Stream of consciousness Sunday: The accumulator, part seven…

16 Oct

Another Sunday afternoon means another episode of SoCS, following on from the last chapter of this peculiar mystery, prompted by Linda G Hill and;

” “screen.” Use it any way you’d like. ” 

Well that seems simple enough, let’s go…

The Accumulator, part seven.

Scene: Endicott’s office. Endicott is working at a laptop on his desk and Patrick is sitting opposite, slumped and silent, obviously unconscious, with a strap holding him upright in his chair. It is twelve years ago.

Patrick’s narration begins again as the camera cuts to his point of view, with Endicott across the desk from him, slowly swimming into focus…

“After Endicott’s man jabbed me in the neck I don’t remember anything else until I came round in this chair, so, unless you’re watching the director’s cut, I’m afraid you’ll have to fill in the blanks for yourself. 

I’ve no doubt that, on a cutting room floor somewhere, there is some artfully edited POV footage of yours truly, probably being manhandled into the house by a couple of muscle-bound orderlies, making the trip from terrace to office; maybe the FX guys would have managed to rustle up some of those woozy visuals which are supposed to indicate the first-person narrator is under the influence of a nefarious narcotic substance. 

But I’m only guessing.

When I finally awoke I could tell right away I was restrained, by the presence of a tight band around my chest. I knew from bitter experience it was pointless to try and free myself, so I used the first few seconds of consciousness to try and orient myself and establish whether I was in any immediate danger.

Once I’d established that nothing untoward was happening to me and no further unpleasantness appeared to be forthcoming, I risked opening my eyes.

And what was the first thing I saw, as I forced my still-sagging eyelids open and my fuzzy vision cleared? 

That smug bastard, Endicott, staring down at the screen of his laptop as if I wasn’t even in the room; typing away like there was no tomorrow, that fanatical glint in his eyes, that’s what.

I watched him for maybe twenty seconds, before he glanced up and noticed I was awake.

“Ah, Patrick!” he said, like I’d just arrived late for Sunday cocktails and he was hailing me across the croquet lawn, “Glad to see you back with us again. Sorry about that, you were becoming rather agitated and we didn’t want you to do yourself any harm.”

I just looked at him. 

The events of the morning were just coming back to me, through the residual haze of whatever they’d stuck me with; the horrific death of Darcy, the subsequent, shocking demise of the orderly and the sharp sting of the needle. 

I didn’t trust myself to answer, so I sat there and waited to see what would happen next. Endicott gazed back until he seemed sure he wasn’t going to elicit a reaction, then he closed the laptop and leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, eyes studying the ceiling as he started talking.

“You’re a clever boy, Patrick, so I’m sure you are aware of the concept that energy cannot be destroyed.” 

It wasn’t a question, so I stayed silent and watched him carefully. He lowered his gaze to meet my eyes and folded his hands on the immaculate desk.

“Well, your friend and mine, the eminent Dr Felix Braithwaite, has been quietly researching the possibility of harnessing the unused energy which goes to waste in our daily lives.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but Endicott held up a hand to forestall any questions.

“I know what you’re going to say; you’re going to say the good Dr Felix didn’t seem much like a new age recycler type and you would indeed be right, he’s not. At least not in the conventional sense of recycling, anyway.

No, our mutual friend was working on a more, um, human form of energy recovery; a series of experiments in which you were inadvertently taking part when I intervened and brought you here.” 

Endicott paused and looked at me, as though he expected some sort of gratitude for this huge display of philanthropic largesse, but I just kept eye contact and waited.

“Anyway, what Dr Braithwaite discovered, is that the energy expended upon the human body at the point of death, especially violent death, can be…harvested I suppose is the most appropriate term.”

He kept his eyes on mine, clearly hoping for some reaction, but despite the terrible memory of that mysterious surge of energy passing up my arm as I touched Darcy’s broken body, I managed to keep my poker face immobile and unblinking.

“His project was to develop a receiver, something in which to collect all this potential energy and store it, until it was required for…”

“Killing! You wanted to use it for killing, you bastard!” 

Endicott flinched in surprise at my shout, but relaxed again when he realised the straps holding me to the chair meant I was no threat to him.

“Yes Patrick, I’m not going to lie to you; you were used by Dr Braithwaite, as a guinea pig in an experiment to modify certain structures in your nervous system, making you capable of accumulating a store of this lethal energy.”

I could feel my jaw clenching as I strained against the straps, my fists clenched in fury as I took in the enormity of what he was saying.

“And, as I’m sure you’ve now worked out for yourself,” concluded Endicott with grim satisfaction, “you can also…redirect that energy, discharging it into another person merely by touching them.

In short, Patrick, we have created in you the perfect weapon; an assassin who can kill with a handshake, or commit murder in a room full of witnesses without raising a suspicious eyebrow.”

I stared at him in horror, my mind reeling, as Endicott laughed, once again opened his laptop and resumed typing

Then a door opened behind me and I heard footsteps, followed by the same feeling of a needle jabbing into my neck and the special effects crew went to town in my head. “

The scene ends with the now limp Patrick being lifted from his chair by two uniformed staff, who drag his unresisting body from the room and quietly close the door, while Endicott gazes at the glowing screen of his computer and smiles.


To be continued (using next week’s prompt {which can now be found HERE})…


Pingback to Linda G Hill.


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6 responses to “Stream of consciousness Sunday: The accumulator, part seven…

  1. John W. Howell

    October 16, 2016 at 21:42

    The perfect weapon,
    Being made before our eyes. . .
    Soon terror abounds.


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