Cell 2066
895 Words
The white light didn’t fade.
Rena Calder opened her eyes. No ceiling. No walls. Just white — endless, depthless, like standing inside a cloud.
She sat up. Her hand went to her side. No wound. No blood. No scar.
She was in a square room — white walls, white floor, white ceiling. No windows. No doors. One metal bench bolted to the floor.
Five other people were scattered around the edges. A stocky man pacing. A young woman hugging her knees. A thin man leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. A middle-aged woman pressing her palms against the wall. And a man sitting on the bench, head down.
The stocky man spoke first. “Where the hell is this?”
His voice bounced off the walls like a shout in a stairwell.
“I don’t know,” the young woman said. “I just woke up here.”
“None of us remember,” the thin man said without opening his eyes. “So stop asking.”
“Stop asking? Who are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Stop.”
Rena's voice cut through. Flat. Final.
“Fighting helps nothing. We need information, then we decide.”
She scanned the room — six people including herself. She counted them twice.
“Names,” she said. “I’m Rena.”
The stocky man grunted. “Eli.”
The thin man opened one eye. “Cole.”
The young woman sniffed. “Mira.”
The middle-aged woman turned. “Diana.”
The man on the bench didn't move.
Rena walked toward him. He looked up — late twenties, dark hair, unshaven, eyes gray or blue. No expression.
“Name,” she said.
“Zane.”
“What were you before this?”
“Engineer. Structural systems. And no — I don‘t know where we are. I don’t know how we got here. I don‘t know how to get out.”
“So why are you sitting there?”
“Because moving doesn’t help if you don‘t know where you’re going.”
She studied him. No fear. No anger. Just flat assessment. He‘d already analyzed the room and concluded action was pointless until more information arrived.
She walked the perimeter. Ran her palm across the wall. Smooth. Solid. No seams. No gaps. No doors. Nothing.
“There’s no way out,” Mira whispered.
“Maybe there‘s no way out,” Cole said. “Maybe we’re dead.”
Eli slammed his fist against the wall. “We‘re not dead!”
“We are,” Zane said quietly.
Everyone turned. He was standing now — no one had noticed him rise.
“Think,” he said. “You all remember how you got here?”
Mira pressed her temples. “I was crossing the street. There was a car. Rain.” Her face drained. “I remember dying.”
Diana nodded slowly. “Stroke. Kitchen floor.”
Cole: “Heart attack. Job site.”
Eli said nothing.
“What about you?” Zane asked Rena.
“Stabbed at work. Bled out on concrete.”
Zane gave a slow nod. “So we’re dead. Or we were.”
“Then where are we?” Diana demanded.
“A box,” Zane said. “That‘s all I can tell you. No seams. No weak points. No wear. We’re in a box.”
Eli slammed his fist against the wall again. “Let me out!”
The wall didn't respond.
But something shifted in the air — pressure, vibration. A voice spoke. Not from any direction. Just there.
“You have been assigned to Cell 2066.”
Everyone froze.
“Six occupants. All confirmed deceased. Registered for reentry evaluation.”
“Reentry?” Rena said.
“Completion of assigned trials may grant access to the living world. Failure is permanent termination.”
“Termination?” Mira‘s voice cracked. “I’m already dead.”
“Your physical body is gone. Your consciousness — your identity — is preserved here. It can be erased.”
“How many trials?” Rena asked.
“Indefinite. Each trial increases your viability index. At one hundred percent, reentry may be granted.”
“And if it drops?”
“Permanent termination.”
Eli stepped forward. “How do we stop?”
“You complete the trials. Or you terminate.”
Rena looked at Zane. He returned her gaze without flinching.
“I‘m in,” she said.
“Are you crazy?” Eli said.
“Staying here doesn’t change anything. Shouting doesn’t change anything. What matters is what happens next.”
Zane spoke. “I’ll go.”
Diana moved to the bench. “Fine. If there‘s a chance to get back to my daughter, I’m taking it.”
Mira rose slowly. Cole walked to the center. Eli hesitated, then followed.
Six of them in a circle.
“First trial begins in one hour. No weapons. No supplies. Assessment based on survival, cooperation, and objective.”
“Objective?” Rena said.
“Provided upon entry.”
The walls began to shift — white fading to gray. A corridor stretched out in front of them. Long. Dim. Lined with doors. Some open. Most closed.
“Welcome to the Corridor,” the voice said.
The floor gave way.
- Writer
