Chapter One
The man’s eyes snapped open as a harsh breath filled his lungs with bitter, stale air. His blood was pumping, and he raised his fists in preparation to fight…
Nothing.
That was all he could see in front of him.
Nothing.
No light.
Just darkness.
He struggled to lift himself off the ground, his back screaming in pain. As his hands touched the floor, he flinched back: it was cold. Rough, too. It felt like concrete. Cold and dry and hard.
Who am I? What is my name? He struggled to recollect even that basic information, and his head hurt trying to figure it out. He had no memories, no recognition of where he was, and no name. Not a good situation to find oneself in.
But he knew he did not know. He knew that he had a name, and that he should have memories. So that was something. He lifted himself up, straightened his back, facing the impenetrable darkness. Clearly he was a person of some intellect, or at least someone with some measure of clever capacity. And clearly he was incredibly humble, given that previous thought.
He chuckled and was shocked by how deep his voice was. It was not booming, but adult. He was…a man. Okay. Not a particularly intimidating man from the sounds of things, but that was a good start towards determining his identity.
He ran his hands along his legs, which were still sore from their time lying on the concrete floor. It was a rough cloth, designed to be durable from the feel of it. They were… jeans? As soon as he remembered that word, a flood of other vocabulary rushed into his mind. He knew things! He had on shoes of some sort (boots!), that were tough and durable, too. Rummaging through his jean pockets, he found what felt like a wallet, a set of keys, and what felt like a metal marble. Unfortunately there was no light, so he could not take a proper look through the wallet to find any sort of identification. There was quite a bit of money in the wallet, however, which told him a couple of things: first of all, that he was not broke; second, that he must have been traveling somewhere; last, that he never arrived at that destination to spend the money. As for the keys, they could belong to anything, and the metal marble…well, that was still a bit of an enigma.
As he felt along the edge of his belt (another word he remembered!), his fingertips grazed against something attached to his waist. It was in a small cloth cover; fumbling in the darkness, he separated the two pieces of velcro and took out something metal. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the oddly-shaped object along every edge. Suddenly the familiarity of the object snapped into his mind.
A gun.
A pistol.
Specifically, a standard-issue Glock pistol.
Why did he have that, though? Standard-issue for who?
He pondered that gap of knowledge as he carefully placed the pistol back in its holster, being sure to not touch the trigger and accidentally set it off. Even with his limited memory, he knew that shooting himself would cause more problems than solutions.
He ran his hands along his chest and face and found nothing of particular interest. He was wearing a plain shirt, he only had a slight beard growing, and there were no tangible scars or other discerning features. Just to check, he ran a hand down into his pants. Yep, he was a man all right.
It was time to try and move. It had become clear to him that the chances of someone or something else showing up with a light was unlikely, so he would have to find one himself. He was disappointed that he did not have a flashlight or matches on his person; clearly he was not the type of person who over-planned for every situation. Then again…he wasn’t entirely sure what sort of situation he was actually in. Nervously, he unholstered the pistol and held it out in front of him as he took a tenuous step forward.
The sound of his step on the concrete echoed around him. He must be in a small room, he surmised. That was good; it meant that if there was a light switch somewhere, it would be relatively easy to find. A small smile graced his lips. Perhaps soon he would be out of this mess, and would finally know who he was and what was going on.
The edge of the gun bumped against a wall, and he holstered it so that he could touch the wall with both hands. It was concrete, like the floor. Rough, cold, and hard. For a split second, he panicked: what if he had been sealed in an airtight room, left to suffocate to death?
There was no point in worrying, though: if he had been locked in an airtight room, there was likely nothing he could do about it. But if he was not in an inescapable prison, it behooved him to try and find an exit, however possible.
Behoove. That was an odd word, he thought to himself. Clearly, whoever he was, he was not completely illiterate, since he had that term in his word bank. Good, another positive clue. He had not found out anything outrageously horrible about himself, so far.
Carefully, he took off a boot and set it next to the wall; as he stumbled around the perimeter of the room, it would help him to know where he started and stop him from going in an endless loop. Hopefully it would not be stolen or moved by another party, he thought to himself as he awkwardly began to hobble along the edge of the wall. What if there was someone just waiting for him around a corner?
He hoped he might come across a light switch or some way out of his impenetrable darkness, but instead he only encountered a corner. Turning at a sharp ninety degrees, he began following it down the same as before, cautiously putting his booted foot in front of the other in case he bumped into something, and keeping one hand against the wall so as to not lose his way. The distance from where he had first encountered the wall to the corner had been short: only a few meters or so.
As he reached another corner – that, too, at ninety degrees – he estimated that the wall was only three meters long. So wherever he had started must have been just off-center to the wall.
He bumped something in the dark with his hip, and the air from his lungs escaped in one terrifying moment as he thought something was in the process of attacking him. He slapped a hand down to the surface of what felt like a table of sort. Wooden, too, by the feel of it, and old and worn. He groped around the edges, trying to get a sense of the size of it. The table was not incredibly large, only extending a meter into the next corner.
Placing his palm flat against the surface, he swept it along the top, hoping to encounter something useful. Sure enough, his hand brushed against something cold and metallic. He made to grip it and examine it better, but the edge was sharp and painful. He ran an index finger along the edge…there was a hilt! This was some sort of large knife. Different from a kitchen knife, however: the blade was much larger. A machete!
…Why on earth was there a machete on this table? Between the gun, the metal orb, and the machete, he wondered if perhaps he was not actually as good a person as he thought he was. What if he was actually a criminal? Or a murderer? He sucked in air. He did not think he could handle the realization of being a murderer. Nothing seemed more awful.
Despite these misgivings, he took the machete with him as he continued his trek along the wall; it was possible the large blade would come in handy for something. He ran the flat edge against the wall, listening to the sound of the metal scraping on the concrete. The noise was chilling, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. For a split second he thought he could remember something – some memory lost to the void – but when he tried to hold on to that thought, it vanished. Like all his other memories, it was gone.
The clattering changed as metal suddenly stopped scraping against concrete, instead scraping against…wood? He stopped instantly, setting the machete carefully down on the ground and rubbing his hands along the surface. Vertical wood! That could only mean one thing, he thought, and as hope surged within him he brushed his hand against something cool and metal.
“Hah!” he shouted triumphantly, turning the handle and swinging the door open inward. A pale light issued outward, flooding his senses with visual response. He could see again! Turning around, he grabbed the boot he had set against the wall and put it back on, and stole a glance at the space he had called home for the moments since his awakening.
It was a small, concrete room, much as he had thought. Square, only a few meters long. The table was up front against the same wall as the door, and took up nearly a quarter of the entire space. It was hard to imagine how vast it had felt now, given the minuteness of the actual area.
Picking up the machete from the ground and holding it out in front of him, he examined the space he now presently occupied: a small, narrow, dimly-lit hallway. It appeared he had found himself in a rather nice house. The wood flooring seemed plenty nice, with a red oriental rug consuming the middle of the hall. To the right, an empty doorway opened up into another room that was kept in darkness. To the left, a window looking out. Further down, the hallway curved to the right into a larger open space: a living room of some sort, he imagined. The walls were home to loud, colorful wallpaper. All in all, it seemed like a perfectly nice home. Was it his?
He noticed something strange about the wallpaper – someone had drawn on it. He inched closer, curious. The markings were done in what looked like a crude paint of some sort, splashed all over. Initially he thought it them flowers of some sort. A triangular pistil, surrounded by circular designs. Only then did he notice they were all encircled themselves. Less a flower, and more…he paused, unable to think of the word. Something that was like a symbol, but with more meaning.
Disturbed and frustrated with his lack of memory, he stepped away. Those markings didn’t seem normal, and it was possible they could help to explain what was going on here. He went to the window and opened it, hoping he would be able to see what kind of neighborhood he was in.
There was just…nothing. Not even just darkness, but total emptiness. No streets, no yards, no anything. Just an empty void of shadow. He stuck a hand out and shivered. It was unnaturally cold.
He closed the window and took a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts. It was a very strange place, that was for sure. It seemed like a house, but then again, what sort of house had a plain concrete room? Even with his empty memory, that seemed abnormal. He had been left in this abnormal room in an abnormal house with scribblings on the wall and an empty void waiting for him outside. He still had no idea who he was, either…
Wait! He pulled the wallet out from his pocket, nestling the machete in the crook of his arm. Though it was dim, the light from the nearby lamp was just enough for him to see things a little properly. Opening the wallet up, he found the large bundle of money he had felt earlier, a set of credit cards…and a driver’s license.
At last! He held it up close to the light and read it aloud: “Martin Crow.”
Huh. Odd. When he first realized he had no name, he had wondered what his actual name might be. He had considered Charles. John. Maybe even he was a Richard. But Martin? That name just sounded strange. And yet, it sounded familiar, also, so he supposed it must be his real name.
The photo certainly resembled what he thought was his face. It was thin, but not sallow; pale, but not sick. His eye color was blue, according to the license – he couldn’t see the color in the pale light. He looked what he imagined a soldier might – stiff, professional – but not so aggressive or angry to warrant fear. His hair was a nest of brown hair; considering the lack of a comb in his pockets, neatness there was clearly not a priority.
The sound of something shuffling in his direction stirred him out of his hazy focus. He turned – it was coming from the area ahead. He pondered a moment whether to make himself known outright or wait to see who or what it was. What if it was the person who had put him in that room to begin with? But it could also be someone here to help him. He looked down – he was equipped with both a pistol and a machete. Surely if this was a threat, he could handle it.
“Hello?” he called out. “Someone there?”
A woman came into view. Right away it was clear that something was wrong with this woman: her shirt was torn and smeared with blood from a large gash that ripped through her stomach. Blood drizzled down her shirt onto her jeans, leaving a trail behind her on the floor. Her hair was a wild, black mane. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
“Ma’am?” he said, hesitant. Part of him wanted to rush forward and immediately get her some kind of assistance. The other part wanted to race out of there as quickly as possible.
Then she raised an accusatory finger, revealing that her fingers were long, curved, nail-less claws. “YOU!” she screeched. She lifted her head, and he saw her eyes for the first time.
Black.
Black, like the darkness he had woken up in.
Black, like the void outside.
Black, like death incarnate.
He dropped the wallet and held the machete out in front of him. “Ma’am, I don’t know who you are, but I am greatly in need of some explanations.” He tried to keep his voice calm. The last thing he needed was this woman assaulting him with those claws. “Could you please tell me where I am currently?”
“You murdered me,” she hissed, stepping forward menacingly. “You butchered our niece. You monster.”
“Uh, ma’am?” he took a step back, holding the machete defensively in front of him. “Ma’am, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. You certainly seem alive to me, I think, maybe…”
The woman rushed forward, screaming. He slashed with the machete but was too early: it sliced through only air. In a single instance she was on him; he felt an explosion of pain as her clawed hands stabbed into his chest cavity, heard the squelch as she tore through his innards, the snapping of his bones.
Then he felt nothing at all.
Jacob Ryckman 