by Enoch Enns
Shivers trailed down his spine as he tried standing once more, this time successfully. Propping up against the corner block, he surveyed the second floor with more clarity. Where is everyone? Where are the lights?
The light. Last time he recalled, the place was gleaming with it, but now it seemed to be beckoning for security. Something was definitely wrong. I must not be thinking right, he told himself. He wobbled to the nearest bench and caught his breath, head toppling into his hands. Joan…he wept, where is my little Joan—
A sound echoed from behind him. He twisted his body to look. It had sounded like metal rattling on the floor. Metal. His heart was pounding. He prayed ever so dearly that it was all in his head. If it is, then I can defeat this. I WILL awake and find my beautiful little girl running to embrace me....and if it wasn’t...
He stood from the bench, nerves breaking sweat from his skin. Every inch of him was shaking, but he still had control over his thoughts. Slowly, he inched toward the far end of the hall, eyes shot open to the dim lighting. The sound came again.
He had a hard enough time keeping focused, let alone stay atop his own two feet, to not notice the form bent over inside the corner store as he passed. He but concentrated on the one task: reach the noise, which he’d concluded to be down the hall to his right. Sunlight from above was practically of no use for depicting detail much farther than a couple meters, and what light there was scattered about the halls was dim and only giving off a glimmer of its surroundings.
The last action on his mind at the time was to yell, so he crouched, getting as close as his conscience was comfortable to the figure wielding the pipe. He peeled around for a glance, his throat clogging but body refusing to swallow in fear of exposure. His eyes were bloodshot to the sight, and the terror nearly sent him tumbling from his cover, but he was able to catch himself. Even from what he had seen, he knew it to be real. It was no costume—the figure before him. No fake. The body, at quick glance, had looked shriveled and worn. The man, or girl, could not seem to get a solid grip on the pipe (which was why it kept dropping). Its entire body seemed trembling as though possessed, but not.
Carls tried stabilizing his breath but couldn’t. The figure had looked almost unhuman, and he had a hard time believing that. What’s going on? Where am I? What’s happening? Where’s Joan? What ARE these things? What were they?
“Where am I?”
It was too late. Before he could stop the words, he’d realized his cover had been blown. I actually said that?! A shrill echoed the walls as the figure jabbed its pipe against the floor. He was up and running the best he could, the creature screaming behind him. He caught wind of the pipe as it flung past him and clattered through an overlook and to the main floor. Both his hands were to his ears to stop the screeching as he simply ran, eyes practically shut to the dimness.
His panic led him down the opposite end and into a clothes shop. He remained huddled beneath a cloth rack, rocking back and forth in childlike fear. Echoing throughout the halls were shrill cries—at least five more that he could count (if at all his mind were keeping track). What were those things? Who? Why? Where?
He hid there for some time, trying in every way to calm himself and slow his breathing. Ok, so maybe this IS real, and I’m not dreaming. Whatever was happening, he HAD to find his daughter. He prayed they hadn’t taken her too. It was all he could hope for that to her everything was alright. I pray she is safe. God, I hope she is safe.
He lifted his head, a hand barely nudging aside a jacket so he could see into the hall. Nothing—just as he had first awaken—nothing.
Now what? He tensed his body muscle by muscle to help ease his nerves. It’s all in your head, Locke; it’s all in your head. And he just kept telling himself that, quietly emerging from the clothes rack. I can do this. I can find Joanna. His throat was still clogging up, but he refused to succumb to its’ plead. Instead, he eased forward, watching his every step as he progressed towards the front.
Still no noise.
His feet stopped. Something didn’t feel right. It was almost too quiet. He took a steady step backwards, mind suddenly uncomfortable to the thought of leaving his safety. He felt a tingling on his neck. It’s all in your head; it’s all in your head.
It feels moist?
Carls flung his body around, wrists clipping some dank clothes as he turned. Something clenched his left foot, and he shouted, kicking into the fury of whatever it was attacking him. Racks suddenly toppled over, and noise erupted from the now shattered silence. Locke lunged himself across the floor and to the glass door. He had enough sense in him to grab hold of the handle as he exited and to pull it shut, causing whatever it was chasing him to clash into the glass separating them. It was way too close for his personal liking, and he tripping over tumbled back down. His shoes seemed to be sweating themselves as he frantically struggled to gain traction—once again fleeing for his life. Only this time he had control of his breathing.
Isn’t It About That Time?
But that in of itself didn’t mean he knew at all where his legs were taking him. All he knew was the sudden jerk back to reality and present as he rolled down the escalator, banged up and bruised, his head bleeding again. Oh, God, please...please help me! He couldn’t help the influx of disbelief. Why was all this happening? What was exactly going on? Where was his daughter? Where was everybody?
He looked up. Where is my wife? Blood covered his sleeves as he coughed into his hands, picking himself up but failing just as quickly. Before him, the sound of water was somewhat comforting. He had reached the fountain. He was where they were supposed to meet. Where are you, babe?
Since his legs were still aching, he forced himself to crawl—the pressure of trauma and adrenaline beginning to wear on his body’s ability to function. I can do this. It’s almost over. He’d reached the midway mark before his fall began to get to him. Everything was spinning. He tried checking what time it was but his watch was no longer there. It had been ripped off during his last confrontation. How can I fight this? he asked himself, laying exposed on the floor between the escalator and fountain. How can I fight when I’m... when I’m scared?
And so he waited. Patiently (if one could say). Time seemed to stretch forward and backward. He remained there for a while. For more than hour, though to him he could not tell the difference. To him, one minute without the one he loved was a lifetime too many. The tiny hole of doubt in his soul grew deeper. And as time yet progressed, it grew wider. Please come, Elairah, please, he prayed. I’m here waiting for you...
It was almost too long for him. He had reached the fountain and rinsed his face in its cold, dead waters. The only peace he felt was in the memory of his daughter clinging to it so as to jump in. “No,” he had said, “we are not allowed to play in that water, Joan.” And here he was splashing it over his forehead.
What is happening to me?
Nothing, it’s just all in your head...
Then why does it feel so real to me? And where are my sweethearts?
Don’t worry, it’s just all in your head...
Was that really the best he could answer?
It’s all you need for now.
But he wasn’t satisfied with it. Where was Elairah? “Elairah,” he mumbled, waiting for a soft whisper to answer him. “Elairah,” he repeated, heart growing more anxious. “Elairah!” His hands were to his head again as he cried in the deadness of silence of company. “Elairah!”
A baby was what he felt like. And to outside ears, what he sounded like. Disregarding any sense of pride, he continued calling out for her, only the echoes of loneliness coming back to him, and his emotions could not take any more of it. Though he was a man, he was also human. He had a heart, a soul, and a mind. Sadly, his heart seemed torn right out from within him, his soul scathed of doubt, and his mind stripped of reality. Truth. He wanted answers.
Why is she not coming? he cried to himself. Why is she not here? Is it not about that time we meet? For once he cleared hi
s throat, swallowing his brokenness to attempt making sense of everything. This place was supposed to be all that it now was not. What had happened to the peace? The joy of it all as a time to never forget?
Well now I definitely won’t forget it, he scoffed. What had happened to the lady at the front desk? The Paradise Suites—he had a doubt for that name now. This wasn’t paradise. There was no such thing as “paradise” on earth. There was no “utopia” or “safe haven”. There was nothing man-made that could obtain God-like essence. “You should take your family to that place,” so Billy had said. “And while you’re there, say hi to my family for me! Since I couldn’t afford if we all went, I stayed behind to work so that they could...”
The words were sweet. And while you’re there, say hi. Did he really have family here? And if so, were they now a part of the same condemned nightmare? “It’s beautiful,” his wife had said. It’s beautiful. How could this place be so beautifully terrorizing? How could this be happening to him? What happened?
A shrill in the distance caught his attention. He recognized that sound.
Once again, his heart quaked, his pulse jumped, and his eyes shot open to his surroundings. Yes, the sound. They were not creatures out there. What he’d first glanced at around that corner, what had hit him, and what he had seen hit against the glass—they were human. The one he’d encountered in the shop had been brutally depicted. Human but depraved of sanity, frail but overpowering, unstable yet driving to act. He could not yet understand what had come of them, only that they were terrifying. So un-kept and wasted. So worn and malnutrition-ed.
A second shrill joined in with the first, and that’s when he remembered his position—as prey. I have GOT to get out of here—before this all gets to my head!
Paradise Really Is Here? (No Escape)
Somehow his body was able to keep going. He reckoned he had God to thank for that. No human invention could adapt as fluidly as the human body. No human invention could react as knowledgeably in any given circumstance. Especially as such the one he was in. He was fleeing for his life, though this time able to think of where he was going on top of maintaining his breathing (regardless of how out-of-control it was). His memory suffered the flashbacks as he revisited the earlier experiences. He caught a whiff of the place to which he had taken his family out to eat.
But it was only a whiff of momentary setback that his body came to a halt. He recognized that hall. Before him, not but a hundred meters away, lie the towering entrance now colder than ever, and as he relieved his lungs, his nausea began to return. He glanced to his left—to that which had caught his attention.
The Paradise Suites.
Another glance at the glass panes and his decision was made: he had to check the suites. Maybe his wife had ran and hid in there! He couldn’t risk the slightest chance of not saving her before freeing himself from the madness.
The same spinning doors awaited him as he stepped through. The whole interior of the building was just as dimly lit as everywhere else. The desk remained empty to him as he cautiously crawled over to scan the files. None of the monitors were on nor seemed to be turning on (and that didn’t make him feel any more comfortable). He scanned the desk for papers and sticky notes.
He found one. Not the one he was looking for, but one of interest. On it was written the number 317. They were circled nearly one too many times. 317, he repeated to himself. That meant the top floor. He hated the top floor given the events he had been through, but he progressed nonetheless. Please, oh please! Just be in there!
There was no wood to creak beneath his every step, being as they were made of stone. The elevator wouldn’t work either, though he would have never chosen it even if it had been a choice, and so he climbed the stairs.
Slowly. Carefully. Once again his breathing began picking up. It seemed forever until finally he reached the second floor. Still nothing. The hallways were vacant and still. The lighting made them feel like a morgue. Some paradise. Confident to proceed, he put his first foot on the second flight of stairs. The lights flickered.
He swallowed the frog in his throat, biting his upper lip and tightening his jaws. It’s all in your head.
Every other step was as swift as possible with stealth still in mind. He now stood atop the third floor, looking down the long, narrow, still hallway. Room 301 was to his right.
He stepped forward. 303..305..309...313…315.
I definitely haven’t lost my sense of manliness, he told himself, trying to ease the trembling building up inside of him. I can do this.
He had that kind of feeling where everything seemed so silent that he could hear the static in the air—a consist pick that is only just bearable. And when he reached out to grab hold the door, he could hear the handle clink to the turning force.
The door of room 317 slid open across the carpet.
It was in his face before he could react otherwise, fingernails digging into his skin. He tumbled backward into the wall behind him, yelling to get it off. All he could do was slam himself to the ground in hopes it would loosen grip. And it did. Thrusting his arms between the breasts, he tore free of the merciless grip just long enough to regain footing and start down the hallway.
Then the shrills came. Not just from the one, but from ALL the rooms. Doors were bursting open right and left now as hands reached for his throat. He deflected what few he could before he was tackled from the side.
They were coming up from downstairs too.
He screamed to break free, his body raging in flight-and-flight. But he forced himself to do otherwise, knowing that the last thing he needed at the time was tunnel vision. And so he was up, slamming through opposing forces in a frantic counter-strike-while-fleeing-move. Window! his mind screamed to him. Were there any windows in such a building?
There had to be.
He pried open one of the empty room doors, almost crashing through like bowling pins with so many others fighting to get to him. There had to be at least twenty already on the third floor and twenty more on their way! He spun around to slam the door shut, just managing to lock it while being hit by the ones who’d made it in. There were four inside and all as equally strengthened—that being more than he could handle. He couldn’t take their jabbing blows and brutality. Colliding with a near drawer, he felt his way to a sturdy chunk of broken wood and dealt a swift blow to the head of one of the attackers. He saw the window and went for it—two others now reaching his already torn shirt. What floor am I on? he asked himself again, preparing for the worst (not that it could get any more so).
He was out. For a brief period of time, Carls felt free. He felt as though he’d just escaped a thousand demons only to soon face more. The figures had clung to him, making an ugly descent from the window above. Thus flesh and stone hit—though his body had ended up atop theirs. The three that had fallen with him were dead, and the fourth bellowed from the third floor in anger.
Locke could hear the footsteps changing as they rushed back down to get him. His body ached in torture as his adrenaline forced him up. Screams roared from the Paradise Suites as he made that last turn the exit-way. Give me strength! Carls pleaded, giving it his all. For every drop of blood left in him, he poured out twice the amount in determination. He had not saved his wife; he had not found his daughter. No, he was fleeing them.
He was deserting them.
His stains smeared against the glass doors as he panicked for one of them to open. He couldn’t tell if it was his lack of strength or lack of will that was failing him. His fists pounded against them, kicking them, punching them.
“Open up to me!” he yelled helplessly, the shouts of his pursuers coming in behind. He slipped from the slick glass and fell to his knees, head lifted upward, hands raised. “Why won’t you open up to me?”
They were coming. He didn’t have time to play the blaming game; thus, he tore himself away from the only hope of escape he had. He fled into one of the side stores and hid there, crouched in fear and covered in tre
mbling. God, how could You do this to me?
The Illusion & The Illusionate
His shirt reeked of blood and sweat; he toes were still tingling from the fall. He had to stop the bleeding. But they were still salvaging out there. They probed like animals for their lost prey, who remained as still as possible behind the wooden counter of the potter’s shop. His light breathing was about the only factor keeping him undetected. Whatever these humans were, they cared nothing for their own bodies. They felt pain, but it was not burdensome to their actions—it only changed the means by which they moved. And they were moving steadily towards his place of safety. He knew it was only a matter of short time till their fingernails would dig into his skin again. What is wrong with them? Why do they act so demented?
If there was one aspect about them that he did finally note, it was their fear. They seemed scared. Their eyes were always wide open and dry. Their breathing was heavy, as though in fight-or-flight mode, and their whole bodies shook feverishly. It was some physical state they had acquired or some mental depravity that made them what they were.
Regardless of them still being human, he praised God that he’d made it out of Paradise Suites alive. When he thought about it, it had to have been a right-sided door for him to have escaped. Not only that, but if a few hadn’t gotten in the room when he’d locked it, he would have had the three-story fall all to himself. He had God to thank for that, and yet he still felt anger that he was not let out. Why, God, why trap me in here? Why keep me with these things?
His body shook to the tears as his mind dove into sorrow and self-pity. Why had he been left with these possessed? He needed answers, but the only thing answering him was the heavy breathing of an entering figure.