Four walls of big green bottles.

   They were neatly piled upon each other, thirty feet high, with their caps pointing inward at him like accusing fingers. There was something floating inside them. It could be anything; water, booze or gasoline. He had never seen bottles like these before. He looked up. The color was white above the bottles. It could be a ceiling, it could be fog. He was not cold.

   The bottles were surrounding him on every side. There was about thirty feet between the walls in every direction, leaving him sixty square feet to dwell in. He was trapped. Trapped for real. If anyone in mankinds great history ever had been trapped, it was for sure him, right now. Slowly he sat down in the sand in the center of this happy place. He didn't remember when, or if, he'd ever gotten up. Actually, he couldn't remember anything. Anything at all. Was there anything to remember?

   The situation looked even worse from this point of view. The bottles lay uneasy on the sand. This could not be the optimum place to build thirty feet high bottle walls, he thought. He didn't feel too good. He feared the bottles at any given time, would choose to come tumbling down and crush him, as well as themselves, into smithereens.

   He dug his hands into the sand and let it seep through his fingers. Repeatedly. He sat like this for a while, trying to erase the bottle walls from his mind. The sand was soft, and easy to play with. He began to relax. He almost felt good watching his fingers with half closed eyes as they worked the sand. He had pretty fingers, he thought, smiling a little.

   Suddenly he stopped. The green walls came back to him. He raised his head. Even the caps were green he noticed. He emptied his hands and buried his head in them, rocking it slowly. «What am I doing in a crazy, dreamlike place like this!», he mumbled sore. Something inside him ordered him to stop whining and start thinking. He stopped the rocking, and started reluctantly to think. Time moved along, but he didn't even come close to a reasonable answer..... or anything. Thinking felt like running in a dream. He tried to focus. There was no way he would find an answer to why he was here, but his dim mind maybe could stumble over an answer to how he could get out. At least he was pretty sure it could tell him if he could get out.

   He rose and went over to one of the walls to inspect these strange bricks. But as he came closer, the movement in the sand made by his feet disturbed the bottles. He heard them stroke each other brutally as the ground changed underneath them. He froze. And slowly, slowly he backed to his safe spot in the center. He sat down carefully with a sigh, but didn't dare to breathe before the bottles fell to peace.

   He sat dead calm for a long while. Didn't do anything to upset the bottles again. He was waiting. He was making himself ready for his next step. Not that it was a good move, but he couldn't go on leaving it untried. At last he slowly got to his feet. Standing he tilted his head upward. Not a sound. He filled his lunges, raised his head, and shouted the best and loudest he could; - HEEELP!!!.

   It sounded strange, he thought. It even sounded stupid and inappropriate. But nevertheless, he shouted help a good dozen times more. But there was no reply, and the bottles grew restless. So he let it go. It was a dead end anyway, he sighed in his mind. «Who would be stupid enough to hang around near a crazy place like this unless he was trapped like him». He lay down with his face in his hands. He didn't cry, but he sure would have liked to. He fell asleep.

   He woke up feeling something lying beside him. Dazed he touched it without opening his eyes. It was sharp. Sucking his bleeding thumb, he looked at the broken glass. The former bottle's contents was sunken into the sand. The impact had been only a short distance from where he had laid. Apart from the shattered bottle, nothing had changed. The thousands of bottles greeted him by just being unchanged. How long had he been asleep? He didn't know, but he had to take a pee. He crawled as far as he dared to one of the corners, and made his business standing on his knees. The bottles didn't mind. He crawled back and found that he was hungry. He was hungry, but was ten times more thirsty. His throat ached, and his mouth was as dry as the sand he kneeled in (except for the corner he just had visited).

   He rubbed the sand and the sleep from his eyes, tried to spit, (with no success), and rose stiff to his feet. He stared at his enemies. They stared back. He reached out his right hand against the bottles and extended his longest and ugliest finger. - Why can't you assholes leave me alone?, he whispered between his teeth. - Disappear!, he whispered and closed his eyes.
   - Disappear!. But the bottle walls were still present when he opened his eyes again. Tired he sat down, crossed his legs and stared into the sand. He finally began to understand for real how hopeless the situation was. He'd die here unless a miracle came strolling by. But that would never happen. Miracles only appears in paperbacks and tasteless movies..

   Maybe he should end it himself, he suddenly thought. Just save some time (pain). It would be easy. He could just stroll over to that fucking wall and kick it in the balls. It would be over in a second. Half a second waiting as the bottles fell down, and half a second pain as they crushed every bone in his body. Then it would be over.

   He liked the idea.

   He decided to do it when he couldn't stand it anymore. That moment was, however, not so far away. Any minute now, he could reach out his hand and touch it.
 

Two

   Time went on like it is used to. Hunger and thirst for real sneaked up on him. Especially the latter. He tried to lick some of the broken glass, hoping there would be just a little fluid left on it that could help against his dreadful thirst. But the broken glass was as dried out as his mouth. He crawled around in the sand as close as he dared, and looked at the ugly green bottles. But he might as well stay in his little spot and look at one of them from there. They were all disgusting alike. Made in the same ugly image. He sat for hours playing with one of the sharper pieces of the broken glass. Dragging it slowly over the artery of his left hand. One quick cut, and it would be over. He could even reach to have a sip of his blood before he headed for Kingdom Come. The thought appealed so much to him that the sensible part of his mind almost had to come out of his head to tell him that this was insanity, and also a game for chickens. Reluctantly he threw the piece away.

   He fell asleep again. He dreamt a lot.

   He dreamt that he went over to the wall and pulled out one of the bottles, and the foundation didn't move! It just stood strong with a hole where the bottle had been. Like a grin with a missing tooth. But he didn't reach to drink from the conquered bottle, before he moved on to the next dream. He woke up by a thud right beside his head. A bottle had fallen down, and now it stood just beside him, straight up. It was unbelievable. Unbearable disappointment when he found out that he couldn't open it. The cap was too tight, and he couldn't break the glass. He cried and shouted, but it just wouldn't open.

   Confused and red eyed he woke up with glass all over his back. A bottle had fallen just beside him. He didn't think about what it would have been like if the bottle had aimed just a little better, but threw himself over the broken glass, and licked it hopefully. There was something left on some of the pieces. It tasted great, but it only made him more thirsty. (If that was possible). Maybe he should try to make one more of them fall down, he thought wildly. But he didn't dare. They only seemed to come when they wanted to themselves, and if someone forced them, they might bring along some friends. Some thousand of them.

   He had a pee in the latrine of his, cleared away the broken glass and lay down again. He couldn't sleep though. He thought about blood and broken glass and green bottles filled with something good that would take the thirst away. He started to laugh. It was kind of funny though. Being stuck in a prison with green bottles as walls and some white fog as a roof. It was perfect. Those who had put him here must have had a good laugh too. But his laughter was not good. It was an unhealthy laughter, and the bottles didn't approve. They made a thundering sound that grew louder as he laughed. When he heard it, he stopped immediately.

   So did they.
 

Three

   He played with the sand again. Remotely, while he was thinking. Thinking without involving his brain. Thinking of green and white, water and milk, coca-cola and beer, hamburger and pizza. And sand. Tons of sand.

   How long he sat like this he'd never know. But when he finally came around, he had dug a two-feet deep hole in the dry sand. He looked at it astonished, before he continued to dig. The sand fell back into the hole as he proceeded, but he just widened it and threw the sand so near the bottles as they accepted.

   Hours later the hole was two feet deep, and almost four feet wide. He didn't know why he did this. He hardly knew he actually did it. During one of his short breaks he fell asleep. Dreamless sleep.

   When he woke, he had come to his senses a little. He looked around. No bottles had fallen down while he was asleep. He looked at the hole, vaguely remembering that he was the project-leader. Far, far in the back of his mind a little thin voice whispered something he had known sometime in the distant past; «There's water down in the ground - If you dig far enough». His heart started to pound a little harder as those wise words materialized in his mind. «It's worth a try», he thought, and started to expand his hole in every direction. He found a big piece of broken glass, and used it as a shovel. The thirst was unbearable, but he shoveled the missing of fluid into one of the few vacant holes in his mind, and covered it with sand as he went on digging.

   He worked for hours, not letting it get to him every time the dry sand slid back into the hole ruining the last half an hour of digging. The thought of finding water drove him on like a madman, as he made the hole wider and deeper. The bottles were silent. Watching him. Mocking him. He didn't give them a thought. He just dug. It looked like a sandstorm had raged there. It looked like a sandstorm had raged on him. He had sand in his eyes, in his ears, his throat, his mouth and in other holes of his body (that will not be mentioned here). His fingers bled and his clothes looked like they had been..,yes washed in sand.

   By the time the hole was big enough to contain him, he had seen no sign of water. Infact, the sand was as soft and dry as it was on Ground One. He had forgotten how thirsty he was as he worked, but now it came back to him like a thunderstruck. He almost couldn't breathe. His troath felt like he had been shoveling the sand into his mouth and swallowed it, instead of spreading it on the sides.

   Exhausted and wet with sweat he rolled down into the hole. He felt miserable. His last hope had failed him. It was over. From the position on his back in the hole he only saw the top of the bottle walls. If you only could drink sweat, was his last thought before he fell into a coma.
 

Four

   When he woke up he wished he was dead. Every single one of his muscles ached just like as if he had run a marathon, twice. Even his eyelids hurt. If this had been a hangover, he'd never have touched a bottle for the rest of his life. But most likely he wouldn't anyway.

   He forced himself to stay awake, and began to get up, and out of his hole. He tried to breathe as carefully as he could, but it hurt him just as bad as normal breathing, so he went back to that. He wondered how he could stay alive with all those razors in his throat.

   A long while, and pain beyond imagination later, he stood on the top of his hole looking down, and then up. - Hello, fellas!, he croaked between cracked lips. One of the fellas had fallen down beside the hole when he had been asleep. It was broken, but he didn't care to check it. He had made up his mind, he was going for the grand prize today. And to get that, he had to go over to the goodfellows, and give them a royal kick in the nuts. His grin cracked his lips, and blood ran down his chin. He ignored it and limped over to the wall. It grew uneasy. And then, as he approached, wild. For every step he took, the noise from the bottles grew stronger, and stronger. Four feet away the volume was enormous, it would fall down any second now, he had to kick fast if it should be any fun. But then, for some reason, he backed fast into his hole again.

Shivering he fell down, praying that the noise would end.

   It took some.....
 

Five

   ....time.

   He wondered why he had backed out. Why fight, there was no hope anyway, ....or was there? He looked around in the hole. Thinking. No it wouldn't...., No, no.... But what if..., No way... But maybe...Yeah, and.... Suddenly he got exited. It might work. Something not far from a plan began to form inside his tired head: What if he could make the bottles fall down when he was (almost) safe in his hole covered with sand. Yeah, that was something he could like. He just needed a rope or something he could tie to one of the bottles. Then he could pull the rope when he was safe in his hole. The impact from a couple of thousand bottles would probably kill him, and if they only mutilated him, the lack of air would soon end the pain. But there was a tiny, tiny chance he could make it. Anyway it was better than to simply go kicking the wall. That was for sure a certain way to meet ones maker. He took the shoelaces from his shoes, and tied them together. They were more than long enough. Now he just had to tie one end to one of the bottles. That would be one of the harder parts.

  He crawled through the sand with the shoelaces in his mouth. He tried to ignore the rising rumble, but he felt increasing panic touch his mind. He forced himself to move on as the thunder rose to extreme heights. It became a part of him. «Now I die», he whispered, as the bottles began to fall around him. But he stood (or more correct, lay) his ground, and started to tie the shoelaces around the neck of one of the bottles a couple of feet over the sand. With nerves he didn't know he had, he made sure that the knot was strong enough to take the pressure when he pulled the rope from his grave of sand. It held, and he retreated. A bottle crushed his left heel halfway back to the hole, but that was the only direct hit from the enemy after his successful mission. Back in his hole he sat down and looked upwards, trying to avoid the last falling bottles. Half a dozen of them rained down, but their aim was too poor.

   After a seemingly endless eternity the earthquake fell reluctantly to peace.

   He started to breathe again. He had made it, it had been a close call, but he had made it through the second most dangerous part of his plan. Then suddenly he discovered that two of the bottles lying in the sand were not broken. He grabbed one of them, unscrewed it (with no problemo), and emptied it. He didn't know exactly what he drank, but it was heaven. He drank the other.

   In excellent mood he shuffled the sand back to the sides of the hole, so he could bury himself. As he laid down in the hole, he understood that it wouldn't be easy. The lower parts of his body was childs play, but the further he came up his body, the harder it was to cover it properly. He had a couple of feet extra line, so he could work casually not having to think about accidentally starting armageddon before time.

   Eventually he could drag his right arm down into the sand, and get ready to pull the rope. He had put the two empty bottles over his face, so he had a little room to breathe in. His nose would probably break, but noses can be fixed.

   He lay still for a while, a long while.......

   then....

   he....

   pulled.... the rope.
 

Six

    It sounded like the world came to an end.

   And so it felt, too. His nose broke just as the first bottles hit the ground. Warm blood filled his mouth. The bottles over his face also broke, and cut his face in a dozen places. He felt the thousand and thousand of bottles crush into the sand over him. The impacts would make his body all over yellow and blue, but that would be a small price for escaping this prison. The cacophony from the tumbling bottles almost made him mad. It was like the whole scenario took place inside his head. He couldn't take this much longer.

   And then it stopped.

   All the bottles had fallen down, and it was time to get up. He tried to move. He couldn't. Panic arose.

   «Calm down, calm down». He urged himself. «The sand is loose, just release yourself a little by little, then you'll make it, eventually». «Hopefully...», his pessimistic self shot in, «...if the air supply doesn't break down, or you don't bleed to death, or have broken arms and legs. Yup, I think panic is the best thing to do. Most definitely»

   - Shut up, he murmured behind his teeth, and started to move his fingers carefully. After a while he could move them enough to begin digging upwards.

   Some time with hard, patient, work, he got through the top with his left hand. The sand was wet....... and packed.

   Panic knocked at the door again, and he let it in. He wriggled and kicked and dug like he was going wild beyond sanity. New power had seemed to slip in together with panic. An hour later with cursing, resting, digging and crying, his face suddenly was free from the sand.

   Broken glass everywhere. He bled like a pig from his hands, and as he proceeded through the mountain of bottles, the rest of his body also got badly cut. The bottles were a little easier to handle than the sand. They slipped obedient away when he pressed upward. And soon, he could finally push away the last bottles and rise on the green mountain. Blood ran like rivers from his body, and he knew that if he didn't find someone that could help him soon, he might as well have spared the hole.

   He began to walk the mountain. He couldn't see much, it was to bright, and blood and sweat flooded his eyes faster than he could wipe them. It was not easy to walk. His left foot was not capable of more than a short, fast step at a time, and that was not easy on this ground. He fell often, cutting himself even more. But he struggled on, almost insane with pain. Suddenly a black hand appeared in front of his face.
   - Come here, son, it's over now, the hands owner said. Slowly he reached his bloody hand to the Negroes. He grabbed it in a strong grip, and got yanked up from the bottle hell, and onto a concrete pavement. He fell down to his knees, still holding the black mans hand, whispering; - Thank you, thankyou, thankyou. He started to cry.

   - Now, pull yourself together, corporal Johnson, the black man roared, - this is not a girlschool.

   Bricks suddenly fell together into the right places in his mind.

   He looked up, - Sergeant Morgan?, he asked, with the voice of someone who is waking up.
   - Bullseye, the sergeant smiled, - I'm glad your coming around again, corporal, it looked risky there for a while.
   He got to his feet, and felt his memory slowly return. The sergeant lay his hand on his shoulder, and lead him towards the door. The whole scene had taken place in something that looked like a hangar. The bottles lay down in a grave, from which he just had crawled up from, in the middle of the hangar. They looked like a green ocean now. The white fog, had just been bright light on a white ceiling. He saw it clearly now, when he was close. But he didn't see the cameras he knew were there.

   He turned to his sergeant,
   - How did corporal Neal do, sir?, he croaked.
   - Oh, he is not out yet, but he's on the right track, not your solution, though. He wasn't sure, but wasn't there a tiny bit of admiration in the big mans voice? The sergeants went on:
   - Except for corporal Meyers, which drew the longest straw between you this time, no one has returned yet. We'll gather up those who haven't made it by the day after tomorrow. The sergeant opened the door,
   - Well, corporal Johnson, you've made it through the introductory-tests, the extreemphysicals, the psycologicals, the ball-tests, the semi-brainwash, and now the bottle-test. He smiled with strong white teeth,
   - I guess that just leave us the climate-test, then you'd be ready to be shipped out. Sergeant Morgan clapped his shoulder and closed the door behind them.

   Finally.......... ........ Silence.

   Except for a couple of uneasy green bottles.