Vial #127

Chapter 25: Clinging to Imagination

Before I can even shoot, the gun is flung out of my grip with a loud clang as it hits the side of the helicopter. The men wrap their muscular hands around my body, forcibly shoving me into the chopper. In the distance, I can see the truck coming back for me, a massive dust plume rocketing into the sky.

I struggle against the men, attempting to hold off until they arrive. "Peters, prepare for take off," Davidson orders and the short figure hops into the front, placing headphones on his head.

I can feel detached seat belts wrapping around my abdomen, securing my arms in place. Still, I squirm and wriggle; the truck is close. I can see tiny figures waving their hands. Then I see their faces taking in the situation

My eyes are wide; pleading for them to catch me, take me back but they cannot see them. The propellers start to spin, the truck racing against time. We are in the air; one foot, three, five. The truck is underneath and Aiden's climbing onto the top. Rough duct tape is placed over my mouth, squeezing my face tight, forcing tears to spring from my eyes.

"I can jump", I think hysterically and before I have time to reflect further, I hop to the side and then transfer my weight forwards. Everything inside my body lurches upwards; wind blows against my face. I try to spin my body around to land on my feet. Aiden has his hands up, ready to catch me.

Suddenly, a tight hand grips around my body and I am yanked up. Aiden is yelling curses into the air and I see him collapse onto his knees, his mouth opening in mourning, tears flowing to match mine.

Keeping our eyes locked, I take in his image, his perfect personality, everything. Then my body is pull into the helicopter and my view is cut off. Davidson slaps my face, scolding me for the daring stunt. Then he secures me to the seat; each belt that he fastens compressing me down. I am trapped, like in an ongoing maze with no exit.

My face stings from where his tough skin connected with mine. The travel time is short; I'm sure that the group could track the vehicle down and find me. At least that's what I choose to believe. The world is fading in and out, the air I breath smells of gasoline.

When we land I try to keep my eyes open, but the punch he threw at me has caused them to nearly swell shut. Fumes enter the chopper, making me feel nauseous and I worry about the duct tape holding my mouth shut. Through blurry images I can see a building, big and grey. We move towards it and enter, turning down endless hallways. Finally I am thrown into a concrete room smelling of waste. There's a tiny barred window, letting in a single ray of light. The duct tape is ripped from my skin leaving it raw but the rope is wound tightly around my hands. The door shuts with a deafening echo and I cringe. The memories of being held by Bill haunt my mind.

I don't know how long I am stuck here, unable to move. The cement floor offers no cushion on my deformed figure. I wiggle different parts of my body, trying to break a hand free. The stream of sunlight fades to dull silver glow. There's a sensitive red mark forming from the constant rubbing of material against my skin.

I don't sleep, there's no food or water, nothing. My throat is rough, trapping particles in the sticky flesh. Eventually I work my hand out of the rope, looking for something to throw, to hit at anyone who comes through the door. There's nothing.

I slide my hand around to find a buckle around my body. I grip the cold material with my hand and pull up the lever; the belt comes loose. I use my wrist to pull it free. I work my way to the door, the belt at the ready. I would do anything to get free.

Time goes by and no one comes for me. Even the thoughts in my head become repetitive and fade away, leaving me utterly alone. With the same hand I reach for more buckles, pulling them loose. Slowly the compression that pushed against my bones disappears as I layer off the belts.

My mind is fuzzy by the time the sun trickles into the room again. I've had no water for twenty- four hours. "How long can a person survive? Three days? Just hold on, they're coming." That's the thought that keeps me inhaling and exhaling every moment.

More time goes on, my muscles grow weak and I can barely swallow. The lack of food and water impairs my body's movement. Suddenly, the door slams open at the one moment that I let down my guard. I reach for a belt but a large, heavy foot stomps down against it, centimetres from my hand. I roll my eyes up, staring at the figure with fury.

He picks me up by my neck; the nerves running to my brain at risk. My toes go tingly as he squeezes tightly on my skin. My head feels full of blood, pressure building up. My lungs feel strained, fighting for air; the oxygen is running out. I thrash about, like a wild animal. The figure puts a harsh hand over my mouth, cursing wildly.

He swings me up, carrying me down the hallway, the footsteps echo on the hard ground with deafening pounds and purpose. My internal organs are weak, pressed together from the immense grip of his arms. He heads straight to a steel door and inputs a code. I hear a muffled voice buzzing from a walkie-talkie tucked into his belt. "Movement detected in the left quadrant, fully armed. Seven heat signatures."
"They're here! They can save me." I find renewed hope. He swears again, reaching over and turns the device on silent. Then he swings me in and, surprisingly in a gentle way, he places me on the floor, leaving me alone in a huge room.

When he leaves, I look around. The walls are white and tall; the floor is spacious and the same colour. Everything is white, ongoing forever. My mind is confused by interpreting the extreme setting. I am alone, again, suffocating in my own thoughts.