How Does it Feel?

Though everyone felt something, no one talked about it openly, other than in whispered or hushed tones, and nobody could really pinpoint a rational explanation. There was also the sensation you get when you think you’re being watched.

“Jack Taylor report to the security door,” instructed the same female voice used in all the PA announcements.

Walking over, Jack exchanged a few looks with a couple of the others. The door buzzed. Pushing through, he paused. Every other time he had been permitted access, it was always escorted and in restraints. His frowned deepened, unease gnawing at his belly.

“Follow the yellow line to interview room 2,” instructed the PA voice.

Following the line, it brought him to a door, which buzzed electrically and popped outward as he reached for the handle.

The room was a featureless grey box, a table fastened to the floor, a chair in front of it, also secured. The entire roof of the room was lit, like frosted glass with pale fluorescent light shining through. On the wall to the left of the door was a large 4X6 mirror.

Stepping into the room, he walked over near the table. The door closed behind him with an audible click.

Sitting in the chair, he leaned against the backrest, straightening his legs and crossing his feet before folding his arms over his chest.

“Good morning Mr. Taylor, how are you feeling today?” asked an unfamiliar female voice, tone neither friendly nor hostile.

“Fine I suppose, though there is a weird vibe in the air?” he inquired, narrowing his eyes and trying to locate a camera.

There was a brief moment of silence before the woman spoke again, “The project has been initiated. Can you tell me how you are feeling?”

Jack frowned, “Still feel fine,” he answered, turning his head to examine the interior of the Spartan interview room.

“Have you experienced any unusual sensations since you’ve awoken this morning?”

So they did do something, the question was what. Pursing his lips, he answered, “I woke up feeling groggier than normal.”

“A moment ago, you said, ‘a weird vibe in the air’, can you extrapolate what it is you meant by that statement please?” she asked.

He knew he was being assessed and contemplated how best to answer the question without giving too much away.

“Mr. Taylor?” prompted the voice.

“I’m not sure how to explain it,” he responded.

“Please try,” urged the unseen speaker.

Leaning forward in the chair, he put his elbow on his knees, “Out of sync,” he offered. “Like a step or two behind.”

There was a pause before the voice spoke again, “Any physiological experiences other than grogginess?”

“Headache,” he answered.

“No difficulty breathing, loss of appetite, loss of sensation in your extremities?”

He shook his head slowly from side to side.

“If you could please verbalize your response?” queried the voice.

Pausing a moment, “No, none of that,” he stated.

“Blurred vision, nausea, hearing impairment?”

“Again no,” he responded.

“Thank you Mr. Taylor, that is all for the time being, you are instructed to return to the living quarters,” said the voice, the door lock buzzed.

He tarried a moment, “That’s it?” he asked, looking toward the mirror.

“You are required to return to the living quarters.”

“I got some questions,” Jack said, not moving.

“Further delays will in disciplinary action,” advised the voice.

Frowning, Jack got up, stepped through the door and back out into the hall, retracing his path along the yellow line back to the living unit.

Once back through the double security doors, John came up beside him, grin on his face.

“What was that about?” he asked, looking at the reflective glass on the door.

“Just wanted to know what kind of day I was having,” he joked.

“They called Maynard a few minutes after you,” John advised.

Both men looked toward the speaker as the PA called out, “Darryl Hodge report to the security door.” Hodge glowered, but moved in that direction.

“Apparently whatever this project is, it is now underway and they wanted to know how I felt,” Jack explained. “Got the sense it was an assessment of sorts, you know, like checking to see whether or not I’ll bug out.”

“Makes sense, if they’re experimenting on us they’re going to want status updates along the way,” John said, nodding. “I want you to come over here a moment, I found something,” he whispered almost triumphantly.

Jack turned his good eye on the other man, “Oh, what?”

Chuckling softly, “You’ll see, but you’re not going to believe it,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the area where the toilet was situated.

Jack allowed John to guide him over toward where the toilet was half hidden by a vanity wall.

“I want you to feel it,” encouraged John, pointing at a spot on the wall down low beside the toilet.

Jack frowned, hesitating. “What? The toilet?” he asked, turning to John and giving him a speculative look.

“No, beside the toilet, near that line. Go on,” John prompted, surreptitiously pointing to a spot between the toilet and the wall.

Kneeling down, eyes still on John, Jack ran his fingers over the wall, stopping at the indicated spot, feeling a scar carved in the material. Swiveling his head, he looked at the spot for a moment, eyes widening, “What the? It feel like plastic,” he said, looking up abruptly at John.

John nodded. “Molded plastic made to resemble cinder blocks, then covered with a thick coat of paint so the texture would feel about the same. I was able to peel some of the paint away and wanter to check on the condition of the mortar between the bricks in the washroom and that’s when I discovered the whole wall was made of plastic, one solid piece,” he boasted, big grin on his face.

“That’s insane. Why would they make an entire wall out of plastic? Why make it look like bloody cinderblocks? What the hell are they hiding is on the other side?” Jack asked rhetorically, tapping the wall with the knuckle of his right index finger.

“I think we need to find a way to work on that spot, you know, rotate people through here and start carving away at the plastic and find out what’s behind it,” John suggested.

Jack shook his head slowly, “I don’t think we have anything that could even make a dent in this stuff,” he countered. Plastic? He snorted. It made no sense.