Trigger Hicks (Patreon)

He heard the door opening. The old man was back in the room again. How long had it been? Days for sure, but how many? He’d arrive at this shit hole on Tuesday morning in a rental straight from the airport. Well, airfield. He’d met with the farmer, had a cup of coffee, inspected the damage and settled the insurance claims in a few hours. He had a late lunch at the local diner, and no sooner than when he entered his motel room did he start getting ill. He’d called the girl in the reception for a doctor and the old man had showed up. Way too quickly, but he had guessed he just happened to be nearby, or just driving him to the doctor.

They drove for at least an hour while he was getting ever worse with fever and fatigue. He’d fallen asleep in the car and was so hazy when he was woken up to even remember where they had parked or what building they had entered. He had taken his clothes off at one point, had a drink of something and gone to bed. When he woke up everything was a blur, literally. He could barely see. And when he tried to stand up he instantly became dizzy and soon fatigued again.

He was in some sort of basement, if the position of the window near the ceiling was any indication to go by. There was a locked door, an empty table and a bed in the room. Nothing on the walls except a mirror, which was useless to him. That’s as far as he had managed to explore before having had to go back to bed. He was going in and out of consciousness as he was laying in bed, but he thought at least two day cycles had passed outside the window. Oddly he wasn’t hungry or had any other needs. And now the old man was back.

- Everything a-goin’ fine here I see.
- What ‘n heck yer b'done to me?

He almost didn’t finish the question. He hadn’t just spoken with a southern twang. He spoke like a cousin fucker. The old man placed some items on the table and started to arrange them precisely. Slowly the eyesight returned and he could clearly see the basement room he’d been trapped in. It looked really shitty to him. Naked wood panels, naked wooden floor, a single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. And him, naked, sitting in the bed.

He looked down at his body and didn’t recognize what he saw. It was smoother and younger looking than he expected, and he had never in his life been as fit. He ran his fingers over the abs. He could feel it. It really was him.

- Go on there, have a look.

The old man motioned towards a mirror that was mounted on the wall, next to the bed. This time standing up didn’t cause any problems, and he walked over to the mirror. He looked half his age. He was shorter than before, but fit as a fiddle. A lean, vascular body of someone who works, but with the six pack and hip indents of someone who works out. Yet the face was still soft as a 16 year old.

- I had to go away to return the car. Fly back on yer ticket so no one comes looking. Took some time.

He stopped admiring the body he was in and let the old man's words sink in. If he never showed up again, no one would fly out here to look for him. He looked at the old man. What was his plan?  In front of him, on the table, were some old, charred bones laid out in a pattern. The old man moved a few of them and asked

- If you wanted to leave here, right now, who would you call?
- I’d call…

The sensation was weird, and maddening. As soon as he thought of someone he knew, or a number, or an address, it would slip away. His mind was spinning. He knew what was happening. Whatever the old man was doing was erasing, or at least blocking, all the answers he could think of. He tried to not think of anyone.

- Perhaps you could call the police and say you were kidnapped? Who are you? What is your name?
- I’m Trigger…. I’m NOT Trigger Hicks.
- Aren’t you? Do you have any way to prove you ain’t?

He tried so hard to not think of anything. But somehow his mind kept going back to the answers he couldn’t remember. He screamed in exasperation.

- FUCK!
- Language.
- Why’re ye doin’ this?
- Our communities are dying. All the youngfolk go to town to study and don’t come back. Best I can do is steal some back I reckon.
- So I’m a prisoner? Yer cattle?
- Nah, I never was that good at warping minds. Just some simple tricks. You can go do whatever you want to go do. But you ain’t a dollar to your name, nowhere you must be and nothin’ much to do. Old man Johnston is an hour away, and I’ve promised him a farmhand. Honest work, plenty of food and a bed to sleep in, as long as you want and do your bit. Give it a few years and I think the farm can be yours. I can drive you.

Read my commentary.