CHAPTER 8

 

One Year Later

CHRISTMAS EVE. THE OFFICE was all but deserted. Christmas fell on a Friday this year, and that made Mark, as well as the rest of the office, happy for a long weekend. The year had gone by without a second thought to his scarred body and broken heart.

He dreaded going home to an empty apartment. Christmas had been the highlight of the year for his family. Despite his grumblings, the minute they’d eaten their last bite of pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving Day, K would shove him and her dad out the door to hang the Christmas lights. Didn’t matter what team was playing who on television.

He shook away the memory, dropped a couple projects into his briefcase to keep himself busy over the weekend, and snapped it shut. He knew he should move on with his life, but he kept falling back into the memories. Wallowing in his grief, as he’d heard a therapist on television say. His friends and coworkers told him time would heal his heart, but he had his doubts.

He turned off the lights, shut the office door and locked it. As he turned around to head for the elevator, he almost ran over Maria. “Maria! What are you still doing here? It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, I had a few things to finish before I took off.” She hesitated. “Um, Mark, I was wondering if you might…” She shifted her feet, looking down at the floor. “I…um. I don’t have anything going tonight. If you want—”

He decided to rescue her from the awkward moment. “Sure. I would love to, but this time at my place. I haven’t decorated, but my neighbor gave me a potted tree, so maybe I could stop and get some lights and tinsel or whatever, and you could help me decorate. I’ll even make some of my famous eggnog.”

Maria’s steady, faithful friendship had seen him through the last year. They’d shared dozens of long walks between the trees of the rooftop park. He talked about K and Sam. She listened. Not once had she made him feel weird or out of line.

Her brown eyes lit up. “Oh, cool; I was hoping you wouldn’t have anything going on. I mean, not that I hoped you would be alone, but—”

He laughed and took her arm, steering her toward her desk. “You’re a dork, Maria. Get your stuff. I need to hit the stores before they close.” As they rode the elevator to the parking garage, he listened to Maria’s happy chatter and watched her eyes sparkle and switch from gold to brown to gold again. Her knee-high boots, striped red-and-green dress and the pencil that secured her brown hair seemed to enhance her effervescent personality. She laughed, and he smiled. They were becoming great friends, but that was all. He was not ready for another relationship. It was just too soon.

* * *

KIRK HAD NEVER BEEN a fan of beards, or any facial hair for that matter. That was for the bums too lazy to work or shave. In this case, however, he didn’t have much of a choice. He ran his hand through his full beard and long hair that now intertwined, a year’s growth, as far as he could tell. He tried to keep track, but without the sun or anything to mark the passing time, he was lost.

The lack of seeing the sun, clouds, moon and stars, or even a nasty rainstorm, depressed him almost as much as being marooned on a sterile, metal island. He still didn’t know why they kidnapped him or whom he was dealing with, outside of the initials WJA.

They were a high tech bunch, though. The room looked like something right out of a movie. Metal walls, wires interlaced in them, and the floating floor made him feel like Frankenstein’s experiment gone wrong. They fed him twice a day, whether he was awake or asleep. As his stomach was fully aware, the times were varied, probably so he couldn’t tell if it was day or night.

The guards, or as Kirk liked to call them, Creepers, were always masked and never spoke to him. The handful of times he’d tried to engage in conversation, they had punished him with extended darkness or extended time between meals. But when they wanted to feed him or allow him to use the bathroom, the lights would flash on and the disc begin to lower.

By the time his eyes had adjusted, he’d see the door at the bottom of the room open and two masked men walk into the tall, round room. About once a week, or so he figured, they would let him shower for five minutes, the timing and temperature controlled by a force outside the shower stall.

The hallway leading to the bathroom had two doors, one on each side. The door to the left led to the bathroom, a simple affair, with metal walls and floor, a steel toilet, and a roll of toilet paper. No sink, not even a light.

The door to the right opened to a small shower room with a showerhead in the metal ceiling and nothing else, except the floor drain. The Creepers controlled the water, which was always ice cold.

First, soapy water rained down on him for a couple minutes in the pitch black room, then equally cold rinse water. Finally, the spray would stop and warm air would shoot out of the same nozzle to dry his goose-bumped flesh. The moment the air stopped, the door opened and the Creepers would hand him clean clothing and watch him dress.

Each time he showered, he felt like he was in a human car wash and, each time, he imagined the flashing signs. Wash. Rinse. Dry. Exit carefully, ‘cause you don’t know what the dudes on the other side of the door are going to do.

He still wondered how the men got into the hallway. There wasn’t any other door. No other way in or out of the shower or bathroom. The hallway ended with a metal wall just like all the others. Nevertheless, there they were, covered with black, skintight outfits and masks pulled over their heads like creepy gang-bangers.

He’d given up on the mystery of the door a long time ago. He had bigger things to think about, like how not to go crazy just sitting all day, every day, on a fifteen-foot disc. To keep himself sharp and strong, he made use of his free time—which was pretty much all the time—to exercise, just in case the opportunity to escape presented itself.

First, he did push-ups and sit-ups for approximately half an hour. This was easy enough, but the pull-ups proved a little more challenging. He would make his way to the edge of his round home, look over the edge at the hundred-foot drop, bend and grab the edge, which was only about two inches thick, just enough to hold onto.

Then the fun part. He’d lower himself over the side and hang from his fingertips. The first time he tried it, he fell and broke both legs. He woke up on his disc with a cast on each leg and an ache in his back.

After a few weeks, and after the casts came off, he could stand up and move around without much pain, so he resumed exercising. Once a day, at least that’s how it felt to him, someone would lower the disc about twenty feet above the floor for approximately an hour. That’s when he’d do his pull-ups.

He had tried to escape half a dozen times, but this always ended badly. The Creepers seemed easy enough to take out, so the first time he tried, he threw a left hook at the taller of the two. A cracking sound shattered the silence, then a mist shot from his gray jumpsuit, filling the small room in seconds. He was instantly paralyzed and awakened on the floor of his circular home with a splitting headache.

The agony that shot through his body when he regained use of his limbs was nearly unbearable, like a million fire ants crawling and biting the ends of every nerve with sadistic pleasure.

This day was no different from any other. He started with push-ups and sit-ups. After a lot of practice, he was now able to do handstands on the edge of his metal disc and hold them for the length of a song. Today, he could hear the words of Ride the Lightning from Metallica’s lead singer fill his mind as he held his legs straight up in the air. His one-pack was all but gone, and he could tell he was about thirty pounds lighter. Every muscle felt like a rock.

The sound of the lights popping on brought him to his feet as he waited for the weekly announcement.

“Good day, Mr. Weston. We have a special treat for you today.”

The voice was the only one he’d heard for over a year, and it was the only thing that brought him any comfort. He felt like he knew the person behind the voice. Though the man was his captor and his enemy, he was his only friend.

“You may not be aware of it, but today is a special day. Christmas Eve. You have been in our care for over a year now.”

The pit of Kirk’s stomach turned as he realized how long he’d been there. He’d known deep down, but hearing it confirmed, made him nauseous. “As a token of the Christmas spirit, we are releasing you.”

Kirk stood motionless as he heard the news, then began to rock with dizziness, the disc wobbling beneath his feet. His mind warred with possible outcomes—none of them were good. They were going to kill him. Or, maybe they would leave and let him die of starvation. Or kill him when he stepped outside under the long-forgotten sun and breathed fresh air for the first time in months. This was some kind of sick joke.

“Do you have anything to say?”

He was silent.

“You may speak, if you like.”

He opened his mouth, but his voice cracked due to lack of use. He swallowed, but all he could do was squeak out a noise that sounded like a cross between a grunt and a squeal.

“Not to worry, Mr. Weston. You will have plenty of time to recover.” The disc started to lower, then came to a rest on the main floor. The door to the small hallway opened, and, for the first time, no Creepers stood guard.

The lights hanging high above the floor flickered and pulsed like a movie screen. The silver walls shimmered like a desert mirage. He blinked his eyes. What was happening?

Then, in one swift motion, the walls that had comprised his prison disappeared. Behind them, large magnets twisted in a circle, humming like the smooth, greased motors of a mad-scientist’s machine. Those were what held him in the air?

He started to shake, and his knees gave out. He fell onto the disc but felt dirt beneath his hands. He looked up and could see past the wires and cables running all around his magnet prison to the warehouse beyond. The second-floor window, where he assumed the voice had come, from was a suspended office that looked like a cargo container sitting atop thick, steel beams.

The place looked vacant, but he knew they were watching him. He pulled himself to his feet as two Creepers stepped out from nowhere. They motioned for him to follow them as they made their way through the door and down the hall to the back wall, where they stopped, turned from him, and walked through the wall.

He walked toward the wall, a sinking feeling rushing over him. He could have at any moment walked through the same wall and out to freedom. His mind had kept him there, imprisoned for months upon months. Just like an addict, the only thing standing in his way was himself. Suppressing the urge to vomit, he followed the men.

When he walked through the hallway wall, he found himself standing inside of what looked like a giant warehouse that stood over one hundred feet tall. Bright, blessed sunlight streamed into the building through a huge, open door at the opposite end.

He squinted as he walked toward the door, shading his eyes from the burning, yellow light. When he reached the door, he turned and looked back at the place where he’d spent over a year of his life. It was a scary but beautiful sight. The engineering and the work put into the building was incredible. He looked one last time, then headed out into the sunshine.

As he stepped into the morning air, he was overwhelmed with emotion. Too afraid of what his captors might do next to celebrate, and too happy not to celebrate. Either way, he was free, even if for a moment.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the new light, but as he looked around, his heart sank. Sand. Nothing but sand every direction he looked. The desert was the last place he thought he might be. Maybe the city, or in some outbuilding in the woods, but not the middle of the desert.

He walked a few hundred feet, then turned one last time to look back at the building that had housed him for the last year of his life. It stood monolithic in the sunlight. How did they do it? Why? Squinting, he studied the building. Would he be able to describe it? To find it again? Would anyone ever believe him? No, they’d just assume he’d lost his mind.

As he scrutinized his prison, it suddenly vanished. He blinked. Like a wisp of hot air rising off the desert floor, it was there, and then it wasn’t. He shook his head in amazement.

No wonder they let him go without blindfolding and transporting him somewhere else. He’d never find a nonexistent barn. On the other hand, they’d left him to die in the desert, so maybe they figured he wouldn’t live long enough to go looking for them.

Off to the west, if he still remembered directions, something glinted in the sunlight, burning his eyes. The more he stared, the more it looked like a city of some kind. He’d heard that desert travelers saw mirages. Was this one of them. Should he stay put or—? There was no or. Stay, he’d die. Walk, he might die. “Well, why not?” He croaked.

Though he was hot for the first time in months, he resisted the urge to tear off his clothes. He knew he could die of sunburn and dehydration before he made it two miles. The morning sun was already heating up the earth, and the sand was warming under his bare feet. This was going to be hard to explain to his boss back home. If he ever made it home.

* * *

MARK DROPPED MARIA OFF one level up, then took the elevator down to the second floor, where he normally parked. He looked around the mostly empty lot as he walked toward his car. Most of his coworkers were home sipping cider with their families.

Family. No, he wouldn’t go there. Not tonight. Maria was coming over, and they would have a good time together. For her sake, he wouldn’t ruin it doing the wallowing thing.

He eyed the few other cars parked here and there. An old Ford coupe with the license plates hanging crookedly took up two spaces, like the driver was worried someone might dent its already rumpled exterior. Then he noticed the black Lexus. He had seen it several times before and figured it belonged to someone in the building. But something made him feel extra wary this time, like someone was watching him.

The lights flashed with a beeping sound as he unlocked the door to his BMW. He started to toss his briefcase to the passenger side but saw a packet on the driver’s seat and stopped. Strange. No one else had a key to his car. Well, maybe Hank. But, he would have said something, unless it was a Christmas present.

Then he saw the symbol and sucked in a quick breath. Now his sixth sense was at full attention. He glanced around the darkened parking lot, then back at the parcel. WJA. The package had been left by the same person or persons who left the note in his car right after the accident.

He scanned the garage, searching for the letter-carrying messenger, but saw nothing suspicious. He walked around the car. Like last time, the doors and locks looked fine. Again, he surveyed the all-but-empty garage and peered at the Lexus with renewed interest. Somehow, it seemed out of place. He knew the cars of the workaholics who stayed late, holiday or no holiday, but he didn’t know the owner of this car. His heart pounded as he walked over to the black car.

He cupped his hands, trying to see through the dark tint on the car’s windows. Nothing moved on the other side. He stepped back, worried someone might see him and think he was up to something.

He walked back to his car, tossed the mystery package onto the dash, started the ignition and pulled out of the parking space.

His tires squealed on the ramp to the first level. He considered tossing the package out the window for the first curious skateboarder who came along. He was always finding junk beneath his windshield wipers advertising free weight-loss pills or other products of equal importance. However, the WJA symbol spiked his curiosity, and the fact that it was inside his locked car made him nervous. Might not be something a kid should pick up.

He exited the building wondering what the package contained. It looked too bulky to be a mere note like the last time. Picking it up, he squeezed it and shook it, reminded of the techniques he’d used as a young boy to figure out what was inside his Christmas gifts.

It was lightweight but solid. Maybe a CD or DVD. He tapped the package against the dash in time to the music on the stereo and admitted to himself he was burning with curiosity. Was this connected with the note? The note that read No Accident?

He couldn’t stand it any longer. He steered the car onto a side road and parked in front of a diner under an old street light. The moment he stopped the car, he tore open the parcel and turned it upside down. A disc inside a clear, plastic case fell into his lap, along with a small note that read:

Surveillance Footage / Super Mart. The date printed on the DVD was the same day of the explosion.

His vision blurred and his heart began to pound so hard he could barely breathe. For months, he had fought to not think about that horrible day every moment of every day, but now it all came crashing back.

He grabbed the gear shift and threw the car into drive. The BMW lurched into the street.

Who did this to me? Who do think they are messing with my mind like this?

No matter who they were, he had to get home, had to see what was on the DVD.