The Labyrinth of Souls

by Nelson Lowhim

  “Then fucking tell me,” I say. He doesn’t move, he only sizes me up.

  “She’s a threat. What else do you need?” he says.

  With those words, I think on an old riddle: you come across two men. One is in a cage, the other is outside tormenting him. Who do you blame? Of course you don’t get a request for information. Better yet, what do you do next? I grab a hammer.

  He laughs and it rattles my chest. “So you are against us.” He seems to grow. No, he is growing. The scalpel moves towards the woman. For a second I freeze. I see blood trickling down the woman’s face and her screams fill the room. The cages clang. I rush at him with the hammer. The scalpel falls, and he floats, dodging my swings, laughing at each stroke. I now see flesh between his shark teeth, and as he grows I realize I will need something more than a hammer. I make sure to leave the table within arm’s reach. Behemoth floats, changing shapes, changing faces too; at once he’s a teacher I liked from high school, my drill sergeant from basic training, and my mother and my father and my friends from the army. I’m sure this is a trick, part of this hallway of lies. I’ve seen magicians before and they have amazed me, so as much as my guts tell me to flee, I stand my ground.

  I swing to keep him at bay. For all try courage, I almost drop the hammer when I see he’s sprouting arms. And at the end of each arm, instead of hands there are spherical cameras. His mouth opens wide, spitting out all the words from all those faces from my life.

  “No!” I yell back and I throw the hammer as hard as I can at his head. Behemoth freezes and for an instant my mind imagines the hammer go through him. But it doesn’t, because he dodges it and opens his mouth wide, a deep black hole. And he smells of death.

  “I have it all,” he says, jiggling the cameras.

  And I know he’s right, so I push the papers on the table aside, revealing tools, pick up a wrench, and throw it at him, which he dodges.

  It’s only the muffled screams of the woman that pull me away from Behemoth. I pick up the scalpel and cut the bonds that tie her to the chair. I’m doing good, I tell myself.

  “Are you okay?” I say after all bonds have been cut, but her wide eyes are locked in on Behemoth. I stand her up, but find that she collapses into my arms. She’s soft, and I sense the humanity of her and a warmth comes over me; I know I’ve done good. Even if Behemoth or the hunters should cut my life down, I have done good.

  I pick up a large knife from the table and watch as Behemoth comes closer.

  “Let her go, she’s mine,” he says. I throw the knife at him. It misses him by a wide margin. My shoulder moans with pain. With all my might I keep from grimacing. I throw the woman over my shoulder. “We’ll get you out,” I say. Luckily, she’s light. I pick up a machete from the table and make my way to the aisle with the cages. Behemoth is keeping a respectful distance while still following me. I strain my neck to keep him in view. It’s not easy. The woman starts to squirm.

  “Easy,” I say. But she squirms even more. I put her down, holding her up because her body is like jello. “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  Her eyes, black in this light, take me in. I’m only glancing at her, keeping Behemoth in my periphery, keeping the machete at the ready. With my hands sweaty, the weapon threatens to slip out of my hands.

  The woman, still squirming, starts to mumble something. I lean in. Behemoth pretends to hear—cocking his head and nodding—and smiles, moving in. I swing the machete at him. He moves back, cackling, flesh flying out of his mouth, a sewer smell spewing out and forcing me to draw deep breaths through my own mouth.

  She continues mumbling.

  “What?” I ask, keeping my eye on this darting enemy of mine.

  Her hands claw at my clothes, my chest. Behemoth swoops away. I turn to look at the woman. There’s blood leaking down her chin from her nose. Small bubbles of blood form when she breathes. I stare for a second. Her eyes, half open, flitter from me to the Behemoth. The spark in them begins to dull.

  “Don’t,” I say, though I’m not sure how to finish the sentence. “Stay with me.”

  Behemoth cackles. “It’s too late. Your little terrorist is gone.”

  “Are you okay?” I say touching her cheek. “Talk to me.”

  She whimpers. I pick her up, and back away from Behemoth. I’m in the aisle amongst the cages again. A drum roll picks up. And though in each cage I see nothing but darkness, there must be people somewhere because the clamor is like a million fists against the bars.

  I keep backing away from Behemoth, glancing over my shoulder, thinking that this can’t be that easy, that I’m walking into a trap. But the door to that original hallway draws closer.

  “Wait,” Behemoth says. The drumming stops. He’s resting his chin on his hand, contemplating something.

  “What?” I ask. A few hands have flashed out from the cages. They’re nowhere near me, but I sense that they’re waiting for something. What was the drumroll for?

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  It’s a ploy to buy time. Taking a few steps from him, the woman in hand, I hear the beat start up again. This time it’s accompanied by shrieks and yells.

  Behemoth’s face darkens. “They were once like you,” he says nodding his head towards the cages. “And look at them now.” A few hands dart out from the cages. When one touches me, it seems friendly.

  “Just wait. You’ll see,” he says.

  I step back.

  Behemoth turns black. A small explosion blurs my vision. Now he is gone. There are only roaches, thousands of them coming at me. The cages are shaking with the drumroll, the shrieks. I turn and run.

  The buzzing or humming sound of roaches nears. In front of me stretches the gauntlet of hands. They’re friendly, I think to myself. If they were once me, they would know. Perhaps they will help to stop Behemoth.

  And I run as hard as I can. It’s been a long time—since my infantry days really—since I’ve run this hard with a body over my shoulder. I’m in no shape for this. And soon my lungs and thighs are burning. That doorway to the hallway seems so far. And suddenly I feel light, like I’m being lifted. I feel the hands from the cages on me. They’re helping. I sense, only briefly, a hope for the human spirit, that these humans, after so much horror, can still be full of love.

  Except Behemoth knows what he is doing. He knows that a caged bird doesn’t sing. Its spirit dies slowly, leaving only flesh to be molded. I’m lighter because the hands have grasped at her. They have taken her. I turn and look up. She is already out of reach. I lunge at the cages, grabbing the bars to pull myself up to her. The hands fight me. The drumroll has ceased and is replaced with a mournful shriek. The hands prevent me from climbing further up. She is far above now. Several stories high. I see Behemoth re-forming from the roaches. He too stares on.

  Looking straight ahead, I see the hollow eyes of the caged man in front of me.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask. I can hear my own voice crack, sense the sting in my eyes.

  He cocks his head and lets go of me. The other hands do the same. “You want me to let her go?”

  The woman’s body ceases to be carried by the hands. She stops, almost hangs, mid air.

  “Don’t—“

  “Why would we hurt her?”

  I read nothing on the street-grid of creases that form on his face.

  “Why are you taking her?”

  “You can’t outrun him,” he says and jerks his head at Behemoth.

  “Why are you taking her?” I ask again.

  But the man is gone. The hands return to lifting the woman and soon she is out of sight.

  Behemoth, his neck craned, to see the woman turns to me. I see the anger. My heart pounds fear and energy into my muscles. I jump down from the cages and I run. The drumroll resumes. I feel fire on my back. I turn for a split second to see him bearing down on me. I throw the machete. It misses. I turn, and there is the door. I open and slam it shut.

  The quiet of the hallway greets me a
nd I move away from the door. But it doesn’t so much as move. When my breathing has calmed down, I blink until my eyes adjust to the darkness. I still see the light at one end of the hallway. I smell the singular smells of an upscale apartment. The door still doesn’t budge. I back away from it, my eyes darting, trying to see where Behemoth could have been. There’s more hallway to clear, but I sit, spent from exhaustion.

  The sweat on my skin cools, as a breeze—that same sea breeze from the first room—sweeps through the hallway. I shiver. There has to be something I should be doing. Something other than sitting where I am.

  The wall I’m leaning against lets out a slight buzz. It tickles my skin so I move away. The buzz grows louder. It’s shaking the floor now. The air moves. It’s a helicopter. I stand up, my legs shaking.

  The source of the vibrations is at the lit end of the hallway. I turn away and start running. Looking over my shoulder, I see a shadow fly across the lit part. I run harder, using a new burst of energy. The hallway curves until I’m in complete darkness.

  The vibrations have stopped. My legs shake and I pause, hands on my knees, as I gasp for air. I stop halfway through each breath, trying to decide if there are any noises to be discerned. Nothing. All I smell is my own ammonia, sweat, with an iodine-hospital stench beneath that.

  Slowly my eyes adjust to this new darkness, though not completely. A hand on the wall and I pull it back. It’s stone and moss.

  The woman’s mutterings ring in my ear. I can see shadows. I know that behind me lies the original apartment, but in front it appears that there are stairs that lead down. I remember the cages. Should I go forward if I’m certain that all I will meet is misery, possibly hasten my own death? Or should I stay here.

  I almost scoff at myself. My drill sergeant’s voice blares in my ear. What am I thinking? I can’t stay here. Sooner or later the hunters will come. Won’t they?

  I’m not well. Sick in fact. I should run back to the real world. At least there I know what’s what, even if it all that leads to my capture. My death. This unknown is too much.

  There’s a flicker of light further down the hallway, from beyond the stairs. My heart starts to beat fast; sweat beads and drips down my forehead. I sense a shadow somewhere.

  The light grows stronger. I need to move on. Carefully, I walk down the stairs. They’re long stone stairs, slightly slippery from water that leaks down the walls. I stick out my foot testing each stair. And the farther down I go, the colder the air grows. I wonder if I should go back up. My skin tightens. The flickering light recedes just enough that I never see, always staying around the next corner.

  Finally I come to another long flat hallway. This one’s wide, with paintings further down. In some ways it reminds me of a museum. There are large arches on either side which, with the varied lighting, lead to other rooms, which I can’t make out, but I assume are large because the silence spilling out of each speaks of expansive spaces.

  This hallway is lit; nevertheless I see the source of the flickering light: a robot, cylindrical in shape, with a tinted top that must encapsulate a camera. My skin prickles. I turn and see that in fact there is nothing but a wall where the stairway I walked down should have been.

  The robot has stopped. I’m sure its eye is on me. I turn and walk towards where the stairway should have been. I’m scared and very aware of my mortality at this point. Inside my organs ache. This has been a bad day, and something tells me it will only get worse.

  Standing in front of the wall I glance over my shoulder. The robot, rather clumsily, makes its way to me. It pauses when I look. It’s meant to keep its distance from me then. And yet, if it’s so clumsy on what is a smooth, marbled floor, how did it manage to come down the stairs? I stare for a little longer. The robot is still. It’s patient, if anything.

  If I were to drop dead, the robot would stare me down, streaming whatever video it has of me to its master. My throat’s tightening, so I turn back to the wall. The stairs. Where could they be? I place my hand on the bricks. They too are smooth with water. The edges of mortar shine when I touch them, the condensation cold on my fingertips. I run my palm on the grainy brick. Leaning my weight into it I push. It doesn’t budge a hair. I turn and give it a slight donkey kick. The pain that runs from my knee to my skull lets me know that I need to figure out another way.

  The robot remains still.

  My eyes search for a way out. The vaulted ceiling really makes me think that I’m in a museum. But where? New York doesn’t have abandoned underground caverns of any sort. No, this is no Paris. Here everything is utilitarian.

  I fight back the urge to yell at the robot. Step by step, echoes ringing down the hallway, I make my way to the first archway. A gray-stoned arch, no taller than me, leads to a garden.

  The robot maintains its distance. Its tinted top glitters in the white light of the hallway. The archway emits a stronger light. I sweep the hallway once more with my eyes. There is no other movement. Directly across is a portrait painting of an old white man, bespectacled with a Puritanical look about him.

  I hear birds chirping and decide that the archway’s room needs exploring. Or perhaps it’s the sense that the air in the hallway is growing lighter.

  I step into a garden, that leads to a lake. The sun’s bright above, and my shoes sink into grass. It’s warm here. Warm enough that I shiver off the cold from the hallway and feel myself glow. I kick off my shoes. The soil is warm as well. I press in deep, feel the small stones in the earth.

  On one side there is a small stream leading to the lake; the other side is filled with a series of plants and bushes. Framing all this is a wall of the same kind as the hallway.

  The sky seems real. It’s a light blue day, like spring, and when I stare at the small intrusions of clouds, I see their edges wisp and morph as they race across. Yes, it’s real enough. I look back at the archway—it’s still open. A cold draft makes its way out here.

  I take another deep breath. This is spring air, all right. The smell of soil and bursting trees—though I see no trees—is strong. Maybe these walls are all that keep me from the outside. Maybe this is my way out.

  I try to climb up a wall. But it’s too slippery. So I run at it, kicking off and reach up to the sky. My hand hits something hard, though I can’t see it. I jump in another area. At the same height is the same barrier. Staring hard, squinting, I see nothing but the sky.

  Another cold blast and I walk down to the lake. The water in the stream is cool, not cold, and before it merges with the lake it runs over a flat tabled rock.

  I stand, barefoot, in this running water. There are boats in the distant horizon. I think I see people swimming. Beyond the water are mountains which rise up fiord-like. I see butterflies, and my heart opens up as if this is a place of rest. Final rest? I’m not sure. I’m not sure of much anymore. I try not to think of the ceiling. I want to believe that this is real.

  A whirring sound jerks my head back to the archway. I was sleeping. The robot is standing there. Its top is dark from this angle.

  Now I see that a swimmer is coming this way. I walk to where the grassy pathway turns into beach sand and small waves lap up the edge. The swimmer is getting closer, and though I can’t make out who it is, my brain fires, shakes and lets me know that it’s someone from my past.

  I sit on the sand. It’s bordering on hot, and I dig my toes into it. I pull off my backpack, unbelievable that I’ve been wearing it through all this, and pull out the book. Human skin. I’m still apprehensive about seeing what its contents are. The swimmer has come to shallow water. He’s in a wetsuit and wades. I flip through the book. There’s nothing there. At all. Is it meant to be a journal? Flipping once more, I still find nothing.!@#

  A shadow falls onto the book. I stuff it into my backpack and, shielding my eyes, I try to see who it is. I should be jumpier, but the man’s presence isn’t hostile, even if he shouldn’t be here at this lake in this city. A city I know that he hates and that he has promised never t
o come to. Or all this could be fake. A silly dream, my mind unable to deal with the extra stress of the hunted. As if to remind me, I feel a shadow overhead; a helicopter, I freeze. But when I look up it’s only a bird.

  “Hi.” He leans back and shifts his weight as if he can’t get comfortable. He also emits the sense that he’s surprised to see me here. As surprised as I am.

  “Hi Ben,” I say. I haven’t been keeping in touch with Ben recently. An old friend, he was always on the wrong side of the law, assuming there can be anything like a wrong side of the law, and so I thought he was in jail or dead.

  He looks up to the sky, where my gaze was just focused. “Being followed?”

  I squint hard at him.

  “I’ve been in your shoes before,” he says.

  But he hasn’t. I look at my toes. They feel so good with sand running through them.

  He stares at my toes.

  I’m not sure what to say. Though he’s a fan of dealing drugs and basically not understanding what other people’s property means, I’m not certain if I want to tell him what I’m in for. Hell, I’m not certain, but the moment I tread that topic, I know Ben will change. Everyone changes. You can feel the retreat when you say something about someone’s tribe. It happens to most people. It’s what being an ape from the plains does.

  “You’re getting that look,” he says, cracking a smile.

  I relax, even though his words sound accusatory.

  “What look?” I say when the silence grows oppressive.

  “Where you act like there’s something that’s too much for all your friends. That you’re a saint and you need, nay must, carry this cross for us.”

  I like the reference to the Holy Book. Not sure why.

  “So, what is it? What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing. I’m not even sure if you’re real.”

  He stares at me, his forehead furrows.

  “How’s life been?” I ask, hoping he’ll forget my last comment. Now that I’ve mulled over it it seems crazy, even though all logic points to him not being real.