HERO

37 / A Last Supper

The bulbs were bright white, giving the room a stark glare that made everything stand out against its background. It was too bright and Thomas tried to turn the level down. He couldn't. There was off and intense. That was all. For now, he'd settle with intense. It meant there were minimal shadows and ensured he couldn't be taken by surprise.

He returned to the drawer to see if he could decipher the scratches. He hoped they were a message. Instructions of how to escape. They weren't. The closer inspection gave no further clues. The scratches were just that - the manic abrasions of a mind lost. He closed the drawer to shut out the threat of insanity that taunted him. There was another below it, so he opened that. A folded up piece of paper lay inside.

Thomas picked it up and scanned the room for cameras. He couldn't see any, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Was this a secret message from the previous occupant, written for whoever might come after? They'd check the room out once a resident had left, wouldn't they? Did that make this a plant instead of a clue? He unfolded it anyway and immediately wished he hadn't.

DIE DIE DIE DIEDIEDIE DIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEIEDIEEEDIII

It wasn't a message. It was a rant. Or a promise. He screwed up the paper and returned it to the drawer, shutting it with an emphatic slam. The gaming console was all that was left and, though at first he'd decided to leave it, he changed his mind. A little escapism would not be amiss.

The message had said the console was switched on by voice. OK. Thomas stepped closer, but didn't say anything initially. What was the voice command?

"Play," he said, his voice sounded ridiculous and tiny to his young ears. When nothing happened, he tried again.

"On."

"Go."

"Turn games on."

These attempts and more failed to work. Both the television and the console stayed switched off.

"Fuck this," Thomas said, throwing the controller onto the bed where it bounced and landed on the floor.

There was a beep and the hiss of static, then the whirr of disc drives and fans firing up. Th TV screen lit up with the logo of the console. Thomas smiled. So, the keyword was 'fuck'. He liked that and knew Bren would appreciate it. He picked the controller back up and pressed a button. He was greeted by a red light flashing and a battery indicator on the screen showing there was no charge remaining.

"Fuck," he said angrily, throwing the controller again. His aversion to curse words was rapidly disappearing.

The screen went off, as did the controller. He sat down on the edge of the bed, heavily.

Great, he thought. Now I really do have to just wait.

Alternating between pacing, sitting and laying, either on the bed or the floor, Thomas spent the next few hours awake and bored. Even his impending death failed to keep his mind occupied. He was regressing to the standard stereotype of a ten year old boy. He just wanted his mum and something to shoot on the screen. Simple pleasures that were being kept from him.

Oh, if he had a power. He'd get out of the room and show them they couldn't just keep kids there like that. At least give them something to do!

At some point, the air began to fizz, with faint bubbles popping in an area just in front of the door. A figure appeared. Thomas expected David, but this was someone he hadn't met.

"Hey there Thomas," the woman said. She was tall enough for her head to almost touch the ceiling. It would have done if she hadn't stooped slightly. She offered him the tray she was holding. "Some grub for you. Eat it all up, you'll need your strength."

Thomas ignored the covered tray. He tried to ignore the sudden grumble in his stomach, though it was clearly audible.

"Come on son. Just take it."

He shook his head.

"We're not going to poison you, don't worry. We wouldn't go to the effort of bringing you here to then just kill you, now would we?"

Who knew the intentions of someone like the Spotters? They lived by their own rules and those rules didn't always intersect with everyone else's.

"You've got ten seconds to take this tray, or lose it forever." The pleasant tone of her voice was gone, to be replaced by a cold sternness.

"What is it?"

"It's food. Good food. So you be a good boy and eat it."

"What if I don't like it?"

"Then you don't like it. Your problem, not mine."

Thomas considered his options. He wanted the meal. He was hungry and would only get more so. Would taking it, however, mean he was giving in? Changing alliances? No. They didn't care about him. The food was a necessity to make sure he put on a good show. He may as well eat it.

He reached out his hand, but the air had already begun to pop.

"Too late," the woman said. "Time's up."

She vanished, taking the food with her.

"FUCK!" Thomas yelled.

The television came on and the console came to life. He picked up the controller and threw it, hard, at the screen. It hit, but bounced away ineffectively, not giving him the satisfaction of a crack or, better still, a smash.

Thomas sat back onthe edge of the bed and started to cry. He didn't notice the air bubblingagain. The woman didn't reappear, but the plate did. A laugh, echoing andhollow, was the woman's version of 'eat this, boy' and the only evidence shewas there at all.