by Hulden Morse
“No! I don’t! What the fuck is going on?”
“Alright, Mr. Pearson. We’re done with you for today. Someone will come in and take you to your room.”
“What? My room?”
The door behind him, which Charles could now see was a thick, metal door with a small window set in it, opened quickly, and two large men in black pants and a black shirt walked in. They had radios attached to their belts and wore gruesome, intimidating grimaces.
Charles slipped off the table, noticing now that he was wearing only boxers, and began to back away from the men. Paul and Eddie stepped behind Charles to stop him and patted him reassuringly on the back. He felt like a child, like a boy being passed from parent to parent at a scheduled visitation, without any say in the matter. It was demeaning.
“Mr. Pearson, please,” Eddie said. “We’re trying to help. Here. We have some clothes for you to wear. Very comfortable.”
Paul went to one of the cabinets and removed a grey pair of sweats, a grey T-shirt, and a grey sweater from one of the drawers. He handed them to Charles who eagerly put them on in the now noticeably cold room. He looked down at himself in the drab outfit, a grey blob against a white background, and wondered what bizarre circumstances had led him to being there. Was he dreaming? Was this some cruel joke, or a reality television show and he was the one being pranked? Was he really sick and this was a type of hospital for the terminally ill? Thoughts of his wife and children popped into his head. They had no idea where he was or what he was doing. Charles had lied to them, blatantly lied, and now he was trapped in a potentially hazardous situation. He needed to get back to them. The CEO needed to explain to whoever was in charge, possibly the mustached doctor, that he was not sick and did not need to be detained in some hospital.
However, out of options at that moment, Charles followed the two large men dressed in black away from the surgical room and into a brightly lit hallway. There were other, similar doors leading off of the corridor, all of which had numbers and a weekly calendar posted on them. He was led through a door at the end of the hall and up some stairs into what looked like the wing of a hospital. It was welcoming and warm, with paintings on the soft-colored walls. There were rooms on one side, also with numbers on the door, a tiny window with steel mesh reinforced through the glass, and a wide, rectangular slot at the bottom. The large men guided him around a corner and down another hall until they hit a tee, with more rooms leading to the right and the left. Charles was in awe at the size of the building, as well as perplexed by its function. Where am I? Are all of these rooms full of people? What is going on?
He was led to the right and past a couple of doors before the two men stopped in front of one that had the number 42 on it. One of the large men pulled out a ring of keys and flipped through them quickly, before choosing one, unlocking the door, and motioning for Charles to go inside. Not wanting to disobey the most certain victor of a potential physical confrontation, the CEO complied with his captors and walked into the room. The door was then closed quietly behind him, with the silence broken only by the sound of a lock clicking into place, and Charles took a look at what he could only assume would be his dwelling for the night. But he nearly fell against the locked door in fright when he suddenly noticed another man in the room, his thin frame crumpled against a wall, staring back at Charles with bloodshot, hungry eyes.
Chapter 8
The air was thick with running sirens, bouncing off walls as if they were being passed from building to building like a game of auditory pinball. Raymond heard them approaching and prepared himself for the worst of situations to be unleashed by the wrath of an angry god. He then saw the police officers, their badges glistening in the flashing red and blue lights, standing around accusingly as if a crime had been committed. In fact, one had been committed. Raymond knew it. That was why those vehicles were there, at that particular location, brutally imposing their authority over the scene, a morbid contrast against the beauty of the natural background.
Raymond felt as if they had been waiting for him. Those men and women had been waiting to tell him that his life was over. He could never look back. The deed was done. People would be talking about the incident for years, and there he was, trapped within the mess, sinking deeper and deeper into the consuming muck of past regrets. The sirens were unbearable, a constant reminder of what was wrong with the world. He wanted to run, wanted so desperately to escape, but what was the point? When one is surrounded by so much cruelty and torturous pain, escape is impossible.
His life had forever changed that day, a fateful change that drove the young Raymond onto the path he now traveled. And, by god, he could still hear them! The sirens continued to scream in his head although the police cars had driven away so long ago. He sat in his large, leather chair and slowly looked around the office, the agony of that moment still fresh in his mind. The man glanced at the paperwork on his desk, then the newspaper clippings on the wall framed next to his diplomas and doctorate, and he remembered how far he had come.
Upon hearing the knock on his office door, Dr. Raymond called for the visitor to enter. Two of his Trial Technicians, Elaine and Eddie, entered the room carrying a stack of files. Elaine had her long, black hair tied into a tidy, thick bun, her usual style during work. A couple of unruly strands floated in front of her hazel eyes, which stood out against her pale skin. The woman was beautiful with a tight body that she worked tirelessly to maintain, and Dr. Raymond had been forced to eliminate some damn-good Trial Technicians that pined after her inappropriately. He had to admit, thoughts of her naked body displayed on his bed had crossed his mind, but he prided himself on his professionality and never broke protocol.
Eddie spoke first. “We have seven survivors. Their charts are here.” He placed a pile of labeled folders on the doctor’s desk.
“Okay. Excellent. You will—”
“We will start on the photographs today. Patient history on the third trial,” Eddie said, prepared for the doctor’s usual flow of questions.
“Great. Love it,” Dr. Raymond said. He then looked curiously at the tabs on the folders he had just been given, pointing at one of the names. “What’s going on here? This guy. Charles Pearson. Who had him?”
“Paul and I did,” Eddie said nervously. “That’s the name he gave us. We double-checked, and he was adamant that that is his name.”
Elaine looked at Eddie incredulously. “Isn’t that the—”
“Yes. It is,” Dr. Raymond responded. “I want to speak with him.”
“Certainly, Doc,” Eddie said. “I’ll fit a meeting into your schedule somewhere.”
“Make it as soon as possible. I need to know if it’s really him.”
“What does it matter?” Elaine asked. “He’s already here. He’s a subject like anyone else.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the doctor threw back. “I just want to know.”
The assistants nodded and asked if there was anything else he needed at that time. Dr. Raymond declined, and they promptly left, leaving the doctor to flip through the files and extrapolate what data he could from that morning’s efforts.
Seven survivors. That’s ridiculous, he thought. It was frustrating. He wanted them to live. The man so desperately wanted to save the subjects every time. Unfortunately, those homeless people were often close to death by the time they fell under his care. That was the curse of his line of work. He dealt with the scum of the earth, scraped from their urine-soaked cots for the betterment of the world. In addition, those persons were benefitted by the facility, given a roof over their head, decent food to shit out, and a chance—probably for the first time—to contribute toward societal well-being.
The homeless individuals seemed to profit from the arrangement more than he did, turning the situation from a win-win and into a win-settle. He had been forced to accept those out-of-work, drug-addicted, unmotivated, dirty, lazy, horny people into his build
ing, composing a symphony of spitting, crying, moaning, screaming, and begging that drove the doctor to madness. He sincerely cared for the subjects with mental disabilities, feeling that they were dealt a poor hand from the start and now suffered the consequences of misfortune. Though he was unable to save the majority of those individuals, truly a cause for heartache, leaving the doctor to work with mostly persons thrust into homelessness through their own stupidity. They angered him, like a sniveling child angers its parents, leading the man to look at Charles Pearson’s file and wonder if that was not the universe sending him some relief.
Chapter 9
The hunched man blinked awkwardly at Charles, his mouth hanging open as if an apparition had suddenly appeared before him and commenced screeching within the tiny room. The man’s fingers slipped and slid around each other. They formed a curious, tentacled being that wiggled around the lap of its captive, searching for a means of escape from a life confined to obeying the direction of two creaking wrists.
Charles momentarily broke his concentration on this strange person to absorb the reality of his confines. He quickly took in the contents of the tan walls that surrounded them: a bunk bed with two mattresses, sheets, and pillows; a metal table with two metal chairs; a door leading to a bathroom with toilet and sink; what looked like two small security cameras hanging from opposite corners of the ceiling. He felt as if that space were a cross between a jail cell and a hospital room for a psychiatric inpatient. It was unwelcoming, cold not in temperature but in atmosphere, yet it contained a sense of privacy and more amenities than a standard prison would offer its inhabitants.
Focusing his attention back on the mysterious man, Charles said, “Where are we?”
His roommate continued to stare wide-eyed at the newcomer, a thin line of drool seeping from the corner of his mouth.
“Do you know what’s going on around here?” he tried again, hoping for some sort of response or sign of recognition from the man. Though he seemed completely baffled by Charles’s existence.
“My name is Charles. Can you understand me?”
Nothing.
The CEO looked at the bunk bed and saw that the sheets on the bottom mattress were thrown to one side as if someone had slept in them the night before. He deduced that his roommate utilized the bottom bunk, so Charles climbed the small ladder built into the structure and sat upon the top bunk of the firm bed.
“Is it okay if I stay up here?”
His roommate continued to stare straight ahead at the door from which Charles had entered.
Giving up on the hopes of an engaging conversation, the CEO laid himself down and worked to uncover the nature of his current situation. He remembered falling asleep on the street, that much was certain. He recalled curling up within the sleeping bag and thinking how the concrete sidewalk was painfully uncomfortable. However, he had been tired from standing outside all day while making some money from the generosity of strangers, and so had quickly fallen asleep despite the absence of basic amenities.
His next memory was waking up on that table, terrified and unable to move. Charles tried to piece the two occurrences together with something he may have repressed or simply forgotten, but his brain failed to provide any sort of bridge between the two incidents. How had he come to be there? Where exactly was he? And more importantly, what was the reason for his confinement?
With little warning, an image of his wife found its way to the front of his mind. He watched as her figure moved, smiling sweetly at him before she leaned forward to embrace his shaking body. He held her tight, smelling her soft, blond hair . . . coconut. He then saw his two children behind her. They too were grinning from ear to ear as they approached their parents, a hop in their step and a tune in their heart, singing an upbeat melody while Charles’s own heart fell to pieces with sad strings and longing chords.
Maybe they knew he was there, that he was sick and had been admitted to the hospital for treatment. Or maybe they were as confused as he was and were actively searching for their husband and father. And what of his company? He was the founder of Reaching Dreams. Sure, the company could function without him given the incredibly competent executive board and district managers, though he could only assume that his own company would make some sort of effort to bring him back. Or perhaps the CEO being placed in this bizarre hospital would have lasting effects on Reaching Dreams. If this impact was negative and harmed the public’s opinion, then the remaining executives would have already condemned their former leader and sentenced him to a life of judgmental suppositions and failed explanations.
Charles turned onto his stomach and buried his head in the pillow. It smelled like dust and bleach, a sickening combination. He looked to the side of the bed and saw that his roommate was still sitting against the wall, motionless as if waiting for something to magically materialize upon the cold ground.
The CEO could feel an aching in his chest and rolled onto his back once more. What the hell did they do to him? Why did those doctors or nurses or whoever they were strap him to the table? And what of those questions? Those men claimed that they were there to help, but nothing made sense.
He had closed his eyes, wanting to see his family again, when Charles heard metal scraping against metal. The sound was alarming as it screeched through the tiny room. He instinctively sat up and looked to the front door where a slot against the floor had been opened and two trays of food were shoved into their room. The slot then closed with another shrill creak of metal, and the two occupants were left in silence, the man on the floor having not moved a muscle.
On each tray sat a bowl of some kind of soup, a cup of what looked like water, a bread roll, and an orange. The meal looked surprisingly appetizing, something mass produced yet prepared with care, and he once again wondered about the nature of that strange facility.
“Is the food safe to eat?” Charles asked the man, but he was ignored like before.
Not wanting to risk getting sick or poisoned, he chose to leave the food where it was and trust his instincts. He was hungry, incredibly hungry, but he was also exhausted. Charles had no idea what time of day it was (he just now realized that there was no natural light in the room, being that it was devoid of a window to the outside world), but he felt strangely fatigued. He figured it was a direct result of what those men had done to him about an hour prior, though he couldn’t be certain of anything at that point. All he knew was that he was hungry and tired, and that sleep was quickly winning the battle.
The CEO rested his head upon the pillow, allowing his body the opportunity to relax and rejuvenate during a time of severe tension and fear. Charles reminded himself that he had overcome great adversity in the past. Struggle had become a dear friend of his that had helped to shape his life into what others would call successful. He did not necessarily welcome the struggle, but he accepted it as an integral part of existence that could not be avoided. The situation, the unknown adversary and those unseen obstacles, were nothing more than old friends returning with a new challenge. But in order to meet this challenge, Charles needed more information. He would request to speak with a doctor about the reason for his stay in the facility. He did not overlook the possibility that the entire scenario could be a heinous ruse, a joke constructed by his sadistic friends, and they would soon be smeared across the spotless floors of that building. In any case, he was strong enough to maintain his wits and subdue any emotional response. Everything would soon become clear.
Remaining positive helped the man to relax. He imagined talking to one of the employees there, informing her who he was and that he was in perfect health, and then seeing the understanding spread across her face. He would then be granted access to a phone where he could call his office and his family, reassuring them that everything was okay and that he would be returning soon. Those thoughts danced through his head, calming his tortured mind just enough to allow him the chance to fall asleep. Within minutes, Charles had
slipped into a comfortable dream where he was floating above his home in San Diego and slowly descending into his backyard where his family tearfully waited. The dream was bright, secure, and everything he needed in that moment. It was a family reunion in his imagination, something with immeasurable value for which he would give anything to make a reality.
Chapter 10
She stumbled to the ground and knelt before a vomiting deity as fire and lava and all forms of hellish debris were expelled from its mouth to form rolling rivers that raced across the landscape with an eagerness for destruction. Those in the area fled for their lives: men, women, offspring, animals, birds, every living thing that had the means to escape. The trees burned briefly, furiously, before toppling into the river of molten death. Mountains crumbled as the deity continued to spew burning chunks of earth in every direction and soon not a point of sanctuary remained that could protect the lives of so many threatened beings. They all screeched in agony, their flesh igniting under so much heat, while she remained on her knees, arms outstretched as if welcoming the sentence bestowed upon the planet by this omnipotent entity.
The flames grew closer, and she could feel the blast of warm air. The lava rushed forward, and she could hear the crackle of vegetation as it disintegrated. The world was helpless, she was helpless, and Hamilton closed her eyes at the last moment, waiting for Hell to consume her at last, finally enveloping the woman in its greedy claws. However, instead of being overtaken by the river of molten rock, a cool breeze blew past her. It smelled of stale water, a dank, musty smell, and continued to rustle her hair and dampen her face for several seconds until eventually subsiding, leaving the area clothed in silence. Hesitantly, Hamilton opened her eyes to find the mighty deity standing directly in front of her, towering over the kneeling woman. She leaned back to stare into its face, a scream painfully caught in her throat, before rising to her feet, much to the displeasure of the mighty being above her. She stood upon a blackened landscape with charred bones dispersed around them and a slowly vanishing sun becoming increasingly obscured by dark smoke rising from the ashes of plants and corpses. Taking in the brutal surroundings, Hamilton mustered the courage to clench her fists and call to the deity of her waking vision: