“At any rate,” Sunderson continued, leaning so far back in his chair that Gaul thought it would tip over, “you were brought back early. Those morons up at the U.E.N. Regulatory Commission changed a law in a last ditch attempt to extort Nex-Delta. We can no longer test on convicts and all experiments involving convicts must immediately cease. Thankfully, we've already gathered enough info between you and the other five subjects that we should be able to force the U.E.N. to allow us to start building residences. There is nothing harmful on the pleasure moons.” Sunderson glanced at Gaul as he continued to talk, and look of astonishment on the Gaul's face made him to stop momentarily. “Please forgive me,” he resumed, his voice not conveying any type of regret. “I keep forgetting you have no long term memories. The convict reference will be explained shortly, after your memories are returned.”
Just then, the single door opened and a short man in simple white clothes walked in. “We are ready for him,” he said, his accent strange to Gaul's ears.
“Time to go,” Sunderson exclaimed, voice brimming with a happiness that made Gaul feel sick. Sunderson then stood from his chair and motioned Gaul to walk before him. Ultimately, he knew he had no real choice, so he went obediently, trying to stay as calm as possible. The strangely accented man proceeded them, leading the way.
Their journey wasn't far, just a couple doors down from the room they had previously occupied. On the way, Gaul noticed a large logo on the wall for Nex-Delta. Underneath it, a smaller sign read: “Special Projects Division”.
Once they entered the new room, Gaul noticed several more white clothed men stationed at various types of equipment. “Sit, sit,” Sunderson said expansively. “All we be explained soon.”
The chair Sunderson was motioning at was quite simple, but it had some type of halo on top that Gaul found unnerving. Once again feeling he had no other option, he sat and the white clothed men attached the halo device to his head.
As soon as they finished, Gaul began to feel sick. The room swam and his vision blacked out. He could still hear what was going on around him. The men chatting and laughing, talking about their plans for that evening. His head felt as if it were growing and shrinking convulsively. Gaul had no idea what was happening, but before he could analyze it further, his vision returned in a blinding flash of light.
For a brief moment he remembered everything. He recalled how he had been taken out of the prison and told by the Nex-Delta representatives he was being transferred. He would be alone. He would be in paradise. Pushing into even older memories, he recalled how the girl had screamed, bled, and died. He remembered how they all had. But then he felt something, a nagging twitch in his brain, as if something was being plucked from him.
He blinked. Why did they take me out of my cell? He blinked again. How did I get in this chair?
Part Six
The lack of windows in cell block 7 gave Del Markum nothing to look at, unless you called the drab walls interesting, which he didn't. He had no idea how long he'd been in the block, but he knew he would be here until he died. Everyone in cell block 7 was there till they died. That was just the way things were.
Time dragged on in the block, a slow, painful drudgery that drove people crazy. Yesterday was different. They had brought back old John Bosemer Gaul, Butcher of Nine Points. Markum could remember when Gaul had left the block, skin white and pale, limbs thin and gangly. Now he was fit, his muscles rippling under tan skin. The time between Gaul's leaving and his return was so boring that Markum couldn't remember any of it. It was like Gaul had never left. He was glad they had brought back the Butcher, because now he had something to watch. And they had placed Gaul in the cell directly across from him. Didn't get much luckier than that.
Night and day, the Butcher cried. Big sobs racked his body, making him look like he was having seizures. It was unlike his old hard-as-synth-diamond self. Markum liked it though, and hoped it would never end. Pain, no matter what form it took, never lost its savor for Markum.
One thing he couldn't understand was the meaning of the Butcher's words. The man kept sobbing, relentlessly saying: “It's gone. it's gone.” He would repeat the words as if they were a mantra, tears flowing down his sunken cheeks. “It's gone, it's gone. My utopia is gone...”
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Dear Reader,
Thank you for investing your time in my fiction! If you'd like to get in contact with me, you can email:
[email protected]. My website, www.zachariahwahrer.com, is a great way to find more of my writing. If you are more of a social media person, I'm on Facebook, Twitter, Medium, and Instagram. If you’d like exclusive short stories, essays, poems, and art, check out my Patreon page.
May the fires of the black star be quenched in your life,
Zachariah Wahrer
***
About the Author
Zachariah Wahrer spent the first twelve years of his adult life doing various jobs around the United States, such as eBay salesman, punk rock musician, horse halter craftsman, and rock climbing gym route-setter.
Near the end of 2014, Zachariah moved into a Honda Odyssey with his wife Sarah and began traveling the United States and Canada, seeking inspiration and adventure while writing and rock climbing full-time. His first novel, Breakers of the Dawn: Book 1 of the Dawn Saga, was electronically published in December of 2014.
When not deeply immersed in imaginary worlds, Zachariah loves to experience the outdoors as well as read about science, futurology, and trans-humanism. He also enjoys home-brewing and creating digital art to accompany his writing.
While writing this story, Zachariah lived in Benton, Kansas.
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