Chapter 7: Last Gasp of Freedom

For ten days, John had tried to prepare himself. Something was up after they gassed him, and he woke with his cast removed. Not only that, but they shaved all his hair, on his head and everywhere else, down to the skin. Other than that, he had no idea what was going on until the shower. That chance to clean the dried salt from his skin meant time to go in the game, whatever that was. The orange jumpsuit didn’t appear.

The chain took him for the same walk down the hall with John hunched over and naked. Instead of stopping at the interview room, it went a few steps farther to the room right next door. The old man and the brothel manager stood by the far wall, already waiting. In front of them was a coffin, the lid suspended upright by a heavy mechanical arm. They made the outer shell of gleaming, dark green, metal. A soft material, shaped into a human form, John’s form, covered the inside.

John nodded toward the high-tech coffin. “If I ask what that thing is, you won’t tell me, will you?”

“It’s your new home.” The old man leaned on his cane. “Don’t worry. The sarcophagus will take care of your physical needs while you’re in the game. You shall live a long and natural life, as long as your body will allow.”

The brothel manager’s face twisted into a scowl. “You’ll wish you never existed.”

The old man snapped his fingers and raised a silencing hand. Without looking at the manager, he said, “You don’t talk.”

The underling shut up.

“Time to go, John.” He gestured towards the lid. “If you would insert your hands and feet, we will get started.”

The chain moved as if commanded. The inside had a long rectangle cut out along the head and neck. John’s heart thumped. A rush of pressure squeezed through his neck. Whatever those things on the back of their necks were, John was about to find out.

The chain walked him to the compact space in front of the lid. It was flat except for a platform where John was supposed to put his feet. Before him were two squares of a glistening, aquamarine, substance.

“Place your hands inside the gel,” the old man stood without the aid of his cane and passed it from one hand to the other, “whenever you’re ready.”

The manager tensed the muscles in his back. His cheek twitched.

John’s hands submerged beneath the slimy gel. It had a bit of give around his fingers. “Feet, too?”

The old man gave a single nod. “Yes, please.”

On the platform by his feet were two rectangular pools with the same gel. It slid between his toes. Something moved inside the mass of the substance. The gel hardened and tightened around his wrists and ankles. He pulled to see if he can get free, even though he knew the answer. There was no turning back now.

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The manager rocked his head from side to side, stretching the muscles. He put his hand on the back of his neck as if checking to see if the metal was still there.

Heat flushed John’s cheeks. Sweat rolled off his eyebrow. Spots appeared in his vision, and dread clawed at his insides. The arm lifted the lid and John’s naked form along with it.

The wrinkles of the old man’s face made him look as if a weight hung off of it. His eyebrows squeezed his eyes into slits. He looked as if she was preparing for something painful. His or someone else’s. Not someone else’s. John’s pain.

“I don’t want to go,” John said, the words trembling. “I’m sorry.”

The arm held the lid horizontal. John dangled from it while it descended. His back and shoulders touched the inside of the sarcophagus. He concentrated on trying to slow his breathing but succeeded in only creating gasps.

“Godspeed, John.” The old man placed both hands on his cane.

“I’m sorry.” John raised his head over the edge. “I don’t want to go inside.”

The pair only watched while the seals of the sarcophagus and the lid embraced. Both edges bit down and closed on the thin band of light. Darkness enveloped John.

“I’m sorry.” The words came out in a whimper. He tried to bend his legs, but his knees butted against the lid above. Nowhere to move. Nowhere to go.

Clunks reverberated through the four corners of the sarcophagus. It dropped. The G-force pressed John into the lid. The air in his lungs squeezed out. He wanted to scream, but only a wheeze escaped.

The sarcophagus slowed to a stop, and gravity returned. John gulped down breaths of air. Pins and needles crawled over every centimeter of skin. Feet first, the sarcophagus propelled forward. Pressure gathered in his face.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” John repeated himself like there was someone listening. Someone might have been. If so, they didn’t care about how sorry he was. “I didn’t mean it.” The sarcophagus slowed, rose, and came to a shuttering stop. Four more clunks echoed inside the metal container.

Everything was still. Inside the absolute darkness, only John’s labored breaths reached his ears. A tear rolled from his eye, but John couldn’t move his hand, let alone wipe his cheek. No way out. This would be his resting place. A turmoil of emotions, each fighting the other for room inside his perception, balled up. The tears flowed, and snot drained from his nostrils. John shook.

The interior lit up a bit. There wasn’t much to see with the lid in front of his face. The dim illumination came from behind his head. From behind the sweat-soaked cushion, clamps closed on John’s skull. He screamed. Insectile clacking crept up from below. Metallic points, too many to count, pulled the skin taught. John fought against the clamp, tried to shake his head, but couldn’t move at all.

An explosion of pain rushed from the back of his head. Something cut a line through the skin. John howled. They didn’t even bother to use anesthetic. More pain burned as something sucked up the blood. A whirr, deep and loud, rattled John’s teeth. It cut deep into the bone with a gut-churning vibration. John couldn’t scream anymore. He only pulled in the shallowest of breaths as if the air inside refused to leave. For what seemed like a thousand years, in truth only a second, the saw carved out a line along the wound. It shut off and retreated from the bone.

Tendrils, segmented lines of chilled metal, wormed their way into the gash. Thousands of sensations shot around John’s cranium: the taste of Frantzcisca’s tongue, a fist to the gut from one of his older brothers, burnt toast, the joy of looking into Olympia’s eyes…

Maybe this is what the old man meant when he said John was going to wish he had chosen the recycler.

Sensations overwhelmed John until his mind—