Men are seated behind a wide table, silent with their hands folded. Thirteen in all. The lack of variety continues—they all look the same. Not like the Bobs, these guys resemble the businessmen roaming the streets of downtown, but dressed more elite than the masses, they appear men of higher status, wearing exquisite gray suits few could afford, perfectly knotted neckties, and pressed white dress shirts. Nothing casual about these refined gents, but they do share one feature with the Bobs—the black helmet hairstyle.
A single chair is facing the table, and next to it is a smaller table where a strange device is set up, some sort of electronic console, surely an instrument of torture. The Bobs wrestle me into the chair, again using unnecessary force. They don’t seem to realize that I’m perfectly capable of sitting down all by myself.
“Come on, Bob, take it easy. I’m not resisting here, am I?” Bob slams my ass down and cinches straps over my wrists and ankles. “Hey, Bob, where’d you get that jacket? Bob’s House of Fine Plastic? You could’ve done better, you know, maybe some actual leather. Couldn’t afford the real thing, is that it? Ouch! Okay, okay, I’m sitting already.”
The Bobs pull the straps extra tight. I must be dangerous all right, and they’re not taking any chances. Having completed the task of securing me to the chair, the brutes step back, their ugly expressions full of disgust. Good, I have annoyed them.
This must be how criminals are handled. But I’m no criminal. I was minding my own business before all this. I did nothing to hurt anyone. Well, until they unleashed the manhunt. But my criminal acts are justified—that was all self-defense. Besides, I didn’t crush them, the building did.
I wonder about this chair. Could it be an electric chair? I’m going to be fried while they watch my skin boil and pop, peeling off my crispy frame right before their eyes. That might be entertaining for some people. Not me. But then, I won’t be the one watching.
At the far end of the room, another door opens and a man enters. He carries a black satchel, which upon arriving, he sets on the floor below the small table next to the chair. Finally, someone who looks different from the rest. A doctor, judging by the white lab coat, but more than that, he has wiry gray hair sticking out the back of his head, while the front half is completely bald. He looks funny like a clown and I want to laugh, but I can’t, too scared for that. The half-crazed professor is preparing for a mad experiment, and clearly, the focus of that experiment is me. He wears horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses that only amplify his menacing glare. Those glasses alone would make anyone look evil. He’s also the first person in this crowd with facial hair. He has a rather pointy goatee to match his rather pointy nose. An ugly man.
He comes near and speaks in a raspy voice. “Let us have a look at that wound, shall we?” He clutches my arm and squeezes it like I’m made of putty.
“Ouch! Is that necessary? It’s fine already, leave it alone.”
His eyes go wide, shocked by my suggestion. “Oh no, we must make sure that all is in order. We do not want your wound to become infected, that would be most unfortunate. Let us have a closer look.” He rips the bandage from my arm, not in a gentle fashion as would a person with an ounce of compassion, no, he tears the thing off in one vicious yank.
“Yow! Can’t you have a heart?”
My new inflictor of pain hesitates, befuddled by my remark. “I do have a heart, right here.” He points to his chest. “If I did not, I would not be alive, now would I. You are quite an odd creature. What is the source of these strange idioms? If only I had more time to study your kind.”
One of the businessmen stands. “Enough! You will cease unnecessary conversation with the subject. Complete your inspection and prepare the equipment.”
Tempted with defiance, the doctor glares at the businessman, then he changes his mind and cowers. Yeah, I’d do what I’m told, too. That guy looks scary.
The doctor returns to my wound, his eyeballs giant past the thick lenses of his glasses. He studies intently, as though searching for traces of bacteria invisible to the naked eye. He pokes and prods, examines further, then satisfied, reports his findings. “He is healthy. The injury is repaired.”
These people are truly creepy. They have nearly killed me in an effort to bring me here, and now I’m strapped to this chair, which has to be an instrument of execution. But they want to make sure I’m healthy, before making me entirely unhealthy, the ultimate unhealthy—dead. Ironic, like disinfecting the needle before administering a lethal injection.
The doctor shifts to the small table and prepares the electronic device. He puts in a roll of paper that sticks out one end, then pulls the unwinding sheet over a flat area beneath a suspended needle. He adjusts controls then pulls out thin leads that end in half a dozen circular pads. He opens my shirt and applies the pads to my chest, shoulders, and forehead. More wires end in a pair of thimble-like cones that he slips over my fingertips.
My heartbeat rises to thunder. My body is having the natural reaction to impending harm. I’m strapped to this chair and here I will die, it’s that simple. There’s no way out, might as well relax and let it happen. Regardless, the flow of adrenaline begins. Preparing itself for the coming torture, this body believes it can survive. I fail to see how.
* * *
The far door opens and a woman enters, carrying a small device with keypad. An older lady, she is dressed like the men, but with a knee-high skirt and her hair in a bun. Her heels snap the floor as she walks across the room, then she seats herself at the table.
One of the men rises, the one who scolded the doctor. “We are ready to begin,” he says, standing firm with hands like tripods, fingers spread atop the table. He seems to be in charge. The ready-to-begin prologue is a clue, but even when silent, he exudes an authoritative presence.
“Carl, we are going to ask you some questions, and you must be completely honest. Rest assured, your responses will be held in the strictest confidence. It is vital that we know your every thought, anything that may come to mind. Do you understand?”
“Not really.”
“All we ask is that you try.” He lowers back to sitting, hands folded atop the table and staring at me, his expression drained of all emotion.
At least he’s talking to me, not about me while I’m sitting right here. This time I’m not a thing, or subject to be discussed, and he speaks in a calm, reassuring tone. I wish I was as calm. I’m not even close, greased by sweat while my heart works overtime, straining to pump the terror out. The machine on the table seems to agree. The needle scribbles wildly, drawing peaks and valleys across the rolling paper.
Given the circumstances, I realize what this situation represents. The businessmen are like a group of attorneys, or a panel of judges. The woman is recording what we speak, typing our words into her small device. The doctor is tracking my physical condition.
“Am I on trial?”
“No, Carl, you are not on trial. We simply have questions for you, that is all.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Specific questions that we will ask, which we hope, will expose your considerations, so that we may confirm your state of mind before advancing to the next process.”
Something about this reeks of sinister intent, but his calm demeanor is contagious. The scribbling needle seems to agree, drawing a nearly flat line across the slowly rolling paper.
“Look, I can appreciate that you have questions, but I have plenty of my own. And I don’t like being tricked, either. What was all that nonsense with Vinnie?”
“I apologize for his part in this, but it was necessary. Our questions must be answered under precise conditions, to ensure that you attain the proper end result.”
“You could just ask. What’s with all the deception? Why not send in a counselor or something, instead of the big act.”
The needle jerks and scrawls a few jagged slopes.
“Again I apologize,” he says, “but it was necessary, and I hope that will suffice as an exp
lanation.”
It doesn’t, but somehow I doubt arguing over it will do any good at this point.
“Fine, but who are you people, and what do you want with me?”
The leader glances at the other businessmen. They nod. The leader says, “We are members of the Association, the body governing this system, and many others. We are entrusted with maintaining the conformity of our civilization here, and beyond. This is an ideal handed down by our ancestors that we take great pride in carrying forth into future generations. The program in which you are enrolled exists to establish individual consistency within our organized society. We take great pains to eliminate variation from the populace, a social flaw that causes confusion and unmanageable cultural problems. Our goal is a pure society, rid of these negative aspects, bringing contentment to the peoples we govern.”
I don’t like the sound of this. I’d call it wiping out the dissidents. Sure, they’ve removed every scrap of variation, and created the most boring society anyone could possibly imagine.
“That’s swell. What’s it got to do with me?”
“You are no different from the many citizens we process on a daily basis. The program is for your own benefit, helping you understand the value of conformity, and in doing so, eliminate the harmful deviations you have acquired, all of which are cause for unrest, for you, and those around you. We are pleased to inform you that your journey is nearly at an end. After a series of questions, your processing will be completed, and you will be free to go.”
I like the free to go part, though rather doubt their definition of free matches my own. These creeps are oppressive, and proud of it. However, that opinion needs to stay private. Better to cooperate, and in the process, learn all I can about these pigs.
“Okay, let’s get started.”
The leader almost smiles. “Very good, Carl. I can see by your eagerness to participate that you have advanced to a higher state of consciousness. I am proud of you.”
Proud of me? Oh please, don’t make me sick.
“Let’s just get on with it.”
“Very well,” he says. “For our first question, please, tell us what you know about death.”
My heart jumps. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not dead yet, and I’d really like to stay that way.”
Though a few close calls thanks to the goon patrol. Is that what they want? Right, have me experience near-death just so I can describe the terror. A bunch of sadistic bastards. The doctor’s machine goes wild, the needle scrawling peaks and valleys across the paper. Is that thing reading my mind? I hope not. They won’t like what’s hiding in here.
“Of course you are not dead,” the leader says. “But please, Carl, tell us your beliefs. What happens when a person dies? Where do they go?”
“They don’t go anywhere. They turn into worm food.”
The needle scribbles a few peaks, then calms down. The businessmen glance at the doctor. He nods, and they appear satisfied.
“Very good, Carl. Now, let us explore the concept a bit further. Tell us what you know about Heaven and Hell.”
“Everybody knows about Heaven and Hell, that’s easy. Heaven is where the good people go, and the bad people go to Hell.”
“Go when?” he asks.
“When they die. Okay, so their body is worm food, but they get to spend eternity someplace else.”
“Tell us, Carl, where would you like to spend eternity?”
A dumb question. Like anyone wants to burn in Hell.
“Heaven, of course.”
The needle jerks, making jagged lines across the rolling paper, now collecting on the floor. The businessmen glance at the doctor. He nods, and they appear satisfied.
The leader asks, “Did you consider that Hell is unpleasant?”
That thing is reading my mind.
“Of course I did. Hell sucks, everybody knows that.”
The scribbling needle calms down. Now I understand, there’s no use in lying. It’s all on that paper rolling onto the floor.
“Now tell us, Carl, which was your first thought? That Heaven would be pleasurable, or that Hell is not?”
“How awful Hell would be. I don’t want to go there. I want to be good and go to Heaven instead. I’m sure it’s way better.”
“When you considered how terrible Hell would be, how did that make you feel?”
“Like I’m burning alive, that’s how. I don’t want to go there, really, I don’t. Going to Hell is the worst thing that could possibly happen to anyone. I’m scared just thinking about it.”
The businessmen crack small grins. Are they pleased? Or gloating? They didn’t even glance at the doctor. My words were enough to satisfy them this time.
“Very good, Carl. I am proud of you.”
I’m going to vomit if he says that one more time. He’s not proud of me. No, he’s proud of what he has done to me.
* * *
All this talk of the afterlife has triggered an excruciating migraine.
“Hey, doc,” I call out. “Got something for pain?”
The doctor is perplexed. “Doc? What is that?”
I think to myself, You! Ya dumb-ass!
The needle goes berserk and catches his attention.
“Sir, my head hurts. Do you have any drugs?” Maybe he’ll understand that. Most doctors do, and seem to enjoy the query.
“Oh, yes, of course.” He rummages through his little case.
Another businessman stands. “No! There will be no intoxication during the interview.”
Thanks a lot, pal. I’d like to share this fine pain, via a swift kick upside his head.
The drug-forbidding businessman returns to his seat, and the doctor cowers over his weird machine.
The leader says, “Now, Carl, we have one topic remaining.”
Good, we’re almost done. Thank—
“God,” he says. “Tell us what you know about God.”
A jolt of terror stabs my heart. They’re plugged into my mind. They’re invading my thoughts.
“I’m not sure, other than we’d better please Him, or we’re not going to Heaven. Right?”
What do I know of the Almighty God? Only that I should fear Him more than these creeps.
“Do you fear God?” he asks.
Again my thoughts are invaded. This intrusion is sickening. My heart sinks to join a foul knot forming in my stomach.
“I do, more than anything else. He will send me to Hell if I do not please Him.”
Their questions have reached a dark place where caustic emotions brew. I fear God may be watching over our conversation this very instant, judging my every word, even my thoughts, and He stands poised to punish me if I select an improper response, even an unsatisfactory consideration. I have broken out in a cold sweat. My heart is racing. I’m trembling, the needle is swinging across the paper. They have triggered a terror in me I did not realize exists—an embedded, gruesome fear—I must please God, or He will send me to Hell, without question or reprieve, ever. I cannot imagine any thought more terrifying. Absolute, eternal damnation.
The fear is intense, yet I fail to understand it. If God loves me, why would He send me to Hell? Why would He punish me at all? Perhaps He doesn’t love me. No, I must not have these thoughts. I will be punished for even thinking such a thing. Could I be so bad as to deserve eternal damnation? I don’t know, but I’m not taking any chances. I will be good and make God happy.
The leader says, “Very good, Carl, you have become well adjusted. God should be quite pleased with your obedience. You need not worry. You will not be visiting Hell any time soon.”
Any time soon? That small window of possibility remains open. As long as I behave in the future, and keep myself out of trouble, I’ll also keep myself out of Hell. I must ensure above all else, that every waking moment, I am as good as good can be.
“I’ve answered your questions. Can I go now?”
“A final process remains,” he says. “Have patience. Your enrollment in the program
is nearly at an end.”
* * *
The doctor removes the pads from my chest, forehead and shoulders, then he packs his gear and collects the paper piled on the floor. The woman who recorded our conversation rises and exits through the far door, and the doctor follows her out.
It appears our little chat is over. The businessmen remain seated with their hands folded. The leader leans to the fellow beside him and whispers something, probably about me and what happens next. The final process I assume, which remains an unsettling mystery. They said I’d be free to go, but somehow, that freedom could be to go somewhere I wouldn’t choose.
The Bobs return and release my restraints. They yank me out of the chair and hold tight.
“It’s okay, Bob,” I say to one, then his partner, “And you too, Bob, don’t worry. I’m not running away this time.”
The goons aren’t taking any chances. They secure another restraint over my wrists and fasten the device with excessive force.
“My name is not Bob,” one says, then points to his buddy. “And neither is his, you stupid creature. You will cease referring to agents in this manner immediately.”
I have annoyed him. Good. I’d like to annoy him to death.
“Okay, then what’s your name? Maybe if you introduced yourself properly, I’d know what to call you.”
“That is not important.”
Sure, all the fuss over the proper name and he still doesn’t tell. In that case, I’m sticking with Bob. But then, Dickhead might work, too.
“Don’t I have a right to know who’s roughing me up? I might want to file a complaint. I think every one of you should give me your names. You’re all in big trouble.”
“Enough!” he hollers. “You will be silent.” He points to the door, and the others take every opportunity to slam me into the doorframe on the way out, inflicting additional pain that they seem to enjoy dispensing.
Boy, they’re pissed off. Maybe I should stop calling them Bob.
Awakening: Dead Forever Book 1 Page 5