Fade-In

by Robby Dube

I wake up but see nothing. It’s not merely dark, or midnight with the shades closed. It’s total.

I’m not blind, I don’t think. If I move my arms past my eyes, the darkness seems to vibrate.

I’m not supposed to be in total darkness, I’m supposed to be in Leningrad, meeting Alexei to... I can’t remember now.

Did they catch me? Am I in some hellish Siberian gulag that doesn’t exist on any maps? If so, it’s pretty damn warm.

I try to sit up; at least I think it’s up. Hard to tell when I can’t see a thing. My head hits something but, after I’m startled at first, I’m surprised it doesn’t hurt. Not concrete, then. That’s good; I don’t want to add a bleeding forehead to the list.

Putting my hand against the wall, I can tell it’s firm, not plaster or foam but otherwise unremarkable. A padded cell, maybe? The Russians wouldn’t be so gentle. I am stealing nuclear secrets, after all. Oh! That’s why I was meeting... Well damn, now I can’t remember who I was supposed to meet. My head doesn’t hurt, but if I have a brain bleed, I’m screwed.

I go to touch my head and brush up against a chain crossing my stomach. No, not just crossing my stomach, attached to it. They must have a full body chain around me. Seems like a lot of effort for someone 5 feet 6 inches and 150 pounds. Although... it’s actually strangely elastic. It must not be iron, then. I try to scratch at it with my fingers, to no effect. Did they clip my nails? Why would they do that?

Grasping the chain, I work my hands up it until I find its connection to the wall. It’s soldered on there pretty tight; I’m not going anywhere.

Okay, so I’m in a prison of some sort, chained to the wall, and they’ve done something to my vision. So, they must have caught me. I don’t remember being caught.

What do I remember? I am John Smith. Yes, that’s my real name, not just some generic name the CIA pulled out of a hat. My parents were that unoriginal. I work for the US of A. The current year is 1989. The President is George Bush; the Gipper is gone. I have a sister; she has two kids. I think I’m in my thirties? Try as I might, I can’t remember anything else.

I think about screaming but decide against it. If the KGB have me, my life will surely get rapidly worse if they know I’m awake. Instead, I lightly tap on my cell wall, to see if maybe there’s someone in an adjoining cell.

A shockingly loud thumping drums out in response. I think it came from above and behind me but I just can’t tell in this damn darkness. Is there a guard on the other side? Some seven-foot tall Soviet super-soldier who can punch through steel? I mean the thumping is loud. Mercifully, it stops after a few seconds.

I realize that means I can still hear! Good. And I’m not hungry, which means I can’t have been out for long or they’ve been feeding me somehow. An IV tube maybe? There’s nothing in my arms or mouth, though. Oh! It’s the tube in my stomach. Of course.

If they’re keeping me alive, that means I’m either going to be tortured until I’m unrecognizable and then killed, or tortured until I’m still somewhat recognizable and then swapped for an opponent’s prisoner.

I continue to explore my cell. I quickly determine it’s more of a padded box. I can’t turn around or get off my back. Thank God I’m not claustrophobic or I’d really be losing my cool. It seems like maybe there’s a small opening towards the bottom of the box, but I can’t move enough to tell.

I put my foot against the wall and try to push off, to see if I can pry the opening open with my head. I move a little bit, but not much.

This small action draws a surprising response. I hear voices! They’re muffled, but they’re clearly those of a man and a woman. The woman’s voice is louder than the man’s; he must be standing farther away. I push my foot against the wall again. The voices seem to react. I hear... laughter.

Okay, laugh it up, comrades. If I get out of here, we’ll see who’s laughing. Suddenly my entire cell moves! As if a crane had picked it up. I can tell I’m definitely in the air and moving. Loud thuds echo, rhythmically. Before I can orient myself, I drift back to sleep.

I wake up with a start. That bastard Alexei pulled a gun on me! I remember tackling him into the snow and wrestling for his gun... And the memory fades.

How long was I out? The darkness is unchanged, and the Soviets haven’t been kind enough to put a clock in here. I search in vain for a rock or anything to scratch into the wall. If I can’t count days, I can at least count sleeps. That was the idea anyway. But this box is bare, besides me and this damn chain.

Did I mention that I’m naked? Not sure why they couldn’t leave me at least that dignity. Oh, and they shaved my head, too.

Come to think of it, my body feels wrong. Large, puffier than normal. My head especially feels like it’s swollen to three times the size it should be. They must have me on some amazing pain meds not to feel it. No wonder I can’t remember anything. Opiates; man, what a miracle drug. I should have taken the job in Afghanistan instead; those guys are doing it right.

I decide I’m going to run through everything I can remember again. I don’t know how long I’m going to be in here, but it’ll help me pass the time. My name is John Smith. I work for the CIA. The year is... dammit I can’t remember. Okay, well, the President is... a president? What is a president? I can feel my mind slipping from me.

I feel cold and stupid.

Don’t panic.
Breathe.
Think.

It’s too late, I’m freaking out. I try to scream, but the scream quickly cuts off into a weak cough and then turns into hiccups, of all things. The all-liquid IV diet must have really jacked up my stomach.

This again draws murmurs from outside my cell, and a loud thump as something heavy is placed on top of it. Oh, you like that, you weirdos? I kick at my cell again. Whatever was placed on my cell moves, ponderously, towards my foot. I quickly jerk it away.

Think. Concentrate. I have a sister. She has two kids. The President is... George Bush! Oh, thank God. I didn’t even vote for the guy, but I could kiss him right now. I was in Leningrad to meet with Alexei, but he pulled a gun on me. I remember hearing a gunshot. Did I shoot him or...?

No. He shot me. I remember the pain. I remember lying in the snow, looking up at the clear Russian sky. The stars, those twinkling beauties. Then... I woke up here.

I’ve slept twenty more times.

I’m in a sick experiment. Every day my cell gets a little smaller. I don’t know how they’re doing it or why. There are faster ways to kill me. But they’re taking it slow.

Before, I could move pretty freely around here. Now, with almost any movement, I’m banging against the walls. The voices are louder now; f I think they’re turning up the volume every day. And whenever I’m pushed up against the wall, they place something heavy on the other side and follow my movements.

They’re trying to break me.

But I remember. Oh yes, I remember! My name is John Smith. I work for... George. My sister has a kid named Alexei, and he shot me. I’ll kill him.

No that’s not right, Alexei is someone else.

You know what’s weird? I don’t think I’ve pooped the entire time I’ve been here. I’m serious! It certainly doesn’t smell like I’m covered in my own feces. Doesn’t smell like urine either, for that matter.

The other weird thing: the KGB officers outside my cell? I’m pretty sure they’re speaking English! It’s damn hard to make out anything through the walls, but I know the difference between “no” and nyet and, let me tell you, is it Russian they’re speaking? Nyet.

Maybe they’re sleeper agents. But then why would they be in Russia? Shouldn’t they be... where I’m from?

Ten more sleeps.

They play classical music. All the time. I don’t know how their ear drums don’t burst, because Tchaikovsky is so loud, even in this cell. I would kill for some rock and roll.

My cell is smaller than ever. I really can’t move; my face is almost pressed up against it. I can still breathe normally. But that doesn’t make any sense.

My name is President Smith. Alexei shot my sister.

Three more sleeps.

My cell can’t get smaller. Not without crushing me.

My name is President.

Sleep.

My name...

Sister...

Sleeps.

President.

Sleep.

I...

The cell is shrinking, collapsing in on me. The opening at the bottom of the cell expands wide; there is an explosion of light.

A guttural scream, then cheering.

“Congratulations, it’s a baby boy!”