When Greg woke, the first thing that ran through his mind was, I'm making a habit of this whole 'getting knocked out' thing.
The second thing was, Holy fucking shit. He was strapped to a gurney, immobile, being pushed through a brilliantly lit, sterilized, glaringly white corridor. Memories hovered at the edge of his psyche. Things like facts and specifics hung just beyond his grasp, all he could glean for now were emotions. Pain, terror, rage.
He looked around, trying to glimpse his surroundings, but all he could see was the endless white corridor, broken occasionally by a door with a nearly-invisible seam. He glanced up. Someone in a titanium white suit of biohazard gear, complete with an ominous gasmask that sealed away the wearer's face, pushed him down the corridor.
Greg tried to speak, coughed, and cleared his throat.
"Where are you taking me?" He might as well have not said anything at all. The pusher gave zero reaction. Greg jerked. "Where the fuck are you taking me?"
No response. He struggled, but the straps binding him didn't give a centimeter. Blind terror threatened to overwhelm him, but Greg forced himself to relax, to keep it at bay. He summoned up his most recent memories, closing his eyes.
They came to him in a series of still shots, like photographs.
The mining complex.
Fighting the Undead.
The capsule, deep underground, smooth and flawless, like a pill-shaped pearl.
Starck shooting him in the neck.
Greg's eyes snapped open. The rage returned. He'd been right. They'd walked into some kind of trap. But why? She'd been saying something on the radio, attempting to verify something...and when that verification came down the line, she'd shot him. Greg replayed it over in his mind to the best of his ability as he was wheeled silently on.
There were too many unanswered questions. Greg didn't want to think about it, for the moment. Too much. Too confusing. He'd need time. He glanced back up at the man pushing him. Or was it a woman? He couldn't be sure.
"Hey, fuckstick, you got a name?"
"I guess I'll just call you fuckstick. How's your day so far, fuckstick?"
Still nothing. Greg suppressed a heavy sigh. He might as well have been on an automated gurney or being pushed by a voiceless, emotionless robot. The gurney changed directions. Greg grunted, figuring that the turn was likely more abrupt than it needed to be. So maybe the faceless pusher wasn't so emotionless after all.
They moved down another corridor and then there was another turn. Greg could see a door at his feet. There was a brief pause, then the door opened. They went through and came into a narrow room divided by a glass wall. A section of the wall was missing, approximately the width of a doorway. Greg was pushed through the door and turned around, so that he was facing the way he'd come. The pusher turned and left, closing the glass door and the far door behind him. Greg sighed, lost in a sea of white silence now.
Time passed. Greg struggled again, but to no avail. He surmised that he wasn't going to get out of here unless they let him out. Whoever they were. He took in the room he was in. There was nothing on his side, it was completely bare. That gave him a bit of relief. This obviously wasn't meant to be a cell or a torture chamber.
Unless they brought in the tools separately.
On the other side, however, was a single chair. Greg swallowed, trying to remain calm. He focused on breathing. The far door opened to admit a thin, pale man in a white jumpsuit. Greg studied him the best he could from his restrained position. He was older, past middle age. He kept his head shaved bald and his eyes were a deep, deep jade that seemed to flare with a quicksilver intellect and dark intent. Despite this, he wore a genuine smile on his face.
YOU ARE READING
The first novel in The Shadow Wars. How terrifying would it be to wake up with no memories? How much worse would it get if you happened to be in a crashed vessel full of corpses? For Greg Bishop, this nightmare has just become a reality. With nothin...