Chapter 2 - No screaming

Wake up

Paul spasmed and sat bolt upright, screaming without making a sound.

No screaming. We are silent.

What the fuck, what the fuck - thought Paul, looking around in panic at the room. He ripped off the oxygen mask from his face and chucked it away. It sailed right into an open container and tinked against the glass.

Yes, I too hate boxes. That one specifically.

Paul turned around wildly, where the fuck is that voice coming from? There was nothing else in the room except for the table he was on and the glass box at his feet. Every surface was seamless, not a crack or joint or vent of anything.

Looks like we’re stuck, but trust me, I won’t stay in another box.

Paul’s head suddenly jerked to the side, like it was being controlled by a puppet-master with a string tied to his skull. With a yank that threatened to rip his neck apart, it pulled him towards the edge of the table.

Come, get up!

Instinctively, Paul grabbed his scalp. He’d expected to feel his hair, or maybe the hood of this bright blue stiffsuit he was now wearing. But instead, his fingers slipped through something that was less like hair and more like enumerable, hair-thin tentacles, writhing directly from his scalp, fused with his skin.

A massive wave of nausea swept over Paul. His stomach lurched and he keeled off the bed like an anvil off the top of a skyscraper, landing heavily on his face.

Nice landing. But no vomiting, we keep everything inside.

Paul felt lightheaded, as though his hair was floating up into the air, pulling his body along behind. It wasn’t all that bad of a feeling until he smashed against the glass wall.

Focus, no time for sleep. Time for escape.

Paul touched his face, sure he’d find blood pouring from a broken nose, but there was nothing. Not even the slightest trace of sweat. His head yanked back and drove forward again, colliding his forehead with the glass.

BANG!

The scream of pain and shock was pulled back down Paul’s throat again, making him feel like he’d swallowed his tongue into the pit of his stomach. His head jerked back and drove forward again.

BANG! BANG!

Paul braced his arms against the glass and pushed back, trying to stop himself from splitting his face open.

What are you doing? We have to get out!

The voice was agitated now, impatient and afraid. Paul tried to speak, but nothing came out. Desperately, he reached into his mouth and pulled at his tongue, then flapped his hand around like it was a talking sock puppet, albeit without the sock.

You want to speak? Fine, but no screaming. Whisper, or be gagged again.

Paul gasped air down his throat. Had he even been breathing this whole time?

“What the fuck? What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck?” he whispered, with more self-control than he’d thought was possible.

It was better when you were silent. Said the voice, judgmentally.

“What the fuck is going on? What the fuck is this? Who the fuck are you? What the fuck happene-” Paul cut off as his mind filled with images. The explosion, the spray of blood, his life gurgling out of his collapsed lung…

His hands shot up, feeling his chest through the thin fabric. The only hint of his gaping wound was the piece of shrapnel that was now sandwiched between his skin and the stiffsuit. That, and the huge patch of blood staining the bright blue onesie’s front and sides.

You had a hole in your body. I fixed it.

Paul suddenly needed to take this onesie off. He had to see his body. He tried grabbing for a fold to rip with his hands but there was no loose. There were no zips, clips, strings, nothing. He couldn’t even slide his hands down through the collar. The suit was skin tight, clearly made specifically for restraining someone, just as he’d been.

You give no thanks for keeping you alive?

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The room was seamlessly circular, half of it white and the other half glass. Paul pressed his face to it, trying to look through.

We are wasting time. There is nothing to see through that. We have to get out.

Paul tried not to think of his head, of the tentacles squirming over his ears and nape. But it was pretty difficult to ignore the lock of black hair that swung down in front of his eyes and turned to look at him.

If you do not want to help, I will get us out, it said before it flung upwards and yanked his head back to smash against the glass again.

“No! No, wait! Wait!” pleaded Paul, frantically whispering, “Wait, I’ve got an idea. Just give me a moment.”

An idea? This is surprising. I see no worthwhile thoughts in your mind.

Paul grabbed at the piece of shrapnel sandwiched against his chest. It was sharp, probably metal, and felt like it’d pierce his skin if he tried to move it.

Ah, yes, a good idea. Grab it. Pull it. Quickly!

A rush of adrenaline, or at least something like it, poured down Paul’s back from his head. His face twisted maniacally. His muscles throbbed like they’d burst. His hand shot up towards the ceiling, surprisingly under his own volition, and swung back down to latch onto the piece of shrapnel.

Yes, yes! Rip it out!

Paul strained against the suit, pulling with much more than his usual strength. It resisted as a single weave, spreading the tension out evenly through the whole fabric. Paul hissed, his knuckles shook and popped, blood dripped from his clenched fist.

PULL!

Surprisingly, it was the entire back side of the stiffsuit that finally gave out, bursting open with a sound like a giant balloon popping. But Paul didn’t even have an instant to register what happened as his hand rocketed forwards, sending his body flying towards the window, the piece of shrapnel still in his fist like an ax blade on a haft.

YES!

A corner of the metal debris met the glass and didn’t stop. Paul sailed through the falling shards at such speed that he didn’t touch the floor until he slammed into a wall, then crumpled down into a heap.

Amazing! You are better than hoped. Now get up. GET UP!

Alarms blared and lights blazed into life, nearly blinding Paul. Hadn’t there been lights before this? How had he seen anything? But the thought was pulled out from under his mind like a tablecloth from under plates of spaghetti when he looked down at his hand. The piece of shrapnel was buried into his fingers and blood trickled onto the floor.

He couldn’t unclench his fist, and so he panicked. He shook his hand like he was trying to air-dry it and heard the shrapnel skitter away on the floor. His fingers flopped around lifelessly, spraying even more blood over the remains of his onesie. All five fingers were nearly severed, just barely holding on by meager strips of flesh.

Paul screamed. He screeched. He let out all of the terror and anguish he’d had to hold back for the past… what, five minutes? His wail drowned the alarms, shattered the nearby console, short circuited the local system, and bounced away down a very clean-looking hallway.

Paul crumpled into the chair beside the console, nursing his left hand in his right.

I said no screaming. We are not being silent. And we are leaking.

The voice was now much calmer, as though there was nothing to worry about anymore.

But, we are free. You did well. I am not sure I could have gotten out without your help. You can rest now, for a moment. We are out of the box.

Paul sobbed, but tearlessly. Then, tenderly, the fine black tentacles draped down from his head, like Rapunzel’s hair dropping down from the tower. They wrapped around his ruined hand, carefully moving the dangling digits back in place.

Perhaps you give no thanks, but I do so this way.

There was a poster of a llama on the wall nearby. It said “You chew-se to be who you chew-se to be.” Bits of glass and blood speckled the lama, making it look like a macabre, woolen, disco ball. Paul felt very bad for the llama. It hadn’t chosen to be covered in blood and broken glass, he’d done that. Paul’s lower lip did that quivering thing lips do when they’ve had enough.

Somewhere nearby, a door wooshed open.

“I’m telling you I heard something,” said a voice, coming down the hall, “like a kid scared shitless in a haunted house.”

“Oh come on, Jerome,” said another, “You might’ve been right once tonight, but now you’re pushing it.”

“No no, hold on,” said a third, “I heard something too this time. Like someone getting flattened under a steam roller.”

There was a strained silence.

“How do you know what that sounds like?” asked Jerome, just coming around the corner.

Their conversation abruptly cut off as they considered the mayhem.

Glass had been driven into every surface, refracting splattered blood like a demented house of mirrors. The console was smoking and fritzing with fiery sparks. And, seated on a swivel chair, a young man dressed only in taters of baby blue badly stained with crimson.

They might have recognized him as the young man they’d apprehended merely hours ago, if only it hadn’t been for his hair.

A mass of writhing tentacles, continuously moving and passing through each other like streams of oil, was descending over Paul’s face and neck. It covered his features like a mask of tar.

It had no eyes, but it was most certainly looking at the guards.

It had no mouth, but it was, without any doubt, very hungry.

Get ready, said the voice, sounding slightly unhinged with glee.

But, as he was pulled onto his feet, Paul seriously doubted he could get ready. Of all the things he might've imagined, nothing would've mentally prepared him for what was happening, and even less for what was to come.

It's time to eat!

- End of chapter 2 -