heard the unmistakable sound of pulling duct tape. He tried to get away but managed only a squirm as the cool, sticky pressure of the threaded tape enclosed his mouth.
James groaned in reply. The jolt of what was happening severed his only remaining nerve since the shotgun blast. The men pulled him toward the store as the man with the shotgun arrived just in time to open the sliding door.
Now that James could see him closer, the man with the shotgun looked easily well into his 50’s if not just over 60, but he was in better shape than James could ever hope to be. The man’s hair was a shiny silver, greased back in the same style as the other man in overalls. James noticed both men’s noses sat flat and wide on their faces. And both had high foreheads sheltering emerald green eyes. If they weren’t father and son, they were definitely related, he thought.
Once in the store, it was apparent the pair knew their way around the place and the odd man out did not. The eldest went straight to instructing the other two.
“Jimmy, did ya clear out the storage room and set up the camera like I asked ya?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good. Take our stranger here and lock ’im up in there, but give ’im some water and some o’ these,” he said, pointing to the beef jerky rack.
“Yes, sir.”
“And Barger, stand watch at the door in the meantime. I’ll go warn the others and get back as soon as I can.”
“Yes, Mr. Flannigan.”
Mr. Flannigan turned to leave and then paused, shuffling back around. “Oh, I almost forgot. Once he’s in the storage room and before ya get ’is food, don’t forget to flip on that camera. We’ll need to keep an eye on ’im a couple o’ days.”
Both of the younger men nodded, dragging James past the canned vegetable aisle. The man with the shotgun ran barefoot through the sliding doors. The smell of something rotten filled James’s nose as they pulled him past the produce. Being carried from behind, he got a good view of the store and the way they were taking him. There was a flapping sound, and then a bump, and a change in the texture of the floor below his scraping heels. Two tall, white, floppy doors with small circular plastic windows seemed to just miss smacking back into him as they dragged him into the stocking area of the store. It was cold and dark compared to the rest of the store. After a few twists and turns around corners and stacked pallets of shrink-wrapped boxes, his captors came to a stop and whispered amongst themselves. He heard metal clicking, a familiar squeal, then they were pulling him into the storage room. James tried to struggle. Grappling onto the doorjamb with the back of his left shoulder, he almost got loose from the men when a burst of sharp, solid pain shot through the right side of his head and then a plunging darkness overcame him.
When he woke, James found himself lying on a cot inside the small storage room, his head sitting against a pile of cotton ball packages. His hands were no longer cuffed, but his head was swimming in misery. In the middle of the floor sat a minifridge, its cable plugged into the wall behind it. James opened it and found several bottles of water and a wrapped up sandwich he couldn’t identify. Pieces of jerky and cheese sticks were scattered on top of the tiny fridge. Looking up, James could see that all the shelves in the room were cleaned out as the younger man had said. And in the corner, above the crudely painted blue door he’d come in through, sat mounted a security camera pointed down at him. Sure they were watching, James gave the camera the bird and opened a bottle of water, taking a long swig. Eager to have something with meat, James tore open the shrink-wrapped sandwich and smelled the distinct aroma of tuna salad. His stomach growled. He began gnawing at the sandwich until there was nothing left and he was left licking the crumbs from his fingers. It had to have been the best damn tuna salad sandwich he ever had. But several minutes afterward, when the pain in his head began to make him nauseous, he thoroughly regretted eating it.
Eventually his headache shrunk to a dull pulsing from time to time and his stomach continued balancing in that halfway point between nausea and heartburn. He lay on the cot for a long time, remembering the last time he had a shower as if it had been ages ago, in some far off, magical land, now mostly forgotten. In a way, it had. He twirled his finger around loose, green canvas thread from the cot as he stared into the ceiling, wondering what these men would do next. He was sure they were scared of something, but of what he had no clue. He wanted to believe they weren’t capable of violence, but the pain in his skull kept him in doubt. And just what watching him in this room would prove to them baffled James more than any of it. Before long, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, he drifted off to sleep.
Two yellow eyes peeked out from the darkness, shimmering with internal light. Whatever they belonged to made only an impression of space. A sense of detached scrutiny showed from them. Then came the metallic growling James had heard from his radio. The eyes were coming closer and James could no longer keep still. He took off running, leaving the shimmering eyes behind him. A voice whispered in his ear with an odd, featureless accent.
“Clear a path in the desert. Make a straight road for the…”
A loud clunk woke James. From the vibration of the door and the sound of the padlock closing from outside, he realized someone had been in the room. Sweat dripped down into his eye from his brow with a sting as he sat up. Getting rest had alleviated the pain in his head. In the back of his mind he could still see those staring eyes. A shiver ran down his spine as he tried to clear them from his thoughts. Opening the fridge, he was not surprised to find another sandwich. This time he was almost disappointed to find the fresh baked bread filled with salami, ham, and cheese until he took a bite. These people at least had one thing going for them: they could make good sandwiches. It was so good, he almost felt guilty for wanting strangle each and every one of them. But he took solace in deciding he would give them a chance to listen to reason.
When he finished eating, James got down to business. His head clear of distraction and his claustrophobia coming to a peak, he was ready to leave the tiny room and leave these people behind if they only wanted to cage him. He tapped his palm against the door strong enough to get someone’s attention. He heard whispering through the door, but couldn’t make it out.
“What do you want?” came a voice from beyond the door.
James leaned closer to the crack in the door. “I just want some fresh air… and to know why you guys locked me in here.”
“We’re not supposed to let you out until Mr. Flannegan says. Just sit tight and as long as you check out, everything will be fine,” Barger said through the door. James spent the rest of the day pacing and scanning the room for anything that might help him escape.
The next morning the testing began. James woke to someone knocking on the door.
“Well, what are you knocking for, it’s not like I can let you in,” he said as he rubbed his eyes. He heard a faint laugh from behind the door and then the sliding of paper from below and looked down to see an envelope under the door.
6
James slid his finger along the line of adhesive, peeling the envelope open. Whatever was inside was more durable than paper, yet pliable enough to bend. He leaned the brown paper pouch so that its contents slid out. He noticed a blur of rich glossy colors as the pictures fell from the envelope.
They were horrible. He grimaced at each one as he put it in the back of the stack. Each picture depicted a person or several people who had apparently been brutally murdered. Not a single one had been merciful. The more he looked at them, from one to the next and so on, the more he could see a pattern. No gunshot wounds. No stab wounds. Not a single hint of any weapon. They all appeared to have been ripped apart. He looked up at the camera bolted to the wall above the door.
“Hey! What kind of sick shit is this? Hey! Can you people hear me?” Then he looked down at the last picture. It was just like the rest except… In the far corner of the picture a hand lay, palm facing the floor, nails gripping at the crack between tiles. Just below the golden wristwatch, torn flesh and bone bordered between the hand and a black puddle of blood. Something just inside his peripheral vision was trying to get his attention.
