"Fear- A negative sensation induced by a perceived threat. A basic
survival mechanism occurring in response to a specific stimulus, such as
pain or the threat of danger."
He recalled the brief definition yet again and as he did so, laughed. It was a laugh at the insanity of his situation. It was a laugh of desperation. It was a laugh of fatigue. He laughed hoping it would keep him sane. He laughed uncontrollably. He began to writhe. The crude iron shackles dug hard into the flesh of his wrists. They began to bleed, again. The relative warmth of the blood felt good as it spilled over his torn and already injured hands and dripped to the earthen floor, despite the ever constant pain he was in. The pool of blood around him never seemed to dry up... it just grew larger and larger as the long days and lonely frigid nights wore on. Finally, the pain came to be too much. He lost consciousness and slumped over into the red puddle all around him.
The uniformed man sighed deeply as he and the white lab coated scientist walked through the brisk morning together toward the next pit. Was his name Daniel? He couldn't remember clearly. The scientists tended to dissociate with the soldiers stationed at the research outpost. He chuckled at the thought of the name "Research Outpost", it was anything but what the name implied. It comprised a basic compound with a laboratory at the south west corner, two guard towers at north-west and south-east ends and the standard Platoon sized barracks along the east wall. Along the north wall was the "church" where one could go to confess sin and pray, though this too was a farce. The state run religion was a far cry from the ancient faith he was raised in. All around the wall of the compound were 5 by 5 by 5 meter pits, each with their very own inhabitant. Some were political enemies of the all powerful state, others were intellectuals who dissented or posed some other perceived threat to the all powerful, all fearful regime. Others still were clerics who refused to bow to the new found religion introduced and enforced by the government. The rest were the minorities of society that the government didn't want in the public consciousness. They were systematically rounded up and sent off the these "Research Outposts" that they might be experimented on. He sighed, at least he was at a psychological research station, not chemical or biological. The pits were placed 100 meters from each other so that the test subjects within had no chance to speak with each other.
"Daniel." he finally said breaking the cold silence as they crunched across the frost covered ground. His words fell flat and sounded nervous, almost scared as they carried along that crystalline tundra. With a start, the scientist looked up and timidly answered: "Yes?" hoping not to get yelled at yet again by one of the rough and tumble soldiers who seemed to have no respect or understanding for the work he and his colleagues were conducting. "Want a cigarette? It'll help with the stress. I hear you got chewed out pretty bad by the lieutenant the other day". Daniel, still surprised that this Sergeant was talking to him, could hardly bring himself to speak, so he just shook his head instead. They walked and smoked in silence until they came to the edge of the next pit. Again attempting to break the ice between them, Sergeant Thompson spoke up:"So, doctor, who do we have here?" Timid as ever Daniel squeaked:"Subject Number: VS-247805, sir."
"Ah, and what are we testing on him?" "Fear, sir." replied the scientist in an almost chipper manner. "Fear?" said Thompson in disbelief. "Yes, sir, Fear."
Sergeant Thompson sighed heavily, took another long, deep drag off of his cigarette, and began to crank the pig iron winch. Wrapped around the winch was a crude, rusty iron chain. The chain itself was a nasty piece of work. Intentionally made so that the edges of each chain link were sharp as razor blades, to prevent any attempt at escape. The chain was draped over a makeshift crane that then dropped the razor linked instrument of torture into the center of each pit. At the end of this rusty, bloodied contraption were even cruder manacles by which each "Test Subject" was securely held. Once a day each test subject would be pulled by the wrists out so that they might be examined by the scientists and "tested". The man, if you could still call him a man, that was being heaved out of the pit was dripping in blood. With each crank of the winch he jerked up another foot or so. With each jerk of the chain, the manacles cut deeper and deeper into his wrists, eventually nicking at his bones. All across his forearms were long red streaks, some were clearly stains, others were fresh as his blood coursed down his arms, down to his toes and dripped into the pit. Thompson cursed at the sight, then mumbled a quick prayer that he would pass out sooner rather then later. He felt sorry for him, to an extent, he also hated to hear the screams for help and mercy.
The chains lowered him mercilessly foot by foot back into his pool of blood. the pain was so great he could hardly bear it. He laughed and laughed and laughed. The scientist performed his daily routine. That timid, afraid, squeaky, little scientist told him he was going to die a long painful death, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it and then told him the definition of fear. Though this time, the scientist added something new. "Don't Fear the Reaper. The Angel of Death is coming for you" He laughed and laughed and writhed and bled and laughed more and then fainted from blood loss.
The whiskey poured out of the bottle into the glass in a long golden stream. Lieutenant Ibrahim was dismayed to find that he had indeed finished nearly 7/8 of that golden whiskey throughout the course of the evening. How he hated to write reports. He liked whiskey. Whiskey made writing reports about the strange experiments the scientists performed bearable. That is it made the thought of the experiments and the writing easier to deal with. He sipped his whiskey and turned back to the typewriter that sat before him on his desk. It was squat and black, and hearkened back to the time of his father's generation. Since the "Great Glorious Revolution" the new and all fearing, all controlling government did all in its power to prevent another uprising. The government feared the military most of all. The military remained to be the only part of society that had the capability to overthrow the government. Not that there was any risk of that since the revolution, but the government officials weren't dumb, nor did they take risks when not completely necessary. As a result of this shrewd, calculating and patient regime, the military was continuously over burdened with paper work, threats of termination and other darker tactics. Of course most of this was just rumor. Rumor got the job done though. All of the higher echelons of all of the Armed Forces were afraid of stepping out of line in the very slightest. The Commissaires stationed at every command had direct ties and communication to the government and would write weekly reports about the status and progress of each the commanders and their troops, as well as the scientists and their experiments. The rumors must have some source. No one would invent something as terrible and horrifying as the stories of torture and mutilation to those who opposed the government that circulated from officers mess to officers mess. The government, in fear of the army, banned most modern technology from the military. Instead of using computers, officers were required to write their reports on old fashioned type writers. The requirements for these reports were near impossible. Both length and content needed to meet the requirements and if they didn't... Ibrahim preferred not to think about the alternative. He downed what was left in his snifter, and poured himself the rest of the whiskey. He liked whiskey. It helped him forget about the fear induced stress and pressure from his commanding officers as well as Commissaire Schmidt who was always nosing around the command building and more often then not, in Ibrahim's small office.
There was an abrupt knock at the door which tore Ibrahim from his musings. "Come in" said Ibrahim groggily. He was beginning to feel the full effect of the alcohol which now coursed freely through his veins. It was Sergeant Thompson. "Sergeant Thompson, reporting as ordered, sir!" Thompson spoke in a normal tone, but Ibrahim in his intoxication perceived it as shouting. Ibrahim jolted out of his chair and stood inches from Thompson's face. Ibrahim let loose a tirade of curses and insults. Thompson watched warily as Ibrahim's hand's began to ball into fists of rage as he continued to swear and degrade him. Just as Ibrahim was about to throw his first punch Commissaire Schmidt whirled around the corner followed by two soldiers. Before Ibrahim could land the blow, the Commissaire seemed to poke the lieutenant in the ribs, forearm and shoulder. Ibrahim's fist was an inch away from Thompson's jaw, when just as fast as the punch had come, the Lieutenant's arm went slack and lost all momentum. If he hadn't seen it himself, Thompson would have never believed how fast the tables had turned, and with what incredible speed Commissaire Schmidt had reacted. With that same unbelievable speed, Schmidt lightly tapped both of Ibrahim's knees with index and middle finger. The Lieutenant fell forward like a tree into the waiting arms of the two soldiers who promptly whisked him away, despite his continued shouts and curses. "Thompson, for your own good, don't speak a word of whats happened here." spoke Schmidt as he turned to leave the office. "And be sure not to let what happened to Ibrahim happen to you. Ibrahim's future is a dark one indeed."
It had been a week since Lieutenant Ibrahim had "disappeared". Life seemed to progress as normal. No one openly noticed Ibrahim's disappearance. Earlier that morning a new Lieutenant arrived at the research facility. Thompson scowled at the thought of him. He only needed one glimpse to know that this new officer was fresh from the academy, still wet behind the ears and still bought into the full party line of the government propaganda. Thompson crossed the center of the compound to the church and continued to think how much he would dislike his new superior, that is if he was anything the way Ibrahim was when he first arrived. The Sergeant had been raised in the ancient Faith of his grandparents, not this faux regime worship instituted by the government. He closed the door behind him, knelt, crossed himself and whispered: "As-salaamu alayka". He instinctually looked up at the stained-glass window before him on the far wall. He rose and walked forward to the circular altar at the center of the room. He found it funny, that he was in here. Despite his upbringing, he wasn't a particularly devout youth, and yet now that he had reached adulthood and seen the relative horrors that he had in the military and out of it. He found himself here, in this supposed place of worship, once a week. He had been here everyday since Ibrahim's outburst of drunken rage. He reached the steps leading up to the altar and once again got down on both knees and began to pray silently.
"Attention!" yelled one of the soldiers outside the door. Daniel Cartier shuddered at the sound of the brash announcement. He took his glasses of and rubbed his eyes wearily. He had been hard at work for many hours already, now he needed to put up with this new lieutenant. Ibrahim had been bad enough, but some how they managed to semi peacefully coexist, despite the terror Ibrahim struck into him. If only all these thick headed military types understood the importance of the research he was conducting. But instead the ordered him around meaninglessly to perform petty tasks which pertained nothing to his research. If only they would just leave him in peace that he could concentrate instead of insisting on constant updates and daily progress reports. Though he appreciated Sergeant Thompson's attempts at casual conversation, Daniel couldn't seem to relax enough to have a casual conversation with anyone but the other scientists and what was left of his family. He wasn't sure what it was but something about any and all military personnel made him unease. When they spoke to him, he began to stutter. The more intense the interaction, the worse his symptoms. He had even seen a medical doctor about it, though that in and of itself was an ordeal. It had been a military doctor. Fully absorbed by his thoughts, Cartier failed to notice that this new lieutenant now stood in his office right next to him. "Mr. Cartier!" Daniel looked around in horror at the young officer's face. The Lieutenant began to shout and yell but Daniel couldn't hear anything. He was terror struck, his mind raced. He began to panic. He couldn't move. He was paralyzed.
It had to have been near midnight, or so he assumed. He had lost track of time around 3 weeks ago. The moon shone brightly. It was cold, colder then it had ever been since they put him in the pit nearly a month ago. It had only been a week since they would examine him on a daily basis, previously it had been a weekly matter. Until then he still had hope in release. But as of three days ago he began hallucinating. At first it was just little things like an aspirin pill on the far side of the pit or that his hands and wrists were on the mend. Recently the hallucinations became more and more vivid and as they did so, they became more and more wildly insane. This morning as he suffered from the full force of the summer sun, he was convinced that the pool of blood all around him was in fact a large cool lake of deep fresh water. His parched lips longed for the cold refreshing taste of water. He was torn back to reality by the bitter salty taste of his own blood. He stared up at the moon and the dark splotches on it. He had loved to stare at the moon in his youth. He sat on the roof of his parents house and watched the stars go by as the night sky was illuminated by the cold yet loving embrace of the moon. Now as he watched, one of the dark spots seemed to grow larger and larger. Indeed it was coming straight at him. He could begin to make out a distinct shape, though this thing grew darker as it approached. Above the main shape was silver and radiant crescent. Below this was an unidentifiable shape in wavy black that appeared to be to have no definite shape at all. He began to ponder the nature of this thing coming toward him. Then suddenly he recognized what came towards him at an unrelenting pace. He began to scream and writhe as it drew ever closer until it stood at the top of his pit, towering over him, it's shadow cast long across the earthen floor and the pool of blood. He blinked and it was no longer at the rim of the pit. He looked around to find it was standing right behind him, as he turned around to face it and beg on his knees. The last thing he saw was a silver flash. The Reaper had come.
-N
He recalled the brief definition yet again and as he did so, laughed. It was a laugh at the insanity of his situation. It was a laugh of desperation. It was a laugh of fatigue. He laughed hoping it would keep him sane. He laughed uncontrollably. He began to writhe. The crude iron shackles dug hard into the flesh of his wrists. They began to bleed, again. The relative warmth of the blood felt good as it spilled over his torn and already injured hands and dripped to the earthen floor, despite the ever constant pain he was in. The pool of blood around him never seemed to dry up... it just grew larger and larger as the long days and lonely frigid nights wore on. Finally, the pain came to be too much. He lost consciousness and slumped over into the red puddle all around him.
The uniformed man sighed deeply as he and the white lab coated scientist walked through the brisk morning together toward the next pit. Was his name Daniel? He couldn't remember clearly. The scientists tended to dissociate with the soldiers stationed at the research outpost. He chuckled at the thought of the name "Research Outpost", it was anything but what the name implied. It comprised a basic compound with a laboratory at the south west corner, two guard towers at north-west and south-east ends and the standard Platoon sized barracks along the east wall. Along the north wall was the "church" where one could go to confess sin and pray, though this too was a farce. The state run religion was a far cry from the ancient faith he was raised in. All around the wall of the compound were 5 by 5 by 5 meter pits, each with their very own inhabitant. Some were political enemies of the all powerful state, others were intellectuals who dissented or posed some other perceived threat to the all powerful, all fearful regime. Others still were clerics who refused to bow to the new found religion introduced and enforced by the government. The rest were the minorities of society that the government didn't want in the public consciousness. They were systematically rounded up and sent off the these "Research Outposts" that they might be experimented on. He sighed, at least he was at a psychological research station, not chemical or biological. The pits were placed 100 meters from each other so that the test subjects within had no chance to speak with each other.
"Daniel." he finally said breaking the cold silence as they crunched across the frost covered ground. His words fell flat and sounded nervous, almost scared as they carried along that crystalline tundra. With a start, the scientist looked up and timidly answered: "Yes?" hoping not to get yelled at yet again by one of the rough and tumble soldiers who seemed to have no respect or understanding for the work he and his colleagues were conducting. "Want a cigarette? It'll help with the stress. I hear you got chewed out pretty bad by the lieutenant the other day". Daniel, still surprised that this Sergeant was talking to him, could hardly bring himself to speak, so he just shook his head instead. They walked and smoked in silence until they came to the edge of the next pit. Again attempting to break the ice between them, Sergeant Thompson spoke up:"So, doctor, who do we have here?" Timid as ever Daniel squeaked:"Subject Number: VS-247805, sir."
"Ah, and what are we testing on him?" "Fear, sir." replied the scientist in an almost chipper manner. "Fear?" said Thompson in disbelief. "Yes, sir, Fear."
Sergeant Thompson sighed heavily, took another long, deep drag off of his cigarette, and began to crank the pig iron winch. Wrapped around the winch was a crude, rusty iron chain. The chain itself was a nasty piece of work. Intentionally made so that the edges of each chain link were sharp as razor blades, to prevent any attempt at escape. The chain was draped over a makeshift crane that then dropped the razor linked instrument of torture into the center of each pit. At the end of this rusty, bloodied contraption were even cruder manacles by which each "Test Subject" was securely held. Once a day each test subject would be pulled by the wrists out so that they might be examined by the scientists and "tested". The man, if you could still call him a man, that was being heaved out of the pit was dripping in blood. With each crank of the winch he jerked up another foot or so. With each jerk of the chain, the manacles cut deeper and deeper into his wrists, eventually nicking at his bones. All across his forearms were long red streaks, some were clearly stains, others were fresh as his blood coursed down his arms, down to his toes and dripped into the pit. Thompson cursed at the sight, then mumbled a quick prayer that he would pass out sooner rather then later. He felt sorry for him, to an extent, he also hated to hear the screams for help and mercy.
The chains lowered him mercilessly foot by foot back into his pool of blood. the pain was so great he could hardly bear it. He laughed and laughed and laughed. The scientist performed his daily routine. That timid, afraid, squeaky, little scientist told him he was going to die a long painful death, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it and then told him the definition of fear. Though this time, the scientist added something new. "Don't Fear the Reaper. The Angel of Death is coming for you" He laughed and laughed and writhed and bled and laughed more and then fainted from blood loss.
The whiskey poured out of the bottle into the glass in a long golden stream. Lieutenant Ibrahim was dismayed to find that he had indeed finished nearly 7/8 of that golden whiskey throughout the course of the evening. How he hated to write reports. He liked whiskey. Whiskey made writing reports about the strange experiments the scientists performed bearable. That is it made the thought of the experiments and the writing easier to deal with. He sipped his whiskey and turned back to the typewriter that sat before him on his desk. It was squat and black, and hearkened back to the time of his father's generation. Since the "Great Glorious Revolution" the new and all fearing, all controlling government did all in its power to prevent another uprising. The government feared the military most of all. The military remained to be the only part of society that had the capability to overthrow the government. Not that there was any risk of that since the revolution, but the government officials weren't dumb, nor did they take risks when not completely necessary. As a result of this shrewd, calculating and patient regime, the military was continuously over burdened with paper work, threats of termination and other darker tactics. Of course most of this was just rumor. Rumor got the job done though. All of the higher echelons of all of the Armed Forces were afraid of stepping out of line in the very slightest. The Commissaires stationed at every command had direct ties and communication to the government and would write weekly reports about the status and progress of each the commanders and their troops, as well as the scientists and their experiments. The rumors must have some source. No one would invent something as terrible and horrifying as the stories of torture and mutilation to those who opposed the government that circulated from officers mess to officers mess. The government, in fear of the army, banned most modern technology from the military. Instead of using computers, officers were required to write their reports on old fashioned type writers. The requirements for these reports were near impossible. Both length and content needed to meet the requirements and if they didn't... Ibrahim preferred not to think about the alternative. He downed what was left in his snifter, and poured himself the rest of the whiskey. He liked whiskey. It helped him forget about the fear induced stress and pressure from his commanding officers as well as Commissaire Schmidt who was always nosing around the command building and more often then not, in Ibrahim's small office.
There was an abrupt knock at the door which tore Ibrahim from his musings. "Come in" said Ibrahim groggily. He was beginning to feel the full effect of the alcohol which now coursed freely through his veins. It was Sergeant Thompson. "Sergeant Thompson, reporting as ordered, sir!" Thompson spoke in a normal tone, but Ibrahim in his intoxication perceived it as shouting. Ibrahim jolted out of his chair and stood inches from Thompson's face. Ibrahim let loose a tirade of curses and insults. Thompson watched warily as Ibrahim's hand's began to ball into fists of rage as he continued to swear and degrade him. Just as Ibrahim was about to throw his first punch Commissaire Schmidt whirled around the corner followed by two soldiers. Before Ibrahim could land the blow, the Commissaire seemed to poke the lieutenant in the ribs, forearm and shoulder. Ibrahim's fist was an inch away from Thompson's jaw, when just as fast as the punch had come, the Lieutenant's arm went slack and lost all momentum. If he hadn't seen it himself, Thompson would have never believed how fast the tables had turned, and with what incredible speed Commissaire Schmidt had reacted. With that same unbelievable speed, Schmidt lightly tapped both of Ibrahim's knees with index and middle finger. The Lieutenant fell forward like a tree into the waiting arms of the two soldiers who promptly whisked him away, despite his continued shouts and curses. "Thompson, for your own good, don't speak a word of whats happened here." spoke Schmidt as he turned to leave the office. "And be sure not to let what happened to Ibrahim happen to you. Ibrahim's future is a dark one indeed."
It had been a week since Lieutenant Ibrahim had "disappeared". Life seemed to progress as normal. No one openly noticed Ibrahim's disappearance. Earlier that morning a new Lieutenant arrived at the research facility. Thompson scowled at the thought of him. He only needed one glimpse to know that this new officer was fresh from the academy, still wet behind the ears and still bought into the full party line of the government propaganda. Thompson crossed the center of the compound to the church and continued to think how much he would dislike his new superior, that is if he was anything the way Ibrahim was when he first arrived. The Sergeant had been raised in the ancient Faith of his grandparents, not this faux regime worship instituted by the government. He closed the door behind him, knelt, crossed himself and whispered: "As-salaamu alayka". He instinctually looked up at the stained-glass window before him on the far wall. He rose and walked forward to the circular altar at the center of the room. He found it funny, that he was in here. Despite his upbringing, he wasn't a particularly devout youth, and yet now that he had reached adulthood and seen the relative horrors that he had in the military and out of it. He found himself here, in this supposed place of worship, once a week. He had been here everyday since Ibrahim's outburst of drunken rage. He reached the steps leading up to the altar and once again got down on both knees and began to pray silently.
"Attention!" yelled one of the soldiers outside the door. Daniel Cartier shuddered at the sound of the brash announcement. He took his glasses of and rubbed his eyes wearily. He had been hard at work for many hours already, now he needed to put up with this new lieutenant. Ibrahim had been bad enough, but some how they managed to semi peacefully coexist, despite the terror Ibrahim struck into him. If only all these thick headed military types understood the importance of the research he was conducting. But instead the ordered him around meaninglessly to perform petty tasks which pertained nothing to his research. If only they would just leave him in peace that he could concentrate instead of insisting on constant updates and daily progress reports. Though he appreciated Sergeant Thompson's attempts at casual conversation, Daniel couldn't seem to relax enough to have a casual conversation with anyone but the other scientists and what was left of his family. He wasn't sure what it was but something about any and all military personnel made him unease. When they spoke to him, he began to stutter. The more intense the interaction, the worse his symptoms. He had even seen a medical doctor about it, though that in and of itself was an ordeal. It had been a military doctor. Fully absorbed by his thoughts, Cartier failed to notice that this new lieutenant now stood in his office right next to him. "Mr. Cartier!" Daniel looked around in horror at the young officer's face. The Lieutenant began to shout and yell but Daniel couldn't hear anything. He was terror struck, his mind raced. He began to panic. He couldn't move. He was paralyzed.
It had to have been near midnight, or so he assumed. He had lost track of time around 3 weeks ago. The moon shone brightly. It was cold, colder then it had ever been since they put him in the pit nearly a month ago. It had only been a week since they would examine him on a daily basis, previously it had been a weekly matter. Until then he still had hope in release. But as of three days ago he began hallucinating. At first it was just little things like an aspirin pill on the far side of the pit or that his hands and wrists were on the mend. Recently the hallucinations became more and more vivid and as they did so, they became more and more wildly insane. This morning as he suffered from the full force of the summer sun, he was convinced that the pool of blood all around him was in fact a large cool lake of deep fresh water. His parched lips longed for the cold refreshing taste of water. He was torn back to reality by the bitter salty taste of his own blood. He stared up at the moon and the dark splotches on it. He had loved to stare at the moon in his youth. He sat on the roof of his parents house and watched the stars go by as the night sky was illuminated by the cold yet loving embrace of the moon. Now as he watched, one of the dark spots seemed to grow larger and larger. Indeed it was coming straight at him. He could begin to make out a distinct shape, though this thing grew darker as it approached. Above the main shape was silver and radiant crescent. Below this was an unidentifiable shape in wavy black that appeared to be to have no definite shape at all. He began to ponder the nature of this thing coming toward him. Then suddenly he recognized what came towards him at an unrelenting pace. He began to scream and writhe as it drew ever closer until it stood at the top of his pit, towering over him, it's shadow cast long across the earthen floor and the pool of blood. He blinked and it was no longer at the rim of the pit. He looked around to find it was standing right behind him, as he turned around to face it and beg on his knees. The last thing he saw was a silver flash. The Reaper had come.
-N
