Soul Suites

by Hulden Morse

  Those people were human. They weren’t zombies that stalked around aimlessly searching for free handouts. They weren’t incapable of affection or logical reasoning. They weren’t criminals who would eternally put themselves before other people. They were human beings. They felt the same pain that Hamilton felt. They understood their choices and how they ended up on the street, whether they felt like it was entirely their fault or not, and they knew that those children held no responsibility for what had led them to panhandle on corners.

  The disappearance of a group of homeless people was just as alarming as the disappearance of a group of average citizens that had houses in which to sleep. She was determined to discover where those people were going and, in the process, would find out what happened to Charles.

  Hamilton put the image of that family into the back of her mind, not wanting to see those children anymore. It was too painful to think about their tomorrow.

  She was about to find a park in which to eat her sandwich when her phone’s ringtone chimed. It was Elias from the shelter in San Diego.

  “Hey, Elias.”

  “Paula? I’ve got something I need to tell you.”

  “Is everything alright?”

  “No. I think this may be bigger than you expected.”

  Chapter 17

  The mass casualty bus pulled up to the outer perimeter fence, stopping at the small booth with two, overpaid guards fighting to stay awake within its metal walls. As is customary, the driver turned off the engine and stepped out of the vehicle while both men inside the tight structure of the guard station snapped to attention and exited quickly. One of the guards remained near the booth, surveying the area for any attempt at a diversion. The other guard entered the bus and began checking the IDs of the three Outreach Team members standing near the bodies. The guard then thoroughly assessed each individual that had an intravenous line inserted into their arm, a constant sedative dripping from bags attached to the walls of the bus.

  The sight would have been disturbing to someone not associated with the facility: twenty-four unconscious people stacked within a bus, their vitals closely monitored by three trained professionals while they were transported—sometimes hundreds of miles—in the middle of the night. However, for the guards and the Outreach Team, such a sight was just a routine part of their job. They had safely and securely recruited a massive population of people into that compound, always taking care to prevent the discovery of their location.

  Satisfied that every subject was unconscious and that the four Outreach Team members (including the driver) were cleared for entry, the guards opened the electric gate and permitted the bus to move forward, beyond the outer perimeter.

  The driver came upon a second obstacle, the inner perimeter fence, and once again he stopped the bus. There were no guards at that location, only security cameras. The driver turned off the bus and stepped outside, bringing the keys with him to manually unlock the gate. The process of entering the compound was cumbersome and frustrating, though everyone understood the reason behind it. Security had to go through that ritual, as did the Trial Technicians, the Outreach Team, Maintenance, Accounting, and even Dr. Raymond himself. Every person who was a part of the facility had to pass three separate checks whenever they were entering or leaving the area: the outer perimeter fence, the inner perimeter fence, and the final ID check at the main entrance to the building. It took time, but those actions protected them all.

  The large bus, with Private Medical Transport written on the side, pulled to the rear of the large complex and backed into a loading dock. The rear of the vehicle was opened, and the engine was turned off. Security met the team members there and checked everyone’s identification once more before allowing them to proceed with their responsibilities.

  Without missing a beat, two of the employees began to lift bodies onto gurneys and wheel them into the building. The other two members of the Outreach Team placed those bodies onto beds in the waiting room, taking care to not disrupt the flow of sedation at any time.

  “More of these subjects better make it through the first trial,” one of the members grunted as he pulled a man with a dark complexion from the third bunk of the bus. “Doc is still mad that only seven made it last time.”

  “Do we even have room for most of these?” his partner asked.

  “Well, not for twenty-four. But I think Doc said we have eighteen spots to fill. I’m an optimist, but even I think there’s no way eighteen of these subjects will make it through.”

  They pulled an overweight female subject out of the bus and into the building, passing the now occupied gurney to the two employees in the waiting room and exchanging it for an empty gurney they had just unloaded.

  “That Pearson guy is in 42, right?” one employee asked.

  “Yeah. His room has one of the spots that needs filling.”

  “Make a note on the board to give him someone to talk to.”

  “Why?”

  “I feel bad for the guy. He should be with someone that isn’t too crazy.”

  “Dude, they’re all crazy,” the man chuckled as they grabbed another unconscious subject. This particular one smelled of feces and decay, an aroma that could never be eliminated from the bus or the waiting room, though the Outreach Team had grown used to it. Those men and women would be stripped and showered before their trial in the morning, though until then a thick aroma of dirt and refuse hung in the air.

  “I know. I know. But we should at least find him someone that won’t strangle him in his sleep,” the partner said, partly joking yet also voicing a very real concern of theirs.

  “Yeah. Doc’s tired of that shit happening. Right, I’ll make a note on the board. We’ll see what he does with it.”

  The men spent the next hour moving patients from the bus into the facility beneath a glowing moon. A guard stood nearby, scanning the area for any potential threats, knowing that his responsibility lay in protecting the anonymity of the compound rather than offering his help to the Outreach Team. He disliked that particular shift. The smell was unbearable. Not to mention the scene that played out before him was undeniably eerie.

  He had seen hundreds of seemingly dead individuals carted into the building, their bodies frail and their faces unprepared for what lay beyond their dream-filled sleep. It frightened him to watch the dirtied men in their torn shirts and stained pants glide by, just as it pained him to see the fragile women with their unkempt hair disappear from his view. It upset him to witness the elderly subjects, their faces weak and limbs non-functioning, thrown into the waiting room with little chance of survival, though not as much as it disturbed him to watch the children go by. They were so small, so full of life and potential. They did not choose to be in such a situation, not like the others. They were brought into homelessness, sometimes born into it, and had little chance of ever escaping.

  Often times, this guard wondered if there was any way to alter the direction in which the facility was headed. He liked the inflow of cash it brought. Who wouldn’t? But on certain occasions, such as observing the Outreach Team fulfill their duties, an often ignored voice in his head grew stronger and stronger, urging the man to stand up for what he felt was wrong. Unfortunately, he understood the position taken by his coworkers. They were a part of something great, all of the employees, and most of them truly believed in what the facility was determined to accomplish. It was something far greater than any one of them, something monumental and groundbreaking and, in a way, divine. Who was he to stand in the way of the greater good? And it was this mentality that brought more and more people to work in that building. This belief that they were aiding the entire human population kept their eyes closed to the plight of the homeless. Therefore, with his conscience sufficiently stifled, the guard turned away from a sedated child being loaded onto a gurney and reminded himself that he and all his coworkers were there to save lives.

  The
facility had yet to develop protocols for those under the age of sixteen, yet minors were continually brought through the doors. This was the way of the great and wondrous Dr. Raymond. He filled the beds with anyone he could, giving no gender or race or age any special preference. The doctor fed them all like he would his own family, caring for each person as his own valued patients, and by doing so he saved multiple lives every day. They were all equal in that man’s eyes, a scarce trait beyond the walls of the complex.

  A single tray of food was slid under the door while Charles sat at the small table, having been awakened by the sudden illumination within his room. That was the second night he spent within the cell, and it was worse than the first. BJ had not returned the previous day after being taken away by the guards first thing in the morning. The CEO had saved some of his own food for his roommate after receiving only one tray that afternoon and evening, but his hopes of seeing BJ again diminished with every passing hour.

  He was growing increasingly concerned about his well-being within the facility. No one offered him any information about the reason for his incarceration within that hospital or prison or whatever the hell it was, and now his mentally unstable roommate was gone. Charles was beginning to fear the worst. Thoughts of death charged into his mind as he stared at the tray of food: scrambled eggs, two waffles, and a side of fruit. Having decided to eat the provided nourishment as hunger won out over fear, he found that the food was unexpectedly delicious. More importantly, it had not killed him, though he had a sense that something else would surely end his life in that place.

  How could this be happening? It’s the 21st century. These kinds of places don’t exist in America. The man worked hard to convince himself that there was no chance he would be murdered in that building. There’s no reason for me to fear for my life. I’m an important person in the business world. I help people. The universe wouldn’t allow me to be harmed like this. Everything is okay. There’s a good explanation for all of this.

  He grabbed the tray and brought it to the table, biting into the waffle with a pleasure known only by the starving. For a brief moment he felt relaxed, thinking that those mysterious people appearing unannounced within his room were honestly determined to help him. He imagined seeing his family and friends in the lobby of this place, ready to pick him up and take him back to his real life after being discharged, elated and relieved that appearances had deceived him. He was merely confused because of an unintentional breakdown in communication.

  Then the moment quickly ended, and his thoughts diverged into the darkest depths of despair, imagining devices used to torture and torture used to kill. Charles found himself staring at a wall, his mouth open and his eyes unseeing, the barrage within his head rendering his body unable to operate. He was no longer a man, but a mass of useless meat that could do nothing but fabricate the worst of scenarios for the creator to swallow and choke on from the rancid nature of their purpose. Why was he doing this to himself? What good could come out of judging the facility prior to understanding its reason for existence? He had created an entire company based on seeing through an outer shell and empowering the goodness within. Why couldn’t he do the same with this place? Someone had put precious resources and great effort into the operations that now controlled his life. This was not the home of a deranged serial killer, but a finely tuned hospital funded by deep pockets, dedicated to something bigger than locking a single person within a room. Why was that so hard for him to accept?

  A distraction was what he needed. Something to guide his mind away from fantastically painful images of what was possible and toward logical, beneficent ideas of what was probable. In the past, when Charles was young, he would devour every book that found its way into his greedy hands. As a boy, he was surrounded with pains and horrors that no person should have ever endured. For the longest time he believed that life was merely a compilation of tragic events bringing the bearer down, down with the burden of so much desolation. The stories in books were nothing more than stories: imaginings of a life where people were giving and kind and events didn’t always take a turn for the worst. That was why he read religiously. It was his church. The words on each page were his sermon, the paper itself was his temple, and the ideas contained within the binding would carry him away from the agony he had labeled as an average day, leading him toward enlightenment and salvation. Those books were a means of escape.

  And that was what he needed now. He needed to escape. The dark thoughts had returned, and Charles now possessed the motivation needed to break himself from the compound, to a free world, and into the waiting arms of his family.

  Whether BJ was going to return or not, someone would have to open that door eventually. And when that happened, he would be waiting. The CEO played the moment in his head over and over, rehearsing every move and accounting for every possible form of entrapment. He was going to find a way out of there. All he needed to do was to raise the alarm within the building until someone came to help him.

  He swallowed his pride, placed a chair in front of the door, sat upon it tensely, and prepared to scream with every bit of energy he could throw into his lungs. Either someone would hear him, or it would distract the guards long enough to allow Charles to slip out of the room and toward safety. Either way, he was about to go home.

  Chapter 18

  He heard the jingling of keys outside the door. This is my moment.

  They were forcefully inserted into the keyhole. Here we go.

  The lock on the door flipped, and Charles stood from his chair. Just run. Whatever happens, keep running.

  The handle turned, and the door screeched open. Without looking at who was coming through the entryway, Charles flung himself around the opening door and into the hallway. He heard the cries of surprise from those around him but never once looked behind to identify those that screamed in his direction. He sprinted down the hall, turned a corner to the right, and was met by a large guard holding a radio to his mouth. Charles dove to the side of the man, hoping to avoid his reach, but the guard proved faster than the CEO and he shoved Charles hard against the wall, watched him fall to the ground, and then pinned him to the floor, his knee triumphantly planted upon the man’s wriggling body.

  The sound of rushing footsteps echoed down the hall until two more guards and a Trial Technician rounded the corner and found Charles struggling on the ground.

  “What happened?” the guard on top of him said.

  “Pearson just bolted when we opened the door,” Eddie yelled in shock.

  “Why the hell didn’t you look through the window first?” the guard said to them. “You have to always check to see where the subjects are.”

  The other two guards looked at the ground in embarrassment, and Eddie slapped the wall in frustration.

  “Shit,” the Trial Technician said. “Doctor Raymond’s already on edge. He’s not going to be happy about this.”

  They dragged the screaming man out of the hallway and down a flight of stairs. As soon as they entered the lower level of the building, Charles instantly recognized it as the first place he saw after waking on the table. The area was pristine, devoid of natural light, and consisted of a wide hall with thick doors lining both sides. Each door had the same calendars posted on them, and people could be seen moving quickly from room to room, paying no attention to the guards that held Charles between them. As they continued walking through the corridor, he felt as if he were merely walking through a hospital, headed toward a surgery room while accompanied by a pair of nurses. The area did not seem sinister or unwelcoming, but strictly professional.

  The men brought him into an unoccupied room and quickly guided him to the metal table situated in the center of the floor. The room was identical to the one Charles had seen before—machines against the wall, tiled floor, and cabinets of equipment—although he failed to recognize whether this was the same room or if every door led to a similar space.

&nbs
p; Without being given a chance to ask any questions, he was lifted onto the cold table and painfully strapped down. The hospital-like section now felt terrifying, menacing, and the CEO desperately kicked against the guards. Before long, he was restrained and unable to move a muscle. He stared wildly in every direction, frantically analyzing his assailants to determine what was coming next.

  “You just made a huge mistake,” Eddie said as he approached Charles. “You’re causing the doctor quite a bit of grief. He’s not going to like that.”

  “Get me out of here!”

  The Trial Technician recoiled at the man’s outburst and calmly walked away.

  Charles could hear pieces of conversation coming from behind him, but he could not see anyone. He turned his neck in every way possible, but the view around him remained confined to a bright light and bare walls. Just then, a figure sauntered into Charles’s line of sight.

  “I thought I taught you a lesson,” Dr. Raymond said with a heavy sigh. “What aren’t you understanding?”

  “Let me go!” the subject screamed. “Fuck! Get me out!”

  “Jesus, Pearson. Relax.”

  “Why am I here?” he yelled again.

  “Dammit! Shut up!” the doctor snapped at him. Charles was so surprised by the break in character that he ceased his struggling and stared at his captor.

  “Look, we cannot do another trial on you,” Dr. Raymond started. “It is against protocol.”

  “So we aren’t going to punish him?” Eddie cried from the background.

  “It’s too soon to do another one. We must wait.”

  “This guy’s going to keep causing you trouble, Doc. Something needs to be done.”

  “And something will be done,” he said ominously, placing his hands inside the pockets of his white lab coat.

  Charles stared fearfully at the powerful doctor. He still had no idea what was occurring in the facility or why he had somehow ended up there in the first place. But he was starting to regret stepping out of line and placing himself in even more danger than he may have ever been. Perhaps his only chance at returning to his family was to play whatever game those people had set up for him.