The Maze - the Lost Labyrinth

by Jason Brannon

  “Is that your choice?”

  “That’s Midnight’s choice.” I tried to bend the situation to my advantage. “I still haven’t chosen yet.”

  Asterion glared at me. “The dog does not get a choice.”

  “Technically I’m facing three opponents here. You only said that I would face one. So I think letting us keep the flute isn’t really that much of a concession.”

  Asterion thought this over for a minute and finally spoke. “Choose your weapon.”

  Figuring that it wouldn’t make that much difference anyway, I chose a battle axe that looked like it had severed its fair share of heads. I ran my thumb over the blade, drawing blood immediately. “This one feels good.”

  Asterion looked even meaner if that were possible. “Let the fight begin!”

  Chapter 15

  Asterion took his seat upon the throne of bones, preparing to watch the battle like one of the old bloodthirsty Roman emperors. I wondered if the bones he sat on belonged to the losers of these tournaments. I wondered if I might be a part of that throne before long.

  All that was missing at that point were thousands of spectators, eager to see a disembowelment or a beheading. No doubt this place had seen its fair share of blood before.

  Cerberus assumed its role as the star of this show and strained to free itself from the tether. Surely this was the kind of animal Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had envisioned when writing The Hound of the Baskervilles. Just looking at it sent chills down my spine. I was expected to kill this beast. Me, a mild-mannered insurance salesman with nothing more substantial to defend myself with than an axe.

  All three of the dog’s mouths barked, snarled, and foamed in anger and frustration. From the looks of things, it would be loose in a matter of seconds. Its muscles tensed and flexed, and the chain stretched a little. The links wouldn’t endure that kind of pressure very long. I cast a nervous glance in Midnight’s direction, unsure of what we should do to prepare. The dog still clutched the wooden flute in its mouth, but he growled and glared at the three-headed animal with a look of blind fury.

  I held the axe tightly, but it wasn’t much comfort. It felt like I was taking a cap gun into a showdown at high noon.

  The dog was almost as tall as I was and much more ferocious. As I held my weapon tightly, I couldn’t help thinking that an axe usually took several blows to cut down a tree, even one the size of Cerberus. I wasn’t sure I would get more than one swing.

  In those few seconds before the battle began, all I could think about was Amy and Peter and how much I would give to see them again. I didn’t want to die without telling them I was sorry, without telling them I loved them. Although I was hopeful, I knew in my heart that I didn’t stand much of a chance.

  With one final tug, Cerberus was free, and the thing I wanted most was to turn tail and run away. But I knew that what Asterion had told me was true; if I didn’t defeat this creature, Amy would receive that Polaroid. She already had enough circumstantial evidence to draw her own conclusions, and my coffin already had all the nails it needed without adding one more.

  The hellhound raced toward us, its eyes alight with a demonic fire. All three heads were eager for a bite of my flesh. Spittle and foam flew from each dangerous mouth. I stood there, statue-still for a moment, the axe held high above my head. I was frozen in place by fear.

  Midnight dropped the flute, leaped through the air and broad-sided the massive hound. It was like watching two patches of shadow collide and repel each other. Midnight took a vicious, bloody bite out of the sable flank of Cerberus, and was bitten three times in return. It pained me to hear Midnight howl, but I knew that pain wouldn’t compare to the agony I would feel if Cerberus got hold of me. I raced into the fray, prayed that one blow would do it and brought the axe down as hard as I could across the hellhound’s back. It was like firing a gun at a window made of bulletproof glass. The axe blade skidded off of Cerberus’ back, jarring my hands. The hellhound scarcely even noticed. He was too preoccupied with Midnight to care about me.

  Midnight was bleeding, but that didn’t stop him from launching attack after attack. Some of his bites went deep, taking out huge gouges of underworld flesh. Others merely annoyed the three-headed dog, distracting it long enough for me to lift the large axe into the air again. The second time I struck the creature, I went for the head in the middle and this time the results were a little more favorable. The flat side of the axe pummeled the middle head, knocking it unconscious. Much to my dismay, the axe handle came off in my hands while the blade landed on the other side of the battleground.

  Where I had once had an axe, I now had a makeshift club.

  The remaining two heads snapped and barked while the middle head drooped like a wilted flower. The head on the right volleyed with Midnight, biting and nipping, while the one on the left studied me with interest and growled. That head knew I was defenseless and that he had the upper hand.

  I raised the axe handle, ready to play baseball with one of the heads. As I did so, I noticed that the dog followed the stick with its eyes. An idea quickly formed, and I picked up the wooden recorder with my other hand. I held the axe handle out to one side and the flute out with the other. Both heads stopped barking and studied me intently. The head in the middle was just beginning to wake up.

  I knew that I would have to time this just right.

  Midnight stood in front of me, as if to ward off the three offending heads. His hackles were raised; his muscles were taut, and his coat was thick with drying blood. At that moment, he looked more like a guardian of the underworld than Cerberus; his crimson coat gave him a certain menace. He growled at the hellhound, but the monstrosity wasn’t paying any attention to him. Each of the heads had their eye on what was in my hands.

  I waited until the unconscious head in the middle opened its eyes. When it did, I tossed the axe handle in one direction and the wooden recorder in the other. The head on the left went for the axe handle while the one on the right wanted the flute. It was like watching a tug-of-war: each head strained against the other, and the one in the middle was clueless as to what was going on.

  The heads immediately began snapping and biting at each other. Midnight turned to look at me, puzzled by this development, and I couldn’t help noticing the circular bite marks that marred his left flank and back. The bites were deep and bled copiously. Midnight hardly seemed to notice. He was too busy watching Cerberus rip itself apart as the three heads fought with each other.

  Cerberus is also a figurehead of sorts. A representation of your life.

  I thought about what Asterion had said as the hellhound became its own worst enemy.

  A man cannot serve two masters…or in this case three.

  Was I like Cerberus? Was that what Asterion had been trying to tell me? I thought about my life and the things that ruled me. I tried to live a good life, but there were times that I stumbled. In fact, I made mistakes all the time. My life was nothing more than one big war between me, myself, and I, where conflicting desires and needs clashed on a daily basis. Like the part of me that wanted to explore the possibilities with Karen and the part of me that wanted to fight for my family. I was at odds with myself.

  “I understand now!” I shouted to the minotaur, keeping a safe distance from Cerberus so that I wouldn’t get caught up in the bloodshed.

  I looked up at the throne of bones where Asterion sat and waited for some further instruction. He gave me a thumbs down sign. I knew what that meant: I had to kill Cerberus before the test was finished. I had already made it a lot further than I ever would have expected, and that fact alone made me hopeful. But I wasn’t out of danger yet. Far from it, in fact.

  The three heads were bloodied and mangled, but they were all still very angry. One of the heads had lost an eye. Another had the end of its snout ripped off, and the third looked like it had been fed into a meat grinder. None of the heads were focused on me anymore, and I took advantage of that fact. The axe blade was still where it had fa
llen. I grabbed the blade and summoned my courage as I faced Cerberus from behind.

  The beast’s heads moved back and forth, snapping and snarling and gnashing their teeth, but the body of Cerberus basically stayed in one place. I knew I should act before I could think about everything that could go wrong, and I did. I leapt onto the back of the creature, holding tightly to the axe blade. My intentions were to use the blade to cut the beast’s throat, but Cerberus anticipated me and bucked me off like a cowboy from the back of an untamed bronco. The axe blade fell from my hand as I crashed into the ground. The bones in my shoulder ground against each other, sending shock waves of pain throughout my entire left side.

  I groaned and managed to sit up, only to find myself looking up into the hate-filled eyes of three ferocious, gore-encrusted heads. The next thing I saw were three gaping maws with vicious teeth lunging toward me. Everything after that was a blur.

  The pain seemed to come from everywhere at once. My arms, legs, chest, and face ached, and I felt the life leaking out of me in what felt like a hundred different places. Midnight jumped back into the fray and tried to hold Cerberus off so that I could get to my feet again. I cried out and attempted to stand, but my legs malfunctioned, and I fell back into the dust. I saw the axe handle nearby and crawled over to it, hoping to use it for a crutch.

  Once the head closest to me caught a glimpse of the handle again, the three fought again, as one wanted to go where the other two did not. I pushed myself up, using the axe handle as a support and felt something wet on my hand. Midnight licked me, goading me on. I took some strength from the gesture and lifted the axe handle.

  Only one of the heads saw me as I stood in front of the dog. The other two were busy biting each other and barking. With some effort, I picked the handle up, lifted it over my head and brought it down with all the strength I could muster. I thought it was the wood in my hand that cracked until I saw the head on the left sagging noticeably. There was a large, messy fracture over its eye. Somehow, I didn’t think that this head was merely unconscious.

  The other two paused for a second, noticing that something was different. Although I couldn’t have been sure of anything, I thought I saw a glimmer of fear fill the eyes of the remaining two heads as they realized that I had just killed a part of them.

  I lifted the axe handle again and finished the job.

  Cerberus lay there, unmoving, as the dust around it settled. Asterion stood up from the throne of bones, obviously pleased with me.

  All I could do was collapse, feeling like something that would normally be scraped off of a butcher‘s floor. As I drifted off into unconsciousness, I heard the minotaur say something that filled me with a brief glimmer of hope.

  “You did well, and I will do as I said. Darrell Gene Rankin will receive a visitor today. Your wife will not receive that picture.”

  The world went black after that, and I relaxed.

  Chapter 16

  The ache of Darrell Gene Rankin’s broken heart was like a swampy blues tune played in a smoky club on the Louisiana bayou. It was a tune that might have seemed at home coming from a traveling man’s dobro.

  The Piper heard the jealousy snaking through Darrell Gene’s veins like heroin, and it was enough to make him high. The noise that emotion made was rough and sandpapery like serpent skin as it traveled the highway of veins and arteries. It gave The Piper chills. He spread his wings and arched his back as the sound empowered him.

  He stood in his makeshift palace amidst the rubble, the twisted music stands, the damp sheets of notation, and he filled the conservatory with his brand of diabolical music. He played his pipes and watched as Darrell Gene paced back and forth in his living room like a caged beast.

  The tunes that came from the flute were familiar and painful. At times they manifested as voices, other times as memories.

  The pipes played and---

  ---Darrell Gene heard the voice of his mother whispering something illicit into the ear of Jasper Simmons, the deacon from their church who had torn the Rankin family apart.

  ---along came the shattering of glass as Darrell Gene’s father hurled an empty liquor bottle against the wall.

  ---the music that flowed like muddy water was the sound of children taunting Darrell Gene over and over again.

  ---Darrell Gene cried as his father beat him over and over again, with the grief soon becoming rage.

  The Piper held up his hand and beckoned to Darrell Gene, coaxing those feelings out of him with the skill of a master conductor. Darrell Gene Rankin was his instrument, and he wrung every ounce of emotion out of the poor man that he could.

  *****

  The voices speaking to Darrell Gene were becoming one. It was like the vertical hold controlling the voices was being adjusted to dial in a precise frequency. He wasn’t being torn in a bunch of different directions now. His purpose was clearly defined. All he heard now was the voice of The Piper, and The Piper had big plans for him.

  He knew his role in life, and if there was any moment of doubt, any second where he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, The Piper reassured him. Darrell Gene thought this was so much easier than trying to find his own way. If only he’d listened a little sooner.

  He was just having a conversation with the toaster about what life would be like when The Piper gave him a family when he heard a knock at the door. He scowled and headed toward the front of the house, wondering who could possibly be here to see him.

  He didn’t normally receive visitors. Nobody wanted to spend time with him. He had no friends, and no family. This could only mean bad news.

  Cautiously, he peered through the curtains, hoping it wasn’t a repo man or a bill collector. The man standing at his door didn’t seem like either. The visitor looked to be in his forties with salt-and-pepper hair. Dressed in khakis and a button down shirt, his appearance could have been described as guidance counselor chic or retail manager suave. He was a salesman perhaps, or a politician wanting to shake hands, introduce himself, and leave a card with his name.

  Darrell Gene wasn’t sure whether to open the door or not. The man knocked again before pushing his wire-framed glasses up on his nose. The visitor had a very casual demeanor that made Darrell Gene feel a little more at ease about the whole situation.

  “Stop worrying,” the television whispered. “You’ve got at least sixty pounds on the guy.”

  And it was true. Darrell Gene carried two-hundred and sixty solid pounds on a five-foot eight-inch frame. He wasn’t muscular by any stretch of the imagination, but he was imposing, beefy. Years spent in various sweatshops doing manual labor had made sure of that. If the man was here to make life hard, Darrell Gene knew he could straighten things out on his own.

  It had been a while since he’d gotten into a fight of any sort, but, somehow he didn’t think that would be much of a problem.

  After weighing his options and sizing up the man on the front porch, Darrell Gene decided to see what the visitor wanted, but only because he didn’t want to spend the next week wondering if the man had come with good news of some sort. It was unlikely, sure, but Darrell Gene was always hoping for a miracle, even if one never occurred.

  Maybe this was one of those guys from Publisher’s Clearing House here to inform him that his name had been drawn at random as the winner of a multi-million dollar prize. Darrell Gene wondered if cameramen would swarm at him the minute he opened the door, if the doors of a van would open up to release hundreds of multi-colored balloons into the air, if a beautiful newswoman was waiting in the wings to interview him after the man on the porch presented him with his check.

  He opened the door and the man smiled. It wasn’t a forced smile but rather one that seemed relaxed and at home on a jovial face. There were no cameramen, no balloons, no newswoman. Much to his chagrin, Darrell Gene didn’t see anything to suggest that a new life was waiting around the corner for him. He sighed with disappointment and then cleared his throat, wanting to cut to the chase. “Yeah? Can I h
elp you?”

  “Mr. Rankin?” The man extended his hand. “I’m Carl Beckett from the River of Life Baptist Church. I hope I’m not disturbing you. Do you have a minute?”

  Darrell Gene froze, wondering how he could have been so stupid. This man was here to preach to him. His first instinct was to slam the door in the missionary’s face, but the man had taken a step forward, buying a few precious seconds of additional time with which to spread his propaganda. It was one of their tactics. He had dealt with this kind before.

  “Um, I’m really kind of busy right now.” Darrell Gene stammered out an answer. “And church doesn’t interest me much.”

  “I understand,” Carl said. “I don’t want to seem pushy. I just thought I’d stop by for a moment and see if you went to church anywhere.”

  Darrell Gene thought back to that Sunday so many years ago when his mother left him and his father..

  “I know all I need to know about the church.” He didn’t bother to hide his bitterness and resentment.

  “I take it you’ve had a bad experience of some sort.”

  “You could say that. My mother ran off when I was seven. She left my father and me for a deacon. They got married the day after the divorce was final.”

  It was obvious from the look of shock on Carl Beckett’s face that he hadn’t been prepared for a curveball like that. “Um, I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you do.”

  Carl shifted from foot to foot, a little nervous now. “This is going to sound strange,” he began, “but someone told me that I should visit you. It even sounded strange to me at the time.”

  “Who?” Darrell Gene thrust both hands into his pockets and fingered the loose change that rested there. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kind of a loner. Not too many people care about me, and there aren’t too many people I care about in return.”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure.” Carl forced a smile. “But it sure does seem like someone wants to see you saved. I found a note in my mailbox with your name on it and a message that said ‘Visit Him.’ And so I’m here.”