The Hunger

Dr. Yadishlav Molotok looked over the medicine specs for what he hoped would be the last time. His eyes scanned the paper containing information on the fluid that sat in jars next to him with relentless, searching eyes, hidden behind a pair of small sunglasses that seemed too small to cover his eyes, though he made sure they did at all times. He ran a hand through greasy black hair, finishing his analysis of the document. He grabbed a small tape recorder that lay on his desk and pressed a button, holding the device up close to his mouth as he spoke.

“Pre-trial examination of mix 176 complete.” He said, his thick Russian accent rolling heavily over his words. Not for the first time he cursed his employers for wanting the audio-logs done in English. “Although I believe the level of ammonia might be a bit high, I believe we will meet with success.” He released the button and replaced the device on that table where he had grabbed it, picking up one of the jars of liquid instead. After a second thought, he grabbed the recorder and slipped it into one of his coat pockets. He walked over to the door leading to his small office, his stride that of a master in his own home. Stepping out, a pair of guards stood at the door, saluting at him as he passed.

“Go and bring me subject 34 and take him to the first testing chamber.” He ordered the men, again, in English. It was unfortunate that that language had to be used, unfortunately, that was the only language he and everyone else around here had in common. He set off walking as the pair scurried off, heading to the first chambers observatory. He preferred this one above the others, it was the closest to his lab, and farthest from the other prisoners, and better yet, far from the guards’ quarters. He pushed open the door and stepped in, a number of scientists in the room standing as he stepped in.

“We have everything ready to go, sir.” One of them said, clipping his words in a very unusual way that he didn’t recognize as any accent in particular.  Molotok tried not to think about where these men had come from. “All our sensors are ready to go, and the vents are ready to administer the drug.”

Molotok nodded. “Good. Here, get this ready to go.” He said, handing the man the jar in his hand. The man gave him a small bow and went of, messing with some machine or another. “I want that thing ready to go when the subject arrives!” He said, giving the man a look. He didn’t understand how these machines worked; he had no need to, with these monkeys’s here to work them for him. Molotok walked over to the window into the room and watched.

He was right on time. A handle-less door opened at the far side of the room, and a scrawny man was pushed into the room. “Oi!! What the hell is this!?” The man said, looking around, confused. The room was engineered to be sound proof one way too; they could hear him, yet he was trapped in silence. “Ya hear me, ya sons a bitches!? Let me outta here!!”

Molotok paid no more attention then that as the man continued to ramble on. He reached into his coat and grabbed the recorder, glad he thought to bring it. “Testing mix  176 on subject 34.” He said, speaking into the recorder. “Subject is a tall, heavily built man. Brown hair and brown eyes. Speaks with a Irish or Scottish accent.” He released the recorder, and looked at the scientist working the machine. “Administer the drug.” Immediately, a pale smoke filled the room through vents, looking like no more then steam. Molotok took a chair and got himself into a comfortable watching position. “I’ll want a full analysis report when this is over, make sure you’re able to read his vitals during the experiment!” The scientists in the room made agreeing noises and he settled in to watch.

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Patrick McGrubber had been sitting in his prison cell when they came for him. They came for everyone, or so the rest of the prisoners said. Somehow he just hadn’t thought they’d ever come for him. When the doors of his cell swung open and the two guards stepped in, he knew what was going on. He hadn’t hesitated in attacking, clocking one of the two right in the jaw before the other grabbed his arms and held them stiffly behind his back. He forced them up, the pain making Patrick cry out, and bringing him to his knees.

The guard he had punched grabbed his chin and forced it up, looking him in the eyes. Patrick struggled against his holder, but he may as well have his arms cemented in position. “You’re one lucky son-of-bitch!” The guard said coldly. “Doc says you have to be in good condition, or I’d kick the shit out of you!” His partner brought his arms up, forcing Patrick to his feet, least his arms get ripped off. Honestly, he couldn’t fathom what made these guys so damn strong! “Let’s go.” The guard said, pushing Patrick forward.

They led him out of his cell like that, one in front, eyes scanning hallways they passed, the other holding his arms at his back and forcing him forward. He felt like he was walking to his death, which, if the other prisoners accounts were worth two-cents, he was. Silently, he prayed. Lord, let it be quick. he thought. That’s all I want, Something fast, get it done with.

The three of them approached a door and stopped. Patrick couldn’t have said why this one, it looked to him just like one of the other cells. The first guard pressed a number of buttons on a keypad next to the door, and it swung open. Without another word, they threw him into the room, slamming the door behind him. A quick look around the room told him everything he needed to know: There was a door on one side, a mirror on the other, and vents at the top. The rest of the room was stark white.

“Oi! What the hell is this!?” He said, glaring into the ‘mirror’. He wasn’t blind, it was obviously a two-way mirror. “Ya hear me, ya sons a bitches! Let me outta here!!” He said, looking around for anyway to escape. Somehow, the white in the room made him unnerved, and he tried the door uselessly. He walked up to the window and beat on it a few times, he may as well have been hitting concrete for all it mattered.

Suddenly, a steam entered in through the vents at the top of the chamber. He began to panic, beating on the mirror frantically. “You’re gonna gas me?!” He said incredulously. “And watch?!” he tried to imagine what kind of sick people he was dealing with, and he beat harder, in anger and fear. As hard as he beat however, the mirror gave not a sign of breaking. Eventually he was forced to stop, or break off his hands.

With a sigh, he sat down on the ground, and closed his eyes. Maybe it would be over soon. At this point it was all he could hope for. Trying not to think about what he was breathing in, he lay down and tried to go to sleep.

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Molotok watched the Subject react to the gas with cold eyes. He had no fear of the glass breaking as the man wore himself out hitting it; the window was lined with thin, steel supports that he could see if he was close enough, and besides that, was a good foot thick. The man’s attack on the window was to be expected, especially if he thought they were simply gassing him to death. He raised an eyebrow in surprise, however, when the man laid down and went to sleep. He raised his recorder and made a note of the unusual activity in his audio log, then stood.

“Do you have a lock on his vitals?” He asked a scientist who was looking at a video screen.

“Yes, sir.” The man replied. “And… there, he’s in REM.” The man coughed, then looked at Molotok. “As in, he’s dreaming.”

Molotok nodded, his face curling into a snarl. Did the man take him for a fool? “Good.” He spat angrily, before forcing his tone down. “He could sleep for hours, though it’s not a predicted side effect. You, you will watch the screen, and come and get me the moment he wakes up.” He ordered, looking at the screen himself. “Understood?”

The scientist nodded, looking back to the screen. “Of course, Dr. Molotok.” He didn’t question him in the slightest, and Molotok smiled at that. Just a trained monkey to press buttons. “Very good.” He said. “I’m going to my office  to check my numbers, see if this is explainable.” He said, walking out of the observatory and back into his office. There, he sat down at his desk and picked up the specs sheet he had been reading earlier.

*      *

A number of hours later, a scientist was shaking Molotok awake. He had made his way to his bed, coming to his conclusion early on, and laying down for a nap while he waited. He stood up out of his bed and looked at the scientist that woke him. “He’s awake then?” He asked. “How long’s it been?”

The man checked his watch. “Ah…. Nine hours, twenty one minutes since the administering of the drug.” Molotok gave a low whistle, he was surprised the subject could have slept so long under the drugs influence. “And yes, he’s just come out of REM, and should be waking shortly.”

Molotok nodded, and began walking towards the observation room, not waiting for the other man. He was on his heels anyways. He pulled the recorder and pushed it on. “Nine hours and twenty one minutes after drug was administered, subject waking up. I’ve concluded that it wasn’t anything in the drug itself that put the prisoner to sleep, instead, I believe it was the prisoners own will that did it.” He slid the recorder back into his coat pocket just he walked into the room. Subject 34 was sitting, up, looking groggy. Feeling excited, Molotok took a chair and sat down to watch.

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Patrick dreamt. He had more dreams then he could recall, pleasant one’s of his hometown back in Ireland, his mother and father, stubbornly refusing to give up the place where they had raised him. The men he worked with before capture, sitting around playing cards. The love of his life refusing to marry him, insisting that it was pointless to try and put into words how they felt for each other. His son, playing in the fields with the other kids of his town. He stood atop the field and watched his son play, a smile on his face. Without warning, his son ran up to him. “Look what I can do, Daddy!” The boy said, grinning. He punched Patrick in the gut, bringing him to his knees. “Haha look! I’m stronger then you, Daddy!!” Relentlessly the boy kicked him, each time landing a jab into his belly. He tried to open his mouth, tell his boy to stop, but he couldn’t make his mouth form the words.

With a gasp, he sat up, awake. He rubbed his head groggily. Well, mostly good dreams. He mused, rubbing his belly. He was sore there, for some reason. He shook his head groggily, trying to wake up. His thoughts were always slow upon waking, he knew better then to try and think before he was awake enough. He got to his feet, feeling dizzy from the sudden rush of blood to his head, but as always, the feeling passed before he could really take notice of it.

With a start, he realized he was alive. Confused, he touched himself, patting his sides, his chest, his head, wondering why he wasn’t dead. He looked up at the vents, noting that no more gas was coming in through them. “Well that’s good…” He muttered to himself. Maybe they were going to let him go? The thought brought little hope. No one got here alive, or so they said.

Suddenly it occurred to Patrick that the aching in his belly was hunger. “Oi… It feels just like I dreamt it… like I got kicked in the gut about a hundred times….” Determined, he stayed standing. He’d faced hunger before, and he wasn’t about to get beat by it now. He looked straight into the mirror, and focused his thoughts on what was happening behind there.

Looking in the mirror, he got a good view of himself, and he walked closer to it to get a better view. He looked pale, and sickly, with bags under his eyes that didn’t belong on the face of a man who felt like he’d slept for a day. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. His appearance didn’t help keep his mind off his hunger, in fact quite the opposite. Is stomach growled loudly, and forced himself to turn away from the mirror.

“Just keep your mind off it.” He said, hardly realizing he was speaking aloud. “Just ignore it until it goes away…” It was a pure mental trick of course, but it helped deal with the hunger. He walked over to the other side of the room and began examining the rooms only other feature, the door in the wall. He put his hands flat against it, and tried to push it open, though that was more than a futile effort. He didn’t push again, instead simply looked at it, wondering how the lock worked, what the door was made of, pointless things, just something to keep his mind off… other things.

He realized he was chewing his fingernails and forced himself to stop, spitting out the nails angrily. “Stop it!” He commanded himself. “I should keep moving.” He said, beginning to walk along the edge of his cell. At first he had to make himself walk, but soon his feet moved along on there own accord. He didn’t feel as hungry, moving, for some reason the sound of his footsteps on the floor was calming enough, it was easy to ignore his hunger.

Bored, he began counting the number of laps he made around the edge of the cell. Ten…. Twenty…. Thirty….. He gave up counting after thirty. Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his hand, and looked at it, surprised. A small trail of blood ran down his finger where his teeth had broken the skin, about a half an inch from a fingernail chewed into nonexistence. He shook his head. “Bloody hell… I gotta pay attention to what I’m doin’!” he said, forcing his hands down at his sides.

He continued walking, for how long, he couldn’t begin to imagine. Time seemed oddly distorted in here, but he guessed that he’d been walking for a few hours when he felt his leg muscles become sore. Tired, he sat down against a wall, opposite the mirror. His stomach growled, and he groaned, hungry. He felt like there was a hole in him, sucking his stomach together like a vacuum. He closed his eyes, wincing at the image he’d drawn for himself. “Can’t think like that.” He said, his voice sounding almost hoarse. “Only make me more hungry.”

He sat there like that, for only God knows how long, listening to his stomach rumble and trying to ignore it. He sat there for what must’ve been hours, drifting in and out of sleep groggily. He thought he might’ve been able to sleep soundly again, if not for his bloody stomach! Suddenly feeling alert and awake, he stood, running up to the mirror. “Hey!!” He yelled angrily. “Dammit, I know you can hear me!! I’m bloody starving!!!” He yelled beating on the mirror desperately. He put all the effort he could into it, but his muscles quickly grew weak and faltered.

“I gotta eat!!” He roared, looking around the room for something, anything he could put in his mouth and eat. He ran over to a wall, thinking he saw a small crack in it, and desperately tried gripping it, trying to get some small chunk off that he could eat. It was no use, the wall was smooth as marble.

For the next few minutes he ran around his cage like wild animal, clawing at the walls furiously, trying to get something, anything, even if it was hard plaster from the walls. Anything to fill the gaping void in his stomach. His fingers, rubbed raw on the walls, began to bleed, and he eagerly drank up the blood, not letting a single drop of it go to waste. He figured that was better then leaving it on the floor.

Sucking on his fingers, he paused. He looked down at his leg. A fit... meaty leg. He grabbed it and pulled up, trying to get it up to his mouth. He'd heard of trapped coyotes chewing off part of their leg to get out of a trap, if they could do it, why couldn't he? He tried to get his leg up to his mouth but couldn't. Yelling angrily, he threw his leg back on the ground. Tears flowed down his cheeks. He couldn't even remember the last time he cried, and some small part of him thought he should feel shamed at crying, but he barely noticed it.

His stomach growled. He couldn't take it anymore, he couldn't!! He grabed his left leg in both hands, forcing it up to his mouth, ignoring the protests coming from his muscles. It was no use, he simply couldn't bend far enough, it just wasn't possible. His stomach growled again, insitantly, and giving a yell, he clapmed his leg down with his other leg, and use his hands to pry up. Pain shot up his leg, and it didn't seem to want to budge, but he kept pushing. He heard a snap, a sickening crack of bone and gave a sob as unbelieveable painshot out of his kneecap. He let his leg drop to the floor, breathing heavily. He couldn't do it! There was just no way he could get his leg up far enough to-

His stomach growled again, and Patrick stopped thinking. Breathing heavily, he repositioned his leg, and pushed up again with his arms, harder then before. He heard the crunching of bone as the joints in his kneecap cracked, breaking apart from the muscle tissue around it and scraping against the other bones. The pain in his leg was mind numbing, making him feel light headed, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. He let the leg, no, the meat, drop to the ground once before jerking it upwards quickly. He heard a loud popping sound, and felt the bone seperate from the rest of the leg. Giving a howl, he kicked at the bloody skin with his other foot, tearing it off. He used his hands, prying in between the separated bones and forcing them apart.

His skin held firm. He growled, pushing harder. He kicked again, and felt something tear. Another kick, and the leg felt looser. Growing excited, he grabbed the bloody leg and tore it the rest of the way off him. Sobbing through the pain, he brought the leg up to his mouth and tore off a piece of it with his teeth, blood running down his chin and unto his shirt. In that instant, he couldn't feel the pain, he didn't notice anything. Food! Sweet, glorious, flavorful food!! Eagerly he took another bite, falling onto his back while he ate. Nothing else in the world mattered as he ate his meal, and he never knew anything so sweet in his entire life. He ate his way around the bone, picking off bits of meat off it as he went along.

By now, a large pool of blood had surrounded Patrick. His bites became smaller and smaller, and he began to feel lightheaded. Taking one last bite, he passed out, laying in a pool of his own blood, a bloody stick of a leg in his hand.

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Yadishlav Molotok watched the display from inside the observatory with little interest. It was obvious to him that the hunger inducing drug was a complete success. He stood, and looked around the room he was in. "Is he dead yet?" He asked, giving the body a glance. "How long has it been since the drug was administered?"

Two different scientists answered him. "He's dead, I can't see any heartbeat." said one. "It's been ten hours and forty seven minutes, sir."

Molotok nodded. "What's that, an hour and... twenty six minutes for the full effect of the drug to take place." He said, nodding to himself again. "Good, good... Get that body cleaned up. I'm heading back to my lab, I think I have enough data for the next trial, and I want this facility operational by this time tomorrow!" Without giving the subjects body a second glance, Molotok strode out of the observatory.