07 Simon meets Silo 809

I wake to the excruciating pain in my thigh. I open my eyes, my vision blurry at first, clarity slowly following. I try to move, but find that I am bound to a wooden chair by many layers of plastic cling film. Who ever wrapped me did an incredibly thorough job as it is really hard to breathe and impossible to move my limbs.

My legs are soaked wet with blood from the bullet wound in my thigh. Beneath me a puddle of my own blood expands across the worn concrete floor. I am incredibly weak, nauseous, my vision rolling. I'm about to pass out. I feel the darkness descending, when, Bam! Something strikes my face bringing me back from the cusp of unconsciousness. 

I startle, look up and meet the eyes and pock marked face of AR15. Behind him stand the two other mercenaries who abducted me. Even in my abused state I can feel the tension emanating between these two lackeys. Their argument from the van pervades, not forgotten or forgiven by either.

I look around the dim room. It is a vast warehouse of sorts. There are many stacks of boxes of varying size around the room. Most reach as high as the ceiling. I crane my neck, look up, and see a dozen sky lights cut at regular intervals across the roof, at present they are the only source of light in this entire cavernous space. 

My eyes falter again, fluttering closed, but again, just before I slip from consciousness, the sting of another strike across my face brings me back. This time a voice calls out, 'Enough.'

A smaller man emerges from behind one of the many towers of boxes. He wears a shiny grey suit and has white hair. He is also of Asian descent, but when he spoke just now it sounded as though his accent was tinged British.

'Son, can you hear me?'

He stands closer now, only two feet away. He stoops a little as he peers into my eyes. I don't respond in any way. 

'Can he hear me?' He asks AR15, who drives the muzzle of his rifle into my stomach, causing me to moan in pain. 

AR15 then nods to the white haired man and says something in his own language that I imagine translates to, 'Yup.'

'Son, first off, let me offer my sincerest apology for what has happened to you. I want you to understand that no order was given to shoot you. I really had no idea that you would be delivered to me in such a state. I guess in my men's defence you did try to run, and you knew they had guns, so, you know, it's not entirely their fault. I see this as a fifty-fifty responsibility scenario, if you see what I mean?'

I remain lock-eyed with this man, still offering nothing. 

'I also want you to know, that this,' he gestures to my disastrous state, 'is not your fault directly. You're not here because of any action you've undertaken. You're here because of your father. And Lord knows we don't chose who we are born to, but it happens that your father and I have history. A history I hope will be resolved tonight.'

I feel my grasp of consciousness slipping, my eyes faltering. AR15 must see this also and slaps me again, the bite of which brings be back. 

'Let's get this done, I won't keep you much longer.' The man offers. He takes out his cell phone, video dials someone and stands in front of me with the camera pointed at us both.

The call rings so many times I figure it isn't going to be answered, but finally, the person on the other end picks up. A voice I recognise instantly asks, 'What the hell do you want?'

At first I'm sure my ears are playing a trick on me. Surely, in my abused state I am hearing things. But when the video-stream loads, my ears are not mistaken. It is my father, Covek. 

When he sees me in the state I'm in, he lets fly a mouthful of expletives and threats that a drunken coal miner would be proud of. 

The white haired man waits patiently until Covek's tirade abates. He then speaks softly, directly, without any of the emotion of my father. 

'It's painful, isn't it, seeing your son like this. May I draw your attention to the bullet hole in his thigh leaking blood at a terrible rate. For his sake, yours and mine, let's keep this short.'

This is where my vision falters again. I brace myself for another slap to rouse my consciousness, but it never comes. Instead I am greeted by darkness. 

Blessed darkness.