Reanimated

by David

Oxford blinked again. It was easier this time. Liquid dripped into his open mouth. Repeat. Eventually, he could whisper. “Who?”

The two masked figures turned to look at each other, then back at Oxford.

The humans (?) were completely covered in tight-fitting blue garments, yet no physical details showed through. No nose, no chin, no breasts, nothing between the legs, nothing. The figures were not only sexless but speciesless.

“How? When?” Only single words could force themselves past his swollen lips. He felt restraints at ankles and wrists.

The two stepped back, then beat a hasty retreat.

“Wait!”

They were gone.

Perhaps he was imagining their haste. If they weren’t human their body language might be completely different, his inferences about them all wrong. He wiggled his toes. He knew one thing for sure. They’d healed the severed spinal cord that had sent him to cryo in the first place. They had some kind of plan for him.

He was fed by a smooth-featured robot (designed by aliens?) until he could feed himself from a bowl. Over the next few days his strength returned. When he was able to stand the bed lowered itself to a few inches above the floor and the restraints vanished. He explored his cell. The ceiling was hidden in darkness, as were the walls, but he was able to find those. He was in a square about 20 feet across. A weak source of illumination above the center, and a bed directly beneath the light, were the sum total of its features. Food and drink appeared at intervals, apparently materializing on the floor in plain dishes (which proved unbreakable). Somehow he was never looking when the food appeared, and it did not always appear in the same place, so, clearly, he was being observed. Wherever he eliminated waste, the spot was clean in moments, even the bed (he’d had no bedpan in those first days). The dishes disappeared unobserved, just as they had appeared, no matter how fixedly he stared. If he held them, they vanished when he slept. He saw, heard, and smelt no one and nothing save for himself and his meals. He cajoled, implored, sang, composed letters, ranted, declaimed, jabbered, howled.

A man can only take so much.

His fruitless attempts at communication escalated over a few weeks to self-mutilation.

—

“I win again. Want to go for best out of 3?”

“No. Let’s try a different specimen this time.”

End