The sign for the motel, masked in creeping darkness, almost wasn’t visible from the highway. Only a faint illumination with the name Olympia glowing through the fog. When he drove through the parking lot there was only one other car there, which suited him fine. He went into the office to rent a room. The manager, a large guy with a bald spot growing on his head, was sitting behind the counter with a small TV on the desk. His head didn’t move, only his eyes shifted to the door at the sound of the bell, and then right back to the TV screen.

                “I’m looking for a room for two nights.”

                “Hundred bucks,” the manager groped at the key rack behind him, grabbed a key off the wall and tossed it on the counter. “Need to see some I.D. too.”

                The man peeled off a third fifty and laid it on the counter. “Here’s my I.D.”

                The clerk looked it over, folded it, and put it in his shirt pocket. “Have a pleasant stay, Mr. Johnson,” and he turned back to his TV.

                He drove around behind the building, hiding his car from the highway. He walked around to the front and looked in the only other car there in the parking lot. It was full of take-out containers and bottles, typical fair for a traveller. He considered breaking into their room to make sure they weren’t someone to worry about. He had been careful, there was no way they were ahead of him yet. Still, he slashed their back tires to be safe.

                He stepped into his motel room, kept the lights off, stepped into the shadows, and closed the door. There was no such thing as being too cautious. Not anymore. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness and surveyed the room.

                It was typical fair, basic, and stripped down. There were two single beds with a nightstand between them, and a lamp on the nightstand. Brown, threadbare curtains covered the window at the front, letting in some light from the parking lot. In front of the window, there was a single small table with a chair beside it and an empty ashtray. A telephone on the desk with a small booklet that had a list of numbers to call in the area. The carpet was worn down in obvious pathways where people have come and gone. There was a wooden dresser with a TV on it, VCR, no DVD player. A big thick plastic cord with a padlock on it locked the TV down. The dresser looked like it was made of a thin veneer; cheap wood and compacted particle board, different bits and pieces press together.

                He kept the lights off. With the Agency wanting him dead he wasn’t taking any chances. He used a small flashlight and made his way around the room to check for bugs. He was thorough, checking all the usual spots, and found four bugs, including one obvious camera in the bathroom. He laid them all out on the bed. It was old tech. Stuff that might have been left behind by the proprietors of the motel. Collecting data and compromising images of their guests, possibly for blackmail purposes. This was not anything he should be worried about. He made a mental note to check with the manager before he left, make sure his own image was scrubbed from their files.

                This wasn’t set for him. No one knew he was here yet, he kept reminding himself. Still, the paranoia was starting to get to him. Constantly looking over his shoulder, taking three right turns to make a left. The shadows had a habit of morphing themselves into steel-eyed agents, regardless of how many chaotic choices he made to keep them off his trail. They hadn’t found him yet; he could relax for a night.

                He destroyed the tech, wrapped it all in a plastic bag, and threw it in the garbage, he would deal with it all in the morning. He unpacked his suitcase and as he walked towards the bathroom with his shaving kit, he tripped on something large underneath the carpet. Strange, how did he miss such a large lump? Maybe he was so focused on the typical hiding places that he’d trained to look for that he forgot about the obvious. Couldn’t see the trees for the forest. Or was it the forest for the trees? This was what stress and exhaustion looked like. Sloppy little mistakes. He threw back the rug, expecting to find some large ancient microphone to catch audio – surely there wouldn’t be a camera lens there – may be some sort of transmitter to boost a signal. Instead, there was a big cork sticking out of the ground, like a wine bottle that had been opened and sealed again.

                His curiosity got the better of him and he grabbed the plug, tried to pull it out, and see what was inside. Nothing about it made much sense. It was too small to hide anything, not to mention the giant plug ensured someone would find it. He pulled but it didn’t budge. With a little wiggling, it should pop out. He put his feet on either side and grabbed with two hands. It was a little small but he pulled up, pushing with his legs. Still nothing. He was frustrated and went to his bag and found a pair of pliers. He grabbed it with the pliers and wrenched it back and forth, until he thought he was going to tear it apart when –

                *POP*

                The cork came out. And that was when the vacuum started.

                At first, it was light, almost like a central vac system. He could feel the pull, but it barely pulled his hair out of place, let alone the edge of the rug. Gradually though it increased in pressure, in strength. He could feel it pulling at his clothes. Then the notepad flew off the desk, the list of numbers by the phone flew off the nightstand. Then the TV fell off the dresser, held back only by the cord that secured it to the wall. He tried to stand up and walk away, only he was pulled back down to his knees. His hands closed on empty space as he searched for something to grab onto. He was pulled closer to the hole, everything that he did get a hold of was ripped from his hands. When grabbing hold of things failed, he tried to push himself away. His palms slipped against the floor until he was staring down directly at it. And then he was pulled in.

                He experienced the strangest sensation of having his body squeezed down to size as he was sucked down into the hole. It wasn’t painful, but a weird discomfort as his body was first compressed, then expended out again. Then he felt his body snap back to size like a rubber band. He couldn’t see a thing, darkness in every direction, but there was the sensation of moving. A breeze flying past him like he was in a convertible with the top down. None of his training ever prepared him for this. He screamed out, Help! And the first place he thought of as he was flying through this empty abyss was home. There was the sensation of stretching and squeezing and contortion of his body again. Then he popped out of the hole and landed with a thud on the floor.

                He looked around; it wasn’t the motel room that he left. He stood up and dusted himself off. He took the room in again and recognized the basement. There was a familiarity to it; not of any of the stuff inside, but the shape, the smell of it, the walls, the layout. It was a familiar place, but it had changed. His childhood home, a place he hadn’t lived in for 30 or 40 years. What was he doing here? How did he get here?

                Things were different than he remembered. There used to be orange carpet, wood panel walls, a used brown couch indented from years of use, and an ancient, huge tube TV set. In the corner was where his dad’s chair went, a gross looking off yellow and green where he would come down after work and watch the news. Now everything was sleek modern, clean lines. No couch anymore, no chair. It looked like it was more for storage, a place to hold things instead of enjoying. Shelving stuck out from the walls, there was a workbench with tools arranged in place. Replacing the orange carpet was a linoleum floor. But he could feel it in his bones that this is the place he grew up in. The place that he had called home.

                He went over to the stairs and slowly ventured up. At least those were an acceptable change for the better. They used to be old, creaky, and unstable stairs where each step you felt like you were taking your life and your hands. Now there were solid, reinforced, and running straight. They were walled off at the bottom to make a little room for storage. Probably not the old paint cans and turpentine his father used to keep there, dirty rags and paintbrushes. He went up the stairs and opened the door to the kitchen a crack to see what was going on. He looked around and had the same feeling, a strange familiarity, but at the same time not. He could feel the essence of the kitchen he grew up in, where his mom would make simple dinners during the week, a casserole or sandwiches, bacon and eggs. Weekends would be a big elaborate dinner, roasts with potatoes and carrots and beans. Especially Sunday dinner when they would often have people from church over for a big potluck.

                It was a nice stroll down memory lane, but that was all they were now, memories. So, what was he doing here? And how did he get here? Of course, it had to do with that plug and the hole he found under the rug in the motel.

                Back in the basement, he found that same cork plugged into the floor that had brought him here. He grabbed a hold of it, hoped it would bring him back to that dingy motel room. It was looser than the first time, and he pulled it out. There was the same vacuum that pulled things off tables and shelves. It lifted him, stretched him out, compressed him, and sucked into the hole.

                He came out the other end and landed with a thud on the wooden floor of his motel room. He brushed himself off and looked back at the hole in the floor, once again plugged up. Would this hole only take him to his childhood home, or could it bring him other places as well? There was only one way to find out. He chewed on his thumbnail, thinking of what to do next. Weighing his options and their possible outcomes. Maybe nothing would happen at all. He would pull the plug, there would be a hole, and that was it. Maybe he would be pulled back to his childhood home. Maybe he would be pulled somewhere else.

                What did he have to lose? He needed money to keep running. So, he thought of that, hoping it would bring him to a bank vault where he could pocket a bunch of cash. He pulled the plug out, the vacuum began, and he was pulled inside.

                He popped out in the dim light of a closed store. After his eyes adjusted, he realized he was surrounded by jewellery cases. He moved quickly, prying them open and filling his pockets with gold necklaces, jeweled rings, and silver coins. He stuffed them full and cursed himself that he hadn’t brought a bag as well. He hoped he could come back. He could go anywhere he wanted and keep plundering until he had enough to survive.

                He went back and found the plug. His heart thumped in his chest as he reached for it, hoping that it would bring him back. He pulled the plug, his body contorted and compressed, and he was sucked into the hole. He pipped back out in the motel room.

                He emptied his pockets, spreading all the jewellery on the bed. He would have to sell it somehow to get money he could use, but it was a start.

                His cell phone rang twice and then the caller hung up. It rang again, once, and they hung up again. It rang twice more and stopped. That was the signal. He pulled out a device that would scramble his location. When the phone rang again a minute later he answered.

                “Pizza box lunch,” the person on the other end said. He breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar voice of his old partner Janice, and the code they had set up for a secure conversation. “Where are you, are you in a safe place?”

                “For now. A roadside motel in the middle of nowhere.”

                “Remember, don’t stay more than a couple of days.” She paused, the phone going quiet like she was working up to tell him something. “I hear they’re closing in. I don’t know exactly what they know, and I don’t want to know anything from you. But the only way to stay safe is to keep moving.”

                “Keep moving, is that all I’ve got now? Is my life simply going to be shifting locations every couple of nights, constantly looking over my shoulder?”

                “Unless you can think of a completely safe location that they can never find; I’m sorry to say, this is your life now.”

                He looked back at the cork sticking out of the floor. A safe location, was it possible? Janice’s voice cut in again.

                “Blacktop Recess,” the phone went dead.

                That was their code red. Something had happened, and he didn’t have much time left, he wouldn’t be spending the night. He rushed around the room packing up his bag to leave when he saw the cork in the floor. There was a chance.

                He bent down and grabbed the cork; it was even looser than it had been like it was just placed there. He barely had to pull to get it out. The vacuum began, ruffling the curtains and pulling at his clothes. He closed his eyes as it became more intense, until he was pulled off his feet, compressed down, and sucked into the hole.

                He came out the other end and landed on his chest. He got up and looked around, he was in a boxed room, square, and sterile white. There were no doors or windows that he could see, no way to get in or out. It was what he wanted, he supposed. He was looking for a safe place and here, wherever here was, seemed like just that. If he went back and gathered up supplies, he could hole up here for a long while. Give himself time to rest and think about what he could do next.

                He looked to the floor and that was when the panic set in. The cork was gone. The floor was flat.

                “Hello!” He called out. “Is anybody there? Hello!”

                The empty room echoed back to him.