The Machinery (500 Words short story project, January 10, 2019)

Awake. Kira’s eyes opened, then closed again. The sun was pressing down on her face through the open window beside her. She tried to bring an arm up to shield her face, but she found her hands were bound at her sides. Her legs, likewise, were immobile. She struggled a bit, just enough to be able to tell that she wasn’t going to get free without a lot more struggling, and she’d likely rub her wrists and ankles raw in the process. She turned her head to the right away from the window, and opened her eyes again.

The room was small but bright and clean. She was on a small cot, low to the ground. The wall opposite her also had a window, and through it she could see lush forests and, beyond them, mountain peaks. What little she could see behind her seemed to be just a wall -- she was in a corner at the end of a narrow room. Down past her feet, she could see another wall with a red door, firmly closed. There were a few tables in the other corners, one with tea things, another with what appeared to be prescription medicine bottles. In the third corner was a wooden chest. It looked heavy and sturdy, and an iron padlock held it shut.

Kira had no idea where she was, and no recollection of how she came to be in a geographic location that included both forests and mountains. What was the last thing she could remember? Something about a phone call, an unknown number and no caller ID. She never answered calls like that, but this one she had picked up on a whim. And then the strange voice that replied when she answered, almost robotic but not quite. “The machinery is ready. Report to your pickup location.” Then, and now, she had no idea what that voice was talking about.

What had happened after that? She had flashes of packing a suitcase, but why? Why would she have done that? Did she do it, or was it just a half-remembered dream? Had she called someone after hanging up on the strange voice? She felt certain she had. But she didn’t know who, or why.

She tried again to move her wrists and ankles, deliberately this time, looking for weakness in the rough ropes. Her left hand, closest to the wall, seemed to be least tightly bound, so she focused her energies there. She twisted and tugged and twisted again, grimacing at the pain as the rope tore at her skin. She could pull her hand out almost as far as her bottom thumb joint, and then it stuck. But if she could get it that far, surely she could pull the whole thing free. It would just mean a little pain.

Kira gritted her teeth. She was no stranger to pain, and she wasn’t going to let it prevent her from getting free and getting some answers. She folded her thumb in tight against her palm and pulled, slowly, surely, and the coarse coils of rope slithered millimeter by millimeter up her hand. Her skin burned and her thumb felt like it was about to dislocate, but she took a deep breath, blew it out and pulled one last time. She almost cried out at her hand flew free of its bindings -- the pain was intense and lingering, but one had was free. Success.

Then, a noise at the door. A key in a lock. Not sure what to do, Kira returned her hand to its former position -- free now, but unless someone looked closely, they would believe she was still fully bound. The door opened, and a figured stepped from darkness into the brightness of the little room.

“Ah, Kira, you’re awake! Wonderful.”

Oh my god. It was Albert Manchester. Kira’s father. Kira’s dead father.

(This post is part of the 500 Words short story project.)