Jacqueline Druga: Reset

He shoved on the door and it didn’t budge. He banged and pushed filled with insanity to leave.

“Twelve,” Jason called out. “Stop.”

“I need to get out of here.” John turned from the door. Staring at him were Jason, the woman, and a new guy. “What’s wrong with you people? Don’t you want to leave? You seem content to be here. Can’t you tell they did something to us?”

Jason stepped forward. “We don’t remember anything. I barely remember my life, it’s like a dream. I’m not…” He closed his eyes tightly as if frustrated. “I’m not feeling like I know anything.”

“Well I do,” John said. “I do. My name is John. John Heming. Not Number Twelve. I am forty-six years old, from Chicago Illinois. I am a writer. I have four sons, a wife… who… my God.” He turned toward the door. “Was in the middle filing for divorce when I left. I need…” he pounded. “To get out.”

The woman yelled. “Stop. Please. Pounding on it isn’t getting us out.”

“There’s more here.” John waved his hand around. “More to this place than just this hall. What is behind all these doors? More people? Why are we the only ones awake? You people may be missing memories, but I feel we are missing something. Something we need to do. I feel it.”

“John,” The new guy walked to him. “My name is Malcolm. I’m just as confused as everyone else. If we are gonna get out or get beyond that door, we need to figure out how instead of just banging on it.”

John nodded. “You’re right.”

Jason snapped his finger. “Nora, you were looking at the boxes in storage. Did you see anything that wasn’t food? Like tools?”

“I didn’t notice, but then again, I didn’t really look,” Nora said. “Twelve… I mean… John woke up.”

“Then we look,” Jason said. “Maybe there is something there we can pry it open with. John? Does that work? You and I will look. Malcolm and Nora can keep watch in the hall, and check their rooms for anything.”

Reluctantly, John stepped from the door. “Fine. Let’s look. Because there are two doors that don’t open. Someone wants us in here and that means…” John walked toward Jason. “We in this hall are not the only ones in this building.”

Jason took John to the storage room and then after saying he’d return, he went back to his room. Room Nine.

He returned there to change but didn’t look. Now he had to. The name above the encasement chamber.

Jason looked.

Rudolph.

As soon as he looked at it the name registered in his mind. Jason Rudolph.

He repeated it several times until it felt like a sledgehammer nailed him. He had some sort of physical reaction. His body swayed and suddenly, he had a full-fledged memory.

At first it didn’t make sense. He was standing before tens of thousands of people, holding a microphone and speaking.

Jason Rudolph.

Was he a singer?

No.

His eyes widened.

He had a wife. Melissa. He remembered her, he saw her in his mind, her red hair. Her beautiful face. Instantly he felt love for her. It consumed him, overwhelmed him. How could he forget her? And his child. A daughter. A baby. A new baby.

It was all coming back to him and quickly too. Suddenly Jason felt excited, enthused and then he felt like John. Frantic to get out, to get home. He didn’t remember why he was there or even how he got there, but he knew he was supposed to be elsewhere, with his family and home.

Surely, a door in his mind opened. Soon, Jason believed, he’d remember it all. With motivation he ran back to storage.

He could barely breathe, speak, he was excited and scared all at the same time.

“John,” He called out as he ran in.

“I think I have something here,” John said. “All of these boxes are survivor materials. Food, water, rations, medical supplies. This box is heavy, bet me it has tools. It’s not marked. Although for the life of me I can’t figure out why they’d give us tools if they were keeping us prisoner.”

“I’m a preacher.”

John paused in opening the box. “I’m sorry, what?”

Jason spoke rapidly and with enthusiasm. “I went back to my room. I looked at the gel box I came from. My name. When I saw it I started to remember. I am a preacher. Or a pastor. Not sure. I have a family. I know that. I also know what you meant now. We need to get out of here.”

“Well, thank God.” John cleared his throat. “No pun intended to you being a preacher or pastor. Funny, one would think it would be embedded in your soul…” He pulled the tape seal from the box. “This is really heavy it’s…” He opened the flaps. “Guns.”

“Guns, as in like a weapon?”

John only glanced at him. “Um yeah, Preacher, guns. Bang.”

“Why would we need guns?”

John closed the flap slowly. “I read a book once. They locked eight people in this compound to see who would survive. A game of sorts.”

“You don’t think this is the case, do you?”

John shook his head. “I don’t know. The writer in me is really thinking outside…” He glanced down. “The box. But these weapons. Why do we need them in here?”

“You’re a writer?” Jason asked.

“Yeah,” He nodded. “That’s how I paid the bills.” He pushed the box aside and looked around. “So many boxes here. How long did they expect us to stay?”

“There are forty-eight rooms. I have an empty backpack in my room. Maybe we’re in the wilderness somewhere and all this is to fill our backpacks.”

Again, John shook his head as he searched. “No, we’re in New York. Or at least that’s the last place I was when I saw Nora.”

“But how…”

“Oh. Wait. Stop.” John moved a box. “Bingo.” He pointed to the fire emergency sign on the wall, and the ax in the glass encasement.”

“We can use that.”

“And it tells me a lot,” John said and walked back to the gun box. He grabbed a pistol. “Guns, weapons. We aren’t prisoners. We were put in here for a reason. But what?”

“If this was your book, John, why would we be here? I mean, you’re a writer. How would you write this?”

“First thing that comes to mind is an experiment of sorts. The fluid caused some memory loss. But you remembering tells me it is short term, so they don’t really want us to forget. Let me think about this.” Shielding his eyes, John turned from the case and then using the handle of the pistol, after a short snapping hit, he broke the glass on the case.

After handing Jason the pistol, John retrieved the ax.

Clenched in his grip, John turned. “Let’s go break that door.”

“Which one.”

“Not the one with the broken Exit sign, that’s for sure.”

The two men had taken a few steps across the room, when Nora came barreling in.

“Guys, we need help. Number One just woke up and is choking.” She flew back out.

John set down the ax and raced out with Jason.

Room Number One was only a few doors down and when they arrived, Malcolm had performed a Heimlich maneuver hold on Number One.

All Jason could see was a dangling arm, lifeless. Malcolm’s back was to him, his feet slipping on the gel like substance all over the floor. Obviously, like with Jason, Number One’s encasement malfunctioned.

“Come on.” Malcolm urged. His back heaved as he clenched. He was bigger than the man he tried to help. “He may need CPR. Unless he starts breathing.”

“What if you lay him down?” John suggested. “Do it that way.”

“Good idea,” When Malcolm turned his body, the object flew from the man’s mouth and landed on the floor.

It merged with the other fluid there.

The man silently gasped. His eyes widened and hand reached out. He released noises that were vain attempts at talking.