The Chosen Few

The next morning, many miles away in Surrey, the night was parted only by the weak light from sparse streetlights. In a large house in a secluded cul-de-sac, Brian Symes slept a fitful sleep, tossing and turning, as if trying to physically shake off the demons that plagued him in his dreams. He had also been the successful one in life, the youngest to achieve any goal at the bank where he worked. Whatever position he was promoted to, he was always the youngest person to have achieved it. His accomplishments had come so quickly, so easily for him, that it was the general consensus that it was only a matter of time before he was made a partner. Despite everything, that wasn’t the case. He seemed to have been stopped by an impenetrable barrier. He had no idea what was holding him back. It could be his boss, one of the partners or, God forbid, he wasn’t seen as up to the task. One thing constantly irritated him now. He had been watching a certain employee - Craig Larson- climbing the corporate ladder, much as he had done, and he had a sickening feeling that he might eventually rank above him. The shame would be too much to bear to watch him achieve all that he never had been able to.

His eyes flew open, and he sat up in bed in a cold sweat. He rubbed the sweat from his brow, and looked around the room. The world seen through the window was silent and still. His wife slept peacefully by his side, undisturbed when he awoke. Before pulling back the duvet, he looked at his watch. Though the time was barely past 4 o’ clock, it was not that much earlier than he normally woke up. It had become routine for him to travel to work early, not only so he could be the first to arrive, impressing his superiors with his eagerness, but also because he enjoyed the solitude at night, when seldom few drove with him. It was a brief respite from the energy he put into his work, which was not as strong as it once was, but he kept up the tradition nonetheless.

He changed into an expensive, immaculate suit, and then walked out of the room, careful not to wake his wife. As he ate his breakfast in silence, he pondered what to do with his current situation. Maybe he could impede his colleague’s career as some superior was impeding his. He smiled as he left the house. Maybe that’s what’s been holding me back, he thought, the lack of a challenge, but now I have a good one, getting that little shit fired, and ascend to the position I deserve. He shut his front door, and walked to his car, parked in the driveway. He had nothing to worry about, as he was superior to his new rival in every way. As an obstacle to success went, this one would be easy to surmount. After all, he’d achieved so much already, he was in his late thirties, and had a large house, a top-of-the-range car, a lovely wife, and an even more attractive mistress. He felt motivated for the first time in years. As he opened the car door, he felt a sharp pain in his neck, interrupting his thoughts. All feelings of revenge and his superiority disappeared as he realised what the stinging sensation meant.

When he was four years old, he was stung on his cheek by a bee. The side of his face had swollen up to an alarming size and when he was taken to hospital, his features were distorted and tears were streaming down his face. Eventually the swelling went down, but he was told that if he was stung a few more times then there was a strong chance he would die. He steadied himself against the car, and tried to calm down. If it was a bee sting and he panicked, then the poison would quickly go into his system; killing him within minutes and leaving a hideously disfigured corpse slumped against the car. He raised his arm slowly, so he could pull out the sting if it was still in his neck. However, his arm felt odd. It felt as it was filled with air and completely numb, but he couldn’t muster the strength needed to lift it. He eventually pulled out the sting and looked at it. It was certainly not a sting, but a dart. Before he could do anything else, his knees gave way and he fell to the floor. His eyes closed and he was dead to the world.

The second he collapsed, a man got out of a car parked opposite Brian’s house, and walked over to his prone body. No expression showed on his face, however, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. He knelt down, placing his fingers against Brian’s neck as he did so, feeling for a pulse. He found one but it was slow. He found that Brian’s eyes were dilated and motionless. He looked around the street, then picked up the body in a fireman’s carry, and quickly took him to his car, put him inside, and drove off.

As he drove to his destination, the man grinned inwardly, as he knew what his success would mean, and how it would help him. He had been a member of The Chosen for thirty-five years, and had never once regretted it, his faith in the cause never wavering. He knew that the end was drawing near, that success was inevitable. It had never been formally stated, but he knew nonetheless. He could feel it in his bones. The amount of activity within his chapter had gone up considerably in the past five years, with more people rising up the ranks than ever before. He didn’t know what the result would be of the Chosen’s endeavours, but he did know that they would be glorious. He felt pride at being chosen for this task, simple as it may be, as everything he did made him feel closer to his leader and he had a chance now to prove that he was deserving of his position, and he truly longed to rise up, to be in a better position than he was now. He knew he could never get to the very highest echelons of The Chosen, but it certainly wouldn’t be through lack of trying.

After a half hour’s drive, he turned off the main road onto a private narrow dirt road, with overhanging trees-the boughs of which knocked against the roof and side of the car. The road twisted and turned through the woods till it ended at some impressive wrought iron gates. After a brief pause, the gates opened by themselves, and closed once the car had passed by. The car came to a stop by an impressive mansion. It looked like a gentleman’s club where middle-aged white males would gather to sit on leather chairs smoke cigars, drink brandy, and reminisce about the past. The dark clouds gathering behind it made it look somewhat foreboding although there was nothing outwardly menacing about the building. It was somewhat drab, as though whoever lived there could not afford the luxury of having it repainted, and the ivy slowly climbing the wall made it seem as though the earth was trying to claim it as it’s own.

None of this seemed to bother Brian’s kidnapper, who calmly placed the still body over his shoulder and carried it into the mansion. As he brought the body through the house, none who saw him seemed to find anything out of the ordinary. No one went over to him to enquire as to the reason why he had a man over his shoulder, nor did they whisper amongst themselves. They simply continued with whatever it was they had been doing previously. One man walked over, but he too seemed almost oblivious to the man draped over his shoulder.

‘Hey man, haven’t seen you in a while’ he said

‘Yeah, well, I’ve been snowed under lately, work, home, this…’ He jerked his head to indicate the body.

‘Well, I can imagine. No time to come here, then?’

‘Yeah, I’ll try to make time; I’ve just been busy. How about next Tuesday?’

‘How ‘bout next Wednesday?’

‘Deal.’ The kidnapper’s friend walked off to another room, but the kidnapper continued onwards, then went down a flight of steps located at the back of the kitchen, which led to the basement.

The basement was cavernous, basically a long corridor going on for some way, with large rooms on either side. When he came to a door to his right near the end of the corridor, he entered, placed Brian on a chair, tied him to it, and left the room.

Several minutes later, Brian woke with a start. He was unable to move any of his limbs, and there was tape over his mouth. Though there was nothing keeping his eyes closed, it felt as though they had been glued shut. After much exertion, he opened them and looked at his surroundings. It was a moderately sized room with stone walls which were cracked and chipped, with mildew in places, and blood faintly visible. Brian knew instinctively that this room’s purpose was not a pleasant one. It stank of blood and sweat and Brian knew that if he didn’t do something, this room might be the last thing he ever saw. Through the small movement his bonds allowed, he gradually moved the chair over to the door.

He placed his head against the top of the door handle and pushed down. As he had expected, it moved, but the door stood still. Locked. He edged his way over to the large table, which stood in the corner of the room. Finally reaching it, he looked at what was on the table. They were clearly torture devices, knives and spikes and needles all of which- it was safe to assume- would be used on him in the near future if he couldn’t find a way out. Brian positioned the chair so that the back rested against the corner of the table, and then began to rub the ropes that bound him against them so that they’d wear them away. After five minutes though, it was clear that this method would take far too long to be successful. His eyes were drawn to the various instruments on the table and the display cabinet behind it. If he could get hold of one, then it would be so much faster. He slammed the back of the chair against the table with enough force to knock one of the blades to the floor, then dropped to the floor, gripped the knife in one of his hands and began to cut through his bonds. After some time, he cut through, and held his hands in front of him, flexing them to get the feeling back. There were numerous cuts and spots of blood on them from slipping while cutting the rope.

It was then a far more simple process to remove the rope from around his legs and the tape from his mouth. It was just in time. He walked round the room shake off the excruciating pins-and–needles, he heard footsteps, and though they were barely audible, they were undoubtedly heading in his direction. He ran back over to the table and picked up an impressive looking butcher knife. He hid behind the door, ready to strike at whoever opened the door.

It was not long before the door slowly swung open. He jumped at the stranger, and then stopped. He knew this man. Craig…Carson, wait…that wasn’t it. His brain could barely process the information; he was running solely on adrenaline. Then he remembered. Craig Larson. The bastard who he’d been so set on destroying that morning. ‘Craig?’ He asked, bewildered. ‘Is that…why…what the hell are you doing here?’ Craig said nothing. He quickly produced a large syringe from behind his back, and, before Brian could react, stuck it in his neck and injected the contents.

When Brian woke up for the second time, he lost all hope of survival. Sitting on a chair opposite him was Craig, reading the paper. He was engrossed in it, and had not yet noticed that Brian had woken from his slumber. Brian thought about his situation, and summed up what he knew.

1) Craig had kidnapped him, and no one knew where he was, unless they had seen him taken, which at that time in the morning was decidedly unlikely.

2) He had no idea where he was, except that he was in a real torture chamber, which didn’t exactly help his present situation.

3) There was some reason for his abduction (well, there had to be. People aren’t kidnapped for no reason at all, surely?), so if he could find out what it was, perhaps there was some chance of escape.

4) Unless he could reason with Craig, escape was out of the question.

5) Whatever he had done to deserve this, whether it was his mistress, the fact that he’d put his father away in a sub standard home or anything else, he would make amends, if his life was spared.

Craig looked up and saw that he was awake. Brian tried to compose himself. If he lost sight of what was important, if he broke down, then would have less chance of survival. He had achieved so much in his life; this would be nothing in comparison.

‘Look Craig, what is this all about? Money?’ He pleaded.

‘I don’t want your money.’

‘Then what? Why?’ Brian shouted, before checking himself. He was becoming hysterical. If he lost his nerve, then he might say something he would regret.

Without replying, Craig stood up, and left the room. He returned with another syringe and some plastic tubing. He tied the tubing tightly around Brian’s arm. When a vein started to emerge, Craig brought the syringe down into Brian’s arm, and injected whatever it was it contained, ignoring Brian’s struggles to avoid it.

‘What was that stuff?’ Brian asked, unsure whether he actually wanted to know.

‘Diacetylmorphine.’ Craig replied, and then elaborated. ‘It was first used as long as six thousand years ago when Arab traders used to sell it to China. It comes from the opium poppy, or the ‘joy plant as the Sumerians called it.’ After seeing Brian’s blank look, he simplified his statement. ‘Heroin.’

Brian’s eyes opened wide when he heard this, and pushed against his restraints, as his heart beat faster and faster in his chest, until he was sure it would burst free from his chest. After a moment, he realised that the only result of this would be that the heroin would race through his bloodstream faster, but there was little he could do about it. He could already begin to feel its effects. His abduction and torture seemed less and less significant as the seconds ticked by, and all he could do was succumb to the euphoria rushing through his head, drowning out all logical thought.

Anyone watching Brian would have seen the extreme change that came over him in matter of minutes. He had gone from being scared out his mind - but still with some semblance of control over himself, to a wreck. He was constantly moving - whether he was uncomfortable restless, or had a hundred itches he couldn’t scratch due to his restraints, it was impossible to tell - and sweat flowed from every pore, until it looked like he had bathed without taking off his clothes. His pupils had contracted to the size of a pinhead, and never changed, even though the room was not that well lit. He eventually passed out, and was dead to the world.

When he woke, his mouth was dry with an aftertaste of vomit, his vision blurred, and his breathing shallow. He had the mother of all hangovers, and was itching all over. His shirt was flecked with puke, and his crotch was dark with urine stains. He looked up, and saw Craig standing in front of him, leaning against the wall, a smug grin on his face. Brain’s thought were filled with an all-consuming hatred of Craig, the sick fucker who had done this to him. ‘Sleep well?’ Craig enquired.
‘Fuck you.’ Brian spat back.

‘Well, I guess I’ll be having the last laugh.’ Craig replied. ‘Look here, but I’d advise you not to move anything but your head.’ He picked up a large mirror, and positioned it so Brian could see whatever was behind him. Brian did so, his eyes opening wide when he saw what was there. A shotgun. It was attached to the back of the chair, and was positioned against the back of his neck. ‘Look down.’ Brian saw fishing line was tied around his big toe, and went under his chair. He couldn’t see where it went, but Craig was there to tell him. ‘It then goes through the shotgun’s trigger guard, and then it’s attached to a big ol’ sandbag on top of the desk behind you. Why, it’s right on the edge! Even a small tug would bring it down and …boom.’ He said, gesticulating with his hands as he spoke to drive home what exactly the ‘boom’ would entail. A tear ran down Brain’s cheek as he looked at Craig imploringly and begged for his life. ‘Why? What have I done? … I don’t see what I could - why?’

‘Nothing. I told you. Not a thing. Nada, zip, naught, sweet FA. This isn’t about what you’ve done, but what you have.’

‘I don’t - what do I…’ Brian broke off, not knowing what it was that he had that was worth this torture.

‘Your job.’ Craig said quietly. ‘You have access to the company finances and you can easily get hold of the finances for a hundred other companies. Simple as that. No petty vendettas, no ‘I’m in love with your wife’ crap, it’s just that.’

‘But I could get… I could get the money…’ Brian almost shrieked, sure there was a way out of this living nightmare. His protest was in vain.

‘But would you…really? When it came down to it? When you knew what it was put towards? I think not. It’s up to me to take the job after your mysterious disappearance. I wish I could say I was sorry. ’

Craig turned to leave when - ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ He said, then reached into his jacket pocket, and revealed a small bag filled with white powder. He placed it on a table in front of Brian, and then left the room. Brian fought an internal battle. Already he was addicted to the drug, and he wanted it so badly he felt nauseas. The desire was struggling to overcome his strong survival instinct, one he’d had since he was a child. He’d accomplished so much, come so far that he couldn’t give in now.

The mental struggle was so strong he could barely think. He knew he had to focus. He brought his foot back till it was touching the bottom of his chair. This way, the line would be slack, allowing as much movement as possible. He breathed deeply, and slowly turned round the chair, in an attempt to pick up the sandbag. His sudden movement pulled the sandbag off the desk. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, taking minutes for the sandbag to hit the floor. ‘Oh fu -’ the blast tore through Brian’s throat as if it was paper, staining the wall in front of him with his blood and chunks of flesh. Brian’s head sank forward, and he was dead to the world.