The Oubliette

By B. James Wilson

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to wake up with complete amnesia, not knowing where you are, who you are, or how you got here? Neither had Mike Brennan, not until it happened that is. In the past, Mike has had occasion to wonder what it would be like to wake up dead, but now that he's awake, he can't be sure. All he can be sure of is that, to find the light, he must begin a terrifying journey from darkness. On this frightening journey he will find answers to the most profound questions of life, "Where did we come from? What is our purpose? What happens when we die?" To Mike's terror and surprise, the answers will come from a most unwelcome and unexpected source.
"The Oubliette" is a powerful story of one man's confrontation with evil, an angel whose rebellion has been particularly offensive to God. It is a fictional account of the dark forces that have, from the beginning of time, doggedly shaped our history by their wicked influence on the minds of the people of Earth. "The Oubliette" is an exciting journey through the first eleven chapters of the Bible, in the Book of Genesis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. James Wilson
• Release date: Apr 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780985079154

B. James Wilson

B. James Wilson says of his writing, "I choose the literary art form because the stories in my head demand that level of detail. I want to write about life, death, God, intellect, the supernatural. I want to write about our hopes and dreams, and our shining moments. I want my work to be, first of all, entertaining, and then informative.” He is the author of a variety of speculative fiction with a focus on history and the Bible. He lives and works on Florida's Space Coast.You can visit B. James Wilson online at; Amazon, Goodreads, Facebook, Wordpress, Tumbler, or Smashwords

Book preview

Chapter 1

Who’s Down There?

New York City, September 11th 2001

Big Mike Brennan peered through dirty glass into the building’s basement. He saw movement inside, below the window, just a shape moving through thick smoke. He bent closer and, in a reflex action, pulled the flashlight from his belt, turned it on and pointed it at the window. The bright light reflected off the dirty glass, nearly blinding him, so, with practiced knowledge, he used the heavy end of the flashlight to break out the glass. He called into the choking smoke that issued from the broken window, Hello! Who's down there? but there was no answer.

Mike shined his light down into the basement, but could see nothing through the smoke, so, using his heavy boots, he kicked out the remaining pieces of broken glass and the wooden framing. When that was done, he forced his large frame through the small opening. Once his shoulders were clear, he dropped down to the basement floor and crouched there a moment before moving off in the direction he'd seen the shape go, calling through the thick smoke as he went, Hello!

No one answered, but Mike was certain he’d seen someone. He worked his way through a maze of old furniture stacked in mounds along with ancient, rusting machinery and assorted other memorabilia, stored throughout the burning basement. He held his breath for as long as he could, there being little breathable air, even close to the floor. He wished he had gone back to the truck for his breathing apparatus before diving into this smoke. When he was compelled to take a breath, he found the air hot and filled with choking fumes.

Fire rescue was difficult work that required much mental toughness. Over many years, Mike taught himself to blot out pain, discomfort, and physical need, even the need to breathe. He could hold his breath for almost three minutes. If there was someone else down here in these conditions, without that training, they would not last for very long. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, pushed his face to the floor and pulled a deep breath using the cloth as a filter. Mike’s eyes watered uncontrollably from the smoke, mucus ran from his nose, and he was on the verge of choking, but he continued to hold his breath. Wary of a loud crash and a flare-up off to his right, he began moving along the wall to his left, feeling his way through the basement.

As he pushed his way through the blinding smoke, Mike was met by a small figure that loomed out of the smoke in front of him. It was the boy, his gaunt face covered with soot. No longer naked, the boy wore filthy, ragged clothing that overhung his emaciated frame. Having run into Mike, in the thick smoke, he backed off, standing away, hesitant. His eyes were wide with panic and locked on Mike’s, as if he were reading Mike’s soul. Satisfied by what he could see there, or just giving in to necessity, the boy leaned forward and tugged on the sleeve of Mike’s heavy coat, then he turned and ran off, disappearing again into the smoke.

Mike launched himself after the boy. As he moved through the basement, another loud crash and a flareup came from behind, a telltale sign that the fire was weakening the floor joists, causing the first floor to collapse into the basement. Though he couldn’t see it, he could hear water pouring down from above, a clear sign that other firemen, men from his forgotten crew, were outside working the fire. What he didn't know was that all seven floors of the aged building above him were fully involved.

When he reached the opposite end of the basement, thick smoke was being lifted out through the building's stairwell, like a chimney drafting hot air from the raging flames nearby. The flames were concentrated in the area of an old, coal-fired furnace. Mike stepped into the stairwell where breathing was easier. He found the boy there, just inside, standing next to an old wooden stairway that had collapsed into a corner.

At one time in the building's long history, the wooden stairs led to a small platform where one could open or close the coal chute. Both the stairs and the platform above were burning now. The boy was flailing at the flames, using his bare hands. Mike moved toward him, but, as he approached, the boy backed away, keeping his distance, and pointing to the fallen stairs. Mike could see a tiny pair of dirty feet sticking out from a small space where the stairs had collapsed onto a dusty crate. There was a little girl trapped in the space beneath. She was in dire jeopardy of the encroaching flames. As Mike approached, she peered up at him from between two steps, wide eyed with panic. Mike tried to calm her, leaning close, looking into her terror filled eyes with a confident smile and saying, I’m going to get you out of there. Don’t be afraid.

As Mike searched for something he could use to leverage the collapsed stairs, he thought about these two kids. He was sure they were homeless, living in this basement on their own. Fatherless, no doubt, as so many were these days, and obviously devoid of a mother’s love. It was often the case for homeless kids that their father was in jail while their mother was a prisoner to drugs and the pimp who supplied them. Life for such children was a tortured daily battle with hunger, apathy, and dark ignorance.

The boy, older than the girl, but not by much more than a year, had taken upon his tiny shoulders, the weight of responsibility for their shared welfare. The grinding stress of that responsibility was apparent in every aspect of his being. This was a boy who struggled for life each day, gleaning what he could from a city filled with churning riches, but a city that reserved little for the down-trodden, often writing them off as a burden beyond saving. Such children became invisible to society in general, but not to those who would use and abuse them.

~

I’ll be right back! Mike hollered over the roar of flames and the sound of water pouring down from the floors above.

Then he disappeared into the smoke-filled basement, moving along the back wall to the left of the stairwell, in a straight line, so that he could find his way back through the choking smoke. He passed a short flight of concrete stairs on his left. They led up to an alley entrance. Not much further on, he had to stop. The fire and heat were growing too intense for him to proceed further. He could hear the roar of flames coming from within a deep alcove behind the building's ancient furnace. The roar was accompanied by the distinctive, loud hissing of a broken gas line. From where he stood, he could see flames belching out of the niche into the cluttered basement, forcing him to turn back. When he returned to the stairwell, less than thirty seconds later, he found the boy again slapping at flames that were consuming the fallen stairs. Mike grabbed him and pulled him away, but the boy turned on him swinging. Mike took hold of the boy's shoulders and said, I will get your sister out of there, I promise! Just stay back, away from the fire while I find something to pry with.

Mike glanced around the stairwell, feeling desperate now. At that moment he had no hope of keeping his promise. What he needed was a good pry-bar. He keyed his P-25 shoulder radio and called for help but got no response. In his mind he imagined his call echoing through the empty blackness of the dungeon he’d left behind, where there were no ears to hear and no one to help. Giving up on the radio, he went in search again for something he could use to lift the heavy stairs. This time he went to the right, the way he’d come. He hadn’t gone far before he spotted a six-foot length of black sprinkler pipe lying on the floor of the basement, pushed up against the wall. He snatched it up and tested it. The pipe was strong, two-inch diameter, heavy gage, galvanized, steel.

Mike ran back to the stairwell and found the boy tugging at his sister’s feet. The flames were burning close enough now that she was terrified, screaming and crying. Mike pulled the boy away, again, and shoved the pipe under the stairs. Then, removing his helmet, and handing it to the boy, he gave instructions, nodding in the direction of a stream of water pouring into the basement, Take this and fill it with water, he commanded the boy.

While Mike set the pipe in place beneath the stairs, the boy took hold of the helmet, but stood, hesitant, looking back and forth between his sister and the stream of water pouring down from the first floor.

GO! Mike shouted, seeing uncertainty in the boy’s eyes.

While he ran for water, Mike got the pipe firmly under the frame of the staircase. He got down in a squat, pushing his shoulder under the pipe, then he forced the pipe upward with all his strength. He was only able to lift the stairs a few inches, but he was pleased that the pipe held without bending.

Mike held the stairs in place and called to the little girl to come out, but there was no movement, no indication that she heard him. He tried to reach for her, to pull her out, but he couldn’t do that and hold the stairs in place at the same time, nor could he tell, from his position, if there was enough clearance for her to escape. For a moment he just kept steady pressure against the pipe while he floundered in uncertainty, unsure how much longer he could hold the weight. Though it had been a long time since his prayers were attended by faith, now, in this situation, desperate, Mike said a quick prayer from the heart, asking for the strength to save this little girl. He tried reaching for her again, but it was impossible.

Mike was running out of both strength and options when a wave of water splashed over the fallen stairs, quenching the flames nearest the little girl. Mike turned and smiled at the boy, whose face twisted in a strange grimace which Mike supposed was a smile being returned to him.

When I lift the stairs, you pull your sister out from under there, Mike instructed him, adding, Do you understand?

The boy nodded in the affirmative.

Get ready, Mike commanded, still shouldering the pipe.

The boy wrapped his scrawny fingers around his sister’s ankles while Mike gave a count, One, two, three!

Then Mike threw his weight and every ounce of strength he could muster against the pipe at his shoulder. The stairway popped and groaned, as did Mike's back and knees, and the stairs lifted away inch by inch from the tiny form trapped beneath.

The boy struggled, pulling on the girl’s ankles, but somehow, she was being kept from sliding out. Though he could feel his strength fading, Mike reached down deep inside himself and pushed against the weight of the stairs using every fiber of muscle he could muster. His legs and arms shook violently with the effort. His hoarse cry filled the stairwell.

Pull! Pull!

The boy pulled and yanked at his sister’s ankles, but something held her fast. Then, without warning, the boy dove under the burning stairs. Mike could do nothing to stop him and, though his strength was giving out, he responded with superhuman effort, forcing the stairs upward another inch or two. After a brief moment the boy wriggled his way out, grabbed his sister’s ankles once more and gave a mighty heave, freeing the little girl from her prison, her tiny body slid out from under the heavy, burning stairs. When they were both clear, Mike pushed himself out from under the pipe and the stairway crashed to the floor, sending sparks flying up into the rising smoke that filled the towering stairwell above them, like the chimney of a great furnace.

The boy looked up at Mike, his eyes pleading over his sister’s motionless body. Mike dropped to his knees and placed his trembling fingers on the girl’s throat, feeling the faint thump of her heart. He gave the boy an equally faint smile, then, without further hesitation Mike scooped the little girl up in his arms. The new steel stairway rising through the seven-story height of the stairwell seemed in good shape, but there was no visible exit, and flames were shooting into the stairwell from all the upper floors. Just then, Mike remembered seeing the alley entrance, to the left of the stairwell, as he was searching through the basement earlier.

Holding the girl in his arms, Mike hurried back into the burning basement, keeping to the left, searching through the smoke for the alley entrance. The boy followed a short distance behind. It didn’t take long to find the single, short flight of concrete stairs that led up to angled, double-doors. As he climbed up, Mike banged his head against the heavy wood. It hurt just enough to remind him that he’d left his helmet in the stairwell.

He hesitated a moment, with the girl still in his arms, before placing her on the step, in front of him. He was relieved that there was breathable air drafting in through the cracks and seams in the crudely constructed doors. Mike reached up and pushed on them, forcing the doors upward, but they wouldn’t open. They were obviously latched from the outside. Mike stepped up over the girl, to a place where he could get his back against the doors. He pushed hard with his legs and, though the doors sprung upward, creaking and cracking, they remained latched.

Help! Mike hollered, hoping someone outside would hear him.

He keyed his shoulder radio again and called for help, but, as before, there was no reply, so he put his back to the doors once again and pushed, harder this time. He pushed again and again, in a rhythm, gaining momentum each time, trying to tear the latch from the rotting wood, but all his effort was to no purpose.

HEY, he hollered, need some help down here!

He reached down then and checked the little girl’s pulse and breathing, finding that her pulse had gained some strength in the better air. Her breathing was still shallow, but steady. Mike determined that she was in shock, so he removed his heavy coat and covered her with it.

In the dim light provided by the fire behind them, he could see her brother, lit in silhouette, standing at the bottom of the stairs in the smoke-filled basement, his arms folded in front of him in a defiant stance. He fidgeted nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Mike called to him, Come up here out of the smoke. There’s air up here.

The boy didn't move or speak. Mike tried to assure him, She’s gonna be okay, though he knew that the girl was in desperate need of oxygen.

Rested from his exertion, Mike was able to put more energy into his efforts to force the basement doors. He worked them up and down until each upward motion was throwing the doors nearly a foot. Each time he thrust them upward, they came back down, slamming against the frame, making a loud banging sound that echoed down the alley behind the burning building. Dust and debris rained down on him and on the little girl, but Mike continued his efforts, believing that the hasp holding the doors together would soon break. Before that happened, however, there came a loud pounding on the doors, from outside, followed by a voice that Mike recognized, Hold up in there a minute and we’ll get you out!

Mike was so startled by hearing the words that he almost fell down the stairs. It was like waking from a nightmare by a familiar voice. He stepped down, closer to the boy, where he could straighten his back and, as he did, the boy moved away from him. Mike didn't notice, he was too distracted by the sounds coming from outside, the sound of a bar latch sliding free, then the doors flew open letting in a flood of fresh air and flashlight beams. Mike covered his eyes from the painful light.

The familiar voice of Jim Greco greeted him, Mike! What the hell are you doing down there?

At the sound of Jim’s voice, a flood of relief came over Mike. He fell to his knees, scooped up the little girl at his feet and said to Jim, She needs oxygen, stat.

As he passed her up to Jim's waiting arms, he turned and waved for her brother to come and join them.

C’mon, let’s get out of here?

Mike brushed his hand over his bare head, remembering his forgotten helmet. At the same moment, the boy ran off into the smoke-filled basement.

Jim never saw the boy and, as he turned away from the basement doors with the injured girl in his arms, he called to someone down the alley, It's Big Mike!

When he turned back, he saw Mike descending the stairs, disappearing into the column of smoke that was rising through the opened doors. He hollered, Mike! What are you doing? Get out of there!

~

Jim hurried away from the basement not wanting to delay the little girl’s treatment but intending to return for Mike. He ran down the narrow alley to the street with the little girl in his arms. It took him a moment to spot the waiting ambulance among the sea of flashing lights on the street. Leaping over fire hoses and other obstructions, Jim had no sooner placed the girl into the hands of an EMT, then he was distracted by a series of loud, cracking sounds. He spun around to look, just in time to witness the implosion of the aging building.

The sound of cracking stanchions and splitting floor joists was replaced by the roar of thousands of bricks tumbling down into a burning heap. At first, Jim was too stunned to react. He stood at the back of the ambulance, bathed in flashing red, yellow and blue light, mesmerized by the event, his mouth hanging agape.

The aging building had last been occupied by a toy manufacturing company. When they gave up their lease a year ago, the seven-story brick structure went empty for code violations. The structure was over a hundred years old, originally built in 1886 as a three-story wood frame, but over the years new levels were added, until, finally, in the twenties, the seven-story wood frame structure was enclosed in brick cladding, making fire safety an impossibility.

More than twenty years ago the city and the insurance industry adopted a policy of requiring owners of type III-A buildings to upgrade them for fire safety before they could issue a new lease. It was an expensive proposition that left many type III-A buildings, like this one, unoccupied. It would take a Trump-like developer to remedy the situation, either that or a fire. Jim couldn’t help but be suspicious of this one.

Once a fire gets started in one of these old structures, they were always quick to consume the underlying wood frame. The result was always the same. When the building becomes fully involved there is no hope that the building will continue to stand. The weakened structure will always collapse inward, just like this one did. For that reason, the department has a strict policy about entering type III-A buildings during fire emergencies. Simply put, the policy says, Do not enter under any circumstances!

Of course, he and Mike were firefighters and, when it comes to life and death, especially in the case of children, the rules often go out the window. It was unquestionably the case on this morning.

Jim snapped out of his momentary paralysis when the other firefighters on the scene started calling for one another by name. He depressed the transmit button on his P-25 two-way, interrupting the stream of transmissions. He asked, simply, Anyone see Mike Brennan?

No one responded.

He called again, Mike? You read, but the hiss of static air was all that returned to him, so he bounded across the street toward the collapsed building, his heart pounding in his throat, calling to the men nearby.

Mike Brennan is in there! I saw him go in!

Jim ran the way he'd come, around the smoldering heap to the narrow alley and on to the opened cellar doors. When he arrived there, he found that the entrance was choked by fallen bricks. Smoke poured out from between them, looking like the land around a volcanic vent. To his right a tower of bricks, which formed the first two floors of the north-east corner of the building, remained standing, reinforced there by what remained of an interior, steel stairway that was installed in the late sixties. Most of the upper stair sections had collapsed into the pile of bricks, along with everything else from the upper five floors.

The remaining, partial, two-story, brick shell was unstable at best and presented a serious hazard to undertaking any rescue effort. Ignoring that, however, Jim mounted the pile where he had last seen Mike and began heaving bricks into the alley, digging his way through the rising smoke and overwhelming heat. He yelled to the men who were hesitating at the edges of the smoldering pile, Get over here and give me a hand!

A few of them joined him, mostly men from Mike's own engine crew. But the others stood back, eyeing the towering wall that threatened to collapse on them at any moment. Captain Phelps, the incident commander hollered, Hold up Jim!

He pointed to the damaged wall.

Jim was already aware of the danger he and his men were in. It didn’t matter at the moment, and he continued tossing bricks off the pile. Without looking up he repeated, Mike Brennan is down there.

Hearing the name, more of the men who were standing on the sidelines joined Jim on the pile of fallen bricks. Finding himself alone in his desire to enforce department policy, Phelps caved in, ordering the other crews in a loud voice, All right men, get some water on this pile! And somebody call the damn engineers.

The call went out over the radios that one of their own was down, buried in a collapse and that the incident commander was requesting engineers at the site. It took more than a half hour for the engineers to arrive, by that time more than a hundred fire fighters had joined Jim and the other men of the One in their effort to rescue Big Mike, as he was known throughout the department. As much as Mike was known, he was liked and respected. Even men who were off duty came to help.

As more volunteers were arriving on the scene, the engineers worked to stabilize what remained of the partial wall. The men formed lines, like the bucket brigades of years gone by, but instead of carrying water to the fire, they hauled hot bricks away. The work was tedious, and took a long time to make noticeable progress, but by sunrise, they had reached a pocket inside the collapsed stairwell of the old building.

Inside the pocket, Jim removed his helmet. He squeezed his head and shoulders under a huge section of twisted steel stairway that was blocking what remained of the stairwell below him. He extended his right arm as far as he could and shined a flashlight into the darkness ahead. Up there, a foot or so farther on, he could see an edge that dropped off into an open space below. From where he was, Jim could hear Mike's PASS alarm sounding, but it took a great effort for him to squeeze his way forward that last foot, to the edge of the debris. When he got there, he shined his flashlight down into the darkness and twisted his head uncomfortably to the right, peering over his own shoulder. More than ten feet below him, Big Mike lay partially buried under a pile of rubble in a tiny tomb-like space.

I see him! Jim hollered back to the men waiting behind.

From above, in the narrow space where Jim squeezed his large frame, it was impossible to know if Mike was still alive, but Jim called out to him anyway, Mike! Mike! Hang on big guy. We're comin' to get you.

He turned off the flashlight then relaxed his taught muscles and breathed deeply as a wave of claustrophobia washed over him. He needed a moment before making the effort required to extricate himself from the narrow passage. As he lay there, wedged beneath thousands of pounds of steel and loose brick, he could feel the heat and steam rising to him from below. The heat penetrated the thick protection of his fireman’s coat, feeling to him like the fires of hell.

~

Chapter 2

A Disturbance

Azazel stirred himself into tired awareness. Suspended by lengths of chain, he was like a spider monitoring his web for the faintest sense of activity. It was a subtle disturbance in the musty stillness of his dark dungeon that awakened him. He registered only the slightest quiver of movement before the mounting effects of the disturbance coursed through all his senses. It set off orgasmic waves of sensory stimulation, color, scent, and sound that reverberated through him from head to toe. Afterward, his body twitched in convulsive spasms, the dark chains that bound him rattled, and, when the ecstasy passed, he used his enhanced senses to scan the darkness for the source of his unexpected harvest.

He lifted his head without opening his eyes and sniffed the stale air of the oubliette. His senses sprang to life. He salivated, drooling in anticipation of what might follow. There was a new presence out there, in the dark, a mortal human in whose heart burnt a faint flicker of faith. How long had it been since the eternal solitude of this place was disturbed by the presence of a living soul. How long since he’d had an opportunity to stimulate his mind and spirit?

For Azazel, the prospect of this one's company was more than just the possibility of a brief entertainment, a disruption in the monotonous course of time, a moment of respite from the death-like solitude of his prison. His highest hope was for an opportunity to free himself from these chains, to escape the fate that awaited him beyond the great wooden doors that stood closed in front of him. Based on rare experience, he’d named the doors, Bab-el, The Gateway of God.

Azazel stood alone in the solitary darkness, tortured by the slow drip of time and constrained by the soulless chains that bound him hand and foot. He dared not use his impressive metaphysical powers, as in the past. There were immediate and severe consequences for such behavior. Knowing the agony such disobedience would bring, he was careful not to release too much of his power at once, but he must know more of this mortal. Azazel began to project his consciousness into the new presence he sensed in the dungeon above.

Darkness being his natural element, Azazel has many ways to see and sense in the absence of light. Now, in his mind, he was able to see a distorted, though colorful image of a man. A pathetic creature. One whose name would come to him in a moment. He focused his energy on the prostrate figure, pressing and probing until he was sure the man must feel his efforts. Then it came to him, the name, Michael a grand but inappropriate name for such a one.

In a moment, when his own mind and thoughts had mingled with those of the mortal, Azazel came to an understanding of both the nature of the man, and his language.

~

Chapter 3

Born of Darkness

Michael Brennan woke in what could only be described as utter darkness. A darkness beyond night, or the vastness of space, or the furthest depths of the ocean. The darkness covered and surrounded him, like a blanket of fear. It was so dense it seemed to have weight and substance, thick and gooey. For that first long moment Michael was afraid to breathe. He was afraid that he might drown in this darkness, an inky black so intense, he thought he could feel it touching his skin.

He was stunned and disoriented, as if he had been hit by a truck. He was concerned that he might have been struck blind and deaf in the accident. He was aware of his own heart pounding in his ears, screaming for oxygen. At feeling the desperate need, anguish overcame his fear and Michael’s lungs exploded into respiration. He was relieved to find that he could breathe. He lay still in the impenetrable darkness, listening to the sound of his own frightened breathing. He was desperate to understand where he was and how he had gotten here. He wondered also, why he was naked?

Think! Think!, he commanded his own mind, but the effort was useless. He could only remember ragged bits and pieces of what had recently occurred. He remembered finding something important, reaching for it. Then, ...what then?

The one bit of memory he retained was the sound of thunder so powerful that it knocked him off his feet. That was all he could remember. A horrendous, explosive sound and then this, …this, …utter darkness.

Michael remained motionless for some time, listening, before he realized that he was hearing an echo of his own breathing. The echo told him that he was in an enclosure, a dark cave perhaps, or maybe… He tried to think beyond the notion of a cave, but nothing else would come to mind. His thoughts returned to wondering what he might have been doing before he woke up here. He asked himself aloud, Why can't I remember? the words returned, echoing around him.

Though he couldn’t remember, it was clear that something had gone terribly wrong. There must have been an accident of some sort, the result of which had landed him in this place, unconscious. Michael listened for other sounds, any sound that might give him a clue about where he could be. He strained, trying to project his hearing into the darkness around him. The sound of water reached his ear, a distant dripping that, for some reason, conjured the image of a burial crypt. His expanded notion of something beyond a cave, brought an overwhelming apprehension about his place and condition. He curled up in a fetal ball, naked and alone on a cold stone floor, as consciousness fled from him like a departing soul.

He was startled awake by a wrenching sound so loud that it caused him physical pain. A torturous screeching, like the breaking of a train inside a tunnel. At that same moment, a painful dagger of brilliant light burst through the darkness in front of him, momentarily blinding him in a contrasting sea of white.

As if in slow motion, the sliver of light grew wider until, in a moment, Michael could see that a heavy, stone door had opened at one end of a vast, empty chamber. A chamber with high, vaulted ceilings and broad flagstone floors. A place as remote from his thoughts as, …as the memory of how he’d gotten here.

He lifted his head and squinted into the torturous light that flooded into the room from beyond the door. In that brilliant flow, a silhouetted figure peeked through the narrow opening and scanned the large room. The figure mumbled something incomprehensible. Michael struggled to get to his feet but found he was unable to move. He tried to force his muscles to respond to the desperate signals his brain was sending to them, but there was no acknowledgment from his arms or legs. His tongue seemed cleaved to the roof