The Whitechapel Project

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Previously on Whitechapel

Mister Rich rescued Six from the Whitechapel Project and gave him some clues about his past. When the two stopped at an out-of-the-way motel for a shower and new clothes, two men dressed as police officers followed Mister Rich back from a shopping trip. Six reluctantly killed one of the men with his powers, while Mister Rich shot the other (although he ended up injured in the process). A mysterious black van showed up after the altercation, and Six barely managed to get Mister Rich’s unconscious body into his car and drive off before the two men in the van could catch up with him. A chase ensued, and Six managed to get Mister Rich to the hospital before he was knocked down with a taser shotgun shell. Six tried to find out who they were, but he was only told that they were Six’s owners before knocking him unconscious.

Episode Nine – Two Wakings

I wake up just in time to puke all over the concrete floor. I start to wipe away the vomit with my hand, but a plastic loop slaps into my cheek, dangling loosely from my wrist. It’s one of those hospital bracelets with a little piece of paper in it, which has two letters printed on it — VI. I’m back in my cell.

Standing in front of me is a tall man in a suit that looks a couple of decades out of date. His short sandy-blond hair is turning the same shade of gray as his eyes. He looks at me intently – not the soft stare of concern over another human in distress, but the intense stare of someone carefully watching a barking dog straining at the end of its chain.

“I’m glad you’re awake.” His voice reminds me of bleak Virginia winters – cold, Southern, and harsh. “I was worried that the trip would have damaged you in some way.”

I try to stand up, but an ax slams into my head, and I stagger back to my knees.

“No, don’t try to stand up,” he says. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He squats down, sitting on his heels, and stares directly into my eyes. “You are very valuable to me, Six.”

I stammer, trying to get my mouth to work. “What… what did you call me?”

“Six. It’s something one of my co-workers called you. I think it’s appropriately dehumanizing, don’t you?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m your owner, and you’re my very special attack dog. That’s all you need to know.”

“Own? You can’t own people.”

He casually brushes some imaginary dust off of his sleeve. “And yet I do. How unfortunate for you.”

I close my eyes and try to reach out with my mind to hurt him, but he just slaps my face. “Now now, Six. You may be a rabid dog, but you can’t bite your master’s hand. And I have such plans for you. Such plans.”

After that, all I can remember is screaming…

* * *

I wake up screaming.

I swing my fist at the man in the suit, but he’s not there. Instead, I roll out of bed and land face-first on the floor. I push myself up off of the thin, scratchy carpeting and look around.

I’m in a bedroom of some kind. There’s a large king bed with thick covers and nearly a dozen pillows all over. A couch sits across from the bed, and it’s near an entertainment center with a television and a couple of black boxes plugged into it. There are two nightstands with tasteful lamps on either side of the bed, and there’s an entrance to a huge bathroom full of granite and bamboo. Off in one corner there’s a small desk with a chair. Nobody else is in the room with me.

I’m also completely naked.

I notice a stack of freshly-laundered clothing folded neatly on the couch. As well as the Wal-Mart specials I was wearing when I went unconscious, there are more shirts, jeans, socks, and underwear. I put on the clothes I was wearing before and search the nightstand drawers. They’re both empty. A similar search of the entertainment center reveals a sole remote control. I push the on button a couple of times, but nothing happens, so I throw the control on the couch and keep looking.

The desk is clean except for a phone and a folded piece of paper. It has the letters VI written on it in flowing, elegant handwriting. I unfold it, and it had four words written in the same hand: “Come find me. Elizabeth.”

… I can smell the faint stench of decay on her breath, taste notes of it on my lips. Her hair is plastered across her face as my fingers clench. I imagine the soft silkiness of her neck in my hands…

I shake my head to get rid of the stray memory. The ivory paper is crisp and thick to my touch, and I can make out a few threads in the weave of the paper – expensive stuff. At the top is a small logo that says “The Cincinnatian Hotel” and an address: 601 Vine Street, Cincinnati, Ohio. I sniff the paper, almost expecting a whiff of perfume, but it only smells like paper and ink.

The phone is made of thick molded plastic, but its form is flowing and elegant, matching the décor of the room quite well. Picking up the receiver reveals a small, tasteful plaque in the cradle, giving me the numbers for the front desk and room service. There’s a dial tone, but I’m not sure who to call, so I put the receiver back in the cradle.

It sit back on the bed. One minute, I was in a high-speed chase with police and a bleeding man in a car that wasn’t mine, only to end up shot with a fucking shotgun and knocked out by people who claimed to own me. Next minute, I’m having nightmares about Southern spooks before waking up in a hotel suite that was at least four stars, if not five.

I did a quick list of pros and cons. On the good side, I wasn’t in jail, in the hospital, or in my cell. On the bad side, my only contact is unconscious in the hospital, and I didn’t have a weapon or a car anymore. I also had no idea who put me in the hotel room, or how they related to the Whitechapel Project.

Plus, someone named Elizabeth wanted me to find her. I wasn’t sure whether that should be filed as a pro or a con.

The phone shatters the silence with an ear-piercing ring, and my heart stops for a moment. I look at the phone, dreading what might happen. Who could be calling me? Would it be another person plunging me back into that world of darkness and death? For a moment I consider just not answering it. I imagine opening the door and walking away, leaving behind a string of corpses and a thousand unanswered questions.

I force myself off the bed and pick up the receiver on the third ring.

“This is the front desk with your eight A.M. wake-up call.”

Well, that was disappointing. “I don’t remember asking for a wake-up call.”

The receptionist’s voice sounds apologetic, polite, and professional. “I’m sorry, sir. I have a note to call room 501 at eight A.M. Has there been an error?”

I don’t know, has there been? Whoever put me in this room also left a wake-up call for me. Why? I address the receptionist again. “No, it’s fine. Thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr…?”

And then she called me a name I didn’t recognize.

What name does the receptionist call me?

Mr. Marsh?

Mr. McPhearson?

Mr. Smith?

Or Mr. Druitt?

The choice is yours.

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Author’s Port-mortem