by Enoch Enns
He crouched low and on all fours. The Illusionate (cause that was what they were called) began studying the area, looking over, around, and under the displays. Carls took as many deep breaths as he could to calm down, scooting on his belly until he was flush with the counters edge, just able to peer out. The figure jolted back cradling its head. His head. He could tell it was a male up this close. His clothes were withered and stank. His pants were held up only by belts about his waist and legs. A large gash covered his left shoulder as he crashed about in severe pain. He was suffering.
Stay focused, he told himself as he braced to make the swiftest move if necessary. The figure tumbled before him, their eyes meeting. They were bloodshot, both wanting to escape, but only one acting on such desire. Carls propelled himself up and over the counter, making a break for the shop’s entrance. A second illusionate entered the scene, quickly aiming its movements towards him. And then the scream.
Once again his ears hurt to the awakening masses, but he ignored them, trying hard enough to keep one foot in front of the other. He took the first possible left down the next hall. Where am I going? he asked himself, feeling his vision start to blur. In his current condition, he couldn’t do anything as well as he’d hoped. Nonetheless, he slid his body across the stone flooring to clear another corner in hopes of losing sight of them. Now he just had to find a place to hide, preferably one that had a first aid kit.
He saw an escalator to the second floor. I don’t like floors, he told himself as he recalled the fall, but he climbed regardless. Reaching the top, he rushed into the first shop to his left, clamming shut the glass door and frantically searching for something to prop it shut with. Where?
It was too late. A single figure emerged from the first floor and came rushing at him. They both hit glass at the same time, Carls giving it his all to keep the figure out. His strength just wasn’t there, and the illusionate burst through the glass and into him. He hit the ground, throwing a fist to the figure’s face. Once more did fingernails dig into his skin, but he refused to yell. He threw another fist, knocking the figure off him momentarily. He scrambled for anything near him to use as a weapon and grabbed hold of an action figure. Batman? his mind jabbed as he threw it, reaching for another. The figure screeched as the toy hit it. Not to the impact, rather a serge inside its own mind. Locke just kept throwing whatever he could at it as it reeled backwards and over the shattered glass. The thing was barefoot and yet seemingly didn’t notice. The glass cut deep, and it fled back out.
Carls himself couldn’t move an inch more, his body shutting down from loss of everything. His head slapped against the flooring, and he caught glimpse of a small kit. A first aid? Thank you, Lord, thank you.
The pills were the first to go down.
Trip & Bait
For the most part, he’d recovered. Not in the sense of strength and healing, but at least now he wasn’t getting worse. His condition was steady, his mind now able to think while fighting these illusionate. He praised God that only one had followed him up to the second floor. Also, that it had retreated to its own pain and not to his. Though he wondered what could possess a man so much as to not care for bodily harm. What was in these things to make them so ruthless and yet hurt?
He’d exhausted all the supplies in the aid kit. It was only enough to tend to his throbbing forehead, but that was enough for him. Maybe if he wasn’t so beat up and cold, he could handle himself better. For now, his emotions acted as nerves to his thoughts. His body still shook, hands still sweat. Once again, he found himself wishing he still had his watch. He hated the feeling of being trapped in a state outside of time and yet still bound by it.
Searching the back employee storage, he was able to scavenge some pans and a jacket (for the place seemed so cold). A pellet gun was all he could find that could be used as a weapon. He could use the glass, some tape, and a bar, but he wasn’t the type for gore. No, they’re still human, he told himself. They’re still human.
A sobbing not of his own reached his ears. He propped against an entrance toy rack, peering around the bend and into the hall. He could make out the faint form of a figure leaning against a corner shop across from him. In the sobbing came mumbled words sounding as one about to die if help was not assured. It was not an illusionate—at least that he could tell, but it was hard to see in the dim light.
“Help me, please...” the man’s faint voice came. He had to be real.
God, please don’t let me be alone, Carls prayed, taking one last look at his surroundings before sliding behind a rail overlooking the first floor. It was still just the man and no one else.
“Please!” the man cried out blindly. Carls heart wrenched as he debated what to do. Please be real, he said.
A second voice stopped him—that of a girl. He managed to peer far enough to see her crawling towards the man, body all the more beaten. “Dan? Is that you?” she yelled to the man. They had to be real.
“Help me! Please!”
“Dan? Is that really you? Dan!” the girl seemed overly joyed, but her body cringed at any more tugging. “Dan!” she yelled out to the man.
Carls couldn’t take it anymore. “Sir!” he yelled, breaking his cover and running towards them. The man’s eyes met with his own as he was tackled to the floor. What?
His head slammed to the floor, the bandages only just holding. He couldn’t believe his eyes! Dan and the girl were still there, but neither reached out to help him. They but flickered and soon faded as he was left to face the illusionate.
He sent the hilt of his pellet gun into the temple of his opponent, knocking it to the side. It took a second too long for his shoes to make traction, and he was forced to grapple with the figure. With his bare hands, he slammed the illusionate’s head to the floor, breaking free of its scathing grip. A shrill cry threw his balance off. What on earth was that? He dove for the pellet gun, spinning around in time to see another illusionate leap the corner. A whole clip was out before he realized it wasn’t doing anything (not that he expected it too, but he had hoped for something). The illusionate simply charged at him, and he shuffled backward in terror.
The ground shook again.
Suddenly did the illusionate collapse. Something had crushed it from the third floor, and now the emerging figure arose. Carls didn’t give himself time to notice what it was; he but turned and fled with every ounce of sanity still in him—the pellet gun left behind.
“Get away from me!” he yelled as a roar erupted from the new, much larger, figure. Lucky for him, he was not its first prey. He heard the screams of the illusionate as they cowered from the beast. Carls just ran.
He was around the bend and down another hall before his feet puttered out. What was that thing? What on earth is going on? Currently, he was standing just outside a coffee shop, hands on his knees as he gasped for air. Feet, don’t fail me now! At least he was able to stand. Whatever it was that had been back there nearly caused all control of his senses to be lost. What horrendous beast was it now? How had it jumped a whole flight without hindrance? Where had it come from? What’s happening to me?
Locke stumbled across the empty halls and vacant shops. His mind was playing a deathly game with him. He was on the verge of insanity in his search for something real. The images weren’t leaving him—the crippled man and the crawling woman. They had seemed so real, so true; he was sure of it! How can I fight this? he begged himself for answer.
“I can’t,” he whispered, quickly deciding otherwise. But what did it matter anyway? I am alone and depraved, and in only a matter of time, I also shall be diseased. A plague it was. A demonic plague devouring everyone who thought the place as some “Grand Attraction”. Lies! It was all lies! How could ANYONE believe in lies?
But he had, and he hated himself for it. This was supposed to be perfect, he reasoned to himself. It was supposed to make the perfect vacation from the world, not drive him deeper into it. Something was wrong with him. This can’t be real. It’s all in your head.<
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His body froze. At first glance, his heart had skipped a beat. Now it was rushing in anxiety. “Elairah?” he mumbled forward to the figure that strode before him. Is that you? Maybe she hadn’t heard him. Or maybe his mind was playing tricks on him again. What if it’s another trap?
“Elairah,” he called out louder.
Her figure progressed away.
“Elairah?” he said again, more convinced. He rushed toward her, heart as a volcano, soul praying it was her. “Elairah!” He grabbed hold of her hand.
“Carls?” she replied, surprised to see him. Thank God she’s real! Carls sprang for joy, embracing her fully and tightly.
“Carls, are you ok? Where have you been?”
A tear slipped his cheek. “Thank God you’re real!” he praised, “Thank God you’re safe!”
“What are you talking about, Carls?”
Something wasn’t quite right. He held both her hands in his and looked her in the eyes. She was real. He could feel her, and he could sense her heart beating. But did she honestly not know what was going on?
“Carls, is everything alright?”
He didn’t know where at all to start, mind frantically searching for someplace to begin. He stuttered. “I’ve been chased, hit, shoved out of a window, beaten...”
“Honey, what happened?” she said again, calming him with a gentle hand lifted to his cheek. For a moment, everything in his world ceased but her touch to his face. He didn’t know how to respond to the crossbar that suddenly drilled her head to the wall beside them.
“Elairah!” he bellowed out, blood in his eyes and her hand slipping from his. A roar caught his rage to the left and across the hall. But the rage quickly shattered to terror as his jaws dropped open to the sight. A towering beast of a depraved figure stood not too distant. Carls crashed to the floor in bewilderment. It was coming after him.
He prayed to God for it all to end, but reality wasn’t budging. He dove to his right as another projectile clang across the floor where he just was. The beast let out another cry and swung both its massive arms. With the strength of an ape but wit of a man, the beast flung Locke across the hall. His body broke glass as he then tumbled through clothes. Everything in him was screaming “flight!” but the trauma to losing his wife immobilized him from doing so.
No, his returning rage forced him otherwise. Every muscle tensed to the point of cramping, he yelled back, grabbing hold of the nearest weapon to him—a wooden clothes hanger. Back on his feet, he snapped the hanger in two, wielding it as a dagger and bracing for second impact. Indeed, he could do nothing to stop it.
The wood was but a splinter to the creatures forearm, and he but a puppet being thrown across the floor. The adrenaline in his veins blotted out the pain momentarily. He forced himself to his feet and charged, realizing all too late the stupidity in his actions. A third hit knocked any fight left right out of him. He hit up against a pillar and dropped to the floor. His worst option was now the only one left.
To run.
He looked up from his feeble position and at the distant figure of his wife. I can’t do this, he cried to himself, crawling to his feet and ducking behind the pillar as the beast pounded into it. Now wasn’t the time to mourn. He had to flee. And so he did. Before he knew it, he was behind two glass doors of another shop and forcing a steel bar between the door handles to brace it shut. It was only seconds before his body collapsed and fell unconscious to tears and blood.
The Hologram Speaks
A soft whisper had awakened him to his numb pain. His vision came back to a light on above him (and by light, he meant a bright one). Locke stirred from his rest and looked about himself. Nothing had changed, only the light of the single store. The voice came again from across the counter. Now what? he asked himself, pulling his body next to the counter. The current store he was in seemed to be more of a help center than anything else. Instead of wood or glass, everything was supported by stainless steel inside.
He lifted his body so as to sit upright. He didn’t know whether to treat the voice as curiosity or terror. The scenes with the monster were still in his mind, but he forced the thoughts away before they reached back enough to touch on his now deceased wife. Why, God, did she have to die? he pleaded, head raised.
But his attention returned to the voice. His whole body was numb and weary. Each muscle twitched independently of itself, and his skin could no longer break sweat to cool him down. Then his body began to shiver. Inside, he felt as though burning up; outside, he felt cold and dry. It was definitely playing with his head now—all these instances.
“Are you even still there?” the voice cut into his false security.
He didn’t answer. It’s fake, he told himself, recalling all too well the man and girl he’d first come across.
“Sir, are you hiding from me?” the man behind the counter asked.
Carls’ mind neared breaking point with the disillusions of the Grand Attraction. He couldn’t contain himself any longer, knees bent, back leaning, and head sobbing. I really can’t take this anymore! God, save me, please!
“Sir, are you still there?”
His pain broke the silence as liquid streamed down his face once more. He looked up into the light—a brief flicker of hope in a dark place.
“Leave me,” Carls’ voice cracked, “Just leave me be!”
“Easy for you to say; I was here first. Now would you mind? I find it sort of lame that you’re hiding from me. Or trying too, that is.”
“Who are you? And why are you speaking to me?”
“I won’t say a thing more till you get up!”
Locke hesitated. His body still trembled in not knowing whether he could trust the voice or not. Is he real?
Carls carefully lifted his body to the counter top, giving in to the stranger’s demand.
“There now,” the man said (his form flickered in attempts to sustain itself).
Initially, Locke was caught off guard, tripping back and against the empty display rack. He just stared, eyes not blinking once.
“Ah, am I still of surprise to you? My apologies, but I thought you would have expected it.”
“Expect what?” Locke asked.
“You can call me..uh...Xavier,” he said with a smile. “And as you can probably tell, no, I am not real at the moment, sorry.”
“What are you? And why did you trick me before?”
Xavier smiled. “I am a hologram. And though we are the same, we are not in the least bit related. What you saw out there, those were Trippers. Nasty little mind devils, I say.”
“Then what, exactly, are you?” Carls asked again.
“I am..not a tripper. Only a hologram.”
“Okay. Hologram, I get it...But these trippers, what do they do? Why are they there? Why are you here?”
“Ah, and so your troubled mind asks away. Ha, I find it fascinating the circumstance you’re in—”
“My wife is DEAD because of you guys! And if you don’t start answering me, I’ll END you too!”
“My, my! Calm yourself down! I was but gesturing at your sanity, that was all! Sheesh, don’t take a compliment so offensive next time, it really hurts.”
Now he was getting weird. “A compliment?”
“Yes. You see, I can’t have conversations with them, the other holograms, and the illusionate are so far lost that they don’t even know how to converse! So really, I am quite alone in this place just like you.”
“Wait,” Carls raised a hand to his forehead. So many questions. “So you’re saying—what? I…I just want to know what’s going on in this cursed place! Why are you different? Who are the illusionate? And what are these trippers? None of this is making any—”
“I say, please take a breath before you die,” Xavier jumped in.
“Excuse me?” Carls inquired.
“You want to know the difference between you and them, it’s your head. Seriously, just think about it since you still can. What do they look like?”
“Obviously, you haven’t thought on it enough. I am just a hologram; I can’t do the thinking for you. It’s no fun!”
“Human,” he said, “they looked human.”
Xavier smiled yet again. “Ah, yes, but be more specific.” Be more specific? How? “What did their bodies look like? Describe them for me.”
“Bent, worn, I don’t know. Exhausted? Scathed? Deprived—”
“Yes! Exactly! Keep following there.”
“They looked hurt. They…they’re numb to physical pain yet suffering all the more in their mind.”
“Perfect!” Xavier exclaimed. “Minds, yes, and how about yours?”
“What?”
“Your mind—or scratch that—their mind. What do you think is going on in their minds?”
“You’re not making any sense,” he stated, mind of his own wandering.
“Well, fine then. But I’ll have you know you’ve turned out to be quite the letdown for a conversationalist. I was hoping for more, but I guess it must wait. Like I said before, I cannot do all the thinking for you, but I can tell you that all of which you have undergone, they have as well. Your pain, your hurt, your doubt, your fear—they too had struggled with it all. As for the rest, you must find for yourself.”
“Wait, if they are just like me, then how are we so different? What changed?”
“I cannot save you, sir. I cannot simply open for you every door. If you are so curious and anxiety-filled for an answer, why not ask them yourself?”
He wasn’t quite expecting the last comment. “How?”
“I’m sure you’ll found that out here shortly….”
Fists pounded against the glass. They were outside screeching to get in. “You tricked me!” Carls shouted at Xavier.
“I already told you; I and the others are not the same.”
“You’re lying to me!” he said, slamming his own fists to the counter top. “If you’re not, then why are they here?”