The Dark Cell
Wake Up
Darkness surrounds you in every direction. Is it for a few feet? For a thousand miles? You neither know, nor care. Distantly, you hear the distant drip-drip-drip of water into some long forgotten pit. Your hair feels filthy and matted under your head. How long has it been…? I don’t know. No way to tell. You stare up into an inky blackness for a long time. If only there was some way to get out of here…
What’s the point? I’ve searched this damn pit ten times. I never should have gone with Arnold… that bastard. I hope he dies. In fact, I’d like to kill him myself. Savoring the sweet, sweet thought of taking vengeance on your former comrade, Arnold, you drift into a cold and listless sleep. “Wake up,” a rushed whisper pleads. A blinding light is flooding into your room. You can’t see a thing. “Hurry,” the voice says. “You have to come with me. Now.”
“Who are you?” “You can call me Agamemnon,” says the voice. A hunched, round figure beings to form amidst the blinding flourescent light. “Why are you helping me?” “Please,” says Agamemnon. “We have to hurry. You have to trust me.”
“No.” The man curses softly. “Don’t you understand? I’m trying to help you.” You hear the sound of distant boots growing louder. “Damn it!” whispers the man. He disappears from the doorframe. You notice a mysterious square object by the foot of the door. A keycard? Why is he helping me?
“What’s going on there?” comes a voice from the hallway. The door to the cell screams open, blinding fluorescent light flooding the room. “Easy there, come on now. Nice and easy,” says an unfamiliar voice.
“You’ll never take me alive!” you shout. As you struggle against the guards, you are swiftly knocked unconscious by a fiberglass club.
“Your tea is getting cold,” says a man, broad and strong, with a shaved head and small, round spectacles. “What?” you say. You realize you are drinking tea from a small, blue cup. “You have always been forgetful, just like your father.” “What are you talking about?” You realize you are sitting across from the man, on the other side of the stump of a massive tree stump. All around you are rolling hills and many-colored flowers. The two of you are alone except for a ponderous man in a blue tuxedo who stands at the broad man’s side. “We don’t have a lot of time,” he says. He places his tea cup gently on a small saucer, and smiles. “I have instructed Lisa to assist you. You must not, under any circumstances, tell her what happened.” You try to reach out and touch the man, but the tree trunk seems to get more massive the farther you reach. Suddenly, a bowling ball crashes down from the sky, crashing through the ground, shattering it like stained glass. “Ah,” smiles the man. “It seems we are out of time,” another bowling ball shatters the ground next to the stump. “I will see you soon, – ” and a bowling ball crashes through the center of the stump, sending the man flying, sending you flying into a spiraling vortex of pain and sharp, glassy numbness.
The Assistant
Your eyes flutter open, adjusting slowly to the bright lights in the room. Not fluorescent, you notice. This room is different than the others. There is a fireplace and a bookshelf. There are no windows. “Ah,” the fat man smiles a mean smile. “I see you’ve woken up. Care for a drink?” The woman shoots him a seething glance.
The man smiles. He glances at the woman. There is something lewd in his expression. “See? I told you. It’s just like I said.” He smiles. He has a ponderous jowl that hangs almost to his tie. “I knew it. You’re a little shit, aren’t you?” “Stop it,” says the woman. “Shut up,” says the man. He sips from a round, ornamental glass. “Don’t worry,” he says to you. “I’m going to let you go. Don’t worry. Do you know why you’re here?” “Leave him alone,” says the woman. She looks at you worriedly. “You mean a good deal to a friend of ours. A good friend, heh,” he laughs. He gets up from the chair. He looks well-built under the smelly wool and fat. He walks over to you, stroking your cheek with smooth, flabby fingers. “But our little friend owes me, buddy,” says the man. “He owes me a lot.” He grabs your jaw. His fingers are strong. “And you’re going to make him pay, you dirty little shit.” “Stop it, Chalmers!” says the woman. “I thought I told you to shut up!” says the man. He whips a clock on the desk at the woman. It bounces off a bookshelf behind her and hits her in the back. He smiles at you. “So, Jake,” he strokes your hand. “What’s say I let you go, and you can be on your merry, little way?”
The man’s expression instantly turns black. He smacks you suddenly with the back of his hand. Despite the ample padding, it fucking hurts, and you are thrown bodily from the chair. The man stomps over to you and begins kicking you mercilessly. He is shouting, “You motherfucker! You motherfucker! I’ll kill you!” Things begin fading. You hear the woman screaming and see her rush at him, striking him feebly with slender arms. Two orderlies pull her and the man apart. Then you pass out from the pain. When you awaken you are in a bright room. You are alone except for the woman. “You’re awake.” She smiles. “Are you okay? I know it hurts, but we have to move. I’m getting you out of here.”
“You’re… Lisa?” The woman looks shocked. “How did you know my name? I…” She takes you by the arm. Her grip is gentle, her skin soft. “I’m so sorry about what’s happened to you. Here, I need to give you this.” She hands you a small folder. “Keep it hid. Once you get out, open it.” She kisses you. “Hurry, we have to go.”
“Okay.” The woman leads you by the hand through a series of old, wooden staircases. You emerge in what looks to be a perfectly normal living room, with a carpet, a television and small fridge. “This way,” says the woman.
You wander through the living room into the small kitchenette. Flies buzz around what looks to be an ancient dinner. Stairs lead to the basement. You peer down. Suddenly, a pale hand grips your shirt and begins dragging you down the steps. You grab it, and realize that it is not a normal hand. It is too cold. It is cold as ice.
“Careful!” A glint of steel, and you fall back onto the ground and something tumbles down the stairs to the basement with an unsettling series of thumps. A cold hand still grips your shirt, but it slides off easily enough, its body severed. Above you stands Agamemnon, curved knife in hand. He helps you up. “You must be more careful. It is imperative that you escape. Please, you must. Take this.” Agamemnon hands you a shiny gun with a pleasingly grooved handle. “Leave here now,” is all he says, and he is gone into the shadows, a blur of cloaks, almost never there at all. The cold steel of the gun feels reassuring.
You walk slowly onto a grassy courtyard. You see a few other buildings, lit by tall yellow lights. You seem to be in a compound, surrounded on all sides by forbidding black spikes. “Come on!” shouts the woman. “Leaving so soon?” says another voice. The fat man steps into a yellow circle of light. “I was hoping you would stay.” He chuckles. “I do so enjoy our time together.” “You’re a sick bastard, Chalmers,” says the woman, hate dripping from her voice. He laughs. “Guilty.” He produces a gun, points it at the two of you. “I didn’t want to kill you, Lisa,” his tone is grave. “You made me kill you.”
You step forward, pull the gun from your pocket. The man stutters. And you shoot him. The gun flies from his hand, and he falls to the ground cursing. “That was for hitting me,” you say. You walk up to him. “And this is for kicking me.” You kick him twice. “And this,” you say, pointing the gun at his head, “is for putting me in that cell for two weeks.” “No!” shouts the man. “No!” screams Lisa, pulling your arm away. She looks at you softly. “He… doesn’t deserve it.” You look at the man. He is pathetic, breathing heavily, with an arm over one breast. You lower the gun. Lisa puts her arms around your neck, kisses you. “My hero.” The fat man is still breathing heavily. “There’s something I need to do. After you get out, meet me here.” She gives you a small business card, and kisses you again. “The exit is through the front door.” She backs away. “And don’t go upstairs,” she says, and then she disappears into the darkness of the courtyard. You leave the man where he lays and approach the mansion. It is very large and gothic, with black shutters that are mildewed with time. A small door faces the small guest house that you have come from.
The heavy wooden doors swoop shut behind you, sending in a draft of cold air. Dust and papers tumble about listlessly. This place has been trashed. You are in a vast foyer, with two sets of derelict wooden staircases leading grandly to the second floor. A disused chandelier sways uselessly from the domed ceiling. A massive set of oak doors set at the front, with a great black bear fur on the ground before it, seems to indicate the exit.
O Brother, Where Art Thou?
You climb the winding staircase that leads up the wall of the great foyer to a pair of massive wooden doors with fine marble handles. You touch one of the handles, and with a gentle click, the door swings gracefully open. A broad-shouldered man is sitting behind a massive, oaken table, covered with sheafs, leaflets, folders and all kinds of anatomical diagrams. Behind him is a great window with clear glass panes. It is a nighttime, with many stars shining. The room is bright, lit by two great torches. Behind the man stands an enormous, stuffed bear, seemingly mutated in some way. The man frowns. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come here.”
Who are you? The man rises from his chair, smiles, cleans his glasses with a small cloth. He is tall, broad-shouldered, with a bald head and small, round glasses. He has a kindly, smiling face. “I am John Davison,” he says. “Guardian of this place.” Some guardian. This place is full of fiendish traps. “Did you put me in that cell?” “I did not,” he says, pouring a drink from a fine, crystal decanter. It sparkles in the torchlight. “That was my half-brother, Chalmers.” “What? Why did he do that?” The man sighs. “Jake, there is something I need to tell you.” “He means to tell you you’re one of his mutants, Jakey. A freak,” says a voice. A man has entered through the doors.
A bandage wraps his left shoulder, stained inky red with blood.
“Davison cooked you up in one of his little tubes. Isn’t that right, John?” The man smiles a mean little smile. Davison stutters. “Jake, it’s not like that. You are my son.” Chalmers laughs. “Your son? Is that what you call this mutant? I must say, there is a certain resemblance.” He pulls a gun from his breast pocket. “The big, stupid eyes. The sniveling grin.” He scoffs, pointing the gun indiscriminately between you and the broad man.
A gunshot echoes throughout the room… and Chalmers falls to the ground, motionless, blood pooling around his dying body. In the doorway is a woman, holding a gun. Her hand is shaking. “You did well, Lisa,” says Davison, smiling. He approaches her. “Put the gun on the table.”
“Wait don’t!” you shout. Both look at you, both nervously. “Something doesn’t add up,” you say. “Add up? What do you mean?” says Davison. “Why don’t you tell us the truth, John? Or whatever your name is?” He pauses for a moment. Looks at you both. Then his smile twitches ever so slightly. He laughs. “So you figured it out, did you? Okay. It’s the truth. My real name is David Chalmers. The other Chalmers was the real Davison. He was the true heir to the fortune. But you see, he’s dead now.” You both look at his lifeless body. “What good would killing me do now? Let me go.”
“Get out of my sight,” you say. Without a word, Davison disappears from the room, with agility surprising for such a big man. Light spreads throughout the room as the sun begins to rise.