Soul Suites

by Hulden Morse

  There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in those reports.

  Every penny, every volunteer, every Resident, every rehabilitated person, and every recruitment trip was accounted for. There was nothing alarming in the numbers and nothing that jumped out at them as cause for concern.

  And that is exactly why it was concerning. Hamilton had expected to find some glaring issue with those districts that explained why people were disappearing from the street, but according to those reports . . . nothing.

  The three of them sat in Hamilton’s office in silence, poring over every piece of paper as if someone’s life depended on it.

  Hamilton set down the report she was reading and said, “Well, part of me is relieved. Our company’s not the source of this problem.”

  “I hear ya. I was honestly worried for a second,” Morris added, taking off his glasses and wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “What do you think, Sandra?” They both looked to the CFO, who was holding a single page in her hand, scanning it intently. “Sandra? Everything alright?”

  She didn’t respond. She flipped the paper over, and Hamilton could see the concern spreading across her face.

  “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “Something’s not right.”

  “What’s not right?”

  “I don’t know. But something doesn’t make sense. Give me a sec.”

  They waited anxiously, watching the woman pick up a seemingly random piece of paper. She would then type something into her phone, shake her head, and pick up another piece of paper. It was a bizarre ritual, almost comical, yet Hamilton desperately needed to know where all that tension was taking them.

  “Yeah, something’s wrong,” Pinner finally said, putting her phone on the desk and looking at her coworkers. “They’re lying about something.”

  “What district?” Morris asked.

  “All of them. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “I checked them myself. Everything seems okay. All the people are accounted for. Those that come in and those that go out. Even some repeat Residents.”

  “Okay, but the Graduates of the program aren’t accounted for. There’s just no way what they’re claiming is real.”

  “Explain it to us. Please.”

  Pinner grabbed a piece of paper from a pile in front of her and began to point at a chart on it.

  “Alright. Ready?” she said. “Typically, each district keeps track of what field each Graduate goes into. Right? I wouldn’t expect them to list the details of every single person in a report, but they include the industry that the Resident went into. And here it says that over the past month, 35 went into food service, 16 went into clinical work, and so on. They have 78 people accounted for, versus the 124 that they recruited for that month, which doesn’t mean much considering a lot of people stay longer than a month.”

  “Okay, so that all seems right. It correlates with the ratios they gave me. The ones I used to make the recruitment versus rehabilitation report.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get that. But I was curious if all these people have stayed in their place of work or are back on the streets because Chicago reports a repeat Resident percentage of 6%. That’s insane! San Diego is at like 23%, and we’re really proud of that.”

  “So what’d you find?”

  “There are no reports,” Pinner continued. “They have names and pictures, but nothing else. No updates, no tracking, not even a place of employment. Just the industry they’re in.”

  “Shit,” Morris said.

  “And this is going back quite a while. They claim to be one of the best districts, but I’m afraid that they’re making up numbers in order to look better. They pull in roughly 150 new recruits a month and rehabilitate 85% of them. I’m just not believing that.”

  Hamilton typed on her computer and then said, “I just checked Detroit, and they have a similar thing. Tons of files on Graduates but no info on them. Nothing that we can use to look them up. I think these are faked.”

  “So what does that mean for the disappearances?” Pinner asked. “A district faking numbers is a huge issue, but it doesn’t show why people are disappearing from the street. You don’t think—”

  “I’m not thinking anything,” Hamilton responded tersely. “I’m not saying anything either . . . but I’m not feeling good.”

  “Shit,” Pinner said. “What do we do now?”

  “Well,” Morris responded, “you gave them a week to put this together. If they are trying to hide something, then it’s possible that these reports were fabricated hastily. I think we need to notify the government and have them investigate the districts.”

  “Philip! That’s suicide,” Hamilton said in surprise.

  “If we don’t have someone investigate our company, it’s going to get out somehow and then we’re all screwed. I think if we plead ignorance right now and go to the authorities, we can save ourselves and hopefully save these other districts.”

  “What do you think, Pinner?”

  “I agree. I think this report was the best they could do to cover something up. We get the government in here, grant them permission to go through all our files, then we may be able to lessen the blow from the media. We launched this investigation. Not some whistleblower volunteer that found out too much.”

  “I have a concern,” Morris said as he stared at his lap. “What if Charles knew about this?”

  They all paused, looking at each other’s expression, waiting for someone to say something but not wanting to be the first person to agree or disagree with such a thought.

  “I thought of that too,” Pinner replied. “But I don’t think it’s possible. Not for Charles. He cares too much.”

  “But someone’s organizing this. For these three districts to possibly have faulty numbers? And what about the other two districts? Suppose they also present us with reports that don’t make sense. What then?”

  “Well,” Morris replied, “then we need to pull the rug out from whoever is involved in this. They aren’t going to tell us the truth. So we need to go higher up.”

  Chapter 24

  Without any warning or any memory of cause or reason, Charles again found himself waking up on a large table. This time, though, the room was different—dark and musty. He could smell stale smoke, that of a cigar, which was an aroma he held a strong aversion to after experiences from his childhood. He sat up on the table, scanning the shadowy area for any sign of a companion, someone with which he could either express his concerns or share his fears. He waited.

  Someone cleared his throat next to him and Charles turned to find Mr. Molteers standing beside him. The man was tall, overweight, with a dirty goatee and greasy hair, as per the style back then. His face was fat, covered in potholes from his lifetime of smoking, and Charles felt his muscles tighten up in a conditioned response.

  The plump, disgusting man grinned at the boy, his eyes darting rapidly as he looked at the tiny body on the table. He seemed hungry, so alive with feral desire, a muscle in his neck twitching as the entire unit prepared for what would surely be a small yet delicious feast.

  Petrified and unable to bear the thought of seeing that man again, Charles closed his eyes tightly and braced himself for impact. He could feel the straps being applied to his limbs, trapping him in that room with something that was more monster than human. He was waiting for the shock, expecting the surge of energy, anticipating the penetration of sickening electrical impulses, knowing that what he was about to feel would resonate with him for all eternity.

  There were hands upon his chest. The boy kept his eyes closed. He could feel the hands grabbing at him, pulling the shirt away from his body with grimy fingers and sweaty palms. Charles didn’t dare look at his attacker. There was hot breath on his face: moist, vile, gag-inducing breath. He waited for what could only be described as the digression from cr
uel, intrusive behavior to life-altering, animalistic oppression.

  The dreaming man opened his eyes to find the gruff face of a guard staring at him, his hands on Charles’s grey shirt as he shook the subject back and forth in an attempt to rouse him. The CEO looked at the muscular man, blinking light into his eyes, and for the first time was relieved to find himself within that tiny room, on his own bed with Damian below him.

  “Finally, Pearson,” the guard said in frustration. “Let’s go.”

  “Where? What time is it?”

  “Just follow me. The doctor will be waiting.”

  “Do I at least get breakfast?” he said, hoping to stall the man to avoid the inevitable.

  “No. Doc likes to do water trials early in the morning, before breakfast,” the large man said with a smile. “Helps with the vomit.”

  “What the hell is a water trial?” Charles asked as he descended the ladder and was led out of the room by the guard.

  “You’ll see soon enough. No more questions.”

  “Why do you use it as punishment?”

  “Hey! I said no more questions.”

  They were joined by another guard in the hallway, and the three of them navigated the identical corridors, descending the staircase that Charles had grown to recognize. He was brought into a trial room, more familiar and brightly lit than the one in his dream, and was met by a Trial Technician. Paul held a cup of coffee and seemed groggy, like he had just arrived at work, but he looked at the CEO with what appeared to be excitement and newfound energy.

  “Please remove your clothes,” he said to his subject.

  “I’m sorry?” the man squeaked in shock.

  “No sense getting your clothes wet,” Paul sneered. “We try not to waste resources here on unnecessary laundry. We care about the environment.”

  Charles glared at the man but did not press the matter further. He undressed to his boxers after the guards had left the room. A young, Hispanic woman in blue scrubs came in pushing a large tub, visibly heavy with water sloshing back and forth in it. Paul rushed to her side to assist with the awkward unit, and they wheeled it into the center of the trial room.

  The tub was made of a dense plastic and shaped not unlike a kitchen sink, being a square with sides two feet long and a height of one foot. The container, filled to the brim with water, sat atop a wheeled cart with adjustable legs, capable of bringing the tub further from, or closer to, the ground. Charles would soon learn that this feature was designed to allow for persons of differing heights to be subjected to the contraption’s purpose. As he continued to stare at the bizarre object, attempting to discern the meaning of a water trial, the CEO noticed that the tub had a lid, currently propped open to reveal the water inside. The lid was metal, seemingly heavy, and seemed to be the exact dimensions of the tub so that if it were closed, he figured, no water could spill out. However, on the side of the lid opposite the hinges, a half-moon shape had been cut out, possibly to allow for access to the tub’s interior while the lid was closed. Charles looked the device over, judging its shape and features, imagining for what it could be used. He was terrified that his grotesque fantasy may be in line with reality.

  “Ramona, please get the doctor,” Paul said to the woman, who hurried out of the room. The remaining Trial Technician walked up to the CEO with a zip tie, and requested that Charles kneel before the tub.

  “Please. I don’t know why this is happening, but don’t do this,” he pleaded in fear.

  “Get on your knees. Right there.”

  Charles obeyed the command, and Paul grabbed his wrists, forcing them behind his back, and then he zip-tied them together. The subject could feel his heart beating out of his chest. He had never been so scared, and he didn’t even know what was about to happen. It was the anticipation, the knowledge that his currently pain-free body was about to be subjected to some cruel punishment that made him reel in abject terror.

  Just then, Dr. Raymond and Ramona entered the room, and the doctor headed straight for Charles.

  “Ah, Mr. Pearson. Good morning,” he said happily. “Are you excited for your first water trial?”

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “Oh, you are a smart guy. You know exactly what is coming.”

  Monitors were wheeled over to the side of the tub. The doctor started grabbing wires and attaching them to Charles’s body. He then pointed at the subject’s legs, commenting that they needed to be restrained or he may try to stand up. The technicians obeyed their boss and immediately placed a weighted bar over the man’s ankles, preventing him from moving his lower body in any direction.

  After checking the monitors for accurate operation, the doctor signaled for the technicians to prepare for their roles.

  “You ready, Pearson?”

  Charles glared at the man, infuriated by his jubilance.

  “Do you enjoy this?” the CEO said angrily. “Do you enjoy scaring and hurting others?”

  “My goodness,” Dr. Raymond said with a smile. “It is not the fear or pain that brings me pleasure, it is what follows.”

  “And what exactly follows?”

  “Discovery, Mr. Pearson. We are here to learn.”

  “And that’s worth the pain of others?” Charles said, frightened that he may have overestimated the mental stability of the doctor.

  “We make you hurt so that others don’t have to.”

  “Fuck you,” Charles said angrily.

  Dr. Raymond laughed and said, “I believe that is my cue.”

  The doctor grabbed his subject by the back of his neck and shoved the man’s face into the tub of water. The lid was thrown over the top of the tub with a loud clatter that resonated in the subject’s body. The half-moon opening in the metal lid was just big enough to allow his neck to protrude from the contraption, but it prevented the subject from withdrawing his head from the water. The lid was locked in position, and Charles kneeled there in utter shock. Once his wits caught up with the danger of the moment, he began to thrust his head against the top, struggling to break away from the tub.

  The doctor calmly stood in the background, alternating between watching the man toss and turn his bound body, splashing water onto the ground, and looking at the monitors for signs of the subject’s demise.

  Charles screamed into the water. He tried to kick his legs, but they were immobile beneath the heavy bar. He worked his arms in every direction he could muscle, hoping to break the zip tie and release himself from the grip of death, but the small piece of plastic held strong and remained unaffected by his efforts. Slivers of skin began to slice away from his wrists and ankles, but the pain in those areas was trumped by a stronger input.

  His lungs started to burn as the instinctual part of him begged for its host to take a breath. Charles ignored those cries of distress, determined to break himself free of the metal over his head. He tried to turn his torso to the side in order to get his feet to slip under the bar, but it proved too low for him to liberate his lower body.

  The man forced himself not to take a breath. The sensation was overwhelming, agonizing, and he knew what would inevitably occur. He struggled, writhing in pain and desperation. That was it. He had to breathe. Charles could not stop the action as it became an unwilled reflex.

  He inhaled and water rushed into his throat, running toward his lungs. His body coughed up the water, which forced him to inhale even more. The man’s limbs spasmed with pain as his throat instinctively closed up, preventing more water from entering the lungs. The liquid then rushed into his stomach with nowhere else to go. He finally, mercifully, began to lose consciousness.

  Death arrived with his soiled scythe, ready to reap that man for the second time and carry his combative soul away from the facility. It would grip its victim by the neck, bearing no weight because the physical body would have been left to decay upon the Earth, then Death would smile
at the disembodied soul, proud to be the last face that the individual would see as he was plunged into a fantastical world devoid of feeling or sense for all eternity. Charles forced away the image of the reaper, driving the figure into the depths of his darkening mind, yet it continued to resurface like a bad dream, becoming clearer and more prominent with every reappearance.

  Dr. Raymond watched Charles’s body start to relax. The subject’s movements were less driven, less exertive, and were instead the reflexive twitches of oxygen deprivation. The doctor looked at the monitors and grinned as the heart rate rapidly decreased. The water became placid in the tub, and Charles’s heart finally stopped.

  He was dead.

  Dr. Raymond looked at the clock on the wall. He counted down the minutes. Paul and Ramona chatted silently in the corner, waiting with a clipboard and their script.

  The pictures on the walls drifted past him like clouds floating in the sky. Everything seemed to be moving slower than normal, creeping through his line of sight with curious concern and uncertain unease. He looked over to see the stern face of a guard, bobbing up and down next to him as the man supported part of Charles’s weight, aided by a second guard that had the man’s other arm wrapped around his neck.

  The CEO could feel himself walking along the ground, though he was plagued with the strange sensation that it was not his legs doing the walking. He was lost within his own body. The feet continued their aimless trek in whatever direction they were led, and the legs followed the feet with submissive obedience. After an undetermined amount of time, Charles was shoved into his room. One of the guards followed him inside and sat him down on a chair. There were two trays of food on the table, yet he noticed that Damian was nowhere to be found.

  The guards exited the room without giving Charles a second look, and the man was left utterly alone to mull over the torture he had just endured. He couldn’t even cry. He was floating within a thick fog that refused to clear even amidst his most sincere begging. Nothing seemed to make sense. And what he had seen! It was incredible, terrifying, beautiful, sickening, and every other feeling his body seemed to be capable of expressing. How could that be possible?