E.H.U.D.: Chapter 24

Chapter 24

This time there was light, soft and blue, wrapping around shapes and making the whole world glow.  John lay in a large bed, his arms held to side-rails by short padded lanyards.  Tubes and wires descended from a tangle of devices that hung around him.  Beyond those he could see milky-white curtains, cutting him off from the shadowy forms beyond.

This time, there was order, a dependable schedule.  There was a day of discernible length, a night of dimmed light.  Four times a day a person in a thick green plastic suit would come in, check the devices, check him, leave.  After that would come a vibration in the tube running through John's mouth and into his body, then he would feel full and satisfied.  Compared to what had come before it was a good life. 

Except he couldn't sleep.  Every time his mind began to drift away, every time his stomach felt full and ready to digest, he would see Suzanne slumped lifeless on the floor.  Would wonder again if he had actually moved his finger, or if the two men had chosen arbitrarily.  Compared to this place of rest, was it better to be dead?  Was Suzanne in the best place he could have chosen for her?  Had he protected her, or once again hurt her?  Or had she chosen quick escape for herself, leaving him the painful choice and the even more painful life beyond?  Every time he thought of her, he missed her.  Every time he missed her, he hated her.  Every time he hated her, he longed to have her back.

After twenty days, solace came to him; he had made the right choice.  The person in the thick green suit had come, like always, had checked him over.  But this time the person didn't leave.  This time, John's straps were tightened, new straps were added to his ankles, across his legs and chest.  He was trapped in the bed, unable to move. 

His attendant left, returned a moment later with a large handled box.  Inside were row upon row of syringes holding a clear liquid.  A syringe was selected, fluid was injected, John was infected.

That night, as the lights dimmed and John tried to sleep, he felt hot.  He was sweating now, his eyes stinging, his body aching.  He tried to move, to curl in on himself to escape the pain, but it was no use; the straps were too tight.

By morning, he was not alone.  Suzanne and Lucy lay beside him, both resplendent in frilly wedding gowns, the white lace pouring over the sides of the bed.  They caressed his forehead, reassured him, told him that he had made the right choice.  Suzanne had no one to return to; John had Lucy.  It was is if the weight of the world had lifted from his chest.

They both leaned close, tried to kiss him around his feeding tube—

The attendant returned.  John was poked, prodded.  Notes were made on a small tablet.  As the attendant left, as the food returned, John came to his senses enough to see the women fade and vanish.  In their place was his body, strapped to the bed.

He was thin, his stringy muscles standing out in sharp detail.  All along the pale skin were patches of purple-tinged red, like bruises, rising up above the underlying muscle.  As he watched, the red patches grew, connecting in places.  They bulged, hardened, oozed with pus, retracted, formed again.  With each new growth, each change in his body, he became hotter, began to gasp for breath, faded away into the inferno that was boiling just beneath his skin.

His last thought before passing out was that perhaps he had died, and what he was feeling were the flames of hell...

  

This time there were voices.  They spoke softly, incoherently, mumbling from every side.  They woke John, brought him out of the pit with Suzanne and back to the bed.  His body stretched out before him, pale and smooth, the matrix of scars completely gone.  He didn’t know how long his mind had been away, but it must have been for a considerable span.

His mind...  it must be playing tricks on him.  The voices continued, but they were too clear.  Thick plastic sheets still cut him off from the rest of the world, but they didn't muffle the sounds.  In fact, they seemed to be completely unmodulated.  The voices came to him, free of echo, pure of tone.  It seemed less like he was hearing them so much as directly perceiving them with his mind.

Trying to listen to the voices, to take in what they had to say, was stranger still.  There seemed to be no thought behind the words—or rather, too much thought.  One voice would start: Oh, God, how could I let him... I shouldn't be here...  Then another would break in: Kill then all... as soon as I can move, I'll kill them...  Then yet another: How much longer, how much longer, how much longer...

The more John listened, the more the words broke down, the more he heard—felt—raw emotion.  Images floated along with the words: hundreds of faces, all ages and races, most out in the sun, living in the world.  Many, thin and naked, their hair shorn and pain evident in their eyes.

Whoever these mysterious speakers were, they seemed to have suffered just as he had.

And the voices continued.

The attendant came, the feeding tube vibrated, and the voices continued.  Day dimmed into night, John tried to sleep, and the voices continued.  He tried to block them out by thinking of Suzanne.  As he focused on her, the whisper-pictures of the other victims became louder, and he shifted to Lucy.  This brought about even louder whispers, but now of friends, of family, of good times in the world of the living.  As the whisper-pictures continued to flood his mind, he was able to drift off to sleep, convinced that this had all been a bad dream.

And the voices continued.

Just before sleep claimed him, another voice joined the din, strong and sure, and completely clear in meaning.  I'm sorry...  I didn't want to, but you are the first sacrifice for the new world...  there is no solace for you in this life, but there will be for some of you in the life to come...

Falling asleep in one impossible situation only to awaken in another was becoming routine by now.  This time John was in a gymnasium-sized room, made of the same dark cement as the halls of this place.  This time when he woke to find a sea of clothes-less, hairless people around him, he didn't panic; neither did the others.  As they came awake, as they recognized they were not alone, they merely nodded greeting to each other, then scooted away and become obsessed with their own misery.

As the group fragmented, the whisper-pictures returned...

The sound of boots echoed around the room, distorted by the space: real sounds, not in his head.  Standing along one wall, about midway down the room, were the two men who had stood behind the chairs.  Based on the angry buzz that came through the voices, the endless identical whisper-pictures, these men had stood behind many chairs... or at least many occupants.

The shorter man took a step forward.  “Greetings, everyone.  My name is Allen.  My colleague,” he gestured at the other man, “is Shaun.  For now, those are our only names.  And you,” he looked around the room, locking gazes with every hate-filled pair of eyes in the room, “have been chosen to become the greatest weapons humankind has ever made.  We live in a dangerous world, always on the edge of cataclysmic end.  Everyone is always so ready to give offense.  What we need is defense.  You... you will be Defenders.”

For a moment there was silence.  For a moment no sound, real or imagined, disrupted the sanctity of what the man—Allen—said.

Then there was a yell, a single lungful of echoing noise, backed a thousand-fold by the voices.  Someone leapt from the ground, rushed at Allen.  The other man—Shaun—twitched forward, an eagerness glinting from his eyes, but Allen was faster, intercepting the attacker, gripping him in a massive bear hug.

John found himself unable to breath, the cable-like muscles of Allen's arms holding him more firmly then the bed restraints ever had. 

“You,” he whispered into John's ear.  “You would have defended her if you could.  I'm giving you that chance now.”

John grunted, let out a short gasp of air.  He prayed the others would follow him, rescue him, but he heard no sound of movement.

Oh, they want to help you... I'm not letting them, though... It's better that way...  Your time to lead them will come John...

John.  The shock of hearing his own name, the horror of knowing that the people here knew who he was, sent a wave of nausea rolling through him, and his legs gave way.  Allen crouched, lowered him to the ground, laid him gently on the rough floor.

Hey... A new voice.  I thought we'd agreed, no more of this touchy-feely shit...

The General agrees with my methods...  What I do here, I do with authority...

Allen stared back out at the crowd, his eyes lingering on John.  You're not supposed to hear that...  But I need you to know that no matter what, we're on the same team...  I'm just getting a head start on trust...

As Allen's voice spoke into his mind, John was aware of the man's true voice, air and vocal-cords voice, echoing around the room.  This man could speak silently while he also spoke aloud... 

And this man had just spoken silently into John's mind.  The low voices, the whisper-pictures, had been vague and confusing, coming off a period of emotional stress and severe sickness.  But this time he felt whole, felt rested, felt alert.  And this man had just spoken into his mind.

The nausea that had hit him when Allen used his name returned, in greater force, and the last remnants of what had been in the feeding tube sprayed in an arc over Allen's boots.

Don't worry yourself... I can get them clean later...

Routine was once more becoming routine.  Every day the lights would turn on, and Shaun would walk into the room.  He would lead his horde of prisoners through exercises, then combat kata, then walk amongst them as they sparred against each other.  He would correct them if they performed an action poorly, give a cold nod of acknowledgement if they performed an action well.  If any of his Defenders refused to fight, or chose to fight him, he would send them to the ground, twitching and writhing in psychic agony.

Every day, this was John.  Every day he would follow the exercises, would go through the motions of the combat forms, would test his mettle against one of his compatriots.  Then, just as Shaun passed by him, he would swing out, try to catch Shaun unawares, try to hurt him.  Every day he would end up on his back, radiating hatred at Shaun's smiling face.

Every day, Shaun would have the last word.  “Goddamn, Donalson, how are you ever going to please that girlfriend of yours if you don't even have the balls to hit me?”

Every day, John vowed revenge.

After exercises there was food and water.  The same bean-paste as before, but much more of it.  They were encouraged to eat.  Not just to eat, to gorge themselves.  They would eat until they were almost ready to vomit, then the lights were dimmed and they were told to rest.  For the first few days, there was nervous whispering, hurried plans to overwhelm the two men and escape.  Within a week, all discussion stopped, and all rested.

Nap time would end, and Allen would enter the room.  In contrast to Shaun, he always smiled, always greeted his horde by name.  “Ashleigh, you're looking well today.  Vince, glad to see that arm's healing.”  And always, a private word for John.  I didn't mean for this to happen...  Just give me a little while longer, and it will all make sense...

They sat in loose rows before him, their legs folded, hands resting palms-up on knees.  The first day they had been nervous, uncertain.  Allen led them through breathing exercises, through meditation techniques.  Many, those who had spoken throughout the nap period, had fallen asleep. 

Carefully opening one eye and looked around, John saw Allen stand, saw him approach one of those who slept.  A young woman, honey-skinned with a round head and a flat nose.  John flinched inside, already sympathetic to the pain this woman was about to endure. 

Allen reached down and patted her bare shoulder.  “Naomi?  Wake up, I'm afraid there's still work to do today.”

Her eyes snapped open and she looked around terrified.  Those sitting closest to her edged away, unwilling to suffer Allen's wrath.

Allen smiled, nodded in acknowledgement, and returned to the front of the room.  “Now you all see the importance of rest before this exercise.  If the mind can't stay awake while it is away from the body, it is useless...”

As the weeks slowly passed, Allen's instruction became steadily more bizarre.  Yet even as it raised so many questions about why they were there, why they had been kidnapped and tortured, it also answered other questions.

Now, I know you all can hear me...  I want to hear you...  You've been doing it already, unconsciously...  Now, I want you all to envision my mind, to seek it out, to speak purposefully to it...

There was a confused babble from the voices, sudden flashes of whisper-pictures.  But they were quieter this time, less, clear, as if they had been focused at one destination,  as if less of the signal were getting lost.

I hate you Allen... I hate you and Shaun, and this place and your goddamned mysterious General...

Allen smiled.  “Very good, everyone; we've made progress.  I think we'll end a little early today.  Maybe tonight, while you're sleeping, you'll try to reach out and speak to someone with what I have shown you.  I sincerely hope you do...”  I'm not against you, John...  I hate this place just as much as you do...  This was not what I expected...  Just give me time...

After Allen there was more food.  Food, feasting, sleep.  They all lay curled in a mass in the middle of the room.  For some reason, sleep came easier to them after their time with Allen than their time with Shaun.

It was during this time, after a hard day of training, after the two men had left, that the Defenders talked.

“You know,” a short woman named Cyd said, “things might go better for you if you don't antagonize Shaun.”

A girl, no more than 16—Maria—scoffed and said, “He's the only one who's willing to do what we should all be doing.  Just because it looks like we're stuck here doesn't mean we can't find a way out.”

“He keeps speaking to me...” John said.  About ten others turned to stare at him.  “Allen.  In my mind.  He keeps telling me that he's sorry this is all happening, that if we're patient, he'll get us all out of here.”

Cyd's eyes widened and she gestured at John.  “Okay, then just keep your head down; he'll let us go.  We just wait, and everything's fixed.”

“I'm sorry, how long have we been here?”

Cyd didn't respond. 

“How long were you held in a tiny room, being tortured, huh?  I'd guess for me at least a month, maybe longer.  I wouldn't know; I was too busy being mind-fucked.  And then, you know what?  I killed the one person who was there for me throughout that time, the one person who needed me.  Then I got infected with God only knows what.  Did that happen to you too?”

Cyd nodded.

“And how long do you think Allen's known about that, huh?  At least since I killed Suzanne?”

“Harry...” Cyd muttered.

“You think if maybe, maybe he was going to get us out of here, he would have done it before we were tortured, or before they turned us into killers, huh?  You think he might have done it while we were still human?”  John was trembling now, breathing heavily.  “If he was going to get us out of here, he should have done it by now.  At this point, I don't want his help.  I'll do whatever I need to, to get out on my own.”

He glared at Cyd, waited for her to say something.  She looked away.  He sighed.  His anger released, he fell back to the concrete, then turned on his side and tried to sleep.

It continued like this for over a year.  Wake up, Shaun, food, sleep, Allen, food, sleep, wake up, Shaun.  They grew stronger, faster, their bodies honed to perfection.  Sparring was no longer a challenge, was just a game of blocking each other's moves.  Their minds also grew stronger, also neared perfection.  They had long ago moved past speaking to each other through their thoughts, long ago moved past simple matter manipulation.  They had all moved together, their minds linked, passing through an entire human body, seen its intimate workings, healed its maladies, found a hundred thousand ways of killing it without ever leaving a mark.  They had moved beyond thinking of themselves as single isolated humans, had now become something more.

And then one night Allen spoke to them while they slept.

Soon, others will come into this place, to test you, to use you...  You will be asked to do terrible things...  And now, I will ask you to do the most terrible thing of all...  I will ask that you trust me...

And with those words a dream began.  The memory of being Allen entered their minds, and they were all corporals in the United States Army, standing in a sterile room, dressed in nothing but a thin paper gown.

“You understand the risks of this?” an older man asked.

“Sir, yes, sir, proud to risk my life for my country, sir!”

“No need to be so gung-ho, Corporal Fendleton.  The tests have been very effective with animals; your prognosis looks good.”

Fendleton nodded as a doctor led him to an examining table.

The older man continued.  “Fendleton, if this works out...  Well, not only do we have that promotion I mentioned, but also the possibility of training some others.  It won't be immediate, mind you, we still need to find out what you're capable of, but if you meet our expectations, we're looking to increase the scope of the program, and...” He shrugged.  “You'd be in on the ground floor.”

Allen laughed around a tongue depressor.  “Sou's goo' 'a 'e.”

The scene faded, shifted, and now they all lay in familiar beds, with the familiar tension of restraints on their arms as familiar pain racked through their bodies.

In the next bed over—the only other bed in the room—lay Shaun.

“Goddammit,” he yelled, “this was a fucking mistake!”

All Allen could do was groan agreement.

The scene faded again.  Now First Lieutenant Allen Fendleton stood before the desk of the older man, Colonel Robert Mistlethwakey.  “You've done good, son.  Much better than our initial estimates.  Hell, all the chimps did was make the researchers give them bananas and get horny.  Unfortunately, your prowess leaves us in a bit of a predicament.”

“Sir?” 

“I've already spoken this over with the President, and he agrees.  Drawing volunteers for an augmented intelligence force is one thing, but for fucking superheroes?  We can't have acknowledged people on our pay with those kinds of powers, not if we don't want the rest of the world to nuke us to hell and back.  This goes a bit beyond Project Stargate.  No, we're going completely black ops on this one.  We're recruiting from the populace, doing this in such a way that no one can trace it back to us.  Matter of fact, we've already started.  Now, we just need you and Lieutenant Wendleferce to train the unfortunate motherfuckers.”

“Sir, I...” unease passed through the multitude that shared Allen's mind.  “Sir, I have some reservations about that...”

“Come on, now, Fendleton, where's that gung-ho spirit you used to have?  We need it for this.  You said you were willing to do anything for your country, yes?”

And now they were back in the bright cubes, hiding behind the prototype powered armor the General had passed on.  They stood next to Todd Frease, the program doctor, as Shaun mercilessly beat one of his victims.  The thin little man, freckled skin, mid-thirties—Harry—tried to stand, but Shaun hit him again, cracking the skull, spraying blood over the woman in the room—Cyd.  

That's enough, Shaun...  You can't just kill them...

Shaun reached out and pinched a vessel in Cyd's brain; she collapsed into unconsciousness.  Then he began pushing together the split side's of Harry's head, fusing the skull back together.

Doesn't really matter, does it?  One of them is going to die anyway...

Allen felt a wave of revulsion, and marched out of the room.

The scene faded, and now there was only darkness.

I didn't want to do this, but...  It was supposed to be for the best...  You were supposed to be a first-line defense against global threats, but now I see that won't work...  You're greater than a single nation, a single cause...  You are gods among men, forces of a global scale, and you must defend all of humanity...  You are strong now, I trust you now with what power you have...

I ask now that you savor what power you have tasted, and stay with me as I feed you more...  Stay here and learn all you can, become more powerful than you could ever have imagined, and together we will rise from this pit and ascend to a world in need of what we can offer...  I asked you once to be Defenders...  Now I ask you again...  Forgive the unforgivable thing I have done, and use this power to truly defend the defenseless...

And throughout the room, forty-nine freighted, desperate, hopeful mind answered Yes...  And one mind answered No...

 The next morning lights turned on, and Shaun strode into the room.  He stopped, fell into a pose, performed a swift set of movements, stopped and watched as his students did the same.  Then, another set.  Both were movements taught long ago, returned to be fresh in the student's minds.  More movements, his students following them all exactly.  Then he walked amongst them, reaching out his arms to touch two, telling them to fight, touching another two, the same. 

He passed by John, sneered at him, just as he had every day.

The fighting began, a fluid dance of twenty-five pairs swirling and striking, flowing around each other, never quite hitting.  Shaun continued to walk amongst them, to become a sudden third player in the dance, to move through and be gone.  He passed by John, readied himself... but John ignored him.  John continued to be engrossed by the tall, thick-limbed body of Merv the Soldier, continued to participate whole-heartedly in the dance.

So Shaun passed through them, confident that today there had been a change.

The dance ended, small doors on either end of the room slid open, and bowls of food were passed through.  Shaun watched as his students stood, got their food, began to eat.

John watched Shaun.  He kept track of the man—the monster—as he went to the wall, picked up a bowl, sat down with Cyd and Naomi to eat.

Shaun started towards a door.  John picked up the bowl and poured its contents onto the floor.

“The hell?”

He stood, threw the bowl, held it in his mind and flung it at Shaun, crashing it into the side of his face, spraying blood.

“The hell?!”

John leapt forward, all concentration on his hips and legs, reaching Shaun in under two seconds, grabbing him, throwing him to the ground. 

Shaun took the weight of the thin Defender, rolled, came up to his feet grappling with John.  They both broke apart, began swinging at each other, neither hitting, too evenly matched.  John struck out with his third fist, his invisible fist, flattening Shaun's face and spraying out even more blood.  He reached inside with the fist, found Shaun's heart, began to squeeze it.

Shaun gasped, clutched at his chest, narrowed his eyes.  John was flung backwards, scraped along the rough ground for a yard, his back torn and bloody.  He came up, lunged, found all feeling below his waist disappear, stumbled and collapsed, his legs flopping and twitching, trying to find a signal from the brain.

John glared up as Shaun leaned over him, his flattened nose extending, snapping back into place, the flow of blood drying and stopping.

“Before, back when it was just a swing or two at my head?  That was kind of cute.  You were just trying to show you weren't broken, were still fighting back.  That was good, that was spirit.  But this?  This is just goddamn sad.  You don't get it yet, do you?  You can't beat me.  I rule here, and you have no choice but to fall in line.”

John tried to muster a wad of bloody saliva, to spit it up into Shaun's face, but it merely fell back into his own.

“I know all about you, Johnny-boy.  I've read your files and I've read your mind.  What you don't seem to realize is, while you're stuck here, I can leave whenever I want.  What's to stop me from going up to Philadelphia, from finding Lucille Dawkins, from doing whatever I damn well please to here?”

John began to twitch.

“You may think the outside world is gone.  In a way, it is.  You can't touch it.   But it can sure as hell touch you.  I can come back and tell you just exactly what I did to her.  Hell, I can do one better.  I can show you, I can give you a nice vicarious conjugal visit to your little girlfriend.  How'd you like that?”

John continued to twitch, his eyes growing wider.

“Good.”  Shaun straightened and walked away.

As feeling returned to John's body, as he was able to roll over and stand, to see the stunned and piteous looks of his compatriots, a voice came into his mind.

Now will you do it?  Now will you bide your time with me, join me in subverting men like him?  Now will you be one of my Defenders?

John walked stiffly back to Cyd and Naomi, scooped some bean-paste off the ground, ate it.

What do you want me to do?

Diary of a Man-Child 25/11/13

     Mother took them to the food bank where she used to volunteer; they had been nice enough to offer us a free Thanksgiving meal.  While mother chatted it up with one of her old friends, he and his sister hovered around, trying to entertain themselves.  Things got interesting when he grabbed Sister's bandana and yanked it off her head.
     "Mom!" sister yelled, chasing him around shelves stacked high with off-brand food.
     Mother ignored them.
     After four or so times, pulling off the bandana lost its appeal, so they floated over towards an empty food rack with a sign reading "Take only "one" bag, please."
     "We have to burn this," he said.
     "I know, right?" sister scoffed.
     Mother finally took notice of them.  "Why do you have to burn this?"
     "They're mis-using quotation marks," he said.
     Mother returned to ignoring them.
     After the food was in the car, and after another round of yank-the-bandana, they went across the street to the Chinese buffet.  On the way, sister tried her hardest to get him punished for annoying her.  "You always take his side!" she yelled.  "He never gets in trouble!"
     He found a pair of sister's black-and-white striped gloves and put them on.
     "Stop acting like this," mother said.  "You're an adult."
     "I may be, but Zebra Man isn't!"  He cackled and clicked his fingers together.
     In the restaurant they were seated, their drinks ordered and delivered, and now he was trying to blow the paper off of his straw.
     "Get that out of your nose," mother said.
     He pulled the paper down a little further, then straightened, looked around, and proceeded to blow the paper off.
     "I told you not to do that!"
     "No one was looking!"
     They calmed down after a few minutes, then turned to quite conversation.  He had recently become enamored of the film The Room, and had begun sharing its many many-splendored joys with his family.  Sister in particular enjoyed one specific line, and repeated it over and over.
     When she was done with yet another recitation of the line, he said, "Have you heard about the similar Japanese movie, The Loom?  'You're tearing me apart, Risa!'"  Laughs all around.
     Conversation lulled again, and they focused on eating.
     "So," mother said after a few minutes.  "What does the phrase MILF mean?"

E.H.U.D.: Chapter 23

Chapter 23

            In the beginning was darkness.  John opened his eyes, blinked, closed them again.  There was no discernible difference.  He pushed himself into a sitting position, felt concrete rasp against his bare legs.  Where was he?

            The last thing he remembered was driving home from a client meeting in Cherry Hill.  He had... well, probably too many drinks.  Oh, God, where was he?

            A sound, somewhere between a gasp and a sneeze, came from his right.

            He held still, waited for his heart rate to return to normal.  Wherever he was, he wasn't alone.  Groping in the dark identified an arm, shoulder, bare breast.  John sighed and relaxed against the rough wall.  Lucy.  He must have come home a little drunk, must have ended up taking Lucy down into the cellar.  God, what a horrible place to make love.  She wouldn't be happy in the morning.

            But maybe tonight?  John stroked her breast, leaned in, kissed her shoulder, worked up to the neck.  She snorted and flopped her arm towards him.  Her ear, and— rough scalp.  Prickly fuzz of freshly growing hair.

            He jerked away, shouted something.

            Whoever was there with him awoke, flailed around, scooted out of reach.  “Oh, God!” she yelled.  “Please, whatever you're doing, please stop!”

            “Me stop?  Who the hell are you?”  John crossed his legs, tried to hide his nudity, despite the total darkness.

            “You were—you were rubbing on me!”

            “No I wasn't!  I mean, you were asleep—”

            “And that makes it okay?  The fuck is wrong with you?  Where am I?”

            “I—I don't—”  The situation became clear to John.  He was stark naked, in the dark, with a complete stranger.  If she wasn't Lucy, this wasn't his cellar.  If it wasn't—  A deep disquiet rumbled in the pit of his stomach, and he felt a tremor pass through the walls of his reality.  Slowly, he reached up to the top of his head.  Nothing but stubble.

            Now there was soft crying.  “Oh, God, what is happening, what is happening...  Please don't rape me, just let me go, I swear I won't tell anyone...”

            “Whoa, hey, slow down, no one's going to, um...” he cleared his throat.  “What happened before, I... I thought you were my girlfriend, I just woke up, I don't know what's going on...” he trailed off.  “I thought you were asleep.”

            “I thought I was just dreaming at first...”

            “Huh.”

            They sat in silence for what seemed like hours.  “Um, I'm John by the way.”

            No response for what seemed like hours.  “My name's Suzanne.”

            “Hi.”

            “That's, uh, that's a bit of an accent you got there...”

            That brought John up short.  He never thought about it, but he guessed he did have a bit of an accent.  Of course, so did almost everyone he knew.  “It's not too weird.”

            “It's just...  I don't know, it seems really north-eastern.  Where're you from?  Originally, I mean.”

            “Here.  I've lived here my whole life.  What do you mean, north-eastern?”

            “Like somewhere around New York, New Jersey, somewhere in there.”

            “Pennsylvania...”  Nausea was rising.

            “Right, something like that.  But you say you're from Texas?”

            John lurched forward, fell to his knees, dry-heaved onto the concrete.  How much had he had to drink?  Where was he, what was going on, what was going on, what was—

            Harsh white lights burst on overhead, and both John and Suzanne yelled in pain, fell back to writhe blindly on the floor.  What seemed like hours passed before John was able to blink away tears and look around.  He was in a cube, maybe teen feet on a side, a large metal door imbedded in one wall.  Overhead, almost lost in the glare, where row upon row of halogen lights.  His vision drifted down to the nude woman laying on the floor an arm's length away.

            There was no guessing her height, but her build suggested she was no more than average.  Her flat, broad-featured face was topped by a fringe of black fuzz.  Her skin--a dull chocolate color--contrasted sharply with his own milky paleness.

            That wasn't right.  He had never been very dark, but the last thing he remembered, he had sported a tan.  Now his skin was pale and papery-looking, a matrix of thin scars spread across his chest and arms.  “The hell...”

            There was a dull clunk as Suzanne backed against the door.  John looked up to see her trying to cover herself, to curl into a ball.  “Don't look at me!”

            He rolled over, tried to hide his unconscious reaction to seeing her; this was neither the time nor the place.

            “So,” he said, trying to inject some cheer into his voice.  “you're from Texas.  You think this is Texas.  I'm, uh, I'm from Philadelphia, and...  Look, the last thing I remember, I was driving home from a business meeting.  Um, what do you remember before waking up?”

            She sniffed, cleared her throat.  “Um... I was just at my apartment.  I was finishing up a paper for school.  It was, it was the last paper for the term.  Oh, God, I need to get that turned in.  I need to... Fuck!”

            “Um... I hate to rock your boat, but isn't it a little late to turn in a term paper?”

            “What?”

            “It's... It's July.”

            “No it isn't.”  Her voice was steely, and John didn't dare argue.  “It's December.”

            The pale skin, the scars— “You have plans for Christmas?”  He couldn't keep a note of panic out of his voice.

            “My, uh... My parents died last year.  I was just... just going to stay around the dorms, drink a lot...  You?”

            “I'm Jewish.”

            “Oh yeah, I saw that.”

            John clamped his legs tighter.  He needed to think.

            He played through multiple scenarios.  Kidnapping?  Most definitely.  Someone who had access to people all over the country.  That seemed to be outside the realm of the average private psychopath.  Aliens?  No.  Just... no.  The scars, the time jump... the night driving home, far beyond buzzed.  There must have been a car wreck, he must have been in a hospital.  Government?  Had to be.  Why?

            Didn't matter; he had to escape, had to get back to Lucy.  They were just months away from being married; she had already picked out baby names.  Had to get back to Lucy.

            He stood, unconcerned now by his nudity.  It was just a fact of life, just something he had to get used to.

            Suzanne looked up at him.  “Um... what are you doing?”

            He gestured behind her.  “We need to look at the door; it's our only way out.”

            “What about the drain?”

            John turned and looked at the floor.  There was indeed a small circular, maybe two inches across.  He looked back to Suzanne.  She dropped her gaze.

            “I was just kidding...”  She stood as well, and together they began examining the door.  It was difficult to make out details, the light was so bright, but it seemed to be a solid piece of metal, with recessed hinges.  It would be impossible to fiddle with the hinges as long as the door was closed.

            They were stuck.

            They sat in silence for what seemed like hours.  The whole time, John continued to think of ways to get out, to get back to Lucy.

            “Hey, uh, John?” Suzanne said.

            John started.  He must have dozed off, despite the lights.

            “Look, I know we're uh, we're naked and everything, and we can't really be strangers, but I'd still like to ease into it, so... You think you could turn around while I use the drain?”

            John complied.  He heard footsteps, the sound of pressurized liquid spattering against a hard surface, then—

            From somewhere behind the lights powerful jets of water blasted on, pelting them, bruising skin, spattering against the floor and ricocheting around in a stinging spray.  Moments later it stopped, and they lay curled on the ground, trembling and whimpering.

            “We're... we're being monitored,” John gasped.

            “Could... could be coincidence.  Two times, two times, we're monitored.”

            “What the hell were you studying in college?”

            Then the light turned off, and they counted it as morning and evening of the first day.

            Sometime later the lights returned, just as sudden and relentless as before.  John stood and approached the drain.  “Get ready, I'm about to test your hypothesis.”

            Suzanne nodded and curled into the fetal position. 

            He began to urinate, finished, waited, every muscle tense.  “I think maybe you're—”

            Water.  John fell back on his heels, trying to keep as much of his body as possible away from the under-spray that reflecting from the ground.

            When the water stopped, he looked up to see Suzanne staring back at him.  “Okay,” she said, wiping water from her eyes, “we know how the toilets work.  Now, we find out how we get food.  There was no food yesterday, but I'm sure they're not going to let us starve.”

            “We don't know if the dark/light cycle was a full day.”

            Suzanne almost smiled.  “What the hell were you studying in college?  Anyway, it doesn't matter if it was an exact twenty-for hours or not, what matters was we have something regular to measure time by.

            The lights shut off.

            “Okay, now they're just fucking with us,” she continued.

            John sat, edged his way back to the wall.  “So, uh, it appears we're trapped here for the time being.  We should probably get to know each other.”

            “I'm not telling you any more until we see another person.”

            “What?”

            “For all I know you're a serial killer, and this is just how you get off; pretending to be a prisoner, gaining the trust of your victims.  If there's someone on the outside, I'm more inclined to believe you're a prisoner, too.  Serial killers tend to work alone.”

            “What the hell where you studying in college?”

            He couldn't see her, but in the silence after his question, he could almost imagine a smile.

            “While I'm waiting on verification that you're not going to kill me, why don't you let me get to know you.”

            “Um, well...”  With all the talk of serial killers, he was having his own doubts about Suzanne.  Still, thinking about normal life might help him to keep a level head.  So far, this was all too strange to accept, but he was sure that once he did accept it, he would well and truly panic.  “My name's John Donalson, Jewish, age twenty-seven.  I'm an architect living in Philadelphia.  I'm... I'm engaged.” 

            Saying it aloud, acknowledging it in this strange place made it seem so distant, so impossible.  He wasn't supposed to break this soon, his reality wasn't supposed to collapse after only a few sentences of his own biography.  It was as if acknowledging what he had had before this cube only served to underline what was no longer his.

            He didn't realize he had been crying until he felt the warmth against him and his tears stopped. 

            “If you really are a serial killer, you're doing a damn good job of getting my sympathy...”

            And there was morning and there was evening the second day.

            The next time the lights turned on, there was food.

            “Did you see or hear anything?”

            “No...”  Suzanne was starring at the gallon jug of water.  “You could have slipped out while I was sleeping.”

            “You were on top of me.”

            She didn't hear him; she was busy chugging the water.  When she had finished about a third, she returned the jug to the floor, then slid the jug to John.  He too drank greedily, only to be pummeled to the floor in a spray from the ceiling.  When the water stopped he turned to see Suzanne, hunched over the drain, water dribbling down her chin.

            “What the hell?  That fucking hurt!  Warn me next time, goddammit!”

            She retched then scuttled away, fear visible in her eyes.

            He sighed.  “Look, I'm sorry, okay?  I... I'm sorry.  Here.”  He placed the jug to the floor, then stepped away.  “Just... just drink slower this time.”

            She stood, half-bent, eyeing him warily, then picked up the bottle and sipped at it.

            John turned to the small metal bowl that had been left beside the jug.  It had turned over in the downpour, and whatever had been in it was oozing towards the drain.  He scooped it up, shoved it in his mouth, gagged.  It was some kind of bean paste, unseasoned hummus maybe, that had mixed with too much water.  He used the bowl to scoop up the rest, then set it aside.

            He and Suzanne took turns drinking the water until the jug was empty, then shared out the bean paste.

            “So,” John prompted, licking the remainders of the paste off his fingers, “what's your story?”

            She frowned, then nodded.  “Alright.  I'm a sophomore at Texas A&M, studying psychology.  Nominally Baptist.  Like I said earlier, my parents died.  Car wreck.”

            John shuddered.

            “What?”

            “I think I was in a car wreck.  That's how I think I got here.”

            “Car wreck in July?  Alright, I'll take a wild guess and say dorm fire in December.  Smoke inhalation.  Those fucking hippies down the hall were always burning something.  We had three small fires in the time I was there.”

            “You think we're dead?”

            Suzanne leaned back and regarded him.  “Honestly, that seems a lot better than any of the alternatives I could think of.”

            Then the lights shut off.

            “Shit, that happens at bad times.”

            “You think they're controlling the lights based on what we're doing or talking about?”

            “You know one of those worse alternatives I mentioned?”

            “Yeah?”

            “I'm hoping I didn't get wasted and sign up for some really fucking weird experiment.  No amount of extra credit is worth this.”

            And there was morning and there was evening the third day.

            And so life continued.  Lights would turn on, lights would turn off, food would come, all without pattern.  Sometimes the light would last for mere minutes.  Sometimes it would strobe on and off for... some immeasurable period of time.  Sometimes when the light turned on, there would be food.  Sometimes, there wouldn't be.

            And then came the time when the light turned on and they were not alone.  Three humanoid forms stood among them, wearing a harness of armored pads, with thick metal bracing at the knees and hips.  Their faces were completely obscured by helmeted gas masks.

            Once they noticed the intruders, John and Suzanne scuttled away, pressed into the far wall.  They waited, wondering if their presumed captors would speak.

            They didn't.  The humanoid—no, it had to be a human, there were tiny English words stenciled on the armor—closest to them raised a short club at Suzanne.  He jerked the end upwards, waited a moment, repeated the gesture.

            With a glance to John, Suzanne stood, her body trembling.  The man nodded, turned to John, jerked the rod down.  John sank to the floor, lay prone, looked back up to the man.  The man nodded, brought his hands up to his chest, pushed them forward, returned them, repeated the gesture.

            Unsure of what was happening, John pushed himself up, then lowered himself.  He looked to the man, and the man nodded.  The club pointed again, flicked back down and back up.  Again.

            Having no other idea of what to do, John performed another push-up, then continued, occasionally glancing up at the man for affirmation.  The man wasn't nodding anymore, nor was he giving any other indications.  John continued.

            At twenty-five, his arms began to ache; at thirty-five, he was ready to collapse.  He hadn't been exercising since his incarceration.  Mostly, he had been eating and talking, trying to remain sane.  At forty-five, his arms gave out, and he collapsed to the floor.  He looked up to see the man's reaction. 

            The man stood for a moment, then approached Suzanne.  She flinched away, but he lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder.  She straightened, and the man struck out with the club, catching her just behind the ear, sending a spray of blood down on the concrete.

            “No!”  John found the strength for one final push-up, coming up to his feet and lunging at the man.

            The two others stepped forward and caught John, holding him in place while the first man reached down and helped Suzanne to her feet.  John noted with some pride that while her eyes glistened, she didn't cry.  Quite the opposite; she fixed the man with a glare so fierce John was surprised the three didn't turn and leave right then and there.

            The man looked away from Suzanne and repeated his earlier gestures to John. 

            This time, he made it to twenty before the man struck out at Suzanne again.

            When they were finally alone again, John sat slumped in the corner, his arms hanging limp at his side.  Suzanne, blood seeping from the four wounds across her head and right shoulder, lay curled up next to him, her head in his lap. 

            As John stared down at the glistening brown ridges protruding from the dark skin, he realized that he was never going to see Lucy again.  All he had in the world was this woman before him.  No matter what, he couldn't let her be hurt again.

            The men returned, following no discernible schedule.  On their first trip back, Suzanne was made to perform pushups while John was beaten.  When he tried to fight back, the two followers held him while the head man beat Suzanne.  It was the last time they tried to resist.

            For the most part, the exercise/beating schedules were even.  First Suzanne, then John, then repeating.  But just like everything else in this private corner of hell, even that couldn't be counted upon.  The longest run had been three sessions in a row where John was forced to watch Suzanne suffer as his arms gave out.  Through it all, he couldn't help feeling as if he were the one hurting her...

            When they were alone in darkness, or during the bright times when there was food, the two were never more than a foot apart, trying to remain in physical contact at all times.  They had ceased to speak, to dredge up the past.  All their communication was physical now.  First, simple touches: I know how you feel, I'm there for you.  Then, prolonged holding and caressing: I won't let you go, I won't let them hurt you.  Finally, copulation: Why are you letting them hurt me, why can't you do better?

            At some point amid the haze of light and dark and pain and pleasure there was a change: the visitors began to come during mealtimes.  As John watched Suzanne work herself to exhaustion, as he flinched and fell under the head man's blows, he saw one of the other men stoop and proffer the bowl of bean past to Suzanne.  As she ate, as she rested, as John continued to suffer, he hated her.  He was hurting, while she was thriving.

            As the pain and isolation continued to drive them together, the sudden lack of reliable nutrition drove them apart.  Now, when a visit was over, and one of them was hurt and ashamed of their powerlessness, the other would be full and sleepy.  The sex became rougher, became less communication and more accusation: You're doing this to me, you're the reason I can barely stand to live.

            Then water became a bargaining chip.  As the lights turned off, as the visitors left, the unlucky victim was forced to drag themselves to the drain, to summon enough blood and saliva to activate the flushing mechanism, to try to lap up some of the stinging water that bulleted from the sky.

            Soon, even physical communication passed away.  Between visits, John and Suzanne would huddle together in the corner, oozing with half-healed sores, each silently hating the other for what had been done, each silently feeling shame at what they allowed to happen...

            And then the imprisonment ended.  The lights turned on, and they shook themselves awake; it was the one routine they had left.  They looked around, tried to see what was different. Food?  No.  Visitors?  No.  It took them several minutes to notice that the great metal door, the unmoving behemoth, stood open, letting their bright white world drift into the void beyond.

            Almost as one they stood, crept forward, cautiously poked their heads around the corner.  Outside was a hall of dark grey cement, a strip of fluorescent light locked behind a wire cage running overhead.

            John took a step back, hunched his shoulders, drew in on himself.  He wanted to be out there, to find Lucy, but the unknown outside this portal seemed too great compared to the relative safety of this little room.  Here there was pain, yes, but there was food, there was water.  What was there outside?

            Suzanne glanced at him, back at the open door, back at him.  The call of freedom was so strong... 

            Tentatively, all too aware of something like the flush mechanism laying in wait, she stepped through the portal.  Nothing happened.  She turned back to John, beckoned.  He hesitated a moment longer, then stepped through. 

            They continued down the hall, slowly at first: there was so much to explore.  Some twenty feet from their door was another, same size, same shape, but firmly sealed.  Twenty feet beyond that, another, another, another...  They were running now, doors rushing by on their left, never ending grey on their right.

            They were three doors past it when they realized that they had missed something.  Without speaking they both stopped, both turned, both walked back the way they had come.

            There was a door in the endless wall.  What's more, it was open.  This time, there was no hesitation as they stepped through the portal, as they looked around at this new world.  In many ways, it was like the one they had left: a cube, too bright lights lost in the glare overhead.  In other ways, it was different: two low armchairs sat facing each other in the middle of the room.

            Behind each chair stood a man, dressed in loose grey fatigues a shade lighter than the wall outside.  To John's right, the man was short, wide-faced, with a fringe of red hair extending down in sideburns.  To Suzanne's left, the man was a little taller, brown hair topping a square face.  Both men were thin and bony, fairly swimming in their uniforms.

            “Hello,” the redheaded man said.

             John flinched; it was the first voice he had heard in... in... It was the first voice he had heard.

            The man gestured down at the chair before him, and John felt a sudden urge to sit in it, to feel the smooth black material against his bare skin.

            Beside him, Suzanne was stepping forward to take the seat the other man has offered her.  They both sat, both sighed as the smooth coldness touched them, soothed them.  They looked up, into each other's eyes, and John was almost willing to forgive her what had been done to him.

            Then the taller man spoke.  “You are now unable to move.”

            John tried to look up at him, to try to pry meaning from his expression, but found himself unable to move.  Oh.

            “Only your left pinkie is able to move.”

            John saw movement in his peripheral vision; Suzanne was testing.

            “We're going to play a game now.  You are both going to not move your pinkie.  The first one who does, lives.  The other dies.  Your entire future is now up to you.”

            John's body spasmed as the words sank in.  He tried to breath, found only the smallest give in his diaphragm.  Across from him, Suzanne's pupils widened, despite the brightness.

            And suddenly, nothing else mattered except for Suzanne.  John was determined to remain still, to let her kill him, to let her live, to survive, to find escape, to thrive—

            To live on through whatever interminable hell came after this.  If their time in the room had been any indication, this place was not one that accommodated the living.  Death would be the greatest escape.  Life... life would be the best punishment for her, after all the pain she had caused him.  She deserved it for all the beatings, all the times he had gone hungry, all the times—

            All the times he had failed, and she had been beaten.  All the times he had eaten while she had starved.  As much as he resented her, he realized that she must resent him just as much, hate him blow-for-blow, bowl-for-bowl...  Feel the same guilt for failure that he did.

            What could he do, what could he do, what could he do...  He had to be sacrificed, he had to take the blame for all that had happened, he knew that, it was the only way.  But which was the worst fate, which was the last parting gift he could give to her for all she had done to keep him sane?

            Have to choose, have to choose, have to—

            Suzanne slumped forward, slid from the chair, a pained groan escaping her lips.

            John could move again.  He threw himself forward, clutched at the limp body, screamed her name over and over again, began murmuring babbling, saying all the words he had held inside for so long.  

            Why?  Why had this happened?  He hadn't moved his finger, had he?  He had still been thinking, still been trying to find a way out.  No, it was too soon, too soon, he wasn't ready to be alone, not yet—

            The lights turned off.  There was the sound of boots scuffling on cement, of two heavy object being pushed aside, then the feeling of a presence behind him—

            And there was morning and there was evening the last day, and then John rested.

Diary Of A Man-Child 8/11/13

     He had begun selling knives.  His boss told him he was the one who could do it, could sell $10,000 worth of product in his first week, and he almost believed him. There was still a part of him that said, "This guy probably tells everyone that..."  Oh well, he would try to sell that much, or die--okay, not that extreme--trying.
     Today he had three appointments back-to-back-to-back.  The first went off without a hitch: he showed the knives, made the speech, sold a few.  Great.
     The next house had dogs.  He loved dogs.  Apparently, the dogs loved him back.  As soon as he got inside, the 10,000 pound pit bull got so excited she vomited.  Then being a dog, she proceeded to eat the vomit.
     "I've already seen this twice," the homeowner said.  "Do you think you could speed this up?"
     He did.  Twenty minutes later, he was done, and ready to go to his next appointment.  That wasn't scheduled for another hour.
     "Have you waited long?" his next appointment asked an hour later.
     "Only about five minutes," he said.
     Inside, he began his presentation.  The man he was presenting to had sold these knives over twenty years earlier, so they had fun comparing the products, seeing how they had changed over the years.
     Then his dog vomited.
     "Wow," his appointment said.  "A dog vomiting while on a sales appointment?  That never happens."
     But it already had.

Diary Of A Man-Child 21/10/13

     The plan had been to go to dinner, then to Home Depot for paint for the downstairs bathroom.  The first part went well enough.  Near the end of the meal he got up to go to the restroom.  He was almost there when he heard a voice.
     "Hey, I like your shirt."
     He turned to see the woman at the check-in smiling at him.
     "That show?  I watch it all the time.  It's awesome!"
     He smiled back.  "I was on the show."
     She smiled back.  Or maybe continued smiling.  It was a grey area.
     He continued to the bathroom, and repeated the events of moments before to his brother, in the stall.  "You should talk to her," brother said.
     When dinner was over they all filed out.  Brother stopped him just as he was about to leave.  "Go back in and talk to her."
     He turned back, awkwardly introduced himself, and managed to get her name and a promise to friend him on Facebook.  All told, a good dinner.
     Things started deteriorating in the car.  "I have to pee so bad," he announced to the car in general.
     "Me too," said brother.
     "Hold it until we get to Home Depot," mother said.
     Minutes stretched by, flooding with urine until they were horrible distended hours of torture.  At last they pulled in to Home Depot.  He and brother ran inside, only to find the bathrooms were at the furthest possible point from the door.  They power walked.  Power walked like their lives depended on it.
     "Can I help you with anything?" an employee asked as they power walked by.
     "You guys made it," the employee said as they ambled by the other way minutes later.
     The next half hour was spent arguing with the man at the paint counter.  Mother passed him an orange chip and explained what she wanted it for.
     "A bathroom?  Really?" the paint man asked skeptically.  "Maybe you should just get a sample."
     They continued to haggle back and forth, mother slowly telling the man more and more of their life's story.  It was an odd experience for the children.  In the end, they left Home Depot without the paint they had come for, the second part of the evening failed.
     As they walked outside, he stumbled into sister, who yelled and began to chase him.  Even though it was cold, he stripped his shirt off and swung it over his head.  Strangers in the parking lot stared in horror.
     Despite her best efforts, mother laughed.  As they pulled out of the parking lot, he stood and levered his body out of the sun roof.  They drove for two miles, him shirtless and freezing, his fat oozing over the edge of the car.  Many motorists saw him and smiled.  Most steadfastly ignored him.
     All told, a good night.
   

Diary Of A Man-Child 29/9/2013

     After church and after dinner, it was time to head to Wal*Mart for some late-night shopping.  Right away he saw something he just had to have.  "It's a wind-up walking zombie!  Clearance for $3!"
     "No," mother said.  "Absolutely no."
     He frowned, but held on to it, just in case she changed her mind.  They walked on through the store--looking at toys, at shelving, at video games.  Eventually he gave up on the walking zombie and tossed it up onto a display chair as mother was busy looking at irons.
     They were almost done, and decided to look at backpacks; sister's had broken.  While the girls were wrapped up in school supplies, he was looking at bins of sundry when he found it: a small, shark-shaped hat for dogs.  It suddenly appeared on his head.  His giggling eventually drew a beleaguered look from mother.
     She tried to hold it in, to ignore him, but eventually had to vaguely smile along.  "That looks pretty funny."
     "I have to buy it.  I have to."  He began to dance around, jumping and twirling in the middle of the store.  Other shoppers pointedly ignored him.
     Mother continued on, winding her way slowly towards the checkout.  He danced in front of her--tapping, leaping, high-stepping, and River Dancing until they finally got into line.
     "Fine, you can buy it."
     "Eeee!"
     Even though it was late, the cashier seemed amused.  She scanned the hat, passed it back, and said, "Okay, you can put it back on."
     "Eeee!"
     The old man in line behind them was less impressed.
     As they transferred bags from the carousel into the cart, he and sister discussed Halloween ideas.  "I'm going as Skyler White for Halloween," she said.
     "You should go as something more interesting.  Hitler maybe."
     She thought about it.  "Yeah, that could work."
     "Ooo, Sexy Hitler!  Khaki mini-skirt, low-cut SS jacket..."
     "What are you going as?"  Sexy Hitler seemed to be outside her comfort-zone.
     "Hodor.  I'll wear my cloak, powder my face...  Ooo, Sexy Hodor!  Shave my legs, powder them--"
     "We're leaving," mother said.  And so they did.
     Once they were in the car, mother retracted the sun roof, and he decided it would be a good idea to stand, shark-hat flapping in the breeze, waving at people as they drove past.  Those who saw were amused.  Most waved, some honked.  Then they were home, and their adventure ended.

Diary Of A Man-Child 27/9/13

     The day started off slow.  He was supposed to be meeting with a writer who was looking for a filmmaker, and had been texting back and forth to establish a meeting.

Ever been to starship its close to the circle theater

No, but I can probably find it.  Do you know the address?

1241 s louis

Its between 11th n 15th

     It had been a long day, and he was bored.  He was looking forward to the meeting; he wanted to work on some kind of film production.  Still though, he was bored, and ready to have some fun with this total stranger.

At 6:40, order a beverage, then get a table facing away from the door.  I will be wearing a blue shirt.  At 6:45 I will sit down behind you and pass you the briefcase   DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT.  Finish your beverage, then leave.  You will be contacted within 48 hours.

     There, that should be good.  Time to pick up sister.

     On the way home from her school, he told her about the last message.

     "What are you going to do if he responds?"she asked.

     He shrugged.  "Three options.  'Oops, wrong number.'  'Sorry, someone stole my phone.'  Or: 'Those are the conditions.  Don't contact the police.'"

     "You should go with option two."

     "Nah; I'll go with number 3.  Freak him out."

     Back at home he was upstairs, fixing sister's computer.  Every few minutes he would catch movement out the window.  He began deleting a program, then waited... waited... waited.  God, the computer was slow.  He looked out the window again, saw movement.  Construction workers on the strip-mall across the street.  Hmmm...  Outside the window, the balcony.  He had an idea.

     He turned to sister.  "Grab a blanket, hang it over the railing; I'll be right back."  He ran to his room, grabbed a puppet, and returned to her room, flopping to the ground.  He crawled out onto the porch, slowly raised the puppet, and began yelling, "Hey!  Hey everybody!  Hi, hello!  How are you?  What's up?"

     Sister was laughing.  "They see you!  Oh, my gosh, they're just staring at you!"

     "As soon as I get out off the porch, close the curtain."  He backed out, she closed it.  They laughed.

     Then his phone beeped.

What is someone sees the exchange?  Do we silence them?  Bribe them?  Flee?

     He smiled; this could work.
     So, he went to the meeting.  It went well.  They stood in the middle of a record store, discussing writing, music, drugs and... that was about it really.  An hour later, it was time to leave.
     On the way out, the owner yelled, "Hey!  We rent space here!  That'll be $20."  Yes, definitely time to leave.
     On the way home, he got a text.

Hey its dylan

     He didn't know a Dylan...  Time for a bit of fun.

Hello

Whats up

Is this my future gf

Nope, this is Hez.

who is hez

I'm a novelist/filmmaker.  Who are you trying to reach?

You gave .me your number on fb

So

What is the name of the person you're trying to reach?

Nothing bye

     Good, he seemed to finally get the hint.  He stopped off at a store, went inside to pick up snacks for his sister's sleepover.  He had gotten almost everything when his phone beeped.

Do you rememver me

I'm pretty sure I'm not who you think I am.

     And that's the last he heard from Dylan that night.

E.H.U.D.: Part II: Entropy

A compendium of the chapter comprising the second part of E.H.U.D.: Prelude to Apocalypse.
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23

Diary Of A Man-Child 16/9/13

     There were big plans for today.  He was going to wake up, take his sister to the bus, then walk on to the gym.  Work out, come home, get things done, work out.  It didn't work out.
     He woke up at ten, used the bathroom, and was finally ready at 11:30.  "Lunch time," he thought.  Lunch, an episode of Doctor Who, 12:30.  Still time for the gym.
     A mile into the two mile walk and he was ready to go home.  He had made some effort towards working out; the gym could come tomorrow.  Besides, mother had chores for him; he needed to get them done before picking up sister.
     Back at home he gathered the bed-liner for his truck, dragged it out of the garage, and was just about ready to drive to the carwash when he made a shocking discovery: there was a recliner in the back of his car.  At that moment, he realized he wouldn't be getting anything done today.
     The bed-liner went back into the garage, he went into the truck, and then on to Wal*Mart.  Two weeks now, he had been struggling; two weeks the cookie dough had called his name.
     Back at home; watching TV, eating the entire tube of sweet, sweet salmonela risk...
     3:45.  Time to pick up sister.  He went to the school, all three hundred pounds of beard and sleep pants, and tried his hardest not to look creepy.  At 4:00, he called mother.  "Yeah, is there a bail-time?  Can I just go home and she can make it back on her own?"
     "You're not supposed to pick her up today; she has piano.  We told you last night."
     Back at home, watching TV, regretting the cookie dough...

E.H.U.D.: Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Rachel sat in a cold grey conference room in the cold grey airport.  At least, she assumed the airport was grey.  She hadn't seen much beyond the terminal, hadn't been outside at all.  It was cold.  And now it was getting late, and nothing at all had been decided.

She looked at her allies: a group of six other passengers, each from a different flight, that had been selected to represent all the stranded passengers.  At least three of them were lawyers, but she couldn't remember which ones: everyone looked frumpy and unwashed.  They had been in here for over five hours, arguing.

They argued with the people from the airline: One vice president, two customer care specialists, two lawyers.  The lawyers she could identify from the suits they wore.  The rest...  she didn't even care who they were anymore.

One of the lawyers was talking, exhaustion evident in her voice.  “Again, we are in no way liable for this situation.  This was a government mandated grounding.  We sympathize with you, and will of course help to arrange lodging or other forms of transport, but we cannot and will not provide financial recompense for costs incurred during this layover.”

One of Rachel's allies answered; probably a lawyer.  “As this is a federally mandated grounding, then I am sure the federal government will reimburse you for any costs incurred while assisting us.”

God, were politics always this boring?  The news made it seem so simple, Mom's rallies made it seem so exciting.  Negotiating was just...  She didn't know how much more she could take.

Someone else had the same idea she did.  “Look, let's just table this tonight, figure it out—”

“We can't!  If we stop here, everyone's going to have to find hotels, with no idea of who's going to pay!”

The mobile in Rachel's pocket buzzed, and she straightened in her chair.

An enemy lawyer noticed the movement.  “Yes, Ms. Donalson, do you have any ideas you'd wish to contribute?”

“Little compromise on the last point raised.  Fifteen minute break?”

There was a moment of silence, then a babble of assent.  They all stood, chairs scraping, and walked stiff-legged out of the room.

Rachel remained seated and dug out her mobile.

There was a message from Tisha:  Rach - - check the news!

Rachel rubbed her forehead.  She didn't need any more on her mind right now.  Still, if Tisha thought it was important enough to message so late...  She opened a browser, began flicking through the news feed.  Almost at once she saw the name: John Donalson.  Click, open story.  An old photo, John looking younger, with hair.  The story...

Cyd was right.  After months of yelling it on the street corners, it seemed the homeless woman had correctly identified a Defender.  After displaying his powers, Donalson was invited to join President Latterndale for a summit on international/Defender relations.  Then, a force of U.S. soldiers ambushed and killed the erstwhile Defender.  The battle, short and brutal, had claimed the lives of at least ten soldiers, as well as over a hundred civilians who were caught in a building set alight by a downed chopper.

Rachel gasped and slumped back into her seat.  It had to be a joke, it couldn't be real—she clicked a link at the bottom, found a response video, listened as Senator Terstein's voice sprang into life.

“The time for action is now!  Even as protection and goodwill were offered to this young man, our military has struck him down!  So far, every Defender to pop up has been struck down, and I am forced to ask our president, 'Why, Edgar?

“What aren't you telling us, Mr. President?  I am beyond the point of giving you the benefit of the doubt, and so too, I hope, is America.  Where are you?  Step forward and set the record straight!”

Another link, another.  Riots in major cities, raids on army bases, more members of the LCR springing up all over southern California.

More links, international responses.  Iranian Ambassador Ahmad Mokri, denouncing America as a rogue state, advising all nuclear states to prepare themselves for possible hostilities. 

More links, NORAD readying anti-missile countermeasures, more links—

It was all Rachel could do to keep from crying.  John was gone... 

As the door to the conference room opened, as people returned, Rachel felt tears begin to streak her face.

Darkness engulfed Philadelphia.  Beyond the light of Sky Crest, blackness extended into infinity.  There were occasional sparks of gunfire, brief flares of stars exploding into existence, then fading away into nothingness.

Indistinct movement passed over the gunfire, and Amanda Latterndale shifted her focus, took in her own reflection in the glass wall that curved overhead.  She could see the penthouse behind her, open wood floor for twenty feet, then continuing under the steel loft of the floor above.  Ethan sat in the small living area in one corner, playing with his one legged Gigawatt toy.

Movement again.  An aid, up a flight of stairs to where Mistlethwakey stood in conference with several soldiers.  The aid pushed in close, said something to the General, waited for a response, then returned the way he had come.  Minutes passed, the General dismissed his entourage, then descended the stairs and came to a stop next to Amanda.

“It's kind of beautiful, don't you think?” he asked in a somber tone.

“In a rather perverse way, yes.  Did the messenger bear bad news?”

Mistlethwakey ran his hand through his hair, shaking his head.  “Just an update on Norgent.  It looks like he's going to be okay.”  He dropped his hands, then fell silent.

Amanda glanced at him.  “Something on your mind?”

“Just...” he gestured back at the few soldiers who continued to mill around upstairs.  “They're so damn concerned with what's happening outside, they're not seeing the bigger picture.”

“Which is?”

“We're on the edge of nuclear war.”

Amanda let that sink in, ground her teeth.  “They're really that afraid of what the Defenders will do?”

“The Defenders?”  Mistlethwakey shook his head.  “For once, this isn't all about them.  We're a nuclear power, with an absentee president, terrorist groups in control of our biggest airport, rioting in all our major cities, and politicians very publicly calling for armed revolt.  Most in the last four hours, I might add.  We're the very definition of an unstable state.”

Amanda sighed.  “And Ed assured me we'd be safe here...”

The General turned and appraised her.  “He was absolutely right; this is the safest place on the goddamn planet.  It'd survive the end of the world.”

She smiled.  “You know something I don't?”

He nodded.  “Damn right.”  He returned to staring out the window.

She returned her attention to the reflections.  Behind her, Ethan was gripping the Gigawatt, swinging it at a small stand of army men.  The innocent play seemed so wrong in light of what was happening just outside their window.  The bigger figure would hit, the little men would fall.  How many civilians were dying out there, gunned down as they tried to break into police stations, or take over train lines? 

“Have you been speaking with Ed?”

Mistlethwakey looked up.  “Hm?  Not as such.  He's not exactly on speaking terms with me at the moment.”

“Seems a bit odd for him to name you NSA.”

He shrugged.  “I think he was trying to get me out of the way.”

“Has Ed been speaking with anyone else?”

“Ashby said he's been a little withdrawn lately...”

“Right.”  Amanda stood a little straighter, let the room blur as she focused on the eternal night outside.  “Then as far as anyone's concerned, you're speaking for him, as security adviser.  You'll get a SEAL team, infiltrate LAX, take the damn thing back.  If they fly out any planes, you shoot them down as soon as they're clear of the city.  This country's been on lockdown long enough.”

He quirked an eyebrow.  She turned for a moment to look at him, saw that he was offering no resistance, returned to her vigil.

“Once the skies are clear, you're going to get as much FEMA support flying as is humanly possible.  I know it's not your purview, but you see it gets done.  You land food and medicine in all the major cities, the ones with the worst fighting: Chicago, LA, San Antonio, New York.  You get the idea.  Pick a spot, somewhere large but defensible.  Lock it down.  Then, you start letting in anyone who wants to get away.  Make sure they don't have weapons.

“Here, you do it in Sky Crest.  I know you've got some barricades already.  Now, everything outside Kensington's a dead zone.  Hell, even Kensington.  You now have the tower, the mall, and the immediate surroundings.  Pull back the troops.  Anyone who wants can come in, but absolutely no one gets out.”

He nodded, then ran his hands through his hair again.  “You're suggesting concentration camps.”

She returned the nod.  “Hostages.  It'll mostly be women and children who come.  Safety, food, and medicine.  You said yourself we're a destabilized state.  People out there are fighting for ideals, for the future.  If you take their families, their futures, they'll have nothing to fight for.  If you take the families hostage, the men have no choice but to give up and go home.”

They stood in silence for a minute, the last few soldiers descending the stairs and making their way to the elevator.

“You realize he's not coming for you, right?”

Amanda clenched her jaw.  “How long ago did he choose the world over me?”

Mistlethwakey shook his head, shrugged.  “I don't have an exact date; it's ancient history to me.”

“Just make sure you get it done.  Then we can get back to worrying about those fucking EHUDs.”  Amanda turned from the window and stormed away.  She approached Ethan, got his attention, gathered him in an embrace.

Mistlethwakey watched in the reflection, then looked beyond the shadow world into the darkness beyond... and smiled.