Critical Path

Frustrated, he strode across the cell and battered the flats of his fists against the door and bellowed through the bars, “Hey, anyone out there? What the hell is this? You want to just leave me here for nothing? Hey! Answer me, you bastards.”

No response apart from a derisive howl from what sounded like a croatoan somewhere at the end of the passageway. He carried on yelling until, finally, his throat became sore. He turned his back, resigned to rotting in the cell with no answers, when a metallic noise rattled from the darkness.

A screech of a hinge sounded, followed by soft footsteps and the jangle of keys. Weak light glowed in the corridor and grew brighter as it came closer. A silhouette of a heavyset human from behind the light blocked out Denver’s view completely.

“Stand back. Don’t try anything, or it will be your last action,” came the voice, deep and gravelly. Definitely a male human with an accent he couldn’t quite make out due to its almost tonal neutrality.

Denver did as he was asked and stepped back, but bounced on his haunches and balled his fists, ready to attack the person as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

The door opened.

Denver tensed, ready to pounce.

A barrel of a gun pressed against his chest, freezing him in place.

“Turn around,” the voice commanded. “You say a thing and I empty this magazine into you, do you understand?”

“I understand,” Denver said, turning around slowly. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“Shut up,” the voice said. “You’ll know everything later if you don’t do anything stupid. Hands behind your back and get on your knees.”

For a brief moment, Denver considered hitting a crouch and spinning, driving into the guard, but he couldn’t be entirely sure he didn’t have backup. Not wanting to risk anything, he did as he suggested. His time would come; he just needed to be patient and wait it out.

A pair of cold iron shackles bound his wrists. The guard pulled a sack over his head, obscuring his vision. It stank of rotting vegetables and sweat. How many other prisoners had this thing been stuck on? How many people’s last breaths had coated the inside of the material? However many there were, Denver didn’t intend to add his to them.

“Get up. We’re going for a walk. Same rules apply. You do anything stupid, I gun you down. Pretty easy rules to follow unless you’re a suicidal maniac. Are you?”

“I wasn’t,” Denver said. “Can’t guarantee anything now, though. Where are we going?”

No response, just the press of the barrel into the back of his head. He gritted his teeth and leaned forward, imagining the violence he would enact on this asshole if and when he got his chance. He stood up and waited for further instruction. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and aimed him toward the door.

“You just keep walking. I’ll tell you when to stop,” the voice said.

Denver gingerly stepped forward, trying to get his balance. He initially made to dart away, but he soon realized that his shackles were tethered to a chain. The guard yanked him back as a subtle reminder.

“Go on,” the guard said, and Denver did as he was told, stepping forward, trying to analyze this location from the surface of the ground. So far all he could tell was that he was still in the prison with its soft dirt floor. After a few minutes of doors opening and closing, he felt chilled air on his hands. His clothes flapped against his skin as a gentle wind breezed against him.

Through the sackcloth, the lightness of day bled through, but he couldn’t make out any detail. The surface underfoot had changed to gravel. And then back to dirt, but harder this time, compacted like a well-trodden path.

Probing him in the back with the gun barrel, the guard urged Denver on through a number of twisting, turning roads and pathways until finally they came to a section of stone steps. One by one, Denver climbed. He counted twenty-three steps in total as they reached the top.

“Wait,” the voice said. The chain rattled as the guard moved out from behind him and knocked on a door a few meters away. It creaked open and the sound of hushed voices followed. A tug on the chain made Denver stumble forward, but he managed to regain his balance as he followed the unsubtle direction inside to a larger building. He was pulled further in and made to kneel.

“Take it off,” a female voice said.

The hood came off with a single movement.

Denver found himself kneeling in the middle of a room in front of a raised platform. Sitting on a chair, drinking wine and looking at him as though he were some kind of hunting trophy, a woman smiled at him. She looked up beyond him and nodded an order.

The guard dropped the chain and exited the room. By the time Denver turned his head, the guard had already left and closed the door. Turning back to the woman, Denver stood up and thought about rushing her with a shoulder charge, but her serenity and body language told him she wasn’t a threat—yet.

“Who are you?” Denver asked.