Where is Everybody?

"Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up!" (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10).

***

“The place is here,”

AWOL walks down a street, clad in a grey jumpsuit, looking around with an expression of puzzlement at the concrete jungle surrounding him on all sides. He is covered in about an inch of beige road dust, caking into a solid film on his forehead from perspiration. Staggering, the man appears to be near the point of collapse.

“The time is now,”

He rubs the muddy, caked on sweat from his forehead, looking up at the glaringly hot sun beating down from a sky that doesn’t appear to have seen a cloud in decades. Heat mirages drift lazily up from the concrete road ahead of him, blurring his vision and leaving him stumbling, even more disoriented.

“And the journey into the shadows we’re about to watch could be our journey.”

AWOL walks around a corner, eyes widening in shock as they try to take in the vast stretch of road before him. A long highway stretches away into the distance, flanked on both sides by buildings featuring all manner of bizarre architecture and styles, ranging from massive Egyptian pyramids to brightly colored castles. The former champion stops, struck completely dumb for a moment by the awe inspiring vista, an oasis in the desert, this city of sin. He recognizes it immediately. He’s standing on the strip in downtown Las Vegas at the foot of the Desert Palms hotel, dozens of monuments to consumerism, greed, and vice towering over him, trailing off to the horizon.

And no other human beings are anywhere in sight.

***

The bell over the door rings as he steps through it, tossing open the entrance to the restaurant with an impatient swipe. He steps inside, scanning the room with his eyes out of old habit, finding only an empty dining area straight out of the nineteen fifties, dozens of tables sitting with silverware, napkins, and water glasses all immaculately placed and pristine. A malt shop complete with black and white checker board tile floors and the brightly polished chrome bar sits at the front of the establishment near the door through which AWOL has just arrived. Roy Orbison’s “Oobie Doobie” drifts from the speakers of a jukebox in the corner of the room, though there is no indication of who may have fed the quarter into the machine to start the tune. A tall chocolate malt sits on the countertop, the outside of the glass already dripping with condensation despite being full and not yet melting, seemingly having been poured only moments earlier.

“Hello?”

AWOL looks around for a response, but Mr. Orbison’s voice is the only answer he receives.

“Anybody here?”

He starts to walk through the room, again keeping an ear cocked for a response. “Hey, I could use some service,” he shouts towards the kitchen. “I’ve got some money with me, I’d be happy to pay.” He pauses, a curious expression crossing his face, as he digs around in one of the jump-suit’s pockets. He pulls out a small wad of bills and a handful of coins. He digs through the cash with the index finger of his other hand, rolling the bills out of the way and ticking off each coin individually. Shaking his head ruefully, he stuffs the cash back into his pocket. “Well, not much cash, but I could really just use a glass of water or something.”

He walks up to the bar, sitting down on one of the stools next to the malt shake. He waits for a moment, tapping his finger on the countertop impatiently. “Hello? Anybody back there?” he shouts, craning his neck to the side and staring back past the large red swinging doors towards the kitchen. He chuckles, a smile spreading onto his face. “I’m not INS, I just want a god damned cheeseburger. Somebody get out here and take my order.”

“I was just wandering in off of the road out there, you see,” he says, jerking his thumb towards the door. “I’m not really sure how I got here, to be honest. It looks like I’ve been travelling for a while, but I don’t remember any of it. Hell, come to think of it, I’m not even sure who I am.” He looks around, still seeing no one, and finally loses his patience. “Seriously, the joke’s getting old. Get the hell out here, or I’m coming back to get my own food. I’m starting to lose my patience.”

He waits a second longer before finally standing up in irritation, leaping over the bar in one move and storming angrily back into the kitchen. “Alright, I warned you, now get me a god damned-. “ He comes up short, cutting himself off mid-rant as he finds the kitchen completely empty as well. Long rows of silver ovens and grills run parallel to each other into depths of the long room, all sterile and missing only some chefs to prepare the food. One of the burners has a large silver kettle resting on it, the high heat finally causing the soup within it to boil over the side as the big-man stands, jaw agape, looking at the desolation. With a crash, the bubbling liquid throws the lid free of the pot to clatter onto the floor. The sound echoes eerily as the song on the jukebox ends.

“Where is everybody?”

***

AWOL is walking through an abandoned casino floor, carrying the malt shake from the restaurant and taking a thoughtful sip from the straw. The silence in the room is deafening, made more eerie from the cacophony that typically predominates in the pit of any Vegas gambling house. The ear almost aches for the usual sounds of barely controlled anarchy that all of a person’s senses tell them SHOULD BE HERE, with slot machines joining into an endless song-in-the-round chorus of electronic jingles and bells, intermingling with the excited shouts of the winners and the agonized groans of the newly bankrupt.

Instead AWOL’s footfalls are the only noises in the room as he walks by the craps tables. He looks down at the bets laid out, with a large stack of chips waiting on the pass line. He pauses for a moment, glancing up at the ring of security cameras surrounding him, their red indicator lights still lit despite the lack of any security guards to watch them. He smiles, knowingly, throwing the cameras a wink before picking up easily fifty grand in chips in his free hand. He makes a move to put the stack into his pocket. “Look out,” he says to the room, “I’m about to clean you out. Better send a pit boss or some of the big bruisers to stop me.” He waits another moment, hand poised over his pocket, but no commotion of casino security coming to arrest him answers. Finally, disgusted, he throws the chips back onto the table along with the empty malt glass and continues walking.

Making his way through the rows of machines, he finds more indications of life. Here, a cigarette still burns in an ash tray only halfway down to the filter. There, a machine is waiting with the coins loaded, waiting only for someone to pull the lever and start the wheels spinning. Bets are placed, cards are dealt, but no one is here to play the games besides a very confused IWC performer.

He gives a roulette wheel a spin as he walks past it. “This has to be a dream,” he finally concludes, nodding to himself. “This is a dream, I’m going to wake up any minute now.”

He walks over to a mirror, staring into his reflection. “I just don’t understand it,” he says to himself. “I know that something’s not right about all of this. There should be other people here. I’m here to MEET two people. I know it. I know there’s a reason I’m here, but where the hell are they?” He rests his forehead on the glass. “Wake up,” he says, enjoying the feel of the cool glass on his skin. “Wake up!” he shouts, pounding a fist against the glass. “WAKE UP!” he finally screams, smashing his forehead against the mirror. It shatters with a crash, collapsing into a dozen pieces around him. He turns around, cursing under his breath and trying to stem the sudden tide of blood dripping from where the broken glass has cut his forehead. He staggers backwards, cursing under his breath, as he looks around frantically in all directions. Crimson liquid is welling between the fingers of the hand he has clamped over the wound, and no first aid-kit or other means of treating it is in sight. He staggers, resting his back against the broken mirror, and rips a piece of his sleeve free for an improvised bandage.

As he pulls the knot tight behind his head, creating a sort of blood-covered bandana, he hears a faint sound from somewhere in the rest of the building. “Hello?” he shouts, bolting upright in an instant. “Is somebody there?”

He sprints off in the direction of the sound.

***

AWOL walks through a swinging metal door, flipping down a kick-stand to hold it open. He’s standing in the abandoned arena of the Hard Rock Casino. The ring is already set up for the IWC pay-per-view “Up The Ante,” but the seats as expected are still abandoned. The sound is coming from the dozens of speakers scattered throughout the room, blaring out rock music at full volume. Looking around in even more confusion, the massive man starts to walk down the steps towards the ring.

“Who’s running the music?” he shouts as he reaches the ring apron. “HEY!” he shouts, waving an arm towards the screen. “Who’s back there?”

Suddenly the tune changes and the lights darken. A voice screams “YOU BETTA GO AWAY!” and the stage explodes with pyro, forcing the man to cover up his eyes with his forearm for a moment. He stares, mesmerized at images of himself on the screen inflicting horrible violence on other human beings. His name flashes, “AWOL,” ringed by fire and replaced immediately with his own brooding visage staring out at himself.

A light of understanding finally appears on the real AWOL’s face. “I’m a professional wrestler,” he says, nodding. “My name is AWOL. I must be here for a match. Now, where are my opponents?”

As if on cue, a different song fires up on the stage. Sean Johnsons’ entrance music kicks on. The video package changes as well, with shots of Johnson’s various “achievements” during his wrestling career interspersed with images of that fucking hideous cat. AWOL climbs up into the ring, turning towards the ramp expectantly, but sees no one coming out through the curtains. He waits another impatient moment longer, but as the music cuts out he walks over to the rope, grabbing it in frustration. “Hey, what the hell! Where is he? Send him out here! I need an opponent!”

Instead, the only response he receives is “Animal I Have Become” blaring out of the PA and Too Magnificent’s video package taking over the massive screen. AWOL pauses for a moment, but there is still no tell-tale ripping aside of the curtain to signify this new competitor’s arrival. This only serves to infuriate the big man more, and he climbs out through the ropes and starts up the ramp. “Alright, I’ve had enough of this shit!” AWOL screams, dashing off the side of the entrance ramp towards the audio/visual controls. He skids to a halt, seeing the machines apparently running on their own, an empty folding chair sitting all by itself in front of the control panel. With an animalistic scream of fury, AWOL snatches the chair up from the ground, snapping the seat up into prime smashing position before unleashing his rage on the devices that seem to be taunting him. He swings the hunk of steel down into glass monitors and audio sound mixers, sparks of electricity flying into the air with each metal-and-ear-shattering collision. The music from the PA distorts before finally falling silent, the video screen’s output being replaced shortly thereafter with blackness.

AWOL slumps down onto the floor, tossing the mangled remains of the folding chair to the side, his fury finally spent. His eyes are wide and panicked, and his hands grip the sides of his forehead. He bangs the back of his head repeatedly against the smashed control panel. “What the hell is going on?” he mutters to himself. “Why am I the only one here? Where the hell is everybody hiding? Who’s doing this to me?”

Only silence echoes through the arena, but a moment later a new sound rings out, that of the squeak of a hinge as a door slowly swings shut. AWOL looks up, panic evident on his features, as he sees the door he propped open closing. He bolts to his feet, sprinting around the ring and up the stairs. He is far too slow, however, and with an ominous clang the door slams shut, a final click ringing out as it latches. AWOL runs up to the door, throwing his weight against it in vain. The barrier sealing him in doesn’t budge, doesn’t even dent, beneath the big man’s weight.

“Ok, ha ha, everybody’s had a good laugh now,” he shouts, only the tiniest edge of panic audible in his voice, his mouth an inch from the metal. “Open the fucking door and let’s get on with the show.” He keeps his smile in place for a moment before instantly replacing it with a snarl. “God damn it! This isn’t funny! Somebody open up and let me out of here!” He slams his fist against the door. “Open up! Let me the fuck out of here!”

Behind him, the spotlights illuminating the ring cut out.

“I want out of here! Let me out of here! I want out!”

Another set of lights turn off, leaving only a small ring around the outside of the arena.

“Please let me out! PLEASE!” AWOl begs, dropping down to his knees with his back to the door, still banging against it with his shoulder.

Another click, now AWOL is sitting illuminated by the only overhead light in the arena.

“Let me out,” he whispers, his hands now simply covering up his eyes. “Please. I want out. Why are you doing this to me? Let me out. God, please let me out.”

Click. The room drops to darkness.

***

Beep. Beep. Beep.

AWOL rests on a stretcher, his massive frame covered by a hospital gown. He is ringed on all sides by instrumentation monitoring his pulse, blood pressure, and brain activity, the latter spiking all over the chart. Wires run from sensors placed around his temples and almost every other exposed piece of skin. His eyes flash back and forth beneath closed lids, and suddenly his whole body twitches.

The ring of men and women in lab coats standing near him make a note on their clipboards.

“Isn’t this kind of inhumane?” one of them says, a brunette woman in dark glasses.

“What are you talking about?” the man next to her answers, making another note on his sheet. “He’s been in comas before. It’s all on his chart. This is a walk in the park for him.”

The woman drops the clipboard to her side, flashing him a disgusted look. “You know damn well that this is different,” she says, “He’s been trapped in there for three days now. We’ve been running him through scenario after scenario where he’s trapped, alone, with no hope and no interaction with anyone. No one can take that kind of strain. We could be shattering this man’s mind permanently.”

The man sighs, dropping his clipboard down to his side as well. “Look sweetheart, I know what you’re trying to say here, but you’re missing an important fact.” He pulls his own glasses off, putting them into a pocket as he looks the woman in the eyes. “He’s coming back to the IWC after years being away, and he’s going to have to work his way back from the bottom. You know what that means for a monster big-man like him? It means he’s going to spend weeks competing against sub-standard opponents who barely bother to even put together promos, let alone show up in the ring. It’s wrestling build-up 101. The big man comes in, crushes these guys like bugs, and that builds up his credibility for when he goes up against real opponents later on. It’s all well and good, but there are safety concerns that need to be addressed before we turn him loose.”

The man gives a sad smile to the brunette. “He’s going to be all alone for a hell of a lot longer than three days with even less interaction than he is having now. He’ll be trapped, isolated, and forced to essentially entertain himself for weeks, maybe even months at a time before he finally works through enough of these scrubs to get back into the ring with the big-timers. We’re not being cruel to him.” He turns back, true sympathy finally apparent on his features. “By making him get used to it ahead of time, we’re actually doing the poor bastard a kindness.”

The woman looks doubtful. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right.”

“I agree, and I wish it wasn’t necessary,” the man answers, pulling his glasses back out and replacing them on his face. “But that’s just the way the business works. We wouldn’t want to push him too fast too soon, or people would start bitching about him getting title shots he didn’t deserve. And god knows, we can’t let that happen.” He flashes the still concerned woman a smile, even going so far as to drop a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, he knew what he was getting into when he came back.”

She flashes him a halfhearted smile of her own before lifting the clipboard back up. The man turns back to an operator near the machinery. “Let’s run the August 28th Riot! program next. Set him up to fight Jackson Adams and Miho Miyazaki.”

With a nod, the operator starts turning the dials, changing the horrifying loneliness of the Las Vegas arena to another, nameless arena filled with yet more emptiness and fear. AWOL twitches again on the table, a grimace momentarily twisting his lips before returning back to calm. As the camera floats up into the air, through the roof, away from the doctors and the scene of medical torture, the voice of the narrator returns.

“"Out there, out there in the pits of the midcard, in the void that is curtain-jerking, out there is an enemy known as isolation. It sits there in the booking office waiting, waiting with the patience of eons, forever waiting... in the AWOL Zone."

Cue creepy music. Credits.