I instinctively raise my hand to my eyes to shield it from the light. My pupils adjust slowly as if to protest against my departure from the dark cell. As the brightness fades, my focus shifts to my captor. But is this even right? Perhaps just a jailer, a drone sent to feed me and provide me with the only contact I've known for so long. Not important now. I pause on his face. For so long, I've sat imagining what this man, this monster must look like. Long, dark nights (or days?) sitting in silence, considering the source of my only interaction.

I've imagined him from what little I knew. The foul stench of an unwashed laborer, the heavy footfalls of his approach and the raspy sound of his breath. I imagined his face to be dirty, as if his days were spent in a mine pulling dark ores from the earth. Perhaps i was in a mine, locked away in a cold, empty corner, long forgotten after the precious payload of the ground had been chipped and drilled and hauled away? His hands would be dirty with the oils of machines and cracked with efforts of hard labor. He would wear  his clothes in layers, not just for warmth, but for protection from his trade. There would be leather straps to secure the folds of cloth and wool, and metal tools he would carry with him, even when his work was complete. I never imagined him any other way, never imagined him in a different state. He was always ready for a fight, never tired...

Never sleeping

Now as I look down I see the pale features of a young man. His face is dirty, but it's paint, not coal or grease that intrude upon his cheeks. The paint is dry, but flows with the trickle of blood that is slowly running down the side of his face. The paint is inconsistant, as if he had been colored by accident rather then by choice. A smear of blue, some white and a darker purple. There is a deep scar on his forehead, jagged as if his flesh was torn, not cut. His clothes are heavy, but only around the chest. Dark, heavy leather, patched together with twine and clearly weathered by both time and use...

...and attack. There are small, precise holes dotted throughout the leather patchwork jacket. Three, four, five that I can see. One has a blistering of black dots around the dark-ringed hole. A bullet fired at point-blank range.

"Surely not", I think as I start to pull at the patchwork, loosening the leather cords holding the material together enough to see a dark-blue material with vertical velcro straps securing it in place. The words "Marom" are stitched in gold across one of the straps.

"Bullet-proof", I whisper to myself. This would explain the bulk of this otherwise slight young man.

Suddenly, my companion lets out a cough, sprinkling my face with warm blood. I'm snapped back to the reality of my situation and my focus shifts away from the appearance of my keeper and back to the simple existence of him. He is not awake and I instinctively roll him on his side so that the blood from his nose will not drain into his throat and cause him to choke again. I look down for the utility belt I'm convinced he is wearing only to find a simple woven rope with a ring of 5 or so keys hanging on it. I take the keys and pat down his chest and legs. There is a small billfold which I take without checking, a necklace that I leave and a package of gum. Licorice. Disgusting, but I take it nonetheless, considering that it may taste better then the gruel I've been subjected to.

Picking up his rifle is almost an afterthought. The bolt is closed and the action is clear. "Not prepared to shoot", I think to myself, a bit surprised at his brashness. The magazine release sticks a bit, but with a bit of wiggling, I manage to work it free. A frown crosses my lips as I realize that it wasn't brashness my captor was exhibiting, but simple math. No bullets. The rifle is nothing more then a prop. Having discovered no bullets in his pockets....

"what the hell is going on..."

Dropping the empty rifle, I start to look around. I am in a hallway about 30' long. There is a door at the end and a water fountain to the right situated between two doors. I squint, momentarily unsure of what I am seeing. The doors are labeled.

"Men's"

"Women's"

I shake my head for no real reason, then glance up again, certain I will read the the same words, but still going through the steps of disbelief.

No time. There are no cameras and no one watching through the slit window in the door at the far end. I relieve my captor of his heavy leather coat, leaving the bullet-proof vest in favor of a quick departure. I also take his worn leather boots. They fit loosely, but if I need to run, they will be a Godsend. Equipped, I tear a piece of fabric from my shirt and gag my captor with it, only realizing after I'm done that with nothing to bind his hands, my gag will be removed with ease once he wakes up. Fuck it. If no one could hear my screams in this place, maybe no one will hear his.

I drag him face-down by his feet into my former prison, taking no time to look around. I say nothing as I leave him in the darkness, closing the door behind me as I go. There is a sign on this door as well.

"Janitor"

My pause this time is longer, and then I remember the water fountain. Suddenly my dry mouth aches and I rush over and push the button. The groaning of pipes in the distance betrays the lack of water flow. I hold down the button and 10 seconds later, a copper-colored slush starts to bubble out, slowly at first, then increasing. I feel a sense of urgency, but the thought of water holds me hostage. After 30 seconds, my reluctant patience pays off and the water starts to run clear. I lean forward and take a drink. It is warm, almost hot, and I'm amused by my own disappointment that it isn't chilled like it should be. It is sweet and slightly acidic. The acidity I expected from water sitting stale in old copper pipes. The sweetness is strange, but doesn't taste dangerous.

Then again, what do I know about water, or this place or anything?

After a minute of drinking, I hear a rustling from the door behind me. If my captor is waking up, then it is time to go. I rush up to the door at the end of the hall and attempt to look through. It appears to be covered with something. Or perhaps... No, it must be. It's paint. Blue paint.

I lean up against the edge of the door frame, preparing myself to peer out into whatever lies beyond. My hand reaches down and grasps for the door lever, my hand closing around the hooked-bar. I slowly turn the bar clockwise, listening for the tell-tale click of the action clearing the strike plate. I pull the door open a crack and peer through.

Not believing my eyes, I loose myself, hesitating at first, then pulling the door open wide and stepping out onto the tile floor. There is no need for questions, no further examination required, no analysis to understanding where I am. It is in extreme disrepair, much like I would imagine an old train station would become after being closed for 50 years. There is graffiti and trash, broken masonry and assorted clutter, and even some vegetation. A skylight in the ceiling has long-since broken and fallen to the floor and a pale light shines in. A pair of escalators sit motionless off to the right of me, leading to a second floor. I am standing at the edge of a vast, open building. Businesses line the walls, some shuttered, some destroyed, some simply neglected by time.

I listen and hear only the white noise of life and nature. I see no movement.

I am standing alone in the middle of a shopping mall.