The Trapped

A Test of Time and Temper

I woke up in a room about 10 feet away from another teen, around 17, like me. Each of us lied on the cement floor of this claustrophobic, compound-like room.

The guy, about my age, stood up, rubbing his head. "Who in the holy Devil are you?" He asked in a Southern accent.

I looked him over. He was plump, with frizzy short hair, wearing a blue tee shirt and khakis. His tennis shoes were caked with mud.

"I was about to ask that very same question," I said confidently, as if I knew what I was doing. Quite honestly, I was still confused. As I assumed he was. "How about you answer first?" I asked this guy.

"...My name is Craig," he said, with some hesitation, holding his head, wincing, as he staggered upwards. Craig paused, calming himself with a breath. "And I think I might know where we are."

"Where?" I asked.

"Ever heard of the Trapp Institute?"

"Yes."

"My Ma-maw sold me away to them people. Had to pay her debts. It makes sense they'd put me here, in one of their rooms, ain't it?"

"The Trapp Institute." The cement arch sloping in on us, the cement tiles, the cement walls. These were all trademarks of the lunatics who stole away teens and did tests on them, with only around 10% ever coming back home. It did make sense that we would be taken here. At least, in Craig's case. "You might be right about our location," I said, "But I'm not in debt, and neither is my family. So why am I here?" I asked. I couldn't recall any reason.

"I don't... I don't remember nothing but bits and pieces of what happened before now myself," Craig said. "That's part of the testing, ain't it? That's what the survivors all say. They wipe your memories. Put you in a new place with a few other people. See if you can make it through."

If that were true, any moment, we could begin 'testing'. Deciding that there wasn't enough time for any more talk, I ran over to him. "I need to look at your neck back, arms and legs. Right now."

"What?"

"You could have a puncture would somewhere. Especially on a freckle, or maybe a birthmark. Best place to hide an injection wound. Anything sore?" i asked, checking for wounds.

"No," he said.

"Must not be an injection. Maybe an inhalant or a topical patch, perhaps ingested like poison-"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Asked Craig.

"I'm trying to figure out how they got us here," I said.

"You didn't even tell me your name yet," he said.

"Oh. Right. Of course. Sorry. It's Mal. Mal Mcfoy." I was breathing heavily. "But there's not enough time for a proper introduction. We have to get our bearings before-"

Suddenly, it felt as though an airlock were sucking the oxygen out of the room. This was disconcerting.

A woman's voice announced over the speaker. "Welcome to the Trapp Institute. Are you each familiar with the rules?"

"Rules?" Craig asked.

I spoke quickly. "No, no, we are not."

"Very well," the woman said. "There are no rules. Escape, and you win your freedom." The speaker clicked off.