2

 

17 years later

 

ARSON LISTENED TO THEIR whispers. He struggled to make out what was said, but it was all muffled; blending shapes and words looming over him.  

Is this the hospital? his mind lulled. The feeling of suffocation set in deep in his lungs. Claustrophobia and fear and confusion. A nasty flavor lingered on his tongue, something he couldn’t shake. The air didn’t taste right, didn’t smell right. How long had it been?

He tried to move, but he couldn’t; tried to scream, but his vocal cords burned cold. “Who-h-where-the-kill-Emer-y.” They were just small, simple words and half syllables bleeding out. He could feel his muscles fighting to do something, but a dark lullaby was fluently touring his veins. It didn’t want him to.   

“Wakey-wakey,” one of the shapes said, hot breath crawling down Arson’s neck. How many of them are there? Quiet voices came out like lost echoes, appearing and disappearing, but not enough to cancel the noise of machines and beeping panels. Wires twisted around every corner of the table, connected to metal creatures. They were wrapping him in their hybrid cocoon. They chirped and constantly blinked green.  

Arson exhaled, the foggy shapes beginning to form vital parts for his mental image of them, like they were searching for true form. A gasp turned into several more ill words, too few for even him to know what he was trying to say.

Swallow, breathe, repeat. The process was numbing. 

“You’re dreaming, aren’t you?” Arson recognized the slimy voice this time; it slithered out and cradled around his spine, which was now stuck to a cold bed.   

“He’s def-definitely dreaming,” another blur said. From the volume, Arson guessed he was in some far-off area or in an office he wasn’t able to perceive.

Arson blinked again, noticing the brief flickers of light tracing the outlines of every phantom within this space.

 “Whatever it is, it’s not friendly,” the far-off blur said.

“The dose seems to be wearin’ off, Krane. Somebody’s starting to come to.”

A brief period of silence spread over the room.

“How many failed experiments, Doc? How many godforsaken times are we gonna do this? Maybe your theory’s whacked.”

“Years of research and st-st-study are correct. The theory is sound.”

“Stubborn jackass. Maybe you lucked out with the other one, but this is…I just don’t see any point in searching for something that ain’t there.”

“You witnessed it with your o-own-own eyes.”

“Not sure what I seen anymore. Maybe this fire thing’s not like we thought.”

“All brilliant men face consequence when they are on the cusp of something great. We’re going to do this until we get what we need.”

“And what’s that?”

“More data. M-more-more…answers to how their minds work, so we can duplicate it perfectly.”

“Leave it to a geek to get all excited over his toys.”

Another gap of silence.

Arson struggled to speak, but the syllables wouldn’t come out.

“I’ve got orders, Lamont.” Krane started murmuring to himself. “Just do what you’re told.”

“Yeah, yeah, everybody’s lips are chapped from kissin’ somebody’s butt.”

Lamont. That was the guy’s name. It was coming back, but only in part. Remember, just remember.

“Little punk’s got some fight in him, don’t he? Maybe we should get one of the loonies down here. Start ourselves a little circus.” Lamont swallowed a full, groggy laugh, his hot breath circling Arson’s nostrils. The smell pouring out from the row of crowded, unhinged teeth was familiar. Disgusting. “What dark secrets are crawling inside that messed-up mind?”

Several other phantoms surrounded the table, all staring down at him. Looming, lidless eyes. Arson didn’t like it. Through the confusion, he perceived their coats, some white, some black, or shades of all colors. Some constricted by ties and long skirts. But what his mind focused on the most was the ugliness above him. Lamont looked like a horned devil.

Suddenly, their tones became clearer. “I think it’s time,” the one identified as Krane said. He looked at Arson through oversized, thick lenses. A stitch of tape held one piece of the frame to another, but the cheap plastic wanted to break.

The skinny apparition had changed positions. Far away. Then close. It’s hard to keep track. Hard to capture everything. Now the blur hovered over Arson’s bare chest as he began to add red lines with a permanent marker. The lines traveled in multiple directions from his naked upper torso down to his boxers.

“Get away from him, Lamont,” Krane ordered. He leaned down and continued pressing the marker’s tip against the soft flesh. A dark color bled short, sporadic lines across Arson’s forehead. “Hold still,” the voice assured. “It will only hurt a little.” The figure turned to his assistants. “He’s waking quickly. We need-need another dose.” Krane finished tracing the lines and covered the tip of the marker, pushing up his glasses so they’d sit more firmly on the long bridge of his nose. One of his assistants stuck Arson in the neck. It stung. “Prepare to initiate Morpheus.”  

“Help me, plea—” Arson struggled.

Two other blurs wheeled a large device toward the table: the thing they called Morpheus. The machine’s wide, metallic grip stretched to Arson’s feet, while the remainder of it rested above his head. It was shaped like half of a coin, or a comb without teeth, hollowed out at the top and complete with wiry fingers that jutted out on each end.

Krane turned a switch and tiny spikes instantly protruded from a center wire and stabbed into the sides of Arson’s temples, twisting until the machine got a verifiable scan. The hovering mechanical beast buzzed and sliced into his mind like a whirlwind, emitting a blinding light that kept Arson’s eyes glued shut.

“It’s like staring straight into the sun, ain’t it?” Lamont snickered, fingering his tobacco dip with his pinkie and sliding the brown chunk into his gums. He savored the taste.

“Can you keep-k-keep it down?” Krane asked. It was clear the skinny doctor wasn’t comfortable with spectators circling his work.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Krane focused on controlling the movements of Morpheus. It was a meticulous machine.

“What…doing…me?” Arson gasped. Light penetrated his closed lids enough to create many wildly colorful splashes that corrupted his true vision.     

“I don’t think Mikey likes it.” A sick cackle disturbed the air. “Looks like you’re putting baby in a corner.”

Krane was perfectly mute.  

“Sure he’s not gonna remember any of this?” Lamont asked, stepping forward. “’Cause I’d be pretty ripped if you were walking around inside my head.”

Krane waited. “Lamont, shut your trap, b-be-before I give Hoven an excuse to remove you permanently. Besides, no one’s brave enough for that journey.”

Lamont mocked him silently, the dip in his teeth squishing back and forth. He folded his lips, producing a trail of mixed saliva that ran down the cleft in his chin. The sticky brown spit dripped onto Arson’s cheek.

“Would someone get this brute away from my work? He’s disrupting the trial.”

Lamont felt a hand tugging at his jacket. “Take it easy. I’ll leave you geeks with your rusty gadgets. Don’t, uh, hurt yourself, yeah?” Then, looking at the orderly who had him by the forearm, he wiped his chin and spat. “Get your claws off. I know my way out of this nuthouse.”   

Krane muttered something under his breath, keeping his attention on the slab and the subject struggling to move. He walked over to the monitors, punched in some keys, and flipped his eyes toward the oversized screen to his left. The machine breathed, several metal fingers drawing nearer to the boy’s skull. Their thin needles restricted the amount of blood.

Morpheus continued to scan Arson’s brain matter horizontally then vertically. The blinding light forced him to keep his eyes closed. But he wasn’t strong enough to fire up, not even a little.  

Arson drooled involuntarily. He pressed his fingers together, hoping that by snapping them he might initiate some sort of spark. Where on earth was he, anyway? What did these men want?

The machine vibrated endlessly around him, a pounding, wretched sound, like a tortured baby screaming for his mother. He grunted, weak. A coldness covered his limbs. It was useless. There was no fire left, nothing inside him but pictures of things he couldn’t remember.

What had they done to him?

“Emery,” he barely whispered.