by Ethan Cooper
(time to die)
BLINK.
…
…
…
A tiny hand grabs my pinky. I’m in wonder at the strength in that grip.
…
…
…
BLINK.
NO!
This hurts, but I can’t let that stop me.
Nothing’s responding, but this is my body, so I have to yell louder.
I’ve lost control, but that doesn’t mean I can’t take it back.
There’s nothing I can do, but I have to do something.
“You’re right, this is my fault,” I say out loud. Even though nobody’s in the room, I know he’s watching. My arms are spasming, but I manage to curl into a fetal position, one arm reaching down toward my feet. My fingers are flopping all over the place, so I make a grab for the lower part of my leg. For that heroic effort, I’m rewarded with a couple of fingers stuck between my calf and my thigh. I try again, concentrating, this time I get a couple of fingers curled around my ankle.
I’m sure Calamity Carl is watching from somewhere, arms crossed, with that childish, painted-on grin of his, giddy as he watches his captive desperately try to hold on to whatever life she has left.
Walking twitchy digits down the rest of my ankle, I’m able to get the middle one under the arch of my foot. From there, it’s just a few more inches until my index finger is resting beside the bent abomination that is my little left toe. Curled up like I am, I can look past my knee to see the swollen extremity. I can’t look away. My eyes tell me that I can actually see it throbbing. The nail is half torn off, and there’s a trickle of blood oozing out from underneath it.
Just before the black shroud of unconsciousness is able to take me away, I grab my toe and shove it back into position.
I suppose it’s possible I haven’t really felt pain before—at least compared to some other people—but take every physical hurt I’ve incurred since I woke up in that alley, squish it all into one moment, and that’s what this feels like. It’s unfiltered and pure, cutting through all other sensations.
If the static and shock are still there, I can’t feel them. There is only my foot and the insistent idea that if I could just find that pulse dagger and activate it, I could cut the offending appendage from my body.
I’m shivering. Did Calamity Carl lower the temperature in the room, or is my body confused?
After that initial spike, the pain lessens, leaving in its wake a clarity that I’m not sure I’ve ever known. Everything seems brighter, more in focus. More important, the static is gone, and my muscles are once again responding to my commands—even though I know I’m still being shocked.
Careful to avoid banging my feet unnecessarily on the ground, I roll to my side and push myself to my knees. Balancing on my knees with my feet raised, I revel in a dizzying wave of euphoria at having it made it this far.
The remnants of my shirt are underneath me. The pulse dagger rests against my pinky. Okay, so that’s what the pain in my side was. I grab it, and it feels so right underneath my fingertips, as if it were specifically made for me. Of course, it doesn’t activate, because there’s no way Calamity Carl would leave me alone in a room with a working pulse dagger. I’m not sure it would cut through this chain, but I’d sure like to find out.
Muscles in my leg begin to spasm. Starts at the back of my knee and works its way down, vibrating across my calf. Just as it hits my ankle, I look back, sighting my feet through my thighs, willing the spams to stop. I’m able to keep the limb from extending, which would slam my broken toe into the ground, but it takes just about all I have.
Turning my head to look around the room causes a throbbing knot at the base of my skull. I try not to vomit. I close my eyes and take inventory of my resources.
My broken body.
My clothes.
The nonfunctional pulse dagger.
The locked shackle.
The chain.
The rod in the center of the room.
That’s it. That’s everything I have within reach. This might be where I take my last breath. There may not be a way out of this room. But if salvation is within my reach, then it’ll have to come by way of those items.
(just give up nobody’s coming to)
(save you)
(save you)
(save you)
(save yourself)
Keeping the pulse dagger in my hand I inspect the shackle once again. Every surface on the damned thing seems to deliver a gleaming wink at me, as if mocking my desperation, as if it knows I’m operating on borrowed time.
Avoid looking at that toe.
Avoid looking at that toe.
I thought you were willing to do what it takes…
The shackle’s a dead end, so I move along the chain, fingers buzzing over the cool loops of metal, head down close, looking for any weakness in the dim light. Tug and twist each loop, each one as solid as the previous.
Halfway done when my other leg begins to spasm. It’s quicker this time, and only rolling to one side prevents my foot from going toes-first into the floor. I stare at my twitching leg until it slows, not quite stopping, but enough that I can continue.
Reaching the end of the chain without discovering any weaknesses delivers a maddening blend of completion and disappointment. I want to punch something, but my body is already suffering. No need to add to that.
I set the pulse dagger down. That seems wrong somehow, but I need both hands free for what I’m going to do next.
The rod at the end of the chain still doesn’t budge when I tug on it, no matter which direction I apply pressure, and the seam where it enters the floor is smooth and flush, so I won’t be able to shove anything down in there. I try turning it again. Doesn’t move. Pulling on it is difficult since I have to crouch over it and pull upward without putting pressure on my little toes. Even slight pressure sends stuttering slivers of pain shooting up my legs. I resist the urge to scream profanities into the room. Calamity Carl’s already won, and he knows it, so there’s no sense giving him any satisfaction as he watches me struggle. When pulling doesn’t work, I push down, balancing my entire torso above the rod. I remain there for several futile seconds before acknowledging that this too isn’t producing any results.
Sliding back onto my butt, the rod rising up between my knees, I sit there and breathe, only able to passively observe as the tremble returns, this time to both of my legs. I can’t tell if it’s the shock I’m getting through the shackle, or if it’s just my body beginning to surrender.
That fucking chain. Find a way to detach it or die. It really is that simple. The shackle, the chain, and the rod are unbreakable—at least not by me.
I have my clothes, but there’s no concealed shackle key sewn into the hem. There’s no way I can use them to escape this room. Not unless you count taking them off, tearing them into strips, tying them together, and somehow using all that to strangle myself.
That leaves the pulse dagger, which isn’t so much a dagger, but—like everything else that doesn’t work since Cyberspace went offline—a discarded relic of a world in descent.
(then just die angel)
I pull the pulse dagger into my hand, resting my thumb against the activation sensor. When that doesn’t work, I set about examining the handle. There’s nothing unusual about it that I can tell—the handle is smooth, with control surfaces inset into the indentations where your fingers and thumb rest. The cross-guard at the one end of the handle is polished metal, with a thin slit for where the blade emerges. I run my thumb across the surface there, but nothing seems to be blocking the opening. If the weapon was working properly, the focused energy field would approximate the shape of a dagger blade. Same technology they use in pulse shielding, only instead of using it to keep intruders out of your home, you use it to poke holes in people. Turning the handle over, I examine the pommel, which consists of a cylinder of metal slightly larger in diameter than the rest of the handle. There
’s an arcing groove there with a tiny black nub at one end. Pushing the nub causes it to travel along the groove. When it gets to the end, there’s a click, and the whole pommel comes off in my hand.
The trembling in my legs has reached my hips, and I can hear the static again. It’s low, but it’s there humming, reminding me that it was never really gone, just replaced. The mind can only take so many sources of stimulation at one time. The pain of your arm being amputated is momentarily forgotten when you take a punch to the face.
The newest hurt is always the most real.
Staring at what lies inside the pulse dagger handle, it’s all I can do to not grab a couple handfuls of my hair and pull as hard as I can.
There, nestled snug in its socket is the pulse dagger’s power module, pulsing red. Because it’s been inserted backward.
Fingers trembling, I put the pommel down on the floor between my legs, extract the power module, warm and alive in my palm, flip it around, and reinsert it. The module changes color from red to green. I reach for the pommel, but I find that my arm is suddenly spasming so violently that I can’t control it. I grab my arm, pushing it up against the side of my knee. I watch my fingers twitch as if possessed. The static rises, and then it’s really my whole body that’s twitching. Black dots appear in my peripheral vision. The room blurs as it dims.
No please, not again, I need more time.
(you need to hurry angel)
(do it)
No.
Don’t want to.
But.
Have to.
Even though it’s worse, much worse—since I know what’s coming—I do it fast this time, reaching down through my legs with the arm I can control and pushing the still-bent-backward toe back into place so it matches its sister on the other foot. Can feel the bones in my toe splintering against each other.
Screaming, something pops in my spine when I arch backward, my vision narrowing to a long tunnel, through which I can only see the bright white of the ceiling lights. I want to go unconscious; I ache for it, but my mind refuses to relax its grip.
(you’re not going anywhere angel you’re in)
(my world)
I sit up, insulated from the debilitations of the static and shock again. Both of my toes are swollen, mottled red, and askew. The pain coming from them is acute, centering me. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to walk properly again. It was bad before. Don’t think I improved things. Just bought myself a few more minutes.
(hurry)
Retrieving the pulse dagger pieces from the floor takes more concentrated effort than I’d like. I’m in full control of my body at the moment, but I’m tired, and my muscles are tingling with fatigue. I slap the pommel back into place, turn the handle over, and slink my fingers into place. There’s a moment there where I know—I just know—it’s still not going to work, but then I hear the faint hum, and I feel the weapon vibrating gently in my palm. The blade is oscillating white, a luminescent, partially transparent, living thing. It’s beautiful, as if I’ve captured radioactive flitterwasps.
I almost drop it.
Pulling a length of the chain over to between my legs, I lower the pulse dagger in a swift, deliberate attack. The pulse dagger bounces back at me. The loop of chain I hit shows no evidence of a wound. I try again with similar results, and when that doesn’t work, I try again, and again, stabbing the chain over and over until my shoulder locks up and my forearm is cramping, almost like it’s been punched repeatedly.
Something falls from my cheek. There’s a short hiss as a tear is vaporized by the blade of the pulse dagger.
(silly angel calamity carl)
(left the dagger)
(on purpose)
If not the chain, the shackle then.
When I touch the blade to the surface of the shackle, I can feel the vibrations all the way up to my thigh. Where the bright tip touches like a welding arc, the surface of the shackle turns black. I increase the pressure, bracing my leg with one arm, realizing that if this starts to work, I run the risk of sending the blade right through my ankle. Pretty confident the pulse dagger cuts through flesh and bone without any hesitation.
No need to worry about that though, since this isn’t working. Other than the fact that the surface of the shackle is slightly warmer than it was before I started, the damage is only cosmetic. Tracing the black line that the blade left, I can’t feel any sort of groove.
If not the shackle, the rod then. Even though I’m sure it’s made of the same material as the chain.
I scoot closer to the center of the room, shoving the pulse dagger blade through the center of the loop at the top of the rod, tracing the inner circumference, producing the same lack of result as it did with the shackle and the chain.
“Well, dammit,” I say, relaxing my arm, resting the flat of the blade against the inside of the loop, my mind envisioning the metal glowing red and melting away, even though I know it won’t. The energy field of the pulse dagger blade doesn’t work like that.
(angel)
(your foot)
No.
Fuck no.
I’m not going to do that.
(angel)
(your foot look)
It’s twitching. Of course it is, because it’s the one that’s shackled. Makes sense that it’s the first one to feel the effects. The second toe bought me even less time than the first.
(it doesn’t have to)
(end this way)
(end it)
(your way)
If not the rod, then…then what? The floor. I laugh out loud at that. Sure, I’ll just dig my way out. Yeah, I’m out of ideas.
I stare at the blade of the pulse dagger, losing myself in the hypnotic throbbing of its surface. There’s an irrational urge to reach out and run my finger along the flat of the blade, just to see what it would feel like. The thought of my finger sliding along the energy field, melting into its surface in a river of pink and red, is inescapable.
Oh. It hits me. Calamity Carl left the pulse dagger for a purpose, just not for the one I’d assumed: to taunt and torture me with the illusion of escape. He knew I’d figure out the power module. He knew the pulse dagger wouldn’t damage anything in the room.
Except for me.
Not sure which is worse—the illusion of escape or the reality?
I need to get rid of the pulse dagger.
bzzzzzZZZZt!!!!!
My body does this weird, twisting thing that sends my legs wide and my hand with pulse dagger forward. I end up flailing like a trapped animal, my arm pushed through the loop until my elbow stops any further progress. Everything goes dim. The last link in the chain is wedged tight against my forearm. Even though the rest of my body is buzzing, flopping around, loose like a string, my fingers are locked down tight around the pulse dagger, as if it’s the last thing anchoring me to consciousness. That’s when both broken toes slam into the floor simultaneously.
Everything goes away then. My spasming body, my trapped arm, the pulse dagger, the shock, the static. All of it. Oddly, I’m fully conscious during the sudden absence of all sensory input. Oh wow, if I could put this in a bottle and sell it, I’d be the most popular drug dealer in the world. The sensation of being awake, but without any pain, not even the minor aches that you experience from being tired or staying too long in one position, is a wholly unique state of existence. It’s heaven.
It ends too soon, but when it does, the static is muted and my body has stopped spasming. I extract my arm from the metal loop, my limb tingling as blood rushes back. How long was I out? The pulse dagger is still active, so I relax my thumb, and the blade disappears. I massage my forearm with my other hand to stimulate circulation. Ouch, that’s going to leave a bruise.
Wait. Something is…amiss. Not sure what it is, but I’m suddenly uneasy, which is quite a feat considering what I’ve experienced in this room so far. I hate to think that I’ve become so acclimated to this room that my subconscious is able to sense anomalies.
/>
But yeah, something’s wrong.
No, something’s different.
Staying where I am, I take a long, slow look around the room, memorizing the position of everything. When I’m sure I’ve studied everything, I close my eyes and compare what I just saw to every detail I can remember from before.
Eyes snap open when I see it. It’s the rod. It’s not in the same position as before; it’s been rotated. I’m sliding closer, dropping the pulse dagger, hands gripping the metal loop, twisting as hard as I can, which is probably not that hard given how little food I’ve consumed recently. The loop doesn’t move, not one damned centimeter. What the fuck?!?
(better solve)
(the mystery fast)
(look)
Leg is spasming again. There’s a limit to how many times I’m going to be able to inflict severe agony on myself to delay the end. Eventually, the shock and the static will win.
(the bruise angel)
Looking at my arm, there’s a red blotchy ring around the thick part of my forearm. Okay, I know what happened, but I’m liable to break a bone trying to do that on purpose.
I have the pulse dagger back in my hand, but not activated this time. Instead, I shove the length of the handle through the loop at the top of the rod, then grab one end of the handle in each hand. Pushing forward with one hand and pulling back with the other, I have more leverage than I did when I was exerting the same force using only my hands on the loop. It doesn’t move. I’m weak from lack of sleep, water, and food—I know this—but this has to work. I’m out of ideas, and I’m just about out of time. Both legs are doing a crazy dance, my muscles spasming, tentacles of tingling numbness wriggling their way up my body.
“Please,” I say. Not sure who I’m talking to. Myself. Calamity Carl. The automatic me. God. One of those. Not picky who it is.
I hear the grind of metal on metal, there’s a ratcheting squeal, a pop, then the whole rod turns. I’m giggling almost immediately, pushing and pulling, spinning the rod around and around, watching as it begins to rise from the floor, easier to spin with each rotation. I spin the rod until I’m dizzy watching the pulse dagger handle twirl, fighting through spams that creep up my torso, up my back, and over my shoulders. Just when my arms begin to throb, my fingers going slack, the rod comes free of its threaded hole and falls sideways onto the floor.