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Interrogation by BandE

Cuckoo’s Nest by Aniket

“They’re not real. You’re not real. You’re all monsters! Let me out of here.”

The two men observed him from outside the glass doors.

“I see the treatment isn’t working for him?”

“We are tried out our strongest dose yet, Captain. The infection still remains.”

“So what do you suggest we do now?”

“I stand by my initial recommendation. Extermination of the subject.”

“What if someone else manages to break through?”

“He took a unique combination of meth, amphetamine, alcohol and skimmed milk that made him break through. Its highly unlikely that such an incident will occur again.”

“And if it does?”

“They’re junkies, Captain. Who would believe them? They are such fools they think we hide in closets or under the bed.”

“One incident. That was just one stupid incident. I was young and was feeling adventurous, okay?”

The man in the white suit slumped in the chair, his wrist handcuffed to it. His clothes looked slept in and his white hair and goatee were disheveled. Glasses were askew on his face, one of the lenses cracked, the other missing. He clearly had been having a rough time of it.

“Well Colonel,  you have resisted all our efforts up to now. We want that information and will go to any lengths to get  it.” The interrogator spoke English with an accent . His country, many thousands of miles from the U.S. was one of several that participated in the Bush/Cheney era of extraordinary rendition , or as some have called it, outsourced torture.

Picking up the syringe and filling it with fluid fom the ampoule beside it, he injected  his prisoner. “You will be unable to resist our questioning now, no matter how tough you Kentucky guys think you are.  For the last time, answer the question,and we will release you.  What are the secret spices in your fried chicken recipe?”

Posts on this prompt:

Abduction By UFO* by BandE

Too Late by Soloman Page

Knock Knock by Aniket

Knock Knock

Its happening again. He’s back. “Help! Somebody help me!”

No one hears me. No one is going to come. No one ever comes.

I run to the kitchen and pick the biggest knife I can find.

Knock Knock, he goes again. Louder this time.

“Open the door Celia,” he shouts. He’s already taken my baby. Now he’s come to get me too.

But I wont go down without a fight. I wont.

Thud Thud.

He’s trying to break down the door. I slide the knife along my fingers and press it against my fingertip. Blood. Its sharp enough.

I walk to the door, knife ahead, careful not to alert him. This time he’ll pay for what he did to me. For what he did to him. My baby. My poor baby.

Slam.

He breaks in through the door. I was ready for him. Stab. Stab. Stab. He goes down. Stab. Stab. Stab. I win this time.

It was the next door neighbor. So he was in it too. Like Uncle Ned, and Sam. And Martha. They’re all in it together. They killed my baby!

I should have followed Dad’s advice. May be then he would’ve been safe.

I take my knife, scoop his left eye out of the socket, and throw it out of the door. Then slam it shut and sit back against it.

Dad always said, “Keep an eye out if you want to be safe”. Should have listened to him. I will, now.

I still have three of them in the house. I’ll be safe for a while…

The burns weren’t the worst part—far from it. It was the Voices that came after that did him in.

Wrapped and covered, he routinely ceased being human, eclipsed by the pure, animalistic pain that howled through his veins until the morphine drip kicked in and dragged him down to where the Voices lived.

I can’t believe he’s still alive, the first Voice said, crackling its way across the dark void. He was so glad for surcease of pain—of all sensation, really—that the first Voice didn’t trouble him.

Neither did the second Voice, more intense, rusty rather than melodic. It took me five hours to die, it spoke. He stirred among the silken, black bottom of a dream. What harm could the Voices do, really? They weren’t real, anyway. Had he been awake—untouched by the fire, ambulatory, possessed of his wild courage—he would have trampled the Voices into the the dirt after he had he took his time with them, cut them, carassed their bloody forms.

The third Voice emerged, rumbling: He deserves this.

He deserves more, said the first Voice. He almost recognized it as belonging to her, the first one he sank his teeth into.

The drug waned and he slipped upward toward the light. The Voices faded into steady machine-beeps.  A wisp of air touched his scorched skin. He opened his one functioning eye, the ruined cavern of his mouth, and screamed.

“So that’s him?” a nurse murmured to another. “The one they said butchered the Evans girl?

“Yeah. Her dad did this to him. Hope I catch that jury call so I can shake his hand.”

“Wow.”

I’m off in ten.  Wanna catch a drink?”

“Yeah.”

And so they shut the door, ignoring the morphine drip and his muffled cries. The next shift nurse didn’t come for two more hours.

Ah, said all three Voices. Let’s play.