The last thing I remember was… No, I can’t even remember that. Where the hell am I?

Forget that — who the hell am I?

I awake to silence. There is a foul smell hanging in the air which I can’t describe. I look around. I’m surrounded by huge towers of neatly stacked crates that go on forever. I have no idea how big this place is but even through the haze of my dulled senses I soon realise that down here at the bottom of the stack it’s cold and dark and stinks like hell. The labels on the crate near me read ‘Cold Fun! (Do Not Heat, Radiate, Shake or Mix with Food Supplement #334!’ I make a mental note never to touch the stuff.

I’ve been laying on the ground with nothing to cushion me against the cold concrete floor. As I slowly pick myself up my joints and muscles ache in protest. I try to shake out the numbing cold to little effect.

I walk around the place for some time, calling out for someone to help me. No reply. I find a small patch of illuminated floor and examine myself. I’m wearing a red t-shirt, red trousers, red belt, red socks and red shoes. Whoever I was, I had a rather monomaniacal attitude to clothes, I think to myself. Then I realise something else – I have a beard. I wonder to myself if it too is red.

Apart from my singularly red clothing all I have on me is this diary. This is of little help since someone has ripped out all the preceding pages. Whoever is responsible for my predicament certainly doesn’t believe in making things easy.

Suddenly the stomach cramps hit me. At first I think it’s the just the smell of that Cold Fun but then I realise its hunger that’s tugging on my insides. As I stand doubled up like a grotesque statue a single question creeps into my head. How long have I been unconscious? My mind retreats from the pain with more questions, none of which I can answer. The piercing cold and the pain in my guts soon bring me back.

I scuttle around the hard unforgiving floor, trying to ignore the pain in my belly, looking for a loose tin or packet of food. I find nothing. I take to my feet and look for a pile of crates short enough to climb. I search and search but each pile stretches far into the heights above, way beyond my reach.

There seems to be no end to the coloumns of crates and the intervening corridors of empty space. Frustration and anger take their place next to fear and hunger as each and every stack seems to be taller than the last. My tired limbs fight with my nagging belly and eventually win the argument. For a while at least, I give up the hunt for food. Turning into yet another empty corridor I take a seat on the lone crate resting before me. I sit down and silently curse the inhuman scale of this place.

I stand up and test the lid. It’s stuck fast. Dimly aware of the dire warnings I’d read earlier I’m nevertheless determined to open the crate. I decide I have little option but to smash the blasted thing against the floor as hard as I can. The crashing sound fills the place with strange echoes.

After considerable effort the crate gives in and surrenders its contents. In front of me is a small mound of what I desperately hope are some kind of food container. On closer inspection they appear to be small black plastic trays, square, with a thin tear-away seal on top. On the front of is each is printed the name Cold Fun in large red type.

Cold. Fun. I read the name over and over. It provokes no memories. I run my fingers over the bold type. It comes as a shock when it occurs to me that, here and now, Cold Fun is the only name I hold in my mind.

I tear open a packet. Within the flimsy tray sits an ominous slab of colourless gummy paste. I prod it with my finger. I watch as the thick grey gloop takes several seconds to repair the dimple I’ve just made in it. I rotate the tray in my hands and watch as the contents refuse to react to the movement. A rotten smell begins to penetrate my nose and a cold sweat comes over me. I try not to heave.

I pinch my nose with one hand and gingerly tilt the tray towards my mouth with the other. After nearly a minute the foul-smelling Cold Fun finally slides out of its container and past my trembling lips, apparently as unhappy about this encounter as I am. The gloop slowly makes its way into my mouth. To my considerable surprise I find it devoid of all character. There is no discernable texture or flavour. It is neither chunky nor smooth. It fills my stomach but offers absolutely no sense of satisfaction or refreshment. I wonder to myself, how can something so bland smell so bad?

The hunger pains retreat. I finish the Cold Fun and stuff my pockets with a couple more packets. I rest awhile on the crate. My stomach begins to work on the food and my body warms slightly as the muscles relax. I gaze at the broken crate and the mess of Cold Fun packets across the floor. I look ahead into the blank corridor between the rows of crates.

My body’s demands have been partly satisfied, for now, but my mind is as restless as ever.

I know it is time to move on.

I stand up and walk down the blank corridor. Minutes pass and I wonder if this place will ever come to an end. I try suppressing the fear that rises in my chest. Then I realise that I have plenty to fear. I don’t know where I am, who I am or what is waiting for me beyond this place. Then, in the far distance, I see a wall. And a door! I hurry to finish this diary entry before I leave this place. I hope that somehow it will help unlock this mystery I find myself in.

Voices! I can hear voices outside beyond the wall. People talking. And machines. Machines talking. I feel a mixture of fear and elation! Are these people, these machines, my friends? Or my enemies? My lifeless memory offers up no clues. One voice in particular stands out. It sounds neither human nor metallic. It has a strange calm to it. It is asking a question. Over again, it is asking the same question.

Are you happy, citizen?