Standard canvassing... checking inside the open windows to get a closer look at the loners.
Testing and probing in the dark. He squirms fitfully, more than the norm. Good strong indicators.
This calls for further study. Looks like he's worth the effort...
In the dead of night, the garage door of his house is being eased up. Space is cleared for long shapes that float out of a nondescript delivery van parked in front...
Firmer strokes, being laid across the middle of both of his feet -
He chuckles himself into consciousness. Lays there, then squints around him -
Ah. He hears it.
Laughing. Faint, distant. From... inside the house. Well, burglars don't laugh continuously, do they, buddy? Maybe the TV's still on...
He pulls on shorts and steps into the hallway. Around the corner, a boom box is whooping and snickering as it slips into the garage, and the inner door closes silently.
When the volume of the roaring drops, he pauses, looking wary...
Then continues. C'mon out. Opening the door -
Light... but not the usual bulb overhead. It's hooded, or something. He flicks the switch out of habit. No change. Flick, flick.
The light is lower... and somehow enclosed. Looks like a shed.
A shed? In his garage?
Somebody's pretty damn happy. Sounds like there's a psycho in there. A big party...
In just a few minutes.
Now that he's here.
At this point, it would be nothing to drag him right in. But no need...
He looks it over - about six feet tall, eight long, six wide. Out of nowhere...
And he creeps up to the entry.
A worklight, up on top. Sand-colored carpet on walls and ceiling and floor...
The boom box at the opposite end, blaring away. He doesn't look too comfortable with this -
Then he scowls, looks around again, and leans inside.
They always do.
Nothing happens. Carpet, light, boom box inside, no door on the outside to close behind him. With a final glance around, he ducks in and darts to the boom box. Arrogance has its price, as he'll learn before the sun comes up... plenty of time after that to regret his stupidity.
When he starts to reach for the stop button on the tape deck, it clicks off.
Outside the shed, a large panel from the distant side is rising, coming to rest in a hidden slot in the top of the box near the opening -
When he turns at the sound of it, sliding down, it's too late.
Chain, rattling, on top. Securing the panel.
Locking the trap.
He takes two quick steps toward the new wall -
A big white pouch on the new surface starts to unzip. Red, inside...
He comes to a sudden halt.
Red shapes are rising up and out.
Transfixed, and worried expression - and the shapes turn.
Gloves. Red acetate. Shiny, Brand new -
As he stares, they... thicken. Pulled on. They're being pulled on some hands, though the hands are invisible. And they move freely, not like hands on the end of arms. Sliding into position, taking solid form out of thin air.
Gloving up.
All set for his exam.
He just gapes.
And they reach for him. Moving in -
A complete physical. Very thorough. Check his reflexes.
The bright, gleaming examiners are halfway to him. He backs up violently, eyes frantic. Shoulders the wall behind him, and though it isn't the best-built shed in the world, it is bolted together well enough to contain a few good kicks.
He lunges for the boom box, grabbing the handle, winding up to - what? Take a swing?
The satins don't even pause.
Click. The tape starts playing again at a lower volume. Some guy whooping and barking his guts out. The deck is yanked out of his hands, sailing over near the blocked entry. Safely out of reach. Click... and the shed is silent.
Cornered, weaponless...
As firm hands arrive at his ribs.
Whoa! He darts to the other corner, snorting... a low growl, now, and arms pulled in tight.
And he chuckles. Pissed off, but snickering away. He digs his elbows in, obstructing the paths of the gloves -
Invisible pressure, circling his wrists. Increasing, getting heavier... pulling his arms out.
Ah.
The testers ride up and down now, steadily polishing, free as birds. He wails, legs bucking, and is pulled back up by his wrists. Wild to get away -
His arms are straightened out, then his elbows bend... until his hands are held snugly against the back of his head. Looks casual, unlike all the baying and writhing he's doing.
More pressure surrounds his ankles, lifting him off the floor. He's turning... at an angle now, as if he were laying on a ramp. His ass and middle back come to rest on an unseen support that feels like the phantom cuffs...
They settle him in position. Midway from the ceiling, head higher than feet, sprawled but not stretched out. Flailing with all he's got, and unable to budge the mysterious restraints.
He squeals, desperately, at four more gloves coming out of the pouch, being pulled on - impossibly, easily worn - and cruising over.
Watery eyes slamming shut, as the cool fingers lay into his imprisoned feet...
And his perfectly exposed armpits.
Howling fiercely. Pure and manic.
The first gloves expand their territory and speed up a little, to keep his sides and belly under assault. The others match the pace, teasing his pecs and heels and toes.
Even louder roars...
Not even thirty seconds into the exam... a passing score for this one. Definitely.
A click -
The other tape is in the boom box now. Recording.
The next hour is purely for confirmation.
And those wet shorts have to go...
A half-liter water bottle comes from the pouch, being cracked open and poured in him while he pants for breath, eyes locked on the waiting satins...
Fifteen minutes later, when he's strong enough to start some serious tugging at the bonds suspending him, the red gloves pounce again.
Another forty-five minutes to make absolutely sure.
Yup. One last bottle of water...
The next hour is at least as vigorous as the first. Wearing him out.
When he's sawing logs, the shed is dismantled and loaded up, and he's perched behind the wheel of the van. His truck glides slowly into the garage, the door is closed - and it's off to the big shed for him! Lots of food and water and new red gloves waiting there...
03apr1997