Quantum Poppers by Matthew Reeve

caught it was only
additional ramblings around a truth he was never expecting to hear.
    ‘We’re still debating
what exactly you need to know.’ They had their reasons; John just wasn't to be
told them. All he cared for was this door opening and what life lay beyond.
    They had escorted him from his room in
a much less brutal fashion than the way he had entered it. He had been allowed
escorted walks around the complex which consisted of an endless corridor
flanked by rows of nondescript doors. He had passed this current one many times
and not given it much thought. They all looked identical, unlabelled and bolted.
They could have led to the outside, to offices, or further corridors for all
John knew.
    It was rarely
Bartley who escorted him. An ever-changing array of nameless people followed.
Three had initially led and flanked him after giving in to his desire for
exercise. It had been three months trapped in the room, with no sign of peace
between him and his captors, before they had gradually come round to treating
him like a human being. The three regular escorts had soon been reduced to two
and then to one. Often they came not dressed in their suits but in tracksuits,
fully prepared for John’s weekly run. They knew he liked to keep fit and were
now prepared.
    Each lap of the
complex, only seeing the same circular corridor, became his life. He would
sleep and eat in his room with his run being the only thing to look forward to.
One of the few items he was allowed was a stopwatch with which he would time
his runs, and then attempt to beat the time. He needed goals, and this was all
he had.
    The people he
ran with (or walked when he needed a quiet stroll with his thoughts) routinely
changed. He had been told a few names - Jane, Robert, Sam - only first names,
but something told him they were made up for his benefit anyway. There was
definitely an emphasis on keeping the face of this organisation hidden, which
is what he now believed it to be. It was probably government funded as well.
John had worked long enough in the upper echelons of big business to know where
most corporations topped up their budgets from. The sensation that all the
people he met were doing a job was strong - it needed some kind of funding and
guidance - they were not some rogue band of kidnappers. There was some
semblance of community and authority; an authority headed by Bartley. Again, a
name he assumed was made up but nothing re-enforced this. It was probably John
wanting it to be made up so as to force a divide between himself and them
rather than the other way around.
    Bartley was
certainly the one he had seen the most; the one who sat with him listening to
all John’s questions, them both knowing that no answers would be returned.
There was something ageless about him. He was probably in his mid-fifties, but
perhaps it was the complete and constant look of anguish on his face that had
aged him. That, coupled with the fact John liked his room dark, meant he only
ever saw him in the dim room or in the dull corridors. Bartley would just watch
John pass, expecting something to occur - John constantly praying that it
would.
    Today it had
been Bartley plus two nameless others who had come to his room. It was a day
Bartley had promised was approaching but it wasn’t until he entered the room,
with the others waiting outside, that the exact nature of this particular day
became apparent.
    ‘Are you ready
John?’
    He had been
sitting on the bed, staring up at the small barred window that looked down at
him each night like a square moon.
    ‘What am I
supposed to say to that? Am I ready? For what?’
    Bartley came a
little closer, still giving John space. He knew that this was John’s room and
that he, Bartley, was a guest. ‘I promised you once that I would see what I
could do. Today we will show you as far as we can. Please, put some shoes on
and follow me.’
    They had left
him whilst he threw on some shoes and a jumper - the closest thing to