Deadwave

by Michael Evans

  My mind attempts to analyze as many scenarios as possible and comes to my next best tactical decision. I quickly realize that running won’t get me or anyone else anywhere. In fact, they may want us to run. They may have a trap waiting for us.

  “Riva!” I yell, hoping that it will catch her attention before she makes her way down the staircase and into the likely death trap that was planted below, which could range from the form of a bomb to poisonous gas. There’s no way there would ever only be one gunshot. It’s all a show. It’s all their attempt at playing us. Radical factions from both political parties had pulled stunts like this before at big tech conferences, in hospitals, and at charity dinners. In today’s world, it almost isn’t even a surprise that this is happening; it’s only surprising that it’s happening now.

  She turns around, her eyes widening as I stop pushing forward and motion for her to follow me away from the staircase. She instantly knows what I am thinking, but the apprehension in her eyes still keeps her body moving forward.

  “Guys, stop!” I yell as I force my way out of the crowd, hoping that I can get the few dozen people still on the roof to stay there, and possibly save them from a horrible death. The only person who seems to hear me besides Riva is Jake, who grabs on to my shoulder, pulling himself in my direction as we both try to pull away from the stampede that is likely barreling to its own death.

  Except before I can escape from the mess of bodies, I feel a violent tug on my arm, and two large men, the same guards that had been stationed in the lobby of the building, take hold of my body, forcing it into the staircase.

  “Back off!” I scream, jabbing my elbow into one of their ribs while pushing my knee into the other’s groin, but it does nothing to loosen their grip on me.

  I turn around, Jake the only person to even notice that I’m in trouble amidst the chaos. I scream again, this time even louder, but no one even takes a second to listen; instead, they stay caught up in their own heads and their own terror. I turn around, the world beginning to spin around me as I glance one last time at what was once a club, but now looks like a bomb exploded on Eleve, with dozens of broken glasses scattered across the roof, spilled drinks and plates of food overturned wildly on the couches, and an empty, heavy feeling that only accompanies tragedy.

  Jake shoves a lady in front of him, causing her knees to roughly scrape against the marble tile. Part of me wants to laugh at the horrified look on her face when she tries to trip Jake in turn as he dashes to try and shake the men off me.

  He has no chance. I shake my head, signaling for him not to come after me as they drag me into the staircase out of his sight. I know that he is likely already calling the police on his own hologlasses, but something tells me that the law can’t do anything to stop these people. Whatever hell these people are about to put me through, whether I will die or not, it is better to have him live rather than both of us end up dead.

  I can do this alone. I take a deep breath, doing my best to stay calm as I jerk my arm upward, hoping to have my fist connect with one of their faces as they pull up the sleeve on my hoodie to expose my skin to the hot, stuffy air inside the staircase.

  But by the time my fist connects right with one of their jaws, I have already lost. Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see the syringe with black liquid in it. And before I can shake my arm to get them to miss one of my veins, the guard to my right had already grasped one hand on my wrist and one on my shoulder to keep me from moving.

  The long, metal needle that I refuse to look at pierces through my skin, causing an odd tingling sensation in my spine. I cough, my body instinctually doing everything it can to get these men off me, but it is no use. I am at their mercy.

  My muscles suddenly loosen as my body continues to be dragged down the concrete staircase.

  Then, my consciousness slowly fades into the blackness, until my thoughts cease to exist.

  Chapter 5

  Light breaks through the black veil covering my consciousness, and both my mind and body come back to life simultaneously. The thoughts come slowly at first, my eyes first registering the dim, golden chandelier hanging from the granite ceiling above and the calming aura that the air seems to have.

  I am lying down, my body practically submerged in the black, soft fabric of the memory foam couch. My head feels like it is floating on the cool pillow that morphs to the curvature of my skull.

  Where am I?

  I take a deep breath, attempting to sit up for a moment before deciding to continue lying down until the layer of fog in my mind subsides. To engage in actively thinking almost hurts; it takes an arduous amount of effort that causes my brain to pound with each word that pops into my mind. I sit up, my muscles feeling loose yet tired.

  I take in my surroundings, noticing the sculptures that adorn the room along with the lavish décor that is either handcrafted or plated in precious metals. I notice the faint smell of salt and lavender and the eerie silence that seems to whisper: run.

  I note the flip-flops that are on the floor in front of the couch and the gray camo hoodie I am still wearing and recount the chaos that had ensued before my vision went black: the party, the gunshot, the stampede, the needle, and the blackness. I gulp as I realize that I am either being held hostage by a radical group of terrorists, or that someone has managed to save me from that fate and has brought me to a place of safety. Both realities so starkly contrast each other that it causes me to stay glued to the couch, scanning my environment, searching for a sign that will give me all the answers to the questions I can’t answer myself.

  I keep looking around, my mind both equal parts comforted and scared at how opulent, yet normal the house I appear to be in is. There is a massive, curved glass television at the center of the room that opens up to a large kitchen decked out in high-end appliances. At the far end of the room there is a large glass staircase that leads to the upper floor of the building, and the entire house itself seems to have more windows than actual wall space, giving my eyes a perfect view of the darkness outside and the lights that dot the hilly landscape surrounding it.

  I finally stand up, my heart beginning to pound faster in my chest as I contemplate running out of the house as fast as I can or exploring it to see where I possibly am. My first instinct is that I’m at the house of one of my dad’s friends or business partners. The level of wealth displayed in the house certainly seems to fit that bar, yet there is a darker feel to the atmosphere, a tightness that somehow seems to seep through my pores and drives a surge of paranoia through me.

  The sound of a sliding glass door hits my ears, and I feel the draft of cool air hit my skin, sending my body into hyper-alert mode.

  A cold voice booms in my ear, practically knocking me over. “Well, look at that, he woke up just in time.”

  I turn around, sucking in a gulp of air to refrain from screaming. I won’t lie—despite my efforts to look confident, my body twitches, wanting nothing to do with the two men who entered the house. They entered from the porch overlooking the mountain valley that is submerged in the night, their two figures at first appearing as silhouettes until their clean-shaven faces and tall, imposing figures come into clear view.

  “It’s amazing how that stuff works, isn’t it?” says the man to the right, who looks almost identical to the one on the left save for his olive skin and gray, curly hair, compared to the straight hair and fairer skin of the other man.

  My mind flashes through a million possibilities in this moment, which range from horrible to nightmarish, all of which I want no part of. They compel me to begin to back up, readying to make a dash to the doorway.

  “Wait, hold up. We aren’t here to hurt you.” Both men can sense my apprehension, my obvious aversion to having been drugged and then waking up in an unfamiliar house with strangers that give off a frankly creepy vibe.

  At hearing those words—we aren’t here to hurt you—every alarm bell that could be sounded goes off in my body, and I waste no time in kicking my legs into high
gear on a mad dash to the door thirty feet away. If there’s one thing in life that I have learned, it’s that when someone has to assure you that everything is okay, everything is not okay. When someone is insistent that they are safe, that only means they are more aware of the danger they pose.

  The two men don’t do anything to stop me. At least, I don’t hear their footsteps or angry voices behind me, and the odd silence that accompanies my bare feet pounding against the floor (yeah, I left my flip-flops near the couch, but shoes are way down on the priority list at the moment) only propels me forward faster.

  Just as I am a few feet from the front door, I see the dark silhouette of a figure in the hallway to my right and notice the pistol he is pointing directly at me.

  I put my hands up, knowing that if I don’t somehow show the person I’m aware of their presence, they will make me aware with one swift shot of a bullet to my head.

  “It’s best you turn around.” The chilling, distinctly feminine voice rings from the blackness, her entire figure besides her hand and the pistol shrouded in darkness away from the moonlight.

  Refusing to heed her commands, I take another abrupt step forward, hoping to make my way out of the front door before she kills me, because I have the feeling that even if I turn around, the result will be the same in the end.

  A gunshot rings in my ears, connecting with the smooth floor tile between my two feet and tearing it to pieces. “Don’t make this difficult for yourself. We don’t want to hurt you. But if I have to, I will.”

  Her ominous tone communicates an air of arrogance along with it that intimidates me—something this world rarely does. There is something about her, something about this place, about the dark entrance hallway I’m standing in and the bright decadent main living space of the house, that drives a fear into me. A fear that compels me to open up the door only to find that it’s bolted shut.

  Of course, they wouldn’t make it that easy. I curse at myself under my breath as I turn around and walk in calm strides back to the living room, the entire time watching out of the corner of my eyes for anyone or anything trying to sneak up on me. Yet the second I return to the open space of the living room and see the two men seated next to each other on the couch, quietly drilling stares into me, I know that the stakes for this game are high.

  This is life or death. And with my hologlasses stripped from me, I for once in my life have to rely on just myself to get me out of this mess, and that is the greatest rush. In fact, I almost feel a sick enjoyment out of my situation that underlines the crippling fear that I am taking my last breaths.

  “Sit down, Sam.” The man with olive skin motions to the couch directly across from where they are seated, and on the other side of the glass center table that has intricate designs carved into it. It is no surprise to me that they already know my name, but it still doesn’t make it any less freaky. “It is a pleasure to have you in our company.”

  “If you need anything, a glass of water, something to eat, a change of clothes, you let us know.” Now the younger man with fairer skin speaks, paying careful attention to make eye contact with me as he utters each syllable. “We want you to be comfortable. We need you to feel safe with us.”

  “I’m good.” I make sure to stare back at him with equal intensity into his own eyes, refusing to say thanks to him for his offer because it would be quite ironic for me to thank my kidnappers for anything besides not killing me, and that isn’t certain yet.

  “As you can imagine, we brought you here for a reason.” The man with fair skin continues to speak as I sit down, saying each word with emphasis as if they are the most important words I’ll ever hear. And although that certainly isn’t true, they could be my last. “In fact, after going to such great measures to get you here, and the high-profile citizens we put at risk, it is clear how much you mean to us. How much we need you for our cause.”

  “Uh, could you elaborate more on that?” I speak up, gulping as the man takes a long, awkward pause, his brown eyes stoic as they follow my movements.

  “There’s not much we can tell you. At least, not now,” the man with olive skin says, and something about his rough, hairy skin and tough expression make me feel like his name is short, yet something that signals he means business. “To tell you the truth, to reveal the inner workings of the system would require you to pledge a lifelong allegiance to our cause or for us to kill you. And we aren’t prepared to do either yet. You haven’t proved yourself worthy of becoming one of us, or of death, and that’s exactly why we are giving you this chance. If you prove your worth, and help save our cause, then and only then would we consider revealing to you the truth. But if you fail to carry out our desires, if you fail to do as we say, we will kill you and eliminate your body from this Earth without a trace. We will go after everyone you know and love, but knowing you, threatening your own life is more than enough.”

  “What do you mean, knowing me?” I retort, trying to hide the anger from my tone and keep my demeanor as calm as theirs, but that is nearly impossible. These people have to be some sort of crazy terrorist group. They must want something from me, but they don’t know me. No one does. I barely know myself.

  “Oh, we know everything about you.” The one with fair skin smiles. “Where you live, where you have your bank accounts, how much is in them, we know about your past, your pain and struggle, and we know about your dad.”

  “Who do you think you are? You know nothing about me, about my life. Stop pretending like you do. It doesn’t scare me.”

  “We aren’t pretending.” The olive-skinned man leans forward, making sure to narrow his bushy eyebrows at me. “We know everything about you. That’s exactly why we need you. More specifically, we need the power you have. You’re the only one who has access to the patents of Chimera Technologies, the patents your dad owns. You’re the only one who can get him to stop what he’s doing, who can hand over those patents to us, so that he doesn’t destroy everything in the process.”

  “What are you even talking about?” I sit back in the couch, allowing my body to sink into the cushion, completely done with the situation. I have always thought about the inner workings of my dad’s company in the back of my mind, the secrets he keeps buried in his research laboratories that he wants me to prove myself capable of handling before letting me in on them. “How am I even supposed to manage to do that?”

  “Oh, Sam, that’s not for us to figure out. No matter what, we will get our hands on those patents—on the designs. At the end of the day, we always win.” The fair-skinned one chuckles. “We don’t care how you receive the patents, but you must have them to us in thirty days at the latest. We will be watching you. We will know when you have them, and we will know if you don’t. Either way, we will win. The only question is, will you be with us, or will we have to eliminate you permanently?”

  At those words, the lights on the chandelier slowly dim, and as darkness absorbs the living room, three silhouettes appear from the shadows. One stands directly behind the two men who were talking to me. I watch, shocked and unmoving, as it holds a pistol in each hand, firing a bullet into the back of each of the men’s heads, causing their once vibrant figures to lie lifelessly against the couch in a mess of blood.

  At this moment, I enter panic mode, immediately standing up to attempt and run away, but it is too late.

  The other two silhouettes tower above me on either side. Within seconds, they strangle my body into submission, despite my screaming and attempts at punching them.

  I feel a cold needle pierce my neck. And then I feel nothing.

  Chapter 6

  One of the weirdest feelings is waking up and having no idea where you are.

  An even weirder feeling is waking up and knowing exactly where you are but having no idea how you got there. That’s pretty much my life right now: me lying in my bed—in my room—having no recollection of how I got here, but the image of blood and the sound of gunshots still fresh in my mind.

  This has gott
a be the worst way I have ever woken up. I exhale forcefully, my heart picking up its pace from a calm, smooth palpitation to an intense pounding as the reality of my situation hits me. Man, I thought my low point in life was after I woke up to dog shit on my bare chest. It was years ago, back when I used to sleep without a shirt (that experience has compelled me to wear a shirt at almost all times ever since) and when my cute, yet sometimes annoying Siberian Husky had an interesting way of letting me know that he was sick. That was definitely a shitty way to wake up, yet somehow, even with the absence of literal shit, waking up to the realization that a group of malicious, frankly horrible people know where I live and are extorting me at the risk of my life is a lot worse.

  I sit up in bed, my stomach both queasy and sore and my entire body feeling exhausted but wrought with stress at the same time. The rays of morning sun are beginning to hit the windows that cover the entire right half of my room, signaling for the automatic dimming function on it to dampen, letting in the bright rays of light. I have woken up each day at sunrise for the past year, using it as my signal to get my day started with what would normally be a run and a shower. However, today is certainly one of those days where I wouldn’t mind lying underneath the soft sheets on my king-size mattress, hoping that sleep (the universal answer to every problem) will serve me well.

  Dammit. I shift my body weight to slowly meander out of bed in the lazy, drunken way that is very typical of the Monday blues. I think about trying to go back to sleep, and letting my head rest on my cold pillow, but I know all too well that will end up with me lying wide awake with my eyes glued to the ceiling, the terror of last night haunting my consciousness to force myself awake.

  “Shit.” I stand up, pounding my fist against my mattress, the confusion, fear, and determination inside of me all coalescing into a ball of anger that I seek to dispel through my fists.