.

  I come across another locked door, this one supposedly leading to the corridor with the stairwell, but find only a small room with shelves of supplies and a bookcase of medical journals.

  Books?

  I grab one from the shelf, finding it a fair bit lighter than I’d expected, and attempt to open it. Nothing happens. Giving it a good shake, I flip it over in my hands, then squeeze it tightly. The frame collapses under the force. Uh oh. Glancing quickly to see if I’ve set off any alarms for damaging priceless property, I take a deep breath and pull the small blade from my sleeve, working the edge between the pages. Once a hole is formed, I dig my finger in and pry it apart, ripping the outside to reveal a hollow shell. Fake books?

  I glance around once more to make sure nobody is sharing in my ignorant humility. Of course they’re fake. It’s just for show. But why have a book case of fake books for display in a supply closet? I check the schematics again. The corridor I’m looking for should be on the other side of this wall. In fact, this wall shouldn’t exist at all.

  Excitement lurches inside of me, above the belt for a change, as memories of old detective stories with secret passages behind bookshelves comes to mind. All of them were triggered by a book that was rigged to some pulley device. Anxiously, I reach for another book, then another, trying several in a row, each with no success.

  “To hell with this.” In my fury, I begin flinging false literature from the shelves without caution, knocking them from their resting places and sending them scattered into haphazard piles behind me. Only a brief amount of time passes before I’m short of breath and staring at an empty bookshelf. What did I miss? A full minute passes before I look down and realize the bookshelf is on wheels. Oh.

  Bending down and unlocking the tabs on all four wheels, I push the bookshelf easily out of the way to reveal a small door. There’s no handle, just a small circular lock that I make short work of with my tools, pushing it open freely and revealing a much less attractive room than I had seen thus far. Tucked into the corner, the telltale sign of handrails gives proof to my theory.

  Removing my pistol once more as I step through the small opening, I hold it close to my chest and step cautiously towards the stairs, awaiting any form of resistance that never comes.

  Pressing the tips of my shoes silently against each step, I tiptoe slowly down the stairs, keeping my gun at ready. By the time I reach the bottom, half expecting to stumble onto some torch-lit cavern of blood-drawn symbols and an orgy of masked figures, I’m mildly disappointed to only find another brightly lit hallway teaming with doors.

  Even more curious still, the scene through the first window is far less disturbing than I had expected. A young lady is wearing her regular clothes, sitting on the edge of a comfortable looking bed, painting her toenails. To the side of the bed is some medical monitor displaying a bunch of numbers and squiggly lines, but otherwise the room is even nicer than the ones upstairs. A dresser painted to look like wood (or perhaps it really is), a large vidscreen on the wall, an elliptical tucked into the corner, and even a small door off to the side with a curtain over it. Bathroom maybe? After a moment, she stops to admire her handiwork, then meets my eye at the window and gives a dazed smile, offering a friendly wave. I smile and wave back, then step away. Damn this place gives me the creeps. These girls live better than I do. Maybe liberating Kimmie wouldn’t be in her best interest after all.

  Seven more doors and I spy her. Or at least I think it’s her. Her lithe body is draped in an open bathrobe, revealing pink cotton panties and bra beneath. I can just barely make out her face, partially blocked by a datapad while she leans back against the cot with some oversized headphones on, bobbing her head rhythmically to some unheard song.

  I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. Too late for second guesses now. I try the handle of the door. It opens easily in my hands. Oh holy shit. These are either the worst kidnappers in history or I have grossly misunderstood the situation.

  “Hi,” I say weakly as I step inside, realizing I haven’t remotely prepared for this moment. “I’m Heath Fallows, I’m here to rescue you.”

  Her head cocks to one side to view me from around her datapad. Her eyebrows furrow and her voice drawls lazily, “Don’t let the door close behind you.”

  I spin around just in time to catch the edge before it disappears into the frame, then pull it wide again and prop it with a rubber stopper tucked into the corner. By the time I look back up, she’s already returned to her previous position, head bobbing along to music again with absolutely no sense of urgency.

  I step quickly to her bedside. “We need to get you out of here. Is there anything you need to bring with you?”

  She glances over at me again, slight irritation on her face, then moves her eyes southward to the more-so-than-previously-thought-noticeable bulge in my pants. “I see you brought a friend. That’s very forward of you.” Goddamnit.

  “That’s not for you,” I fumble awkwardly. A single perfectly stenciled eyebrow raises and a coy smile drags slowly across her lips.

  “Oh?” Casually, she slides her headphones down to her neck, letting the headset rest gently on her bare shoulders and leans forward, threateningly close to my unwelcome companion. “Who’s it for then?” she whispers.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “You may be exaggerating there.”

  “Look, I’m not here to have sex with you.”

  “Pity,” she smirks, “I happen to like men in suits.” She places her headphones back over her ears and leans back against the wall once more. “I’m bored now. If there’s nothing else, could you see about lowering the volume on my monitor? It’s irritating.”

  “Lady, I don’t work here. I’ve come to get you out.”

  “Why would I want to leave? They treat me like a princess here. I get everything I want at the snap of my fingers.” To demonstrate a point, she tries, unsuccessfully, to make her fingers snap. She tries a few more times before waving it off. “I’m done letting losers sweat all over me to make ends meet. I’m treated well and all I have to do is enjoy myself and grow a little life inside of me.” I’ve never had a conversation with her before, but the inability to snap and her nonchalance about it couples with the slurred speech just enough to indicate that she’s medicated. Probably not to the toxic levels, but enough to keep her complacent.

  “You’re making this ridiculously hard.”

  “I can tell,” she mutters without looking up, only subtly gesturing once more to my undying bulge.

  “I just need you to come--“

  “This is the hardest anybody’s ever tried to make me cum before.”

  “That’s… really sad, actually.” I take a seat on the edge of her bed, immediately envious of the lack of creaking and the amount of cushioning. “That’s really nice. Is it a pillowtop?”

  Her grin widens and she looks up again. “Uh huh? Nice isn’t it? I swear I’m getting one of these for my place when I get out.”

  “How long are they supposed to keep you for?”

  She shrugs. “Until the baby’s born. Eight months? Then maybe a couple more for recovery. They haven’t been really specific.”

  “Are they paying the rent on your place until you’re released?”

  Her eyes furrow, and she gets lost deep in thought. Her hand presses against her te
mple and rubs it softly at first, then more thoroughly. “I’m… not sure. I think so.” She shakes her head. “Of course they are. They’re taking good care of me. I’m giving life. It’s the greatest gift, you know?”

  “It absolutely is. No doubt about it.” I make a soft gesture to pat her leg. “You’re going to make some couple so very happy with that baby.” Her defenses are cracking, I push harder. “Do you know who the lucky couple is?”

  “Nuh uh.”

  “But they’ve gotta be rich, right? Have some crazy elevation to keep you living in the lap of luxury? And pay rent for your place on top of it. No doubt that baby will grow up with feet that never touch the street.”

  “No doubt,” she agrees, her voice wavering.

  “Do you mind my asking about the process? Did they give you some hormones to get your system working and then inject the father’s seed into you? I think I read about that somewhere.”

  She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so. It was sexual. It was at my apartment. I can’t quite remember the details but…” her voice trails off and her face goes dark. She swallows hard, blinks harder. “Let’s talk about something else. What do you do?”

  “Oh I’m not that exciting.” Rising to my feet, I drop the bait. “In fact, I should probably go.”

  Her voice barely breaks a whisper and her eyes trail down to her lap. “Please don’t.” Jackpot.

  “What was that?” I ask casually.

  “Please don’t go. I haven’t had anybody to talk to for a while. It’s nice.” She looks up at me, possibly incognizant of the dough-eyed expression she’s giving me. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Heath,” I offer with a polite smile. “I’m a bartender at the Rosy Coaster.”

  “Oh my god! Get out! That’s where I work!” Life returns to her expression. “I knew you looked familiar from somewhere. I just couldn’t place it. That must be it.”

  “Probably. I’m here on behalf of Ms. Littleford. She sent me to check up on you.”

  It’s her turn to let out a sigh, “Don’t you just love her? She’s such my role model; always so composed and domineering.” The smile fades a bit as her thoughts go inward again. “Is she upset with me? Do you think I’ll have a job when I get out?”

  “Honestly, she has no idea where you are.”

  “What?”

  “No clue. She propositioned me with the job of finding you and I’ve been on the hunt for the past few days.”

  “What?” she asks again, panic approaching, but dulled by the medication. I pull out my phone and bring up the gallery, swiping until I find the images I took of her apartment, then hand it over to her.

  “These are pictures I took inside of your place yesterday. I’m assuming that’s not how you left it?”

  Kimmie swipes through the pictures, eyes wide and mouth agape. “No…” She looks up at me again, breathing heavily. The monitor beside her begins to beep. An IV beside her bed springs to life.

  “There it is,” I mutter. I trace the cord with my finger and pull the needle from her arm. “Put your finger here,” I instruct her, gesturing to the tiny pool of blood beginning to form over the open hole. She follows orders without offering any further innuendos. Pulling open cabinet drawers, I find a box of bandages and place one carefully over the wound.

  “Why…?”

  “Those aren’t nutrients, sweetheart. That IV’s got a mild sedative in it, meant to calm you down and drug you up when you start to panic. I’m guessing that’s what they do to keep you and the others complacent.”

  “Others?” She looks around as if the thought had never occurred to her that this isn’t some lavish hotel suite.

  “You’re underground below a rehabilitation clinic. The hall you’re in is lined with rooms exactly like this one, though I’m assuming soundproof if you haven’t noticed. Don’t you ever leave your room?”

  Kimmie shakes her head. “It’s locked from the outside. I never really thought about it. They just bring me everything I need.”

  “Hey!” shouts a masculine voice from the doorway. “You’re not supposed—“ Thwip. “To… be…” The man lands with a heavy thud in the doorway.

  “Heath…” Kimmie whispers behind me. I turn to look at her again. “Heath I was raped. And it got me pregnant. How does that happen?”

  I shrug. “You’ve been abducted by some crazy fertility cult. I don’t know what kind of shit they’re into, but I can honestly say that I don’t for a second believe they’ve got parents lined up and waiting for your baby. I also don’t think they have any intention of letting you walk out and continue your life once it’s all said and done.”

  Her lips begin to tremble and sky blue eyes well up with tears. I take her hand in mine and give it a soft squeeze.

  “You wanna get out of here?”

  She nods. About damn time.

  “Throw on some clothes and grab whatever you need to take with you.” I move to the doorway and scan the hall. Nobody else is coming. Yet. Inspecting the unconscious attendee on the floor, I don’t spy anything of value. Not so much as a weapon. Did they honestly never suspect anybody would find the place and attempt to stage a rescue? Isn’t that the first rule of planning? Or paranoia? “Amateurs.”

  I turn back to see Kimmie staring casually into her dresser, still standing in her underwear. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Trying to plan my outfit,” she calls back matter-of-factly. She turns to a mirror, taps on her bare belly a moment, then groans audibly and grips her hair tightly in her fingers. “Couldn’t you have given me a heads up or something? I look awful! No wonder you didn’t want to sleep with me.”

  “What are you talking about? We’re trying to escape. Nobody cares what you look like.”

  “I care!” she snaps back so viciously that I nearly trip over the unconscious man at my feet. “My hair’s all in tangles, I have no makeup on, and all they’ve left for me to dress in is fucking maternity clothes! I’m not even showing yet!”

  I miss when she was medicated. I look at the tranq pistol in my hand, then back up at her.

  “Don’t even think about it, bucko.” She must have followed my gaze. “And why are you still horny? Does this sorta shit get you off?” Kinda, actually. She blinks. I said that out loud, didn’t I?

  “The same bozos that raped and kidnapped you injected me with some crazy hormone shit that makes me fertile.” I look down. “And I have the sex drive of a preteen.”

  “Do you want to go bust a quick one in the bathroom while I get dressed?” she asks, gesturing to the curtained door.

  Desperately. “No, I want you to throw something on so we can hurry up and go.”

  “Why are men always in such a hurry?” she scoffs, rifling through the dresser again. Is it cold outside?”

  Thwip.

  Her head shoots around with alarming speed, just in time to see a second attendee drop on top of the first. “It’s a bit chilly. Grab something with long sleeves.”

  She turns back around and pulls out a red sweater. “For a second there, I thought you had decided to—“ Thwip. Whole body tensing, she turns around again. I try to conceal my smile.

  “I thought he was still moving,” I say innocently. Despite the situation, she smiles at the joke and swiftly throws the sweater over her head and pulls up a pair of gray sweat pants with white drawstring before slipping into a pair of flats and brushing her hair back into a ponytail.

  “Okay. Ready.” We manage two steps out the door into the hallway before she asks, “Do I look okay?”

  “You look beautiful,” I mutter defeated. “A far sight better without makeup than most ladies look all dolled up on their best day.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t turn around, but can hear the warmth in her voice. I suddenly remember why I never date high maintenance girls. “What about the others?”

  “The other girls?”

  “Yeah. Aren’t we going to get them out too?”

  I shake my
head. “Not today. Today I’m only here for you.”

  “But they deserve a chance too!”

  “And they’ll get it,” I sigh, “I promise. I’m going to shut down this whole damned operation. But right now I need you safe. And with your testimony, I should be able to get some help shutting the whole thing down.” It’s a blatant lie, but so convincing I almost believe it myself. The cult might not know shit about security, but I’m certain they’ve done their homework on who they target. If it hadn’t been for Rex, nobody would have come looking for Kimmie. Nobody would have come looking for me. And I’m damn certain nobody’s coming after the rest.

  We walk out of the facility without another single incident, marking this the lamest rescue in the history of heroism.

  As we board the tram bound for the Mobius district, Kimmie asks, “Aren’t we going back my apartment? I live here in Frisco.”

  “I remember where you live. The ice box, right? And no, I’m not taking you anywhere that your captors might know to look for you.”

  “Where are you taking me, then?”

  I smirk, “To the last place anybody would ever look for a woman.”

  Twenty-Six

  Kimmie watches me curiously as I knock on the door for the third time. “Hey Milton, open up.”

  “Hang on!” his voice calls from inside. I turn back to see her apprehension.

  “Don’t sweat it. He’s cool.”

  “Does he work with Rex too?”

  “Sometimes. On the D.L.. Lately he’s been working with me.” I think. It occurs to me that I’m not entirely sure what all he does when he’s not running errands. Judging by the state of his apartment, it’s probably safe to assume nothing too productive.

  The door opens and Milton peeps his chubby head out. “What’s the rush? I thought you wanted me working on those forms?” He spies Kimmie and his mouth drops a bit. “Who’s this?” he asks, adjusting his posture to a more respectable pose before inspecting his outfit of a well-endowed cartoon female and a pair of track pants that have likely never been used for their intended purpose. His eyes turn back towards me, dressed to impress with a three-piece suit and tie.