The Feeding Room.

Wake up…

Hey… Can you hear me? 

You need to wake up…

The voice emerges through the swamp of my unconsciousness. Syllables find their form, and shape words. The urgency behind it rips away the pitch black, and the world comes rushing in.

“You need to wake up,” the voice beseeches. 

The incorporeal fades before the tangible. Suddenly, the air fills my lungs as I take a breath. There is something cold around my arms and wrists. The same steely restraint binds my neck. My ears regain their clarity and I can hear weeping and moaning. It is the sounds of despair. I want to return to the emptiness of sleep, but I cannot. My eyes open, and I see.

It’s difficult to make out where I am at first. The light is dim, but I can make out that there are ten or twelve other people in the room with me. They’re all standing upright, bound by metal restraints, their faces illuminated by the faint lights that crown their heads. There is nothing but agony wrought across their faces. As I scan the room, I witness each ones vicious mask of concern. Furrowed brows, distorted mouths and weeping cries decorate each strange face. It takes a few moments for me to realise that one of the strangers is missing a head. Unlike the others, their body is limp, a lifeless sack held up by the stainless steel bindings around its limbs. The head, the victim of a clean beheading, lies on the floor. Its face is turned away, but the seeping puddle around it is enough to twist my stomach and lance my heart. I feel a tear escape and fall down my cheek. No one wants to look at the wretched thing. They turn their eyes and look into the nothingness of the room, each one adding their voice to the sour cacophony. 

“You’re awake,” the voice exclaims. It’s a contrast to the chaos in the room. It’s steady. Calm, even. 

I try turn my head, but I can’t. The bar across my forehead is firmly in place. I strain my eyes to the side, and through the blurred lens of my peripheral vision I’m able to make out the person who coaxed me from my inertia. Despite my efforts, I’m unable to make out their features. They’re more spectre than person. I have to rely on the character of the voice to construct their face. It’s a deep baritone. The vowels are shallow. The consonants are rough, like porous stone. It’s a strong voice, one that can only possessed by someone of suffering and strength of willpower, and yet, I see a mouse-like individual. A sinewy creature used to battling the odds. A survivor. 

“What’s going on,” I manage to ask. My voice trembles. It sounds weak. No, shattered. I pull my eyes away from the severed head. The tears continue to fall. My body is in a state of shock, even before my mind has managed to contemplate my situation. The primitive instincts have kicked in. It’s feeding off the atmosphere of the room. Its suckling on the panic. It’s lapping up the rich depths of terror that congeals the air. I can almost smell. My body is pushing against it. But the restraints are tight. And all I can do is weep. That is the extent of my protest. That is the backbone of my protest. 

“What’s going on,” I ask again. This time my voice is firmer. 

Before the survivor can answer there is a loud clanking sound, like shifting joints of heavy machinery. The clamour ticks over. And I quickly identify the rhythm behind the noise. It’s a countdown. A klaxon. 

The others struggle for freedom. The metallic countdown pushes them into a renewed frenzy, but it is useless. The rhythm reduces to individual clonks. And then it stops. There is a universal pause in the room. A dire anticipation for what is to come. The silence ends with a sharp whistling sound, the soft pop of bone and the moist squash of flesh. It happens quickly, but we all see the steel rod pull free from the man’s skull. He falls forward against his restraints, and a pink waterfall falls from the hole in his head. 

A renewed wave of panic rushes over the room. Men wail. Women cry. They all curse. My mind tries to fathom the hell I am in. 

“It’s all random,” the survivor says. 

“What?”

He waits for the weeping to dissipate. “The executions. They’re random. That’s how they can guarantee a constant level of fear. If death is unpredictable, the more sharper the fear.” 

“What?” 

That is all I can manage.

“They want our fear. That is why we’re here.” 

They. The survivor doesn’t have to say anything else. Somehow I know what he is talking about. They are pale and cephalopodian. Cruel. Alien. Hungry. None of this makes sense, and yet, I know who they are. 

“They’re feeding off us,” the survivor says. 

The metallic tumble begins again. The rhythm reduces to a single count. There is a whoosh of air. I feel something warm wet my face. The room erupts. More gnashing. More screaming. 

“The fear. They’re harvesting it. It’s like a delicacy for them,” the survivor adds. 

I struggle to understand the meaning behind what he is saying. How can human fear be an additive for food? 

The klaxon sounds again. Rhythm. Reduction. A crack pierces the room and another stranger goes limp against their restraints. 

I try to avoid the devolving massacre. My only option is to close my eyes. 

The darkness closes like a curtain. And I’m not sure if it helps. The horror is hidden but I can still hear its choir. And there is the clamouring siren. The time between the countdowns is growing slimmer. 

“They’re hungry tonight,” the survivor says. 

I clench my eyes shut. The siren comes again. I try to withhold what they want, but as the mechanical chime slows, I cannot resist the coming dread. Slowly, the rhythm counts down.