The Hero That Lost - Chapter 1: Lost

There was a bright light and fear.

Then blackness...

"Wake up soldier"

I moved instinctively and was brought up short by something that rattled and restrained my right arm with a grip of iron.

Eyes fully opened now, I realized I was on a dirt floor and not a bunk.

There were manacles attached to my wrists. The chain connecting them ran through a large ring attached to a wall above my head.

And what was this thing around my throat? I felt a fine metal mesh with my fingers and some sort of box on the back of my neck.

A coolness to my scalp had my fingers exploring there as well. Someone had shaved my head.

What the hell?

I levered myself up so I was leaning against the wall and looked around for answers.

The room was dim and smelt of damp earth and urine. There were other presents, also chained, most lying prone.

Were they asleep? Unconscious? Dead?

Atleast there seemed to be someone else awake. They were sitting up right in the opposite left corner --watching me.

There were 4 of us in the cell. We were all wearing the same thing: sleeveless, concrete grey tracksuit, and no shoes.

The cell itself was of a cinder block construction, with daylight coming in dimly through chicken-wired triangles at the end of the roof space. There was something that might be a concrete water butt in the middle of the wall opposite me. The air felt hot, and oppressive like it does just before a storm in the tropics. Obviously, something bad had happened.

But what? And why?

"Why did you call me a soldier?" I asked.

"I did not..." It was a woman's voice --she was also bald.

There was the sound of confusion in her voice, and her accent was Canadian, with something extra thrown in.

"But you are, yes?" she added.

Was I a soldier? I tried the idea on for size...

And came up blank. For the life of me, I didn't know.

I groped for an alternative...

And once more came up with nothing more than a growing headache. "Ouch".

"You too?" said the woman.

"Me too, what?" I replied.

"Can you remember anything?" she asked, and then added, "What is your name?"

My name? It should be the easiest of things to remember.

"Unghh!" I replied, gritting my teeth as the pain in my head doubled.

"What happened to me? Why can't I remember who I am?" And why does my head hurt so much?"

"I do not know" replied the woman, the sound of quiet desperation in her voice. "But I am the same."

There was a groan from the other side of the room and a man voice--also accented--said "Can't you two let a bloke have his hangover in peace?"

The guy was chained to the wall on the opposite side of the door from me.

In the lowlight, I could just make out that he was also bald and wearing the same short-sleeved, gret uniform, chains and neck band as the woman and I were.

As he pushed himself up, I saw tattoos on his muscly arms. There was almost the top of a tattoo visible at his open collar.

"Anyone remember what we were drinking?" he asked the room in general. "Cause I don't."

He groaned and carefully rotated one of his shoulders and then gingerly touched the side of his head.

"That must have been some party" he said. "My head hurts and I feel like I've been in a fight. And can someone please explain how I got sunburnt on one side of my head."

"What is your name?" the woman asked suddenly.

"My name?" the man replied. "It's..." He went silent for a time nd then groaned and said, "Bloody hell, woman. Don't do that."

He was an Aussie, or a Brit. Lower class, and a criminal maybe.

"It's not her..." I said. "At least, I don't think so"

I looked across at the woman, who was now leaning forward to look at the new guy. This brought her face into the light.

She looked deeply tanned and had dark eyes, and could have been any age between 20 and 40.

I could now see that there was a number stencilled onto her top: 47.

I look down and saw that I had my own number 46.

"Number 47." I said, looking at the woman. "If you can't remember your name, can you remember where you're from?"

She shook her head. "I have been awake for a while, and all I have been able to get is a splitting headache."

Her accent, while Canadian, was flavoured with something older. She wasn't tanned, her skin was dark.

"You're one of the First Nations peoples" I said. "Do you remember anything about that?"

"An Indian?" said the man whose stencil read '50'. "Looks like they'll take all sorts in this place."

"What do you mean by that?" said the woman, defiance in her voice.

"Nothing" replied 50 with a shrug. "But the big guy here a black man and I know im an Aussie. If this is some sort of international convention for amnesiacs, then the catering sucks--big time."

Big guy? I looked at the far corner. The huddled shape there was not big.

Then I realised that what I thought was a concrete water butt in the middle of the opposite wall was actually a large man curled up upon himself with his back to me.

He wasn't big. He was enormous!

I whistles through my teeth and said "He a big one."

"Ain't he just" replied number 50, a note of--Was it fear?--in his voice.

Don't let him dwell on it, was my first thought. Don't predispose him against someone you might need.

"You in the corner!" I said in a loud voice. "Are you awake?"

The Aussie instantly cut in on me. "Hey, cut it out, they're tiny. It could be a kid... I can't tell if its a boy or a girl because the bastards have shaved their head as well." He paused and then added. "But, just for the record, they're white."

"Why would a child be in here?" asked the woman.

The Australian didn't reply, but I thought I saw what might have been a laconic shrug

It was a good question. Where in the world are there prisons that even keep men with women, let alone adults with children?