Lost in the Flood

            ‘Jesus.’ The man turns back and leans out over the precipice of folded metal and down the lift shaft. All he can see is wreckage and then – he picks out the trapped man’s head. ‘Donny get the paramedics and cutting equipment.’ He says to the man behind him, trying to keep any panic from his voice. Donny runs off.

            ‘I’m gonna lower you down some water – can you grab it?’ The rescuer asks while he ties a length of fishing wire to a bottle of Evian. He slowly sends it down. The trapped man sees it as it reaches head height. He almost laughs, he would have refused it under normal circumstances, too pretentious, but now grabs at it and gulps it down, feeling the soft tissue of his throat sing with joy. The water washes the ash away and down. Later he will be sick, now he feels almost alive again.

            ‘My name is Nick Dreyer. I’m with the building security. The police just got here and the paramedics. We will get down to you soon. You’ll be okay.’ He smiles, it is a trustworthy smile, but the man below him cannot see it. He doesn’t need to – the water told him this man is a god.

            ‘What’s your name?’ Dreyer asks in a matter-of-fact way.

            ‘It’s…’ he starts and then the little of his voice that is there, slides away. He can’t tell. He knows it, it’s his name after all but… but…but…

            ‘Are you having trouble recalling it. Did you take a blow to the head?’

            ‘No – maybe.’ He just knows he cannot say his name, but has no idea why.

            ‘Okay, it’s just that…’ Nick lets the words die, unsure how to couch this. He can see the man below him is trapped, his legs look shattered – but he still needs to know. ‘It’s just that, this is a highly restricted area. Only about a dozen people have passes to this side of the building and – you aren’t one of them.’

The dirt and ash finally erupt from the trapped man’s mouth as he vomits all over himself. He remembers the bag he was carrying – where is it?

            ‘There was an explosion. It’s 2 a.m. You are the only one in the building. Please tell me your name?’

From deep in the twisted wreckage, the man who should not be there tries to look up, craning his neck – his mouth sticky with sick and his face black with dirt. He still hears the drip that maybe is his blood oozing from him. His lower back aches but there is no sensation below that. He has a cousin who is in a wheelchair after a bike accident. There but for the grace of god… but there is no God. No Jesus, no Allah – none. He wants this all to stop.

            ‘Your name?’ This time the request is a little harder, sharper and there is no smile associated.

            ‘I can’t…’

            ‘The paramedics are coming – but by the time they get here you might not be alive.’ Nick Dreyer pulls a gun and aims it at the trapped man. ‘Just your name.’

            ‘I…’ he knows there is something worse than death.

            ‘Just your name and you can be rescued.’ From behind him the sound of other men are now evident. Rescue is here.

            ‘I… can’t.’

            ‘I will count down from five. Five.’

He recalls her face, so pale and beautiful. Her eyes like almonds. She asked him to carry the bag.

            ‘Four.’

He recalls her son, hair so black in the photograph. The photograph that was all that was left of him after the air strike.

            ‘Three.’

That bus with its roof ripped off – and the men around him who smiled to see it.

            ‘Two.’

He remembers setting the timer and running  - but the lift descended so slowly, too slowly and…

            ‘One. Tell me your name.’

The man bows his head. He wishes it were in prayer but it is just because his neck hurts so much.

            ‘Your name. That’s all we need.’

‘No’ is just a whisper.

Nick looks sad and pulls the trigger.

Blackness washes away the trapped man.

Once the drug has flooded his system the men get to work. The epidural is removed from his back. Filters drag the dust from the air and the spotlights come on. Dreyer watches as his team remove the fake concrete and metal holding the man down. They even turn off that bloody drip – at last. Finally he is taken off on a stretcher. This room cost a lot of money but Nick Dreyer is happy with the results. Of the twenty-five men who came down here, twenty-two gave their names. They said ‘Bob’. Only three kept the secret that had been implanted in their heads.  And that was all you could hope for. It is such a human desire – to tell someone your name. It is almost impossible to refuse. But it was people like that, people like Nick, that the agency needs; those who keep secrets, even when they have no idea why – or even that they hold one. Three men. Now, all he has to do is whittle the final three down to the one. One man who will carry a package for him, a ghost. That is what this is all about, this room, creating these fantasies to test the men. It is a sad truth that his own people do not have the assets they need, the conviction of the fanatic – a man, woman – even a child who would willingly give their lives for their cause. For heaven. No, the agency does not have that. But they do have drugs and brainwashing technology, all the dirty tricks in an arsenal dedicated to create suicide bombers for them. That will even up this conflict. Dreyer smiles, they are getting there. God bless us, every one, he thinks as he walks to the medical centre.