The Things We Bury - Part 1: In Anticipation of the End of the World [Completed]

Chapter 3: The Big Show (Part 2 of 5)

Jamie stretched his sore muscles out, leaning back in the folding chair.  His hands moved to the nape of his neck and brushed against his close-cropped hair.  The shoulder-length locks were gone, and his nervous habit of tugging them into a ponytail was missed.

It was a new haircut for a new life.  A life he never wanted.  An afterlife.

Jamie felt like he had died.  He was a spirit descended down into hell.  And his private circle of torment happened to look like a gray shit-box bunker, where the demons imprisoned little girls and stayed up all night waiting for them to turn into monstrosities.

The four principle Shayatin, the evil djinn, were upfront and center.  Close as thieves Blass, Gracie, and Horus sat at the main console. 

Jamie had liked Horus at first, but it soon became clear that he was one of the leaders of this travesty.  He was one of the elite that controlled things down here and kept everyone else in the dark and in line.  Yesterday, they had all been in some secret meeting together.  Probably to discuss what horrors to inflict on that innocent child.

In the second row, just behind them, not moving, barely twitching, sat the great Iblis himself.  The ruler of the underworld, the master of lies, Maxwell Wiley.

From Jamie's vantage in the back row, he could see them all.  He could see them too well, but mercifully he could not see the girl in that pen.  He had been forced to watch her last night, as she sobbed in that horrible cell.  It didn't look anything like the cell that had broken him, but it was exactly the same.

After nine days in it — nine days to forget who he was — he was taken to a room with a table and two chairs.  His guards handcuffed him to a bar on the table and left him alone.  It was the first time since his arrest that he felt like he was in the twenty-first century and that he hadn't fallen through some time warp to the middle ages or some dystopian future.  The chairs were upholstered, the walls were painted, and the door actually had a glass window in it.  This could be a room meant for human beings.

He had no idea how long they let him sit there, by the time the man in the suit showed up, Jamie was sleeping.

For nine days, sirens, flashing lights, and loud music jarred every second of the day and night, when he wasn't being questioned.  This new interrogation room with nothing but the silent hum of ventilation was pure bliss.  But all good things come to an end.

The man cleared his throat and slammed the door, violently throwing Jamie into consciousness. 

 He hadn't seen this man before.  He didn't look like CIA, or Military Intelligence, or whoever the hell had been keeping him prisoner.  He looked like a pharmaceutical rep or a college administrator.  Jamie was certain he wasn't either of these.

The man smiled at him pleasantly, flashing white teeth in not too broad a grin.  It didn't look like he was trying to be friendly.  It just seemed like he was happy with what he was doing.  Even if all he was doing was taking out a pile of files from his briefcase.

"Jamal Haddad."  He meshed his fingers together and placed his hands on top of the files, as he leaned forward.  "I'm here to inform you your life is over."

Tell me something I don't know. 

The man's smile didn't waver.  Apparently, the end of Jamie's life was not a significant enough event to ruin his cheerful mood.

"The question is: how do you want it to end?"  With a speed that Jamie's bleary eyes picked up as a blur, he drew back, picked up the top folder, and slapped down like a giant playing card.  "Door number one!  You maintain your innocence and face American justice.  This means a trial after a suitable interrogation period."