Seeing myself die for the second time didn’t have the same emotional impact as the first, but it was still jarring. I didn’t bother to open the tank; instead, I focused on trying to relax, curious to see if the same strange sequence of events would unfold again. I slowed my breathing, but a throb in my temples distracted me. Ignoring the mild headache, it wasn’t long before the light came on, and I found myself back in the unreality.
When I entered the lobby, Luanda greeted me just as she had before: “How was it? Did you like it?” The words felt familiar now, and the tone remained unchanged from the previous two times she had said them.
I gave a half smile and replied, “It was fine, but I kept having these weird hallucinations. Is that normal?”
Luanda shrugged, “people have all kinds of reactions. Personally, no one has told me about hallucinations, but I suppose it’s possible. I’ve had some people tell me they felt like they were flying. Was it something like that?”
“No, nothing like that,” I replied, shaking my head. “I kept imagining I was waking up and coming back in here. Then, when I leave, that guy I was telling you about shoots me, and I wake up back in the pod. It’s like a Groundhog Day kind of thing.”
Her thick eyebrows rose as I spoke. “Damn, that’s wild. It sounds like that guy has you super freaked out. He came in with a picture of you just a little bit ago. Is something going on? I know you said he was just being jealous, but that seems pretty sketch to me. Random jealous guys don’t walk around with driver's license photos.”
Since this felt like yet another hallucination, I decided to tell her something closer to the truth and not worry about the consequences. “Yes, sorry, that was bullshit. I stole a bunch of money, and I guess they're pretty salty because they sent that John Wick wannabe after me. I came in here to hide.”
“What the fuck,” she said, her hand going to her purse. I noticed her slight California accent had faded, and her tone had a knife-like clarity, punctuating each word. “I don’t want any part of that shit; just clear the fuck out.” As she spoke, a ghostly image of her step back, drawing a gun smoothly and aiming it at me in what looked like a practiced stance. I paused for a moment, watching as the image faded and disappeared.
“Look,” I said, raising my hands apologetically. “I didn’t mean to drop any of this on you. I just wanted to know if there was another way out of here, maybe an employee entrance.”
She shook her head. “There’s a fire exit in the back, but the door is alarmed. Just take your bullshit problems and go.”
I glanced down the hall, past the rooms with the pods, and spotted the clearly marked fire exit with a push bar. I hurried towards it, but she called after me, “Don’t go out that way; it will set off the alarm!”
I ignored her and pushed open the door, stepping outside. The bright light hit me, making me squint for a second. As my eyes adjusted, I heard feet pounding to my left. I turned to see a muscular white guy with tightly cropped hair running directly toward me. I tried to run, but he had too much momentum. Before I could take two steps, he tackled me, landing heavily on top of me.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
As I hit the ground, my face slammed into the asphalt, and pain exploded in my head. I tasted the salty, metallic flavor of blood in my mouth, and I felt my arms being yanked hard behind my back. I heard the zip of plastic ties and felt them cutting painfully into my wrists. Off to the side, the door alarm bleated angrily, complaining about being opened. His hands patted up and down my sides, my back, my legs.
Strong fingers gripped my right arm around the bicep, and he flipped me over as if I weighed nothing. On my back, with my hands painfully crushed under me against the rough blacktop, I got my first detailed look at the man who had tackled me. His eyes were dark, and his skin was tanned. His hair was extremely short, giving him a vaguely military appearance. His body was trim, with thick biceps and a general muscular build—not the thick-necked, steroid-fueled type, but the kind of solid physique you might expect from a rock climber or gymnast..
He pressed one knee firmly against my chest, causing the pain in my wrists to intensify as the added weight pressed them harder into the pavement. The other leg bent at a 90-degree angle, and he leaned back, straightening his posture. He reached into the pocket of his brown khaki pants and pulled out a small, old-school flip phone, quickly dialing a number.
After a moment, he spoke in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice. “Yes, you were right; he was in one of the shops. I caught him trying to sneak out the back.” He paused briefly before adding, “But hurry; he set off the door alarm, and we’re going to attract attention.”
I lifted my head, looked up at him, and asked, “Hey, can you ease up off my chest with your knee? I can’t breathe, and my hands are getting crushed .” The look in his eye made it clear he wasn’t interested in what I wanted.
He bent over, placed a hand on my forehead, and pushed the back of my head hard into the asphalt. The pain was quick and sharp, making my vision swim for an instant, and I heard him say in a measured tone, “Look, just keep quiet unless we tell you to talk. You’re in a lot of trouble, computer boy. Don’t make it harder on yourself.” His tone wasn’t angry, just matter-of-fact with a barely hidden hint of glee.
I kept my eyes closed and remained silent. I told myself, “It’s okay. None of this is real; you’ll be back in the tank soon.” Yet, despite that sense of detachment, the pain still felt very real. I wondered how long it would be before I woke up again. Then a thought came to me that made my heart race, “Fuck, do I need to die to wake back up? Will I wake up when my time is up and Luanda comes and opens the tank?” Either scenario was terrible. It was pretty clear nothing good was about to happen, and I wanted no part of what seemed to be coming next.
At that moment, I decided to try to wake up. I shook my head slightly and thought, “Okay, wake up now,” but nothing happened. I tried relaxing, even though it was difficult with someone’s knee on my chest, but I couldn't manage to slow my breathing.
I heard a car pull up just a foot or two away from my head, and the linebacker guy lifted me to my feet. I opened my eyes and saw the door of the blue Nissan swing open. I was pushed into the back seat, hitting my head on the door as I went in, which made my vision swim again. The door closed next to me, and the linebacker sat down beside me on the other side.
In the front seat sat the man in the Nike jogging suit, looking back at me with a detached interest. I realized now that he was older than I'd initially thought—probably in his mid to late forties. His brown hair showed traces of gray, but his gaze had the intensity of a serious father trying to figure out how to deal with a son who had just broken a window. I noticed the back end of a short-barreled rifle protruding from the passenger seat. It looked different from what I was accustomed to seeing in movies. I didn't know it at the time, but it was a bullpup style—designed to be compact enough for easy maneuvering within the confines of the Nissan, yet long enough to ensure accuracy.
The car smelled like some kind of oil and body odor, but underlying it was the smell of my own blood that was dripping down my face from a cut I must have gotten when my head was slammed into the ground.
The linebacker forced his forearm under my neck and roughly pushed me back into my seat as the car accelerated. Then, he reached across me and fastened my seatbelt. Watching us pull away, I couldn't help but think that this was much worse than getting shot.
