It’s cold and damp, there is no light and the air stinks like a sterile band aid, the moans of head aches and scared paranoia move across a floor like a slow tide.
"Hello..." a woman’s voice breaks the silence.
"Hello, who's there?" An older man responds. Two voices become ten, ten become 30, and more and more they cried out one after the other, hoping for an answer and all they get in reply is more confused hellos. But there are no answers there is just crying, panting and gasping for air. It’s the sound of terror.
The lights come on loudly, and that noise of fluorescents jump starts and slowly illuminates a monstrous warehouse that appears to have no entry point. No door, no windows, some small holes here and there but nothing that looks like any person could enter the area they’re in.
One hundred people are strewed throughout, some on the floor, some sitting against a wall, all completely unaware of what’s going on. A few are staggering about like zombies in a George A. Romero movie. Not one of them having a clue as to where they are or how they got there, they just stare at one another, begging for answers, a few begin talking to one another but most don’t know who to trust.
“Everyone, excuse me, my name is Rashaan Glendale, do any of you recall being taken and brought here? Do we know how long we’ve been here? I just woke up and I don’t know how long I’ve been out? Is this the first the lights have come on?” he looks for answers reaching out even physically in hopes someone will answer him, but no one does. His hands shake and he continues to try and hold it together. “Someone answer me, please…” his voice cracks and his glasses slide down his nose a bit as the sweat begins to bead on his shaved head. His inner voice is even shaking and confused, do they know something I don’t, were they told something, is it because I’m black, why…why… “WHY WON’T YOU ANSWER ME GOD DAMMIT!” he drops to his knees, and the weight of the world that he is in hits his gut and the pain makes him wince.
“Dude, hey man, hey, its okay, come on, we all just woke up I think, the lights came on for the first time just now, come on stand up. It’s okay.” Jason Harris reaches down and puts his hand on Rashaan’s back, hooks him under his arm, grasps his hand and hoists him up. “Whoa big man. Help me out here.” Jason grunts only partially jokingly as he gets Rashaan to his feet. “Did you say your name was Rashad? Rashad I’m Jay.”
“It’s Rashaan, with an N, and thank you Jay, what’re we doing here? Who are you? Why were we taken?” his voice starts to reclaim itself as he begins to gain his senses.
“Sorry, dude, I mean Rashaan, and I have no idea. I’m a nobody, I have a boring job, I do have a hot girlfriend but I have absolutely no way to pay any ransom, so I’m as lost as you are man. Maybe this is...” Jason’s cut short as a part of the wall that reveals it self to be a door opens up near a small walkway platform some 30ft off the ground. Shortly after on each wall, the north, south, east and west a wall door opens and 5 men walk out of each armed with odd shaped guns.
Shouts of anger and more fear cry out, some oddly for help from what clearly are the confused men and women’s captors. A large screen powers on and Cipher appears on the screen. One voice of recognition is heard amongst the cries and pleadings, “NO FREAKIN WAY”.
“Everyone listen clearly.” The crowd however just responds with more cries of help and begging and pleading, Cipher attempts to quiet them again.
“Everyone listen! I am Cipher these people you see standing around you are P90s. They are called P90s because that is what each of them holds. P90 stands for the Project 90 Submachine gun. The P90 weighs 6.6 lbs fully loaded, has a total length of 19.7’’ and a 50 round magazine that loads into the top, parallel to the barrel. It has a maximum range of 220 yards. The room you are in is only 100 yards long and we are 34ft in the air. It has the ability to accurately deliver a special 5.7 x 28 mm cartridge that is capable of piercing standard Warsaw Pact body armor; however.” He pauses. “None of you are wearing body armor, which means the bullet will zip through you cleanly and hit the man and or woman behind you.” He’s gained their attention.
“You are all now a part of the most important expedition in the last 2 centuries, and today is day one of that expedition. There are four boxes protruding from the walls, one on each wall. In those four boxes are 25 key tag chips. Amongst the four boxes are the numbers 1 through 100, one for each you, there are 100 people on the floor in this room right now. The tags have been randomly placed in each box; neither I nor anyone in this room knows which numbers are in which box. Please proceed to the boxes in an orderly fashion, any acts of violence or inappropriateness while the P90s are in the room will resort in you being removed from the expedition via 5.7x28mm cartridge. Everyone must take one tag, and then hold it the air.”
Jay and Rashaan look at one another and proceed to the box closest to their right; some people realize there are more than 25 people at each box and scurry to a different wall to obtain their tag. They then as instructed walk to wear they can be seen by the P90s and hold their tag into the air. The process takes approximately 14 minutes, everyone stands there looking at one another holding their tag chip in the air.
Jay looks to his new friend Rashaan, “I got 31, what did you get?”
“29, what the hell does it mean?!”
“No clue dude.”
“Excellent, well done everyone if you all keep up this behavior this expedition will move along without any issues. The number you have received is equivalent to something I am going to give to you during this expedition, and in saying that this begins day one. See you tomorrow. Good night.” The monitor shuts off, and the P90s file back out the doors while everyone below just stares no wiser than when they first got here.
“Something he’s going to give us?” Rashaan looks around and sees other small pods of people discussing their chips and the panic beginning to grow. “Ohhhhh damn, this isn’t good.”
“What? What is he going to give us?” Jason begins to spin around looking over others shoulders to see what number they have. “Is a high number good or is a low number good? And I got 31, is that a lot there’s like what 69 other people after me? Or is it before me? What do I get 31 of?!” The same questions are being asked throughout the room, some people begin begging to switch numbers with someone else.
Shouts of ‘what number do you have!’ spread across the room like wild fire, some of the captives holding on to their number as if they were protecting their child.
“I have 87! What am I getting 87 of, whatever it is, I don’t want it!” Janet cries out in hopes someone will switch with her.
“What if its 87 portions of food? I got 12, what if you get 87 packages of food to survive and I only get a dozen! What then?!” Humberto yells at her, afraid and unaware of what is going on like all the rest he’s sweating and in a state of panic.
“Trade with me, take my 87! I’ll take your 12.” Janet grips at Humberto’s shirt. “PLEASE!”
“Fine, take it I’ll gladly take your 87. You don’t even know lady! This is probably how many times we get to eat and I’m not giving it back do you understand me?! No give backs!” Humberto squeezes his tag so tight he can feel it burrowing into his hand.
Their exchange of numbers isn’t the only one, left and right people begin to swap tags, the group is almost completely divided on which is better to have, a low number or a high number. Jay and Rashaan sit back and watch as the madness unfolds, unsure on what to do, they feel the best course of action to take is just stick what they have and see what happens.
Several hours go by, all filled with arguing and bickering debating on what is better to have number 1 or number 100, oddly enough no one has come forth saying if they have either of those numbers. A few people in the group have stepped up and have attempted to become a leader figure; pods of people begin to form as small societies are built in a day. Those who choose to spend the day praying to God that they will be free and unharmed. A group of men sit around constantly looking over their shoulders, plotting an escape and trying to devise a plan to take over the guards and save the day.
Another group that gets labeled as the criers does just that, they all seem to not be able to control themselves and stop crying, some people are actually escorted from other groups and sat with these other men and women who do nothing but rock back and forth and cry. The other groups fear that their condition will become contagious and the criers will be their downfall.
A trough along the north wall filled with water at some point when all the tag counting and exchanging was going on, several people have decided to just sit there and just stare at the water hoping to help their mind escape and leave the warehouse. There are a few stragglers here and there, the socially inept ones who fear everyone in the room. The people who in the outside world who were loners to begin with find no comfort or reason to jump at joining a group at this point in their life. Bobby Ackerman gets up from his group of people that have been trying to debate and determine how long they’ve been there, compiling accounts from everyone to see if there was any pattern or purpose as to why this group was chosen. They have come up with nothing, none of the people in the group seem to share a common bond or have anything that would be considered leverage against their life. Bobby hopes a drink of water, and maybe splashing a little on his face will help him think and get a sense of normalcy.
About 20ft from the trough Bobby is stopped by a large fat man with a really bad haircut, Kevin Boyer, he approaches him as though he’s one of those guys who sells watches on the streets of New York city.
“Hey buddy, what number do you have?” Kevin walks along with Bobby who seems to be paying him no mind. “What number did you end up with.” He persists.
“It’s none of your business.” Bobby stammers out. “Besides everyone’s stopped trading.” He keeps walking to the water.
“You got a good number don’t you, you and your nerd friends over there sat down and figured out what they mean and you think you got a good number. What’s your number?” Kevin tries to add a chuckle amidst his accusation, hoping to put Bobby at ease and give him the information he wants.
“It’s none of your business! And I’m not a nerd, and that’s not what we were talking about.” Bobby reaches the trough and scoops some water into his hands, slurping it up, and splashing some on his face, he desperately needs it right now as he hasn’t felt this way since being bullied in High School.
“Just tell me you number. Come on…just; just tell me your god damn number. I just, I just want to know…what your God. Damn. NUMBER IS!” His voice builds to a crescendo and the room filled with chatter stops and stares as if a waitress just dropped a tray of plates. But before someone can get out the inevitable ‘ooooooo’ the lights in the entire warehouse go off and a blanket of darkness is thrown over everyone. There is not one shed of light coming in and you can’t see your hand in front of your face. Kevin however still can be heard “Just tell me!” and then screams are heard. The sounds of a struggle, the grunting the smashing of flesh and bone but in the huge room its hard to determine who is saying and doing what in such darkness. All that anyone can hear is that a struggle is taking place but did someone grab Kevin from behind in the dark to stop him from hurting the smaller frailer Bobby? Did Bobby decide he wasn’t going to be a victim and jump on Kevin? Or is Bobby currently getting beaten to death by the fat man with bad hair who wouldn’t shut up.
Then it gets worse. Another fight somewhere in the room, but this one is far more horrific a woman screaming as though she’s being attacked and everyone else begins to scream, and pleading the attacker to stop. Is it another woman attacking her? Is it a man forcing himself upon her? Will this go on all night? Then one more, another struggle, or is it just an echo off the wall or is someone in there with them, did the P90s come back.
“WHATS HAPPENING!!!” Rashaan bellows screaming until his voice goes rasp. Jason grabs his hand and pulls him to the closest wall.
“DUDE! Chill! Come on man. Back to back. No one touches you, no one touches me!” He tries to put on a strong voice but its clear his words are choked with tears. The two men slam down and sit with their sides to the wall putting their backs to one another. They shake and move their head side to side as if looking around would help. They want to cover their ears and block out the screams and the fighting but what if someone comes close. Sleep won’t be possible, and in a room of complete darkness it doesn’t matter if your eyes are open or closed the outlook is still the same, bleak.
End of Day one entry.
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