Captivity

CAPTIVITY
Nigel Ford

“It's gonna be great when we get there,” John said, grinning foolishly.
         “I know,” said Fred. His eyes shone with longing. “It's ridiculous how many good bars they have.”
         As they walked down Interstate 80 towards Reno with their thumbs outstretched, the sun beat down on them and the cracked playa that stretched beyond the horizon. Fred noticed that it had been well over five hours since he'd seen a tree.
         “Though I'm starting to doubt anyone's going to pick us up,” John mused. Regardless, his smile never left his face.
         “I know, it's been ages. I'm parched,” said Fred, slinging off his backpack and grabbing his canteen. He shook it slowly, telling himself with a false hope that he'd have plentiful amounts of water. There was hardly a drink. “We're going to have to get a ride soon, otherwise we're gonna run out of water.” His eyes darted quickly towards John's canteen, then back to the road.
         “I just want to get there before Marty's closes,” said John. “I need to get Jenny something for her birthday.”
         The two walked in silence down the desert highway, fueled by anxiety every time they heard a car approaching, and met with defeat every time the vehicles sped past.
         Another hour had passed by the time the sun had set. For a moment, there was nothing but a small, crimson glare sinking behind a distant mountain peak, and then there was nothing. Fred, John, and the entire desert were cast into shadow as the sun disappeared behind the crested mountain, and hundreds of stars began to shine brightly.
         “I love it when that happens,” said Fred, staring at the fresh night sky in awe. John nodded.
         The two continued for a few minutes in silence, both enthralled by the beauty of the unique landscape. They hardly even noticed when a small red caravan pulled to a stop in front of them, but when they realized their luck, they both snapped out of their daze.
         “That's sweet,” said John happily, “our thumbs weren't even out.”  Fred hadn't noticed.
         They excitedly quickened their pace to the van. The two front seats were taken, so they let themselves into the back.
         As John opened the door, he saw that the man in the driver's seat wore a white hood that covered his head. He hesitated, then sat down and shut the door. He noticed in the rearview mirror that the driver wore dark shades. His lips, surrounded by a sea of rough stubble, wore no expression. The man beside him seemed to be in his fifies; though he was balding, the roots of what thin hair he had remained a deep brown. There was not enough light to illuminate his face.
         “Hey,” said John, mustering a smile. There was no response. Fred and John road in an extremely uncomfortable silence for a moment, unsure of what to do. There was a ruffling sound in the front, and suddenly the passenger swiveled his head around to face them. John's smile retracted into a look of horrified disgust.
         Where the passenger's eyes should have been, there was nothing but a dark grey film, littered with what seemed to be gnarled veins. These pulsated repeatedly, one of them fueling a thin stream of blood that poured from one eye. It streamed down his cheek, pooling at the tip of his chin. When he turned, a drop flew and landed on Fred's lip.
         The man's mouth hung slightly ajar, revealing the rotting enamel of several stumps of rotting teeth. Two of them bore large cracks which ascended to the roots of the decaying gums. As he spun his head around, his jaw swung to the right, pushing the flesh on his cheekbone into a pronounced point, and then shot back into place with an audible crunch.
         John's stomach turned, and he opened his mouth in a deranged scream of terror. Fred shouted in fright, and both of their hands leaped to their door handles. They repeatedly attempted in their horror to pry open the doors, but the handles were locked into place. Fred pulled so violently that he snapped the handle from the frame of the car, and he jerked back. His elbow shot out with enough force to hit John, who responded only with an anguished grunt.
         The man continued to stare upon them with his eyeless gaze. As the two struggled fiercely with the doors, he slowly raised up a black aerosol can. A thin line of saliva dripped from his idle mouth as he shakily pointed the spray can at them. There was a small hiss as Fred and John were sprayed by the substance,  and little sound after that, save for the dull clunk that their heads made as they collided. The rest of the ride passed in blackness.
         

*

         The moment John opened his eyes, he wished he never had. He couldn't believe his surroundings, and only accepted them once he saw Fred: his knees were pulled up against his head and he lay convulsing on the floor. Occasionally, a terrified squeal would escape from between his legs.
         John sat in a pool of glistening blood, dotted with dark grey chunks that he guessed to be mildew of some sort. Surrounding him were dozens of corpses, many mutilated beyond recognition. The walls, meeting the ceiling far above John, were covered with bloodstains that dripped towards the ground. The room was lit by a single gas lantern that hung from the cracked ceiling, swaying in an unknown breeze. It cast the scene into a pale yellow light.
         Beside John was the body of a man. His hair had once been graying, but it now shone vermilion with the putrid blood of the people who surrounded him. It stuck together in awkward clumps. His leg was missing, removed just below the knee, and his femur protruded from the wound. The end was snapped off, and the entire bone was coated in a crusty residue. The man's face remained blank.
         None of the corpses wore clothes, and the room was bathed in a fetid stench. Mere seconds after opening his eyes, John retched and vomited, adding some variety to the blood that covered the floor. Fred looked up at the sound, and the door to the chamber slid open simultaneously with a screech. Their eyes met momentarily, before Fred was pulled up by a massive man donning dark blue attire. His face was covered, and he wore massive boots that kicked blood into the air with every step.
         Fred, nearly incapacitated, offered no resistance. The guard hooked his arms around Fred's waist and dragged him through the gore and out into the hallway. A second guard stood outside, holstering an automatic pistol, and glanced at John. He looked away in disgust and terror.
         The instant the guard carrying Fred had left, a third arrived. He held an unconscious man who seemed to be in his late thirties. The guard grunted and heaved the man into the cell, and he landed on  a decaying corpse with a sickening squelch. A dark green liquid oozed from the mouth of the patron he'd landed on. John vomited again at this mere sight, but the other man remained in his slumber. John, despite the circumstances, took the time to wonder how long he'd been here before he'd woken up.
         The guards turned around and slammed the door. The room was cast into the eerie yellow light once again, and John was left with nothing but an unconscious cellmate, a chamber full of bloodied corpses, and his own thoughts. As his hopelessness set in, his eyes began to water, and soon, hopeless tears were cascading down his face as he screamed and convulsed in his delirious frenzy.
         Several hellish hours passed before the new member of the cell showed his first signs of movement. He muttered something quietly, then rolled over. He now lay face down; arched over the corpse he'd been dumped on. His face now lay in a dark puddle of blood, and a gargling sound came with every breath.
         John waited anxiously to see if the man would awaken. When he didn't, John went over and placed a hand on his shoulder. He gave a light shove and received no response. He rolled the man over,  cautious not to touch either the corpse that he lay upon, or the blood that cascaded off of his face. As he did this, the man gave a sputtering cough, causing gory particles to fly onto John's face. John reacted on instinct, wiping it with the sleeve of his shirt. The man dropped about a foot to the ground, grunting loudly when his head hit the cement. His eyes slowly began to open.
         He looked around first in horror, and then in realization. He turned and looked at John. His face showed no more sign of fear, and he wore no expression.
         “Who are you?” he asked.
         “My name's John. I got taken here as a hitchhiker. They picked me up on the I-80.”
         “My story's much the same,” the man responded, but he didn't pursue the subject. “Did you see the Man?”
         “The man with no eyes?” John asked, wincing as the memory of the pulsating, fibrous veins that bulged in the man's eyes shone bright in his mind. His new accomplice nodded.
         “He can see, but only through a camera. That camera is hidden in a room not far from here. The hallway outside of this chamber turn into a crossroads – if you took a right, the room is at the end of the hall. If the camera is destroyed, maybe something can be done about this atrocity,” said the man, looking at the cell floor in disgust. “If the Man is killed, I know many of the guards will give up their post. A lot of them are here simply out of fear.”
         “Nicely said, but I can't see what I'm going to do about a camera that's locked up,” said John indignantly.
         “Seeing as you're the only one on my side in this building who knows where the camera is, I need your  help to destroy it. We all do.”
         “We?”
         “You, me, the guards who don't wish to be here, and anyone else who may have been captured.”
         “Who are you, anyways?”
         “I was a guard here, until mere hours ago. The name's Ali. I was captured years back, before the Man had slain many. My captors noticed my physical potential, and I was forced into serving as one of the first guards of these halls. Anyone who refused service was to be killed in horrific manners like these poor men. Those two overheard me speaking about destroying the Man's eyes, so they stripped me of my weapons and threw me in here. I suspect I'm to be killed soon,” he said with a flicker of the eyes and a shudder.
         John stared blankly at a disemboweled corpse nearby.
         “Can you do this?” asked Ali. “ I'll do what I can to help you.”
         John remained silent.
         “Think of it this way,” perused Ali. “You have three choices: get mutilated by the Man, die quickly and heroically trying to kill the Man, or kill the Man and escape with your life.”
         John blinked. He'd considered these choices already, but had neglected to vocalize them.  Finally, he nodded. The other man mustered a half-smile, half-grimace.
         “We'll need to be exact. There are usually only three guards in the hall – one rifleman, and two grunts. One of the grunts usually drops off a newcomer, and the other picks  one up to be slaughtered. If I wrestle with the rifleman's gun, the others will jump me. You bolt, and hopefully I'll hold them off long enough for you to lose them. Aside from that, the rest is up to you.
         John's face showed his unease, but he nodded once again.
         “Remind me where the door is? Down the hall to the right?”
         “Yes, turn a right at the crossroads. The door's at the end of the hall, but it may be locked. The guards often carry keys.”
         “I can't really hope for success,” John muttered.
         “Me neither, but I'd sooner be shot down than left to the Man.”
         The two sat in a horrible, anxious silence for a minute, weakened by the noxious fumes and tortured atmosphere of the bloody chamber. There was little conversation between then and the time the doors were wrenched open, jolting the two back into consciousness with a surge of fear.
         “Go for it, brother,” whispered Ali.
         One of the guards stepped in, a burly man taller than both of them. His hand fit easily around John's bicep, and he loosely pulled him through the decayed flesh towards the door. As soon as they were illuminated by the hallway's light, Ali called from inside the cell.
         “GO!”
         John tore his arm out of the guard's grip, taking advantage of his surprise, and thrust his elbow backwards, smashing the guard squarely in the chest. The rifleman's eyes flickered, and he stared at John in momentary disbelief, shouldered his rifle. As he took aim, Ali burst from the cell and pushed past the other two guards, grabbing the barrel of the rifle. The shooter fired two shots in resistance, and one of the rounds grazed the smallest guard's hip. He yelped in pain and fell to the ground.
         The rifleman and the guard who remained standing were both wrestling with Ali. He was rather bulky, and managed to hold them off fairly well. As he fought with the guards, he managed a glance at the one who had been shot. He was writhing on the ground, clutching his side. Ali pushed the rifleman off and turned to the injured guard.
         “REDD! Go on 52!” he shouted. The man on the ground opened his eyes for a brief second, offering a look of recognition. The guards took no notice; one had seized Ali, and the other was pointing the rifle at him. John saw this only as he turned his head back, he'd already dashed down the hallway. He only heard the blast that echoed as he continued to run.

*

          The concrete walls rose almost three storeys, offering no windows and no light save for an occasional hanging bulb. These illuminated nothing but  the expanse of the walls and the frequent bloodstains that covered them. The hallway came to an intersection, and John turned right.
         He continued to run, conscious of every pounding step that his feet made. He hadn't gone far before he came to a large steel door that read LED-13 in red letters. There was no window and the door was locked, but John thought he could hear a guttural wrenching sound from inside. He shivered and continued down the empty hallways until he came to another door. This one had no label, but bore a large round window. The glass was cracked and filthy, obscuring the view of the room.
         Inside there was a vast network of computers. They were linked together primarily by dozens of blue and red cords. There were two monitors – one showed a display of the hallway, in which John could see himself standing. As soon as he noticed this, he was aware of the sound of men running in the distance. There were far-off shouts.
         The other monitor showed a sight John wished he had never had to see. The camera was focused on Fred's face. His eyes were blank and lifeless, and his cheeks were covered in dark blood, nearly black. Gnarled hands caressed his mangled face, taking knives and tacks to it. John stared at the screen, feeling hatred pump through his veins. When he heard a shout behind him, he tore his eyes from the screen and yanked at the handle. He placed one foot on the door and attempted to pull it open with both hands, to no avail.
         A gunshot sounded behind him, blasting a hole into the wall beside him and sending chunks of cement into the air. The crack of the rifle echoed violently in the hallway and made for a high pitched ringing in John's ears. He shrieked and dropped to the ground, moments before another shot was fired.  It rocked the door beside John as he lay on the floor, and he felt several sharp pricks on his neck. He brushed his neck unconsciously. Several glowing embers landed beside him, and in his confusion, he risked a look back up at the door.
         The steel frame of the door had been bent, so that the door stuck outwards a few inches at the bottom, and inwards at the top. John, in his delirious terror, could not understand until later that the doorknob had been blown off, but he jumped up and grasped the metal that now protruded from where the doorknob had once been.
         He stood quickly and pulled hard, grating the metal into his hand. He didn't notice the damage just yet, though, as he was overcome by his disbelief and excitement. The door swung outwards, and he slipped inside with haste. He shut it behind him, and was met with a giddy joy: the guards seemed unable to bear the pain of pulling the door open with their bare hands. He paid no heed to the blood that poured from his hands, and ignored the fact that he could see bones protruding from his palm.
         He kept to the ground,  mindful to keep his head below the window, and to stay out of range of the target that the hole in the door offered. Only seconds after he had crouched down and crawled to the back of the room where the monitors were, the glass in the window exploded, scattering over the ground. A bullet sailed feet above John's head, and cracked into the monitor above him. The screen showed a blazing static for a moment, then went black.          
         John turned, still crouched down on his knees. Below the monitor, nestled between two of the generic computer towers, was a steely black router. All the devices in the room connected to this, and one cord led from the top through a small outlet in the wall. The device vibrated erratically, though barely audible over the humming produced by the other computers in the room.
         John kicked at the router from his disadvantaged crouching position, but his foot had little impact. When more rounds from the rifles blew holes in the walls in the room, he stopped. Taking advantage of the time the riflemen needed to reload, he stood up.
         He lifted his right foot and brought it down fiercely, snapping several panels off of the router. He ferociously stomped the machine nearly a dozen times before another blast echoed throughout the room. Parts of the console had been strewn about the floor and John's shoe was in tatters by the time the door blasted off its hinges. There were more shouts as the guards stormed in.
         Looking behind him into the furious faces of the guards, two rushing towards him and two loading their weapons, he felt faint. Despite the torn ligaments in his hand and  and his broken foot, he lurched forward and grabbed the cord that connected the router to the wall. He pulled hard, and the cord snapped the instant the two rifles fired.
         He looked up at the monitor, and he could not see the Man's face. There was only static.
         He died a happy man.
         

*

         The guards turned away from John's body. Blood covered the remains of the console, and they knew they'd been too late. Their conversation was nothing but a mixture of furious cursing.
         “We need another cord!” one of the riflemen shouted, littering his sentence with profanity.
         “It was built into the infrastructure, there are no more!” answered the guard closest to John.
         More cursing ensued, and the guards retreated from the room. They began to head down the hall, walking quickly towards the Man's den. They had not traveled far before one of the guards stopped.
         “What did that skid say to Redd, back in the chamber?” he asked.
         “He was raving nonsense. I always thought he was a lunatic,” answered another.
         “Redd's gone, though.”
         The two looked at each other. Then they looked back down the hall, in the direction of the Man's room. Holding their rifles to their bodies, they began to run.

*

         Redd dashed down the hallway,  his breathing reduced to short gasps. He turned a final corner and halted, panting. He risked a glance at his hip, where the bullet had grazed him. The khakis he wore were stained a dark red, down to the knee. He looked up slowly, blinking as his vision swam momentarily from exhaustion. He extended his hand slowly and turned the brass doorknob, letting himself into the room.
         The chamber he looked upon was dark and stygian. It was illuminated only by oil lanterns that hung from the ceiling, similar to those in the cell that Fred and John had been held in. He stepped in with caution.
         He was hesitant to keep his eyes open, in fear that the Man would be working on another victim. He had heard the commotion in the halls, and hoped that John had succeeded in his mission, knowing too that the other guards would soon come to find him.
         He quickly advanced on the table where the Man slaughtered his victims. It was inclined slightly, and there was a young man strapped to it who was struggling fiercely. The surrounding floor was stained dark crimson, with fresh blood forming a small pool below where it dripped from the table. Fleshy chunks littered the ground and a foul odor wafted to Redd's nose as he approached.
         Redd started when he saw the Man, though. He was stumbling about the chamber in the corner furthest from Redd, his arms outstretched as if he were blind. Numerous times he tripped over tools that were scattered on the ground, and he fell more than once. A nauseating growl came from his throat as he staggered around, as if he were attempting to curse.
         Redd turned from the table where the man was detained and crept towards the man. Despite his speculations about the Man's blindness, he was terrified to confront him. The Man turned, and the bloody, muscular craters that were once eyes seemed to stare into Redd's for a moment. He stumbled again, and another guttural grunt came from inside the man. He turned away again, seeming not to have noticed Redd.
         Now standing just feet away from the Man, Redd was assured that he could not be seen. He bent down slowly, attempting to silence the hiss he made as his hip shot a jolt of pain through his body. He shuddered, and picked up a bloodied wrench that lay on the ground.
         He stood to his full height, short by standards but still several inches taller than the Man. He grasped the wrench in both hands and looked at the Man. The Man's crippled eyes stared at him emptily. Just as he raised his weapon to strike his scalp, the Man stepped forward.. Redd looked into the Man's decaying eye sockets and brought the wrench down with force. There was a loud crunch, and Redd's face was showered with blood. He pulled on the wrench, which had been embedded in the Man's skull, and tore it out, bringing a chunk of flesh with it. The Man convulsed in agony and opened his mouth as he lurched backwards in what seemed to be an attempted shout, but managed only to spit some gory mucus which Redd dodged. The Man sputtered furiously, his dented skull pouring blood, as Redd brought up the wrench again. He crushed what remained of the Man's forehead, and he dropped the wrench in disgust as the Man crumpled to the ground. He landed with a dull thump, and his gory mass lay still on the cement.
         Redd stood still in shock, returning to reality only due to the sound of the man behind him struggling with the chains that bound him.          
         “Let me out of here! Please!” he cried. Redd walked over to the man and observed the chains. They were composed of rusted brass, and connected at a small padlock. He pulled on the lock, but it refused to open.
         “He has the key,” the man stuttered, his eyes flickering towards the Man's fresh corpse. Redd nodded and turned to retrieve the key just as the door to the chamber burst open. Three men hustled in, rifles at the ready, and they were all pointed at Redd.
         “Freeze,” the man in the lead shouted, waving his gun at Redd.
         “Stop.” Redd said frantically, and stepped aside, revealing the Man's corpse. “He's gone.”
         The guard behind the one who had shouted at Redd widened his eyes. “You killed the Man?!” he demanded, aiming his rifle. “You'll be happy to die by him, I'm sure.” He focused the eyepiece on his rifle and prepared to fire at Redd, but two other gunshots exploded throughout the room. The angry guard's rifle dropped to the ground before he did.
         “He's gone?” the lead guard asked Redd excitedly.  A smile flickered at the edge of his lips. “The Man's gone?!”
         “Yeah. We're free,” said Redd. He closed his eyes as he said this and let the realization overcome him. It had been years since he'd been able to feel happiness.
         “Open the bloody doors then, let's get out of here!” shouted the guard. “The Man keeps the key on him.” the head guard turned to look at the guard that he and his other accomplice had shot.
         “I didn't know he was a supporter,” he muttered.
         “Me neither. He must have been a friend of the Man's. . . I doubt that there's many guards around here who'd like to stay.”          
         The other guard nodded, just as Redd returned. He held a ring of keys that jingled with every step that he took. He tried several in the lock that held the chains on the table together until one clicked. The enchained man jumped up and offered profuse thanks to Redd.          
         “Open the gates,” demanded the lead guard again. Redd nodded, and pointed to a door that was barely visible through the entrance to the chamber offered.
         “That's the control room, eh?” asked Redd. The guard nodded, making a lead out into the hallway.
         They basked in the familiar light of the hallway, overjoyed to be leaving the terrible atmosphere of the Man's cell. Redd walked to the door and picked a long silver key from the ring. He tried the lock, and the door swung open easily. He let himself in.
         Inside he found a room similar to the one that held the cameras that John had destroyed. There were monitors mounted on the walls, each displaying an area of the building. Many showed only cells, decorated with nothing but mutilated corpses and terrified inmates. Several looked upon blank doors, and one looked down at a large steel door marked ENTRANCE.
         Below the monitors were a series of buttons, all integrated into a black console. Next to each button was a switch, each of which offered two positions.
         “Are these the gate locking switches?” asked Redd. His question was answered by the lead guard, who had already flipped the switch below the entranceway's monitor. He had already began to make his way out of the room.
         “You've done a good job, Redd,” said the guard. Redd saw only his back as he left the building. The other guard followed wordlessly.
         Redd looked up at the monitors that showed the holding cells, and glanced upon the deathly faces of those who sat  awaiting their torturous demise. He took several steps along the wall, flipping the switches below each of the monitors. When he saw no response from the captives, he walked to a microphone that was mounted near the end of the console.
         “The cells are unlocked.” Redd heard his own voice reverberating through the hallways, and knew that his words carried. The men that he saw on the screens stirred, several stood up and walked clumsily to the doors of their cells.
         “You're free.”
         He left the room and walked quickly through the hallway, heading for the exit. There was a a low chattering that came from ahead, which he assumed to be distant conversation. He turned another corner, and was overjoyed by what he saw.
         Dozens of people flooded the hallways, heading towards the exit. Several guards had stationed themselves throughout the hallways, directing the captives towards their freedom. The people seemed disoriented as they advanced through the walls, but Redd observed something else about the situation.. He noticed that despite the stale blood that covered their clothes and faces, despite the bruises and cuts they'd been dealt, that every one of the inmates wore smiles. Noticing this, a hint of a grin flickered at the side of his lips, and by the time he let himself through the huge steel door that marked his freedom,  he wore the first smile that he'd donned in years.
         He stood in the sunlight, smiling silently. He watched the dozens of captives rejoice, some cheering and many hugging tightly. Several were in tears. He stood and watched as they returned to the world, freed from their hell, and a tear rolled down his cheek. He stepped forward, relishing the feel of real sand under his boots, unsure of where to go, yet content. He turned and faced the prison.
         My job here is done, he thought. His smile never faded.