The Grand Attraction

by Enoch Enns

  And he screamed. Thoughts of doubt and grief flooding him.

  He had given everything, but what for? What ends did he have to strive for? How was he to know any hope still remained? What was he even fighting for? Himself? Survival? Or his family?

  The small halls and hidden passageways of the district echoing of his pain soon fell silent. I am alone and forsaken in this place. And why so, oh God? Why all this pain? For what means am I supposed to struggle toward? Is there even hope for me at this misery's end?

  Something flashed pass the corner of his eye and he turned catching glimpse. It was a cart (and not just any, but one resembling that of which his daughter had seen). Carls felt a sense of calm sweep through him. Was he to follow? Was it a pursuit that had answered him or to simply leave him stranded? His mind lay broken, but his will drove him to his feet. What was he fighting for? Answers? At the time, the only thing he desired over his life was that of his family's. I can't do this on my own strength, he told himself. So give me something worth fighting for. Give me hope and lead me to her.

  Is She Truly There? (The Tapes)

  The caravan had disappeared behind the bend before Carls could reach it. Bodies lie limp in the corner, almost unnoticeable in the darkness. They were deceased but still warm. He hesitated, making sure it was clear elsewise. Slowly, his footing made the curve and he knelt beside the forms. There were four of them: three men and a lady. Two lay folded at the end, the girl lying on her back, the single man bent over his own body-- a tape nearside his hand. Carls withdrew it and examined.

  It was not typical. The slots it would ordinarily be ran from bore entries to which another device could be inserted. A tape recorder then? He turned a switch etched along the top.

  The tape reeled. “Is she okay? (a man's hurried voice came) Praise God we found her before they did! Her innocence is still trickling, thus it is safe to conclude her eyes have not yet opened. We're in time...

  (A feminine voice interjected) “Chase, I think I heard something! I think it's them!

  “I can hear them too, they're getting closer. Let's get going to Revail Flats. Fidious, you carry the girl. Mark, help him keep straight. Trena and I will pull up the rear, quick!

  “Revail Flats? (a second man inquired) Isn't that a bit close to them?

  “We have no time! That's the last place... (the record buzzed) … should be there, I hope.

  “Isn't it a little late to be 'hoping', Chase? (another in the squad asked)

  “There's no time to squabble, we have to--”

  The tape clicked-- Carls gazing at the wall. Her... was it his daughter? He studied the tape once again. Along the back were etched the company's name, Mx3, and vaguely beneath it, their motto “Putting to memory what matters most”.

  Revail Flats. He was determined to find the place. Whatever had happened, whomever they had found, was now in different hands and all he could speculate was that they were in the hands of a greater evil. And for now, daughter or not, it was his only lead. Please, God, let this be her, and keep her safe.

  He pushed through the narrow walkways and crevices of the district. In the pockets of one of the bodies had he found an overly detailed map of markings too numerous to make efficient use of. Nonetheless, he pursued what he presumed to be in the northwest direction. Revail Flats seemed to be crammed in the middle of a puzzle of winding passages and interconnected rooms. One thing was sure: the theme of old-town multipurpose use of space was evident. No life, but proof of existence was everywhere-- from food stands to cold drinks and open bars. Glasses left half drank, plates unfinished and molding. Guitars and instruments alike were still lying where they'd last been played as though waiting for return.

  He had no time to ask all the questions, he only proceeded as best he could through the once busy display of a care-free existence. For some reason, no illusionate walked these parts, and he took it as something to be thankful for. But why?

  A lamp flickered against the sheet of an outstretched tent. It hadn't taken him long to notice he was completely lost. In fact, he'd began to take notice by the fourth right he had taken. By all accounts, he should have been going in circles, but nothing was familiar and he had no sense of the poles. Instead, he stared into the flickering light which cast a shadow over a limp form. At first glimpse, he'd thought it an illusionate, but no breath emanated from the man's lungs. To his feet lay an overturned table, its drawing flung from its holding and items scattered over the floor. Papers were piled-- a burn mark at their center as though an attempt to erase. He bent over to retrieve them, noticing the man's fingers unravel.

  He froze, heart pounding.

  The man pointed to the far end of an adjacent division from which a veil overhung the entry. Carls couldn't believe his eyes, let alone his ears, as the man's breathing hoarsely cut in and out and then stopped. The hand pulled in and shriveled up with the rest of the body. Just the fact that he hadn't been dead put an even deeper fear into Carls. Were they some living dead? He looked back in the direction that had been pointed to, weary to follow through.

  But he wasn't left with much more choice. A stool firm in his grip, he penetrated the veil. A cassette lay atop a centered table, bookshelves outlining the rest of the room. Beside the cassette was an old-fashioned block TV. It had obviously been hit and battered but held together nonetheless. Carls watched as the screen flickered and the cassette slid in, displaying a desperate man, his voice cutting in and out due to the damaged cassette:

  “Time is /short. TAP can no longer help us /they're getting too mischievous. /must do it. Fr/lock …. /have to stop. As for these kidnappings, we can no longer /leave that to TAP. Andy Friede/ is stepping up his game /have to as well.”

  The cassette ejected to even more curiosity. Andy who? Andy Friedelock? Who was he? Who was anyone? He looked to the wreckage about him. The man in the footage had resembled much of the man now shriveled up as though fighting the cold touch of death. As Carls reemerged from the tent, he tore off the veil and wrapped it about the shriveled form. He had no idea the shoes he was stepping into, but he now at least had a name. And the case seemed fresh enough to suppose the man, this Friedelock, still alive. But where?

  With the veil down he could see the entrance marked with words of comfort to his conscience-- a location. Unfolding the map, he scanned frantically, finally finding himself.

  He wasn't that far from Revail Flats after all.

  It was less of a word and more of a symbol of where he'd last been. It was a z with a circle around the top corner. What it meant, he had not the slightest clue. But he thanked God for the clue regardless.

  Revail Flats looked as though someone had stolen an old-fashioned motel or apartment complex and simply placed it in the middle of a maze. A building within a building simply put. It had its own roof, walls, and windows and curtains. It was even stranger for him to enter into it and see the whole building hollow (even of what should have been two floor above the entry level). Inside, his sight was limited to the orange rays of light that pierced through the ceiling. A dining hall of sorts; tables and chairs everywhere—all seemingly in order but the far corner table, which was turned slightly and had its metal chairs folded. For such a high-end “grand attraction”, this place sure seemed to be the low-end hoods of the place. He maneuvered his way toward the corner, cautious to not make unnecessary noise.

  In that corner, a small tile lay tilted as though removable. And he did just that: lifting it to uncover a small flashlight and a collection of broken cassettes and torn files (also bearing burn marks through their centers). But he noticed at the bottom there was loose cloth hiding another compartment seemingly left untouched from the previous finder. Reaching in, he withdrew a small device baring the signature of Mx3. It played a recording to his touch, the small screen displaying its previous owner, Echon Pfiefer: “I can't believe he caught on so fast. It seems our internal link has found second motives. Regardless, he'll be here soon, that Andy Friedelock. I gotta find a way
into Friedelock Industries before he finds me. I heard that TAP was able to enter through the sewer gate. Too bad our communication with them went black. Oh well, I guess I'll try there next. … In case I don't return, I'm leaving this for anyone who follows... hopefully not him.”

  Friedelock Industries-- that was where he had to go. Whether the tapes were linked at all or not, that was the only place he had to go by with hopes of finding his daughter. From his pocket he pulled out the tape he'd first stumbled upon and found a slot for it to fit into. Instantly the tape reeled and the device played, recording it to its memory. Once again, he heard the conversation. Joan, I hope it's you, he whispered, pulling out the tape and shoving the new device, the Hand-Pal, into his pocket along with the flashlight.

  Friedelock Industries

  The sewer gate was not a preferable entrance. Even as he loosened the man-hole, he could smell the stench and flow of thick waste below him. Wielding a single flashlight, he dropped himself down, barely holding his ground to the fast moving current. Had it been any higher than his knees it would have knocked him right over, but instead, he braced against one side and held the light to the other and progressed down the tunnel.

  As he got deeper and deeper, he began to notice the scale to which such a place was constructed. To be just a mall, such a sewage system seemed unprecedented. Why build a place so big and have it so twisted? Who had even built this place? What had happened? And what in the world was TAP? He shone his light along the side of his passage seeing the letters etched into the sludge. TAP, why do they keep coming up? What exactly is going on? The mystery of such a once crowded attraction astounded him.

  Carls Locke came to a dead halt. His passageway met with another straight on, only the second seeming to be extensively deeper. He tip-toed to the edge to see any means of crossing. There were none, but above him was a glimpse of a small chamber room. It was just high enough that he could not reach it by jumping. Two large pipes stretched across the wall in front of him; a smaller pipe clinging above him with wedges and joints disappearing into the passageway beyond. It was impossible to even think of climbing such slippery walls to reach the chamber. There had to be another way.

  And it came to him.

  Wrapping his fingers about the thin pipe overhead, he wrestled to twist a section loose from its joints. He paid the repercussion, but ignored the spew of stench. Taking the pipe, he wedged it between the two larger ones before him and pressed down. Using the fulcrum, he was able to get footing on one of the loose ends he had undone and propel his way onto the next chamber. The clanging of his pipe trailed his success and he observed the room in which he stood. Sure enough, an ascending ladder scaled the wall to another man-hole. He could only pray it was the right one.

  The hole lifted to a lightened hallway. The walls were white brick and the flooring concrete. Obviously not a tourist attraction, at least at this point. Carls climbed from the sewer and hesitated at replacing the lid. If he did, how was he to recognize it if there were more? He saw it fit to leave it all but edged from sliding into place.

  It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the more filled lighting of the place. It felt cool-- not some damp chill as he had felt in the Hanging Gardens, but one as though the air were actually being regulated. Vents, however, steamed along the hall as it wound to the left and back to the right. Carls stepped cautiously, but eager enough to know what such a place was. It wasn't far till he'd reached an open room and entered to see the likeness of science. Vials and tubes gathered dust from abandonment. Not as much from time, but the unregulated exhaust from the ceiling vents. Locke had to cover his face as he scavenged the room.

  To his favor, a filing cabinet under lock and key remained cracked. He was able to pry it upon despite the rust of the elements. Inside, papers of a language he cared not to decipher lay, and with them, a tape. Inserting it to his Hand-Pal, he listened as it recorded:

  “Strange, is it, that a man could know so much yet be content with so little. The Big Man himself said that our research was sufficient, yet he always asks for more. Could it be he has something else in mind? I came here to admire a great work, not further it.”

  The voice trailed off in a murmur and ended. Carls pulled the tape back out and placed it into the filer. As if just Friedelock weren't enough, now this Big Man? His breathing was beginning to huff and he decided best to clear the room. Back in the hall, he was able to think over the tapes he'd uncovered. Up to this point, Friedelock was the focal point. But now... now it seemed as though a simple task of reconnaissance were turned into a scientific anomaly. He was no scientist, but he had a feeling that before this was over he would have at least tasted its role in the bigger scheme of things. After all, such a turn in events always had a tie to madness, and who better to ruin than a man who thinks too much of his work-- a scientist.

  The sudden spurt of sound sent a pulse throughout his body as he spun on his heels. It came from every which direction. The laughter, the voice.

  “Ha ha ha, welcome Stranger... or are you?”

  He saw the COMM system on the walls (their white blending in but shapes protruding).

  “Yes, I saw you peek your little head through that sewage hole and sneak your way in here! Did you really think it'd to go unnoticed? The question is: why have you come here? It seems you act off ignorance, not some cult. If that the case, then I welcome you as a guest! But if not, then there's use of you yet...”

  Carls felt exposed as an ant atop a table of mazes and mystery. How was he to react in such a situation? Run? Demand? Harsh judgments lead to insecurity, and he couldn't afford to be acting outside of confidence. But how was he to find confidence when nothing he'd done yet had been of success? God, help me, he pleaded to himself.

  “Come,” the COMM interrupted again, “I have much to show you, Stranger.” The place momentarily went dark before flickering on. Now, only a single path was lit, and he was led to follow as he was shone his way. Now I'll never be able to find where I got into this place, he noted to himself. I just hope he's not someone I'll have to deal with for long.

  Two large doors poised at the end of the hallway with lights beyond them. Shaking in his boots, he pressed through them, one hand over his face in case of toxic air (after all, what had he to expect?).

  A Strange Stranger

  Cylinders stretched across a vast open room. Not just any ordinary cylinders either. They bore resemblance to tiny chambers into which a single body could be contained. Their shells were of steel, doors barred shut, so Carls had no way of knowing for certain what they held. Unlike the vast dark halls he'd at first roamed helpless and alone, this place cast no shadows and yet he sensed every bit of it shady.

  “You see?” the voice stretch once again over the COMM, “Feast your eyes upon the birthplace of success and be proud! No Stranger has ever before stepped past these doors and lived! Not to give cause for alarm…. Go ahead, feast upon the greatest achievements of man to ever be beheld! I give you... Friedelock Industries!

  “Ha ha, but you can have none of it yet, and nor shall I simply hand it over! There used to be days where man could walk my halls in awe and not detest to the atoms of which they breathed. But what of it now? Why only those who despise? Who's to say you are not the same as them— all here only to ruin my home? Let's test to see who you really are, Stranger. Prove to me your purpose!”

  Everything flashed red. Buzzers were going off and Carls found himself pressed hard to the cover of a near cylinder. He could hear humming from within it, suddenly fueled with second thoughts of coming to this place. Sure enough, he recalled nothing of warning to the force that pounded into his ribs sending him toppling over concrete. His eyes shuttered. How was he to fight when he could not hear?

  He couldn't move either. He was over encumbered with fear. God help me please! He screamed but with no sound; he kicked but with no movement.

  Slow down Carls. Breathe.

  But how could he? He had no time to slow down!

&nb
sp; Just do it. Breathe. Concentrate on what's before you and take note of your surroundings.

  Cover. Where what cover?

  No, no time.

  He flung his body to the left of a pulverizing fist (or the likeness thereof).

  Counter. I need to counter.

  He shoved an elbow beneath him and propelled to his toes in time to lunge from beneath another attack.

  Now.

  His boot dug into the hindquarters of whatever it was fighting him. He felt the resistance as the enemy braced and turned to grab his heel. Obviously, he hadn't been quick enough.

  To say the liquid leaving his mouth wasn't blood would have been swiftly doubted-- it being just as red as the lights that flashed about him. He'd caught glimpse of the creature he fought (that brief moment in which his back struck the steel of a cylinder, body then collapsing). It was smaller than the last one, and yet still much larger than himself. It bore long, massive limbs in comparison to the rest of its thin body. And yet it stood firm, back hunched over, eyes shut tight to a reverberating roar.

  A Fallen One.

  He had no time to think a plan as his shoulders were grabbed by a single hand and his eyes gazed into by dried out sockets and hoarse breath. He could lift neither a finger against it, so fragile in the arms of a foe so terrifying. The monster held him there, lungs choking for air, nostrils taking in every scent of blood.

  He was running out of breath, and as his world seemed to be fading out, so did the creature's before him. In but a drop of sweat mingled with the blood of his desperate position, he felt a sense of hesitation. The glimpse was so brief that in any other predicament he would not have noticed. It was in the same drop of blood that he tumbled. Not in attempt to hurt or kill, but as a result of being let go. And so he fell—his hands, face, and chest collided with the floor.