Gone where?
“No.”
“Fourteen months.”
Jesus.
“Is that a shock to you, Jason?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, pins and needles and bated breath and asses on the edges of our seats. We’ve been waiting for over a year to ask these questions: What did you see? Where did you go? How did you get back? Tell us everything, and please start from the beginning.”
I take a sip of water, clinging to my last solid memory like a crumbling handhold on a cliff face—leaving my house on family night.
And then…
I walked down the sidewalk through a cool, autumn night. I could hear the noise of the Cubs game in all the bars.
To where?
Where was I going?
“Just take your time, Jason. We’re in no rush.”
Ryan Holder.
That’s who I was going to see.
I walked to Village Tap and had a drink—two drinks, world-class Scotch, to be exact—with my old college roommate, Ryan Holder.
Is he somehow responsible for this?
I wonder again: Is this actually happening?
I raise the glass of water. It looks perfectly real, right down to the way it sweats and the cold wetness of it on my fingertips.
I look into Amanda’s eyes.
I examine the walls.
They’re not melting.
If this is some drug-induced trip, it’s like none I’ve ever heard of. No visual or auditory distortions. No euphoria. It’s not that this place doesn’t feel real. I just shouldn’t be here. It’s somehow my presence that’s the lie. I’m not even exactly sure what that means, only that I feel it in my core.
No, this is not a hallucination. This is something else entirely.
“Let’s try a different approach,” Amanda says. “What’s the last thing you remember before waking up in the hangar?”
“I was at a bar.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Seeing an old friend.”
“And where was this bar?” she asks.
“Logan Square.”
“So you were still in Chicago.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, can you describe…?”
Her voice drops off into silence.
I see the El.
It’s dark.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet for Chicago.
Someone is coming.
Someone who wants to hurt me.
My heart begins to race.
My hands sweat.
I set the glass down on the table.
“Jason, Leighton is telling me your vitals are becoming elevated.”
Her voice is back but still an ocean away.
Is this a trick?
Am I being messed with?
No, do not ask her that. Do not say those words. Be the man they think you are. These people are cool, calm, and two of them are armed. Whatever they need to hear you say, say it. Because if they realize you aren’t the person they think you are, then what?
Then maybe you never leave this place.
My head is beginning to throb. Reaching up, I touch the back of my skull and graze a knot that’s so tender it causes me to wince.
“Jason?”
Was I hurt?
Did someone attack me? What if I was brought here? What if these people, despite how nice they seem, are in league with the person who did this to me?
I touch the side of my head, feel the damage from a second blow.
“Jason.”
I see a geisha mask.
I’m naked and helpless.
“Jason.”
Just a few hours ago I was home, cooking dinner.
I am not the man they think I am. What happens when they figure that out?
“Leighton, could you come down, please?”
Nothing good.
I need to not be in this room anymore.
I need to get away from these people.
I need to think.
“Amanda.” I drag myself back into the moment, try to drive the questions and the fear out of my mind, but it’s like shoring up a failing levee. It won’t last. It won’t hold. “This is embarrassing,” I say. “I’m just so exhausted, and to be honest, decontamination was no fun.”
“Do you want to break for a minute?”
“Would that be okay? I just need a moment to clear my head.” I point at the laptop. “I also want to sound mildly intelligent for this thing.”
“Of course.” She types something. “We’re off the record now.”
I get up.
She says, “I can show you to a private room—”
“Not necessary.”
I open the door and step out into the corridor.
Leighton Vance is waiting.
“Jason, I’d like you to lie down. Your vitals are headed in the wrong direction.”
I rip the device off my arm and hand it to the doctor.
“Appreciate the concern, but what I really need is a bathroom stall.”
“Oh. Of course. I’ll take you.”
We head down the corridor.
Digging his shoulder into the heavy glass door, he leads me back into the stairwell, which at the moment is empty. No sound but the ventilation system pumping heated air through a nearby vent. I grasp the railing and lean out over the core of open space.
Two flights to the bottom, two to the top.
What did Amanda say at the start of the interview? That we’re on sublevel two? Does that mean this is all underground?
“Jason? You coming?”
I follow Leighton, climbing, fighting through the weakness in my legs, the pain in my head.
At the top of the stairwell, a sign beside a reinforced-steel door reads GROUND. Leighton swipes a keycard, punches in a code, and holds the door open.
The words VELOCITY LABORATORIES are affixed in block letters across the wall straight ahead.
Left: a bank of elevators.
Right: a security checkpoint, with a hard-looking guard standing between the metal detector and the turnstile, the exit just beyond.
It seems like the security here is outward facing, focused more on preventing people from getting in than getting out.
Leighton directs me past the elevators and down a hallway to a pair of double doors at the far end, which he opens with his keycard.
As we enter, he hits the lights, revealing a well-appointed office, the walls adorned in aviation photographs of commercial airliners and military supersonic jets and the engines that power them.
A framed photo on the desk draws my focus—an older man holding a boy in his arms that looks very much like Leighton. They’re standing in a hangar in front of a massive turbofan in the midst of assembly.
“I thought you’d be more comfortable in my private bathroom.” Leighton points toward a door in the far corner. “I’ll be right here,” he says, sitting down on the edge of his desk and pulling a phone out of his pocket. “Shout if you need anything.”
The bathroom is cold and immaculate.
There’s a toilet, a urinal, a walk-in shower, and a small window halfway up the back wall.
I take a seat on the toilet.
My chest feels so tight I can barely breathe.
They’ve been waiting for me to return for fourteen months. There’s no way they’re letting me walk out of this building. Not tonight. Maybe not for a long time considering I’m not the man they think they’re talking to.
Unless this is all some elaborate test or game.