08-12-2013, 10:07 AM
From the outside, the charity shop just looked like another abandoned old building. Another victim of the recession, another casualty of the war of survival. Upon entering the building you would probably hold the same view; broken chairs lay strewn across damaged, cigarette burned tables. It was a location that, at first glance, would not seem out of place at all in a war-torn Eastern European country. The windows were boarded up, the doors forced shut, a result of the occasional intrusion of vagrants, looking for protection from the bitter colds and the sweeping rains. It was one of these vagrants that stood outside the charity shop, gazing up at the decrepit sign. He had heard rumours of a lower layer, a safe haven beneath the floor of the shop’s interior. Of course, he was not sure that it was to be believed; it was commonplace for the guys to stir shit, trying to provide excitement into their otherwise empty, depressing lives, but for him it was something that had to be explored. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he didn’t, and it was with that thought in his mind that he rammed his shoulder against the door, trying to force it open. After a few barges, he felt the flimsy wood break, and the door with the faded paint slam open. He fell down to the hard floor of the shop, not looking up. He knew that he needed to look up, that his hopes of surviving the bitter winter depended on it, but he couldn’t do it. He kept his head down, too scared to look; it all depended on this. With a deep breath, the man slowly raised his head, wincing from the pain of his rheumatism-affected neck, and looked around.
With a heavy sigh, the man felt his heart sink as he realised that the building was just as decrepit and forgotten on the inside as it was on the outside. His hopes dashed, the man reached inside the pocket of his duster and pulled out a battered cigarette box. The contents had lasted for months, he’d been careful to ration them out to himself at specific times, but now he was down to one. As he lifted the bent cigarette into his mouth, he lamented to himself on the dire situation his life was in. What exactly was he expecting to find? Treasure? An unused house? Instead, all he had found was a dilapidated shop that was just as cold as the outside world. He closed his eyes and banged his head three times against the wall behind him. He slumped back against it, before it gave way, the wall sending him head over heels into a room behind him. Immediately the warmth of the room hit him like a truck. Compared to the bitter streets, this was paradise.
He turned and looked around the corridor he was stood in, and pushed against the wall again. As it lifted upwards, his immediate thought was that he had stumbled upon some ancient Victorian building. The secret passage, the candles that illuminated the corridor, it all lined up perfectly. Part of him was content to just stay in the corridor for the night. The room felt homely, safe, and more importantly, warm. But, although he knew that he should stay, another part of him was nagging him, curious at what lay even deeper. He shuffled slowly down the corridor. It was unlike him to be intimidated. He was a big man, and was more than capable of taking care of himself. He’d won bareknuckle tournaments in the streets; it was the only way he could make money. Despite this, as he walked further down the corridor, he felt like he was being watched, like someone was about to jump him. He was tempted to call ‘Hello’, but he realised how stupid and clichéd that would be.
He kept looking around at the corridor as he walked down it, and he as he did he noticed multiple wooden doors. They looked like they would be easy to break open, but something about them stopped him from doing so. As he glanced at the door, he suddenly felt a presence behind him, but before he could move away a black hood was forced over his face, masking his vision. He yelled, struggling against the strong hands holding him in place, before he felt another pair of hands grab his legs, whilst the others were still holding him by the neck. He shouted out again, in vain, as he was carried away, unable to break free of the grip the unknown people held him in.
After what he presumed was minutes of struggling, he felt himself be thrown down to a hard floor. He let out an anguished groan as his bones crunched against the floor. As soon as his arms and legs were freed, he rushed to remove the black hood that covered his head. After minutes of struggling with his quite possibly broken bones, he managed to undo the knot on the back of the hood and removed it, readying himself for a fight. Whilst he wasn’t sure what to expect, the sight that met his eyes left him stunned. He saw himself surrounded by people, all clad in orange jumpsuits. It reminded him of a prison; dozens of faceless men and women, identified only by the orange suits that they wore.
“Well this is surprising”
He turned around to see a man stood in front of him. He was filled with a sense of intrigue just from looking at the man; he was of moderate height, not huge, but not short. Unlike the others, he was not dressed in an orange jumpsuit. He was immaculately dressed in a grey suit, not an item of clothing out of place, from his polished black shoes to his thin, pencil armed glasses.
“Where am I?” our noble hero said, trying to prevent a quake of fear from appearing in his voice.
“Under the charity shop” the man replied patiently. “This is what you were looking for, was it not?”
“No…..” he stammered quickly. Or was it? “Who are you?”
“My name, my friend, is Casey Jones. I am now going to offer you one of two choices, so listen carefully, if you will”
This man spoke with an accent that could be best described as peculiar: it didn’t appear to originate from any particular geographical location, none that the vagrant could identify, at least.
“Choice number one,” Jones said, making himself clear without raising his voice. “Is that you join us. It’s a good deal, believe me. Everything you could ever want in your life is here. Join your brothers and sisters, live in comfort, with food, drink, supplies. It’s better than living on the street, is it not?”
The vagrant looked up at Jones curiously, trying to figure out the catch. In his experience, there was always a catch, and, just from the appearance of Jones, he could tell it would be quite a heavy one.
“Of course if you were to accept this offer,” Jones continued. “You would of course be expected to prove your allegiance. All you will be expected to do is demonstrate your loyalty through a simple task.”
“And what if I refuse?” the vagrant said, speaking his first words since entering the shop. He was surprised by the high pitch of his voice; it all but gave away his fear.
“Well I’d prefer not to think about that” Jones said with a soft laugh. “You’re probably wondering what the task is”
In response, the vagrant merely raised his eyebrows, to which Jones laughed again. It was obvious to him that the vagrant was trying to appear calm, collected. Jones couldn’t help but admire that.
“Fine” the vagrant said, his grave voice broken and hoarse. Upon hearing the vagrant agree, Jones made a subtle motion to the cold-looking man stood to his left. Immediately the man disappeared for a second, before reappearing with a television. He placed it carefully in front of the vagrant, who looked at it intently. The screen was split into quadrants, each depicting a different area of a location he knew very well; the charity shop’s exterior. The vagrant could vaguely see the faces of the acquaintances he had made in his time living on the street. There was John and his dog A.J., Ralph and Tom huddled around the burning trash can, Marie, the young girl who had been kicked out by her parents, and, finally, in the last quadrant, James, the mentally deficient giant; he wouldn’t hurt a fly, but his size intimidated passers-by. “What’s this about?”
Jones took off the glasses that sat immaculately on his nose and smiled at the vagrant. “Pick one.”
The vagrant stared at Jones, a look of shock on his face. “What?” he asked, in spite of himself.
“Pick one” Jones repeated slowly, the smile not leaving his face.
“Why?”
Jones took a deep breath and pulled a cloth from the top of his suit jacket. “I want conclusive proof that, should you join the small family we have here, that it would be the most important thing in the world to you. That it would essentially become your life. That you would put it over the life of another human being…”
“No” the vagrant said flatly. “I won’t do it.”
“I must insist…” began Jones.
“No. You can take your offer and stick it up your ass. Fuck you, you creepy prick, and fuck every single one of your fucking bitch-boys here as well.”
Jones flinched slightly at each swear word the vagrant unleashed at him. “Can I perhaps persuade you to reconsider?”
“Am I speaking fucking double Dutch? Fuck you, and fuck your ‘family’. I’m out of here”
As he turned around to leave, the vagrant didn’t notice the two men either side of Jones start to move towards him. Jones, surprisingly, held his hand up, halting the two men, and they returned to his side. The vagrant reached the door and opened it, but was met by an unexpected and unfamiliar sight. Where he had perhaps expected to see another muscle-bound member of Jones’ group, he instead saw a woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She wore an orange jumpsuit, but modifications had been made; a cut in the chest area allowed for cleavage to be shown, and the lower section had been all but entirely modified into a take on hot pants. She walked up to him, and he couldn’t help but follow the beautiful woman with his eyes. She was of medium height, her hair the lightest shade of brown and her eyes the most alluring hazel. Without saying a word, she placed a hand on the side of his face and kissed him softly, her tongue sliding into his. Initially he tried to struggle, but she placed a hand on the small of his back, caressing him. Eventually she broke away, and the vagrant immediately felt a lump in his throat. He swallowed hard, before he realised what had happened to him. Immediately his legs buckled and he fell hard to the solid ground, unable to move. As he lay on the floor, paralysed, he heard the clip-clop of dress shoes along the ground.
“A neuromuscular-blocking drug” Jones said, looking down at the man pitifully. “You should’ve accepted my offer, my child.”
The vagrant tried desperately to shout out for help, but not a muscle in his body could be moved as the dozens of jumpsuit-clad men and women surrounded him, picking him up and carrying him away.
If you happened to be walking past the abandoned, unused Aid For The Aged charity shop that night, you may just have heard the faint sounds of a man screaming in screeching in terror and pain. Another man who’d gone missing. Another man who would never be found again. It was on this that Casey Jones dwelled as he left the charity shop through the back exit. He had wrapped himself in his expensive coat and scarf and was about to open the door to leave when he heard a noise from behind him. He turned slowly and saw the woman that had all been responsible for the vagrant’s sudden disappearance.
“Hello Kathi” Jones said kindly, smiling warmly at her. She didn’t respond, and just moved forward, swaying her hips, trying to catch his gaze. It was only when she was mere inches away from his face that she finally spoke for the first time.
“I could make you so happy, Casey” she whispered, the infatuation apparent in her voice.
“I’m sure you could Kathi, and in the future you may well do just that” he responded, smiling, as he opened the door. “But for now, we have work to do.”