Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1

by William Campbell

  “What are you doing?” she says. “Put it out.”

  I want to say something, but I can’t. I am a spectator, a lifeless rag doll, yet subjected to every unpleasant sensation associated with being here.

  “They’ll get us if we burn,” she says. “Hurry! Put it out.”

  I don’t understand what she means, but in a way, I might.

  An intense flash—the flames surge brighter, roaring out of control, there is no hope of fighting the blaze. The small compartment becomes an efficient crematorium.

  Somewhere in the flames, I hear her screaming. I don’t want to hear that, anything but that, then I don’t—my ears have melted, and my eyes, I want to cry, but there is nothing left that cries. I am coming undone.

  Our vessel collides with something and the compartment explodes. My remains scatter to the wind, a mist of ash going all directions.

  I am lost. I no longer have a body.

  * * *

  A burning sensation is concentrated on my shoulder. Opening the eyes I’m surprised to have, I find Jared poking me with a long stick, painfully hot at one end.

  “Stop that!” I cry.

  Take me back to the dream, the part without a body, without this antenna of pain reception.

  He withdraws the instrument of torture, a telescoping rod that he collapses and slips in his coat. “Nice of you to join us,” he says. “You didn’t have to pass out, you big baby.”

  My head is still full of cobwebs. I was having the dream again. I’m not dead. But not much better off, after getting zapped by that damn microwave oven on a stick.

  I’m lying on a plush armless sofa, a sort of padded bench. The soft fabric is cool and soothing, I could rest here awhile. The spacious room is dimly lit, walls covered by dark paneling trimmed by lighter molding high above. Beyond the border, the ceiling curves inward, painted so black its height is difficult to estimate. An abyss, leading up rather than down. An unsettling sight, to imagine it was the floor instead.

  As I gaze upward, Jared leans into my view. “Everything working in that pea brain of yours?”

  “No thanks to you, asshole. What am I doing here?”

  “I brought you in, that’s all. You could have come along quietly, you know. There wasn’t any need for all that ruckus.”

  When I sit up, a door opens and a Bob enters the room. “We thank you for your assistance with the subject. We shall take over now.”

  “I did my part,” Jared says. “When’s the Association planning to keep their end of the bargain?”

  “We shall not discuss our arrangement in the presence of the subject.”

  “He nearly killed me!”

  Nice to know I’ve caused grief for Jared. He’s a damn bastard in my book. The jerk deserves a few lifetimes of grief.

  Bob says, “There shall be little delay, I assure you.”

  “I want no delays,” Jared says. “We’ve all suffered enough.”

  “Excuse me,” I interrupt. “Might I have a say in this? I’d like to go now, if you don’t mind. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I need a bath.”

  Jared whirls on me. “I’ve had it with you and all your clowning around. Always a smart-ass remark.” He sandwiches his skull in both hands. “I’m sick and tired of hearing your voice. Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  I have annoyed him. Good.

  “Ease your mind of the subject,” Bob says. “We shall discuss the terms of our agreement when all is in order.”

  “Fine,” Jared says. “Just make it soon.” He goes to the door and Bob follows. On the way out, Jared glances back one last time, his exasperation replaced by a slimy grin, and that slippery, casual tone. “Do as you’re told, Carl, and talk to the nice folks. You’re in good hands, trust me.” He snickers and slaps the door shut.

  I hope to never see that bastard again, but then, I wouldn’t mind under different circumstances, like when I have the upper hand. I’ll torture him, then I’ll kill him. Twice. Ten. A thousand times.

  * * *

  Alone, there is time to gather my thoughts. It’s no stretch to imagine these people intend to hurt me further. I need to compose a plan of escape. I require information. I must study the surroundings for a weakness.

  My first instinct is to check the door. I wiggle the handle. What was I thinking? They wouldn’t go to all that trouble just to let me walk right out.

  I’ve been given a change of clothes, plain white trousers and a button shirt. Bland. Someone even cleaned me up a bit, but nothing to help my greasy hair and beard. I check my arm and expect to find a gory mess, but no, someone has changed the cluster of grimy rags to a proper bandage, taped up nice and clean.

  Daylight streams in through a window across the room. No, I’m not crashing through this one. I’m curious as to what’s outside, and windows are good for that, too. Past the glass, the street is five or six floors down, confirming the window as a lousy escape. The sky is the usual gray, no evidence of sun other than a dim glow behind the clouds. I’d guess it’s late afternoon, nearly evening, but I couldn’t say what day it is. There’s no telling how long I was unconscious.

  On the sidewalk below, people move along going about their business, but the scene is creepy. They wear matching suits, black coats and white shirts, thin black ties, and they carry slim briefcases. They look like a colony of ants, scattering all directions without colliding as they serve a higher purpose, like the queen ant or something. The sight of businessmen scurrying about downtown should come as no surprise. The disturbing part is how closely they resemble one another, like the Bobs—they all look the same. But not like the Bobs, those goons don’t wear ties. But still, these folks have their own brand of sameness, like a matching fleet of corporate associates late for an important meeting. Although they dress different, the businessmen share one feature with the Bobs—the black helmet hairstyle. Blended in the crowd are women as well, conforming as the men do, wearing smart business suits all black, except for knee-high skirts instead of slacks, and their longer hair is assembled into a bun.

  The room is filled with rows of matching furniture, dark red armless sofas with tufted padding. A number of poor souls could occupy this space at the same time, but I’m the sole occupant for now. Across the room is a flat screen mounted to the wall. I step closer, find the power switch, and the screen brightens with a video image. I ease back, sit on a padded bench, and watch.

  “You too can have all this,” a man says. “Now how much would you pay? Well don’t answer yet, you also get . . .”

  The scene is a kitchen with a guy wearing an apron and chefs hat, operating a countertop appliance. He tosses in vegetables and the gadget spits out neatly diced chunks. Now he grinds some meat. And the entire time talking, talking, he never stops talking. Next he demonstrates an array of attachments, then shows off plastic bowls for mixing ingredients. He insists that I must have all this, as everyone else does.

  “You get all this for the amazing low price . . .”

  For a bunch of plastic garbage?

  “Three easy payments of . . .”

  Three? One is too much for the whole thing. He keeps talking and talking, it seems without a single breath between words or sentences.

  “Call in the next fifteen minutes and we’ll also include . . .”

  More? Oh, just more plastic crap, big deal.

  “Operators are standing by.”

  The mountain of plastic garbage one will receive appears endless. A phone number zips past faster than anyone could possibly read, though he does repeat it six or more times during the final seconds, and the program ends.

  Now an attractive woman fills the screen. That’s better.

  “Feminine odor can ruin that crucial first encounter. Avoid embarrassment, and maintain status among your peers. Regular douching with the fresh, springtime scent of . . .”

  She’s not talking about what I think she’s talking about, is she? That’s disgusting. Now she’s going to show us how it works. No, I can’t watch
this.

  I spring up and switch the channel. Now an older fellow comes on.

  “John Thompson here with some helpful hints for improving your home.”

  He’s in the backyard of a house. This show looks better, maybe even something of educational value, like a do-it-yourself remodeling program.

  “The color you choose for your home is an important decision. Here we have Jackensteen’s Brand Extra Durable Exterior House Paint, available in approved colors, now on sale at your local . . .”

  This show has zero value. They only want to sell more products.

  Armed with a bucket and brush, he paints a small area on the back of the house—the same color it’s already painted. The camera backs away to shows the entire neighborhood. What? Every house is painted the same boring gray color.

  I feel violated, invaded, infected with the desire of others, that I desire what they choose I desire, which I don’t, and never did in the first place. A creepy feeling, like getting brainwashed. I turn the stupid thing off.

  Back at the window, I gaze down on the sidewalk and the flock of individuals moving past, all of them anything but individual. Don’t tell me I have to join these mindless drones that have no sense of variety. I resist that, but I may be without a choice, which is the sickening part. I would never choose that lifestyle. It’s not right, not where I belong. But why would I think that? The feeling is unjustified, without a clear memory giving reason to feel anything. But still, I feel a detached memory—I am not one of these people.

  Little good it does. The baseless notion lacks any answer, such as how to escape. It only tells me that I must.

  * * *

  The door opens and two Bobs haul in another fellow. They toss him onto one of the padded benches, then exit and lock the door. The poor guy slumps over, either severely beaten or just plain tired. He’s had a rough time, hair mussed and skin dirty, covered with scrapes and bruises. He’s wearing the same white trousers and button shirt, like me. A fellow loser?

  “You okay?” I ask.

  He looks up. “Huh? Oh, I don’t know, not really.” He tries to straighten up, groans and grimaces, and reaches around to rub his back.

  I move closer. “What happened to you?”

  “I don’t understand,” he says. “I was minding my own business, and some guys wanted to talk. But they were scary, so I ran. I guess I shouldn’t have run. Maybe I’d be all right if I just didn’t run.”

  Stalked by the goon patrol is one thing, but to see another in pain, having suffered the same, now that hurts. The bonds of friendship form quickly when you share a similar experience, perhaps more so when the experience is unpleasant.

  I sit down across from him. “What’s your name?”

  “Me?” His tired eyes focus on me. “Vincent, but you can call me Vinnie.”

  “Okay, Vinnie. I’m Carl, but you can call me Carl.”

  His eyes pinch and he sinks inward, as if replaying my words, trying to make sense of them.

  “Vinnie, I’m just kidding. It’s a joke.”

  That probably wasn’t such a good idea, and only confirms how lousy I am with jokes. I should know better, but sometimes I can’t help it.

  “Oh, I get it, ha,” he says, hardly a laugh, then he scans the room.

  “There’s no other exit.” I point to the door. “And that one’s locked, so it looks like we’re stuck here awhile. I wouldn’t suggest the window, either. We’re up a few floors, probably just bust our necks.”

  He looks around the room, nods a few times, then sighs. “We’ll just have to tell them what they want to know, and hope they let us go after that.”

  Nice optimism, though difficult to share. “I don’t know, Vinnie. After the rough treatment so far, I doubt the rest will be much different.”

  “Maybe, but that was probably because we ran. I guess you could be right, heck, I don’t know. But if you are, what difference does it make? I don’t think there’s any way out besides talking to them. What happens next is beyond our control.”

  He could be right, except the part about what happens next. The future is not written, and what happens next is not beyond my control. I can change it.

  “So tell me, Carl, what’s your story?”

  “About the same as yours, Vinnie. I was minding my own business and they wanted to talk, but I had other ideas. So I ran. Didn’t do me much good, I ended up here anyway.”

  “Looks like we’re in the same boat. Wonder what’s so interesting about us. Tell me, Carl, what do you do for a living? Maybe that has something to do with it.”

  “Nothing special, whatever I can get each day. I load trucks a lot, and trains, too. All sorts of boxes, I don’t even know what’s in them, not that I care. As long as they pay me at the end of the day, I’m happy.”

  Not much of a life, I know, but alive and loading boxes is better than dead inside one, six feet underground.

  “Yeah,” he says, “I done some of that too, now and then. Keeps you fit anyway.” He goes on to describe a variety of odd jobs, cleaning parking lots, washing cars and unloading trucks, all sorts of miscellany similar to my varied attempts at squeaking out a meager living. So much in common, I’m surprised we hadn’t met before. But the similarity of our lives fails to explain why anyone would want to talk with us so badly. It makes no sense. We’re both losers.

  “So tell me, Carl, where did you grow up?”

  The question itself is a sad reminder. “The thing is, I don’t really know.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I had an accident a while back, I’m not even sure what happened. All I know is I woke up in the hospital with my head in bandages and a migraine so bad I couldn’t see straight. Some brain injury that required surgery. The whole deal really messed up my memory. I can’t recall anything before that.”

  “Then you don’t remember growing up.”

  “Sometimes I get flashes like a dream, probably just nonsense imaginary stuff. I don’t think it really matters anyway. I doubt my life was anything important before that anyhow. I was probably loading boxes and one fell on me, or some dumb thing like that. Maybe I got hit by a train, who knows. Who cares?”

  “Somebody must care.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Come on, Carl, you must have someone who visited you in the hospital.”

  “Nope, no one. I’m a nobody, without any friends or family. No, not a single person cared about me, no visitors at all, just the doctors and nurses. I guess they cared, they put me back together pretty good. I felt okay after that, well, except for the migraines. Damn painful. Just something I have to deal with. I shouldn’t complain. I could’ve ended up a vegetable, kept alive by weird little machines.”

  “Yeah, that’s an awful way to go through the rest of your life. Good thing you can still walk around and do stuff, but it sure stinks not remembering. So you’re sure, you can’t remember anything before that.”

  I know his type, so lonely and desperate for a conversation, they never let one die. On and on, long past the obvious conclusion.

  “I’m telling you, Vinnie, it’s all gone. It makes me dull and boring, I know, having no grand stories to tell about things I did or places I went, but I doubt anything exciting ever happened to me anyway.”

  He sinks inward like he’s calculating something. Perhaps a clue that explains our being here together. “Are you absolutely positive?” he asks. “You don’t remember even one thing before the accident.”

  It’s like he doesn’t believe me. “I told you, I don’t remember. Really.”

  He aims a blank stare at me, as if judging my sincerity. Then he says, “Okay, as long as you’re really sure.”

  “What about you, Vinnie? Where did you grow up?”

  He rises from the bench rather easily, as though his pain has suddenly disappeared. “That’s not important,” he says, and heads for the door. “Don’t worry about me. There’s nothing to tell that matters at this point.”

  What
’s with him? Mister Conversation when I’m the subject, now he’s got other things to do.

  He presses a button next to the door, leans closer, and speaks into an intercom. “He’s ready. Come and get him.”

  * * *

  To think I may have finally found a friend. No, I have sucker tattooed across my forehead. The door pops open and Vinnie slips through without so much as a good-bye. It was all a charade. What was so important that I might say?

  Three Bobs march in and they don’t look happy. One is holding a strange device.

  “Put out your hands,” he says.

  “What, are they on fire?”

  My sincere confusion is contagious—the Bobs look mystified. I inspect my hands, which appear fine. Bob extends the strange device. Oh, I should have known, they want to restrain me. I must be dangerous.

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  The Bobs exchange befuddled glances, as though no one has ever questioned their commands. They don’t know what to do.

  Then one of them gets a bright idea. “If you do not, we will put out your hands for you.”

  This guy’s a real genius. Who taught these goons to handle things? They’re a bunch of idiots.

  “I don’t want to. Now what happens?”

  Again they look to one another, unsure of the proper course of action. Then a realization comes to them. They grab my arms, pull hard, and wrestle the device over my wrists.

  “Hey, whoa there, no need for that. Take it easy, I was just funnin’ with y’all.”

  They are not amused. They haul me out the door, adding loads of unnecessary roughness. Looks like I made them mad.

  We enter a long corridor that leads somewhere, but the thing is, I don’t want to know where. My doom is just beyond the next door, I’m sure of it. Torture, pain, and without a doubt, my last moments alive.

  * * *

  After a distance along the corridor, we arrive at a door that the Bobs slam open and haul me through. The room is identical to the last, the same dark paneling, the same black ceiling like an abyss leading upward, but the open space lacks the rows of padded benches.