by Anna Ferrara
Dried blood, I realised when I took a closer look. Gross.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
The bed frame under me groaned when Paul threw herself down on the mattress, next to my arms. Her eyes were on my legs and she looked somewhat impressed.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked. My voice came out croaked. Again. As croaked as it had been when I first woke at the Wonderdrug Psychiatric Centre after the falling incident. What was all this? A dream? Reality? Or just my mind playing tricks on me?
Paul held up three fingers in front of my nose. “Three days. That’s how long it took your body to recover.”
What the hell did that mean? “Where were you before?”
“Getting food so we wouldn’t die of hunger.” She reached behind me then handed me the box of Chinese takeout and disposable wooden chopsticks she grabbed. “The canned ones here were all expired, unfortunately.”
I had no idea what that meant either but I stopped caring because the sugary-sweet garlicky scent coming from the takeout box made my mouth water. Had it really been three entire days since I last ate? My stomach made a squelching noise as if to concur.
I ripped off the outer flaps of the takeout box and used the chopsticks to shove battered chicken, chilli peppers and sesame into my mouth.
Sweetness, saltiness and oiliness overwhelmed my senses at once. I realised then how hungry I was so I poured the whole box into my mouth and chewed as fast as I could. I thought that box of takeout was absolutely the most delicious thing I had ever tasted until, very abruptly, it stopped being so.
What had gone down really fast came back up even faster. I leaned over and regurgitated every last mouthful onto the floor.
“Guess you aren’t as cool and fun as you said you could be, huh.”
When my head came up again, I saw Paul grinning at me with her arms crossed. Her bare shoulders drew my attention to her outfit—a simple white singlet and skinny blue jeans. That blue hospital gown was gone! And she had makeup on! Eyeliner, mascara and blush, the full works. She actually looked rather decent, like a well-adjusted member of society, not in the least mental.
I, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. Not only did I now have puke around the sides of my mouth, I was also still in that thin, blue hospital gown which was at that point also full of patches and specks of dried blood. Whoever cleaned my limbs must have missed out the clothes.
“I didn’t want you to crumple your new ones,” Paul said. She reached over to the broken canvas chair next to the bed and threw the grey t-shirt and black jeans on it over to me.
A simple grey t-shirt and skinny black jeans. Exactly my style. Coincidence?
“Comes with a leather jacket,” she added and pointed to the two black jackets hanging on a circular rusted structure at a corner of the room we were in. It looked a little like a submarine’s door.
I rubbed gunk out of my eyes and looked around.
Next to the submarine’s door were floor-to-ceiling metal shelves full of canned food, glass bottles, tins, boxes of Kleenex, packets of Dixie cups and stacks of toilet paper—useful, considering there was a dated-looking toilet bowl and sink at the far end of the room. Behind the bed we sat on was a small table on which a stash of snacks, soft drinks and a vintage kerosene lantern—the sort you only ever got to see in movies about the 50s—lay.
Where in the hell were we?
“A fallout bunker,” Paul said out loud.
For real?
“Yes, for real. An electrician at Wonderdrug who was big on urban exploration found it. He didn’t tell anyone because he wanted to keep the place for himself. A rent-free housing option in case he lost his job or something.”
“Yet he told you about it?”
“Of course not. I heard him thinking about it. He doesn’t know I know.”
Right. Because you can read minds. Okay.
“I know it’s a lot to take in, Lane. But it is what it is.”
I nodded and looked around. “Did the takeout come with fortune cookies?”
“Yes, but it tastes bad so I’m not recommending it.”
“I’d like one. Please.”
Paul observed my face and began to smile in amusement. “Sure. If it’ll make you feel better.” She dug around the table behind the bed and tossed a small, shiny silver packet onto my lap shortly after.
I ripped open the packet, broke open the cookie and read the strip of paper in it in silence.
‘A good way to keep healthy is to eat more Chinese food,’ the strip of paper read.
“A marketing gimmick,” Paul said, without even looking at the strip of paper in my hands. “To get you to purchase more Chinese food, get it?”
Yes. Maybe. Or maybe... it was… a hint? If I ate more Chinese food, perhaps I’d find myself healthy again? Sane? Back in the world with laws I understood? Where people didn’t get their minds read and end up in fallout bunkers after jumping out of stairwell windows?
“Lane, for the thousandth time, you are not crazy or stuck in some dream.”
I shrugged and made up my mind to eat only Chinese food from then on anyway. “What did yours say?”
“‘The one you love will never love you back.’ Utterly rude, in my opinion.” She snatched the fortune slip out of my fingers and tossed it carelessly onto the floor.
I watched her and wondered if she was simply a twin or relative of the worm-loving Paul I played Snakes and Ladders with. Maybe they all had the same first name because it was a family tradition? Like Paul the third and Paul the fourth—
“You know what,” Paul suddenly said. “I think we better get you some fresh air.”
I didn’t know what to say to that so I said okay.
Chapter 11
Date Unknown
Paul turned the circular, wheel-like structure our jackets had been resting on and opened the fallout bunker’s circular door. Beyond it was a pitch-black, water-filled tunnel that smelled like death.
“Avoid things that float,” she said with a knowing smile and invited me to step out before her.
I did as she said and realised we were in the sewers—some place I’d always known of but never thought I’d ever end up standing in with a backpack full of snacks and sugary drinks on my back. I also had galoshes on my feet and a torch in my hand, thanks to Paul, which was great since brown water came to my ankles and the ground underfoot felt slick. The circular door creaked and shut with a dull thud after Paul made her way out and shut it behind her.
“This way,” Paul said. With a backpack, galoshes and a torch of her own, she led us through the tunnel, moving as if she had been through the route a thousand times. She was not in the least concerned about the slime or bad smells that seemed to be everywhere.
“Is it safe?” I asked and tried to keep up without splashing brown water onto my new clothes. We were the only things making sound. The vast expanse of quiet made me very uneasy, for some reason.
“Safer than it is above ground. Nobody will ever mug you here. Anyway, pay attention.” Paul turned and shined her torch back at the fork in the tunnel behind us. “We came from the right. Remember that. If we ever lose each other, find your way back to the fallout bunker. I’ll meet you there.”
“Why would we lose each other?” I asked.
“You never know. Look, you can use visual markers like these.” She shined her torch at a patch of blue graffiti on the damp brick walls ahead of us. It read: ‘ExiSTencE iS fLAWed’. “You’ll be going backwards so remember to look back every few steps and make mental notes as you go along.”
I nodded and obediently turned my torch towards the two dark tunnels behind us for a better look.
They looked equally creepy—the types of tunnels nightmares contained. Every sound coming from them, however soft, sounded like a threat. I couldn’t imagine what going through them all by myself would feel like.
Best to stick close to Paul, I decided. Until I fig
ured out what was really going on, at least. As bizarre as Paul seemed, as confusing as her presence was, the new version of Paul had an odd bravado about her that made me feel as if she could handle anything. Down here, she wasn’t the antisocial child-woman who only knew Snakes and Ladders. Here, she was a leader who knew exactly what to do and where to go.
Stick close to Paul and eat more Chinese food.
That was all I knew how to do.
We crawled out of a manhole like rats and ended up in an alleyway full of dumpsters and loose trash. It was night when we emerged. A few homeless people snuggled under the cover of shadows saw us but didn’t look particularly surprised.
I think I was more afraid of them than they were of us. I was in unfamiliar territory—their territory. The buildings we stood in the middle of, I did not recognise. The good-quality skyscrapers that looked like they belonged to the Financial District were nowhere in sight.
I heard a soft clang behind me as Paul replaced the cover of the manhole. Her eyes darted around everything afterward and seemed to be rich with thought. “Get rid of the galoshes,” she said and did exactly that herself. “I left a couple of crowbars behind that pipe over there, in case you ever need to get the manhole open.”
I followed her pointing finger to a silver ventilation pipe plastered against the side of a building and committed it to memory. The silver pipe stood out for it was huge and seemed to go all the way up to the sky.
“Come on, let’s move.”
I obeyed. I stashed my galoshes behind a dumpster as Paul had done and followed her down the alleyway in the new leather sneakers she had given me to wear with my new clothes.
Paul was fast yet quiet. I could hear my own footsteps but not hers. After going around a few bends, we came to a nondescript back door. Without even looking at me, Paul opened it and went right in.
I hesitated. I didn’t want to trespass. I feared doing so would land me in jail, with a criminal record that would make it impossible for me to find work ever again.
“Standing all alone in a dark alleyway in the deep of the night could bring you a fate worse than unemployment, Lane,” Paul’s voice suddenly said in my head.
I thought she made a good point. There was, after all, free food, clothes and shelter in jail, wasn’t there?
So I trespassed. I went right in.
I found myself in a commercial kitchen, surrounded by rows of industrial stoves, steel counters and fridges, underneath blinding white florescent lights.
My new sneakers slid unsteadily as I made my way across the oily ceramic floor in search of Paul. Amidst the heavy scent of dishwashing detergent, I realised I stank. I literally smelled like shit.
I spotted Paul a good distance away, crouched behind a steel counter, listening out the way an animal would.
“Where—”
“Shhh!” Her head darted towards me as her finger shot in front of her lips. She gestured to stay low, so I did.
I found a stack of boxes to crouch behind and followed her eyes to the far corner of the kitchen.
Two chefs, both fat, sat on a bench with their backs against the wall. Both of them had their eyes closed and arms crossed. One of them was even snoring a little. Above their heads was a clock with the hour hand pointed to the number four. Next to them, a pair of swing doors.
“Follow me. Quietly,” Paul said in my head. I nodded and did just that with no questions this time.
We made it past multiple fridges and sinks without a sound. Then, my luck ended. As we were going past the counters right in front of the chefs, my new sneakers lost their grip of the oily ceramic floor and my face propelled downwards, directly towards five tall stacks of porcelain plates.
“Shit!” I heard Paul say. Out loud. Next thing I knew, she was right in front of my face, with her hand over my mouth, holding up my body with her own.
How Paul managed to travel fifteen feet across a room full of obstructions in the blink of an eye, I did not know. Had I blocked out part of the event—as Dr Clark always said I had a tendency to do—because it had been unpleasant? I had no idea.
“Be very careful,” Paul hissed in my head, her body hot under mine. Her mouth never once moved. She was so close, I could see how dilated her pupils were and feel her chest moving against mine.
She seemed to be struggling to catch her breath whereas I felt oddly calmer. I felt safer with her right there, protecting me from screwing up. Safer than I felt when all alone.
We stared at each other for a pretty long time, without a word, until Paul eventually decided to let go of my mouth and take me by the hand instead.
She gripped me tightly and brought us towards the swing doors without a sound. The two exhausted chefs never once noticed the two Wonderdrug Psychiatric Centre escapees skulking past their knees.
Beyond the swing doors was a modern industrial eatery with long communal tables flanked by mismatched chairs under dangling Edison bulbs. It was deserted and all the Edison bulbs were switched off so it was pretty dark. Whatever light we could see with came from the brightly lit hotel lobby that was adjacent. The classical music we could hear came from that lobby too.
Paul let go of my hand and crept briskly towards the exposed brick wall which separated the industrial eatery from the lobby. She pressed her back against the brick wall and peeped out. I did the exact same because I didn’t know what else I was supposed to be doing in that situation.
The hotel lobby had raw concrete walls, gallery-style fittings and shiny upcycled furnishings. Perfume was thick in the air—the scent of white tea and peony, I think—and there were floor-to-ceiling factory windows that looked out onto a view of Manhattan.
Brooklyn? Was that where we were? I glanced at Paul and asked her that very question with my mind but she never heard me.
Her eyes were on the receptionist at the reception counter—a very nice-looking counter by the way, made of raw brick and glass. The receptionist had his head slanted down to the floor. His shoulders jerked violently from time to time so I figured he was playing a game on his phone or something.
“Are we going to check in?” I whispered. Paul shushed me again and stretched her arm out as if trying to push me against the wall. A strange, vacant expression came upon her face and for a very, very long time, Paul did not move a muscle.
When I say a very long time, I mean like almost a good half hour.
I waited in silence for a whole half hour with her arm across my body and did not dare move one bit. My legs fell asleep and the part of my arm that her hand touched eventually got a little damp.
I found myself wondering if Paul would ever move again and made up my mind to ask to be sent back to the Wonderdrug Psychiatric Centre if we did eventually end up getting caught.
Getting caught and ending up back at Wonderdrug sounded so good, I found myself a little disappointed when Paul suddenly inhaled a deep breath and dropped her arm.
“Are you... okay?” I whispered. I made sure none of my disappointment showed, of course.
Paul never replied that question. Instead, she turned her head up to the ceiling and kept it there as if she were watching something very intently. I followed her line of sight and noticed something most unusual.
There was a white keycard in mid-air, way above the head of the receptionist at the counter. As far as I could see, the keycard was not connected to anything—no strings, no strong wind from below. It was simply... levitating. And then, it was flying. Towards us. As if the hotel were haunted and spirits were trying to tell us something.
When the keycard arrived right above our heads, Paul stuck out a hand. The keycard fell right into it. She held the keycard up to me with a huge beam on her face and I could tell she was really proud of everything she had just done.
We went back out via the kitchen then the whole way around the refurbished 1930s building just so we could go back in through the front entrance. ‘The Canned Food Factory Hotel’ were the words writt
en in bright red lights running down the side of the building.
The receptionist at the reception counter lifted his perfectly-gelled head from the floor the moment we stepped in. He smiled as if the sight of us was the best thing he had seen all day, as if he hadn’t just been playing one of the most engaging phone games ever.
“Welcome back, ladies,” he said in a manner that was extremely warm and welcoming.
“Hi,” Paul replied. She led us right towards the old fashioned cage elevator at the corner as if she knew exactly where it would lead. I gave him a polite smile because I didn’t know what else to do.
“I would have liked the suite better, but it’s presently occupied,” Paul said when we both got into the elevator.
She pressed the button for the tenth floor.
I had no idea what we were doing at that point, so I didn’t bother saying anything at all.
Room 103—the room the flying keycard had access to—reminded me of my apartment. It had the same exposed brick walls and tired wooden flooring but was, maybe, eight times larger and had much better furnishings. Its industrial roughness was softened by vintage floral wallpaper on parts of the walls and there were heavy fabric textures all over the room which made it look cosy and luxurious.
A king-sized bed with a steel and leather headboard stood in the middle of the room between two wooden bedside lockers. Heavy floor-to-ceiling felt curtains in grey fell over the large industrial window that was in front of a table made of a plate of glass atop a stack of tin cans. Upcycled vintage closets stood against two walls while Warhol’s soup cans and a television screen hung in the middle of the others.
“Thought this place might make you feel at home,” Paul said as she closed the door behind us. She flung her backpack onto one of the two leather chairs around the tin can table and grabbed a bathrobe from the closet closest to the bathroom door. “It looks a little like your apartment, doesn’t it?” She smiled and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.