One Simple Rule

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. The six of us sat in the middle of the lightly furnished room. For an undisclosed amount of money, we six of various backgrounds, genders, strengths, and weaknesses, agreed to sit in this dimly lit room with only one rule—don’t open the door. Our phones and our watches were confiscated, with the promise they would be returned once we completed whatever task they wanted us to do. I now realize that the instructions were too vague to be a contest. This was a game not for a clear winner but for sadistic tendencies. Initially, there were eight of us. The first “test,” which we began calling them, came as a gas seeping through the lower vents. I recognized it immediately as CS. The gas density, at first, was low—until we chose to attempt to block the vents; then it leaked from outlets and holes in the ceiling that went unnoticed until then. I instructed those who were standing to get low and cover their face with cloth—one panicked, the kind of panic that would mean certain death on the battlefield. She was a nice-looking woman, kind, or at least seemed to be. She opened the door. Any light emitted from the bulbs extinguished to a type of darkness that didn’t feel real; we all heard her grunt, gag, and then silence.

We were too scared to scream, perhaps an advantage, because I concentrated on the sounds. I heard controlled heel-to-toe taps of heavy boots, the dragging of deadweight, and then the slow and calm closing of the door, which remained unlocked. My body is reaching a state of tiredness; it must be approaching late in the evening. It was time to think and sleep.