Robert Wilson: The Quiet

Eventually his headache shrunk to a dull pulsing from time to time and his stomach continued balancing in that halfway point between nausea and heartburn. He lay on the cot for a long time, remembering the last time he had a shower as if it had been ages ago, in some far off, magical land, now mostly forgotten. In a way, it had. He twirled his finger around loose, green canvas thread from the cot as he stared into the ceiling, wondering what these men would do next. He was sure they were scared of something, but of what he had no clue. He wanted to believe they weren’t capable of violence, but the pain in his skull kept him in doubt. And just what watching him in this room would prove to them baffled James more than any of it. Before long, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, he drifted off to sleep.

Two yellow eyes peeked out from the darkness, shimmering with internal light. Whatever they belonged to made only an impression of space. A sense of detached scrutiny showed from them. Then came the metallic growling James had heard from his radio. The eyes were coming closer and James could no longer keep still. He took off running, leaving the shimmering eyes behind him. A voice whispered in his ear with an odd, featureless accent.

“Clear a path in the desert. Make a straight road for the…”

A loud clunk woke James. From the vibration of the door and the sound of the padlock closing from outside, he realized someone had been in the room. Sweat dripped down into his eye from his brow with a sting as he sat up. Getting rest had alleviated the pain in his head. In the back of his mind he could still see those staring eyes. A shiver ran down his spine as he tried to clear them from his thoughts. Opening the fridge, he was not surprised to find another sandwich. This time he was almost disappointed to find the fresh baked bread filled with salami, ham, and cheese until he took a bite. These people at least had one thing going for them: they could make good sandwiches. It was so good, he almost felt guilty for wanting strangle each and every one of them. But he took solace in deciding he would give them a chance to listen to reason.

When he finished eating, James got down to business. His head clear of distraction and his claustrophobia coming to a peak, he was ready to leave the tiny room and leave these people behind if they only wanted to cage him. He tapped his palm against the door strong enough to get someone’s attention. He heard whispering through the door, but couldn’t make it out.

“What do you want?” came a voice from beyond the door.

James leaned closer to the crack in the door. “I just want some fresh air… and to know why you guys locked me in here.”

“We’re not supposed to let you out until Mr. Flannegan says. Just sit tight and as long as you check out, everything will be fine,” Barger said through the door. James spent the rest of the day pacing and scanning the room for anything that might help him escape.

The next morning the testing began. James woke to someone knocking on the door.

“Well, what are you knocking for, it’s not like I can let you in,” he said as he rubbed his eyes. He heard a faint laugh from behind the door and then the sliding of paper from below and looked down to see an envelope under the door.

James slid his finger along the line of adhesive, peeling the envelope open. Whatever was inside was more durable than paper, yet pliable enough to bend. He leaned the brown paper pouch so that its contents slid out. He noticed a blur of rich glossy colors as the pictures fell from the envelope.

They were horrible. He grimaced at each one as he put it in the back of the stack. Each picture depicted a person or several people who had apparently been brutally murdered. Not a single one had been merciful. The more he looked at them, from one to the next and so on, the more he could see a pattern. No gunshot wounds. No stab wounds. Not a single hint of any weapon. They all appeared to have been ripped apart. He looked up at the camera bolted to the wall above the door.

“Hey! What kind of sick shit is this? Hey! Can you people hear me?” Then he looked down at the last picture. It was just like the rest except… In the far corner of the picture a hand lay, palm facing the floor, nails gripping at the crack between tiles. Just below the golden wristwatch, torn flesh and bone bordered between the hand and a black puddle of blood. Something just inside his peripheral vision was trying to get his attention.

He let his eyes stare at the picture until it blurred into fuzzy colors. The cracks in the linoleum tiles blurred as his vision obscured. They started to line up with something. Then it was clear. The lines intersected completely with the tiles on the floor in front of him. They had the same pattern. The exact same pattern. Just beyond the reach of the severed hand in the picture were the blurry blue sides of the shelf that sat against the wall right in front of James. Realizing this, his heart jumped in his chest and he had to sit down.

James was sure he was going to be the next person to be photographed. His limbs were stiff and his resolve was diminishing. He needed to try and escape but he couldn’t find the strength to even move. He felt the pictures slip from his hand as he leaned back against the wall.

The padlock outside the door clicked and the door swung open. James clung to the cot and raised his arms to protect himself from whatever would come next. Mr. Flannigan stood in the doorway. He entered the room and leaned down as though James were a wild animal he was trying to calm.

“It’s okay, Mr. Benton, we’re not gonna hurt ya. We had to be sure ya weren’t one o’ them.”

Mr. Flannigan reached out to put his hand on James’s shoulder. James jerked, backing farther away and pushing himself even more against the wall.

“What did you do to them?” James screamed.

Mr. Flannigan’s shoulders seemed to deflate. “Awe, no, Mr. Benton, we didn’t do anything to them there poor souls. Some of those folks was friends o’ mine, family. It was them, Mr. Benton. The ones who make the sky turn black, the ones who’re killin’ everything.”

A chill run down James’s back. He looked at the old man before him with reservation.

“’Who are they ? And how’d you know I wasn’t one of them?”

Flannigan seemed to age 20 years as he looked at James with sad eyes. “Don’t know, Mr. Benton… but…” He looked down at the floor, then said, “They ain’t human. Doc Barnes can attest to that. And I knew ya wasn’t one o’ them ’cause last one we showed them there photographs to looked right through ’em like they was blank pieces o’ paper. No sign o’ ee -motion at-all. Then the first doggone chance he got when we tried to feed him, he ripped my brother Darrell apart.”

James sat up with a shock. He knew then who was in that last picture. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Flannigan.” The old man nodded, his head still facing the floor.

“Me too, Mr. Benton.”

“Please, sir, call me James.”

“Well, James, you won’t feel quite so tender when you hear the rest. I, for one, know you’re not one o’ them. But Doc Barnes, Joey Torrence, Pastor Williams, frankly a lot of the town folks, won’t wanna go offa just this ol’ man’s whim.”

“What? Wait a minute! Can’t the doctor just look me over?” James jumped to his feet and several things happened all at once. Flannigan jumped back in reaction, Barger seemed to come from nowhere, a wild look in his eyes, and swung the butt of his rifle, connecting it with James’s shoulder. James fell to the floor and both Barger and Flannigan Jr. dragged the elder Mr. Flannigan out the door and slammed it shut, leaving James alone in the room, the air knocked from his lungs. He tried to get up, but a weighted sharp pain in his shoulder prevented him from doing so. He let out a scream. Mr. Flannigan’s voice came muffled through the crack under the door, “I’m sorry, James, even if Doc Barnes could give you a look over, we’d first have to get him to come in that room with you and we can’t do that. He’s our doctor. None o’ them’ll risk losin’ him.” James bit his tongue to try and quell the pain.