PANIC ROOM

Two

The first test has begun. Stand by.

The cold voice is interrupted as the first person leaps up, grabbing a rucksack. He runs off swiftly, searching for exit. Frantic fighting and clawing ensue as the others desperately try to obtain the precious rucksacks.

The lighting gets redder and redder, as more and more blood is shed. I dive out of the way, as two men wrestle each other to the floor, hands clenched around the other's throat.

I need to find a way out. There's no time.

The other men beat each other, trampling and wrestling in order to get to the bags. The shorter men, slightly taller than me, use the tall ones to reach the bags.

A tall, broad shouldered "candidate" throws his opponent into the glass wall, seizing the second backpack in his powerful hands.

His opponent groans, hunched over as white letters glow on his back, inscribing his name and candidate number: 017, "Taro".

8 left.

A bag hangs, ignored by the men fighting beneath it. I have a chance. I run towards the bag, using the broad back of a keeled over candidate to reach it.

I jump as high as I can, hand outstretched for the bag above me. As my fingers close around the straps, a candidate's fist meets my cheek hard. The metal of the mask cuts into my face, moulded by the blow. Still clutching the damn rucksack, I spit blood, splattering my own visage with red flecks.

Another candidate kicks me hard in the abdomen, sending me sprawling onto the floor. Badly winded, I stumble to my feet and sling the bag over my shoulder, the metallic taste of blood flowing down from my mouth.

I open the rucksack, overwhelmed by the reward of my sacrifices. Amazed, I check through the compartments.

But the bag is completely empty.

The other successful candidates look similarly dumbfounded. We've been tricked.

"STOP!"

Even the sound of my own voice shocks me. The mask somehow distorts my voice, forcing it to deepen.

The struggle stops as the others look round at me, their black visors shining under the harsh lights.

"The bags are all empty. Don't bother fighting over them." The first candidate says, revealing the empty contents of his bag. His voice is unaffected by the mask.

Maybe mine broke when that asshole punched me.

The asshole is staring at me, expression unknown beneath his black mantle. But I can feel his seething glare almost instantaneously. Good; he hates me almost as much as I hate him.

"Those are just placebos. I picked the heaviest one and it's got everything we need." The tall second candidate drawls in a Chicago accent, as he empties the contents of his bag onto the tiled floor.

An avalanche of knives, dried food packets, medical kits and water bottles pour out of his bag. He kicks a knife to each of us, retrieving the rest and stowing it back into the bag.

"We need to get out of here." The tall Chicago man snaps, turning to face the strange glass walls. As he turns, I notice the words emblazoned on the back of his suit.

005 "JOHNNY"

"Yeah, no shit!" a sarcastic laugh echoes bitterly from another candidate. His name is 022 "SAM".

Johnny faces the group again and they begin to discuss our strange circumstances. The masks, the glass room, the voice in our heads...

An inhumane growl from behind the glass. I listen intently, leaning close, but it disappears as quickly as it appeared.

"I'm James, from New York City—" the first runner trails off, distracted.

The others are introducing themselves, where they're from, their pasts... but I remember nothing. Not even my name.

Suddenly, a loud 'BANG' as something hits the glass right behind me. I fall and scramble away from the glass in horror, a scream trapped in my throat.