Eyes Closed

Justin Koop

December 30th 2009

Eyes Closed

There was a stale fluorescent light harshly zapping the bleach white room into a blinding brightness. Grant’s eyes flickered, and they opened for the first time in a while. He looked around, seeing a white table, laden with needles and what looked like a bottle of anaesthesia but he couldn’t quite make it out. He felt surge of panic rise in his chest as he tried to call out for help, only to find his mouth gagged by an equally white rag. He took several deep breaths, and tried to keep his wits about him. He glanced down to his right, and he still had his silver watch on, which his grandpa had made for him on his eighteenth birthday. He had always wanted to make his grandpa proud, but found himself in gradually worse and worse situations. This one took the cake. He tried to stretch back in his mind, and find out where he had been before he woke up. He could remember little, his head hurt too much. He remembered his family, his mom, brother and sister all sitting at home but that’s it. As he finally relaxed, he heard a crashing noise and sat bolt upright. He heard the faint sound of a man screaming. He looked through the reinforced glass, and saw a porcelain white door swing open, and a man’s body fall through it. Another man, dressed in complete black stepped through the door after the body, and over it. He then took a quick look through the same glass, which Grant was looking through and quickly started to pick the lock on the door that led into Grant’s holding area. He took deep breaths but couldn’t help getting extremely afraid as he heard the door click open. The man in black walked up to the table and sat on its edge, eyeing the strange assortment of drugs on the table. He laughed a little, and pulled the balaclava off his face. He had a strong chin covered in bristly stubble. Grant thought that he looked a lot like Snake from the Metal Gear Solid series, but never got a chance to say it. He spoke in a quiet but authoritative voice, “Listen kid, I don’t know how you got here or who brought you here, but I do know that I have orders from my superiors to take you out of here and bring you somewhere without a scratch. I’m going to untie you, after I explain everything to you.” He paused then, checking through the window. “You are in the back room of an extremely illegal grow op of a new drug called hyperdontia, which is an extremely dangerous chemical which can cause a ridiculous amount of damage including loss of life. I will untie you in twenty seconds, then hand you some clothes and a gun. You will get dressed, because that hospital gown really doesn’t suit you, and then follow me. Now before you ask whose side I’m on, I’m the good guy. I’m the guy who is saving your ass and I work for the government so just save your questions till we get somewhere where we’re less likely to get our heads blown off.” After a rant like that, Grant could only nod. He gasped as the man pulled his gag off, and he sucked in the sterile air. He quickly pulled off the gown, which he hadn’t even noticed he was wearing, and slipped into a pair of blue jeans and a brown t-shirt. They fit well if not a little tight, making his brown hair a blue eyes stand out quite nicely he thought. The man humphed at Grant who was admiring himself in the glass, and shoved a pistol into his hands. Grant looked nervously down at the pistol, and pulled the slide lock back. He then asked, as the man opened the door to exit, “Wait! What’s your name?” he asked fearfully. The man smiled politely, lifted his silenced pistol into an action pose and said “Rambo”. He then laughed and exited the room, at a low crouch. Grant followed close behind and tried to be as stealthy as Rambo was. The two of them stalked through a series of hallways, ducking into rooms and peering out into each hallways extremely white walls which smelled recently painted. Sometimes they would stumble on a body of a person that Rambo had obviously dealt with. Most were hidden in rooms and Grant only noticed their brainless bodies out of the corner of his eye. The minutes seemed to drag on, but the thrill of hiding and staying unseen was extremely thrilling for Grant. Finally they reached a stairwell. On the stairwell was the first window he’d seen in a while. Out the window was what looked like an industrial park, several factories, including a furniture mill stuck out. The slipped down the stairs to the ground floor and out the exit door. They exited to what looked like an extremely well kept parking lot except that there were barely any cars. Rambo walked briskly, checking over his shoulder for cameras, which there was one of but he obviously had sabotaged it on the way in. He entered a beige Toyota Camry and Grant entered shortly after. Rambo pulled out of the parking lot and onto a major freeway after that. Grant then breathed a sigh of relief and struck up conversation. “Ok. Now I need to know some things.” He asked. Rambo looked at him and grumbled something under his breath. Grant continued, “I want to know how the crap I got into that place and where I come from.” Rambo reached over and opened the glove box, throwing a file onto Grant’s lap. He also almost hit a squirrel that was on the shoulder of the road. He swerved back onto the road and picked up speed. Grant read the file, which had plenty of information about him. His name was Grant Shore, son of Martha and Randy Shore. Randy Shore died at the age of 44, accidental death at the work place, and Martha Shore was the mother of three who worked at the local grocery store in his hometown of Winnipeg, Manitoba. He then read the official mission persons report that had been issued for him. He squirmed a little. “Is my amnesia really that bad?” He thought to himself, “Did I just run away and get caught by some thugs or something?” He continued to read, and the next part shocked him the most. There were several pictures of him shaking hands with some men, and very obviously selling something to them in a briefcase. He flipped through the rest of the pictures and if his jaw was elastic like in the cartoons, it would have hit the floor. Rambo turned off the road, down a dirt path towards what looked like an abandoned barn that was rotting out. He stopped the car, grabbed the file from Grant and got out. He pulled his gun out and said, “Follow me.”

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