by C. J. Sears
“Doesn’t look like there would’ve been any chlorine,” Donahue said, indicating the blackish gunk slathered on the rounded wall.
“But where’d all that water go? There are so many pipes down there.”
The empty pool was fifteen fathoms deep and twice as wide. Large cylindrical holes punctuated the wall at even junctures. Donahue guessed they led to other potential swimming spaces. It must’ve been the home for an aquatic creature she didn’t want to meet.
“You, uh, want to go down there?” she asked Kasey, kneeling to get a better look.
“There are two doors on this level,” she said, “but they’re electronically locked. I don’t see that we have any choice.”
“We could always go back to the red menace and try that second elevator we saw.”
“Maybe,” said Kasey, “but I doubt Mr. Wonderful will let us take a direct lift to the Control Room. Don’t forget that he’s the man with a plan.”
“Good point,” said Donahue, sighing. “Rescuing the hostages is our first priority.”
She climbed the long, long ladder to the base of the pool. She handled each slick rung with a measure of caution. Breaking a leg or her neck was the furthest thing from good news.
Halfway to the bottom, her feet slid. She caught herself in time, hooking an arm around the wet steel.
Shaking, she gazed up at the top and opened her mouth to tell Kasey about the close call.
The blonde was gone.
“Kasey,” she yelled.
No response. Donahue had known her less than a day, but she didn’t seem like the abandoning type. So where had she gone?
A gunshot echoed throughout the gargantuan room and a woman yelped in surprise.
Faster than she should have, Donahue ascended the ladder, worried that another of those things had caught Kasey by surprise. They weren’t friends, but she wouldn’t wish death on anyone that wasn’t inexorably evil.
She was relieved to see the blonde’s curvaceous figure on the landing.
Except it was only the back of her. Kasey broke into a run, chasing after a small man, leaving Donahue to tackle the obstacles of the testing facility on her own.
*
Kent Cranston had always been a two-faced loser. On the tough shit meter of ten to zero, he was lower than chicken crap wrapped in horse dung. He talked the biggest game in town, but when he had to shut his mouth and put up his fists, fear bested his valor.
He’d gunned through basic training all those years ago near the top of his class. His buddies thought he’d make it to First Lieutenant for sure, maybe Captain. They joked he’d be the first military man to conquer an entire enemy territory by his sheer girth.
He was the cock of the walk until he had to strut his stuff. On his only real mission while stationed overseas, he exhibited the worst possible behavior for a leader—total lack of respect for the lives of his men.
Oh, they’d done live ammo sessions, but that was nothing like the real thing. When he was caught in a freakin’ war zone and the enemy was firing at him with AK-47s and there were no damn do-overs how was he supposed to react? He left his comrades to die, buried in the sand dunes, so he could save his own thin skin.
Being dishonorably discharged by the United States Army became the equivalent of wearing a swastika patch on his shoulder. None of his friends or family would speak with him after what he’d done. Businesses in his hometown refused to hire him. He had to work odd, often illegal jobs to make ends meet.
Then a cute little bird named Allison told him about an easy heist in an abandoned house in some town he’d never heard of called Fairvale. No guards. No security. He’d have two other people watching his back. It should’ve been a quick pickup and a big payday.
Instead the three of them stormed the stronghold of some freak show.
When he saw that weird octopus-plant-human thing, Cranston did what was best for his livelihood; he got the hell out of a dangerous situation. He had every reason to think they would be dead men if they stuck around. So he and Ortiz took off and left Grayson behind.
They would’ve gotten away if it wasn’t for those men in the gas masks knocking them out on the lawn. The next time he regained consciousness he was in some archaic dungeon cell wolfing down cold scrambled eggs. That went on for about a week before he woke up in that kiddie room and some cheeky, disembodied voice told him he’d be part of an experiment.
He thought he might have changed. Those kids and that thin man both seemed like they wanted to rely on him for support. But when he found out that Ortiz died, and he heard the alien sound that the monster made, Cranston lost everything he thought he’d gained.
He was Kent Cranston, ex-officer, failed thief, and eternal coward. It coursed through his veins, imprinted in his very DNA. The nickname Ortiz gave him—what a joke. He was no superman, no hero. How was he any different from the literal scum in this water?
Of course he’d high-tailed it straight into a dead-end. He’d thought his sense of direction was excellent, that he’d find the exit without his cohorts. Like always, he was dead wrong.
He could swim back to that junction. Maybe they were still there, and the monster hadn’t eaten them. The girl and her boyfriend would forgive him. Zachary might not but they didn’t have to be pals to get out of this alive.
How massive could the Labyrinth be? The Overlord must’ve had millions, possibly billions, invested in the convoluted contraption. But he couldn’t just build it any size, any direction. There were always compromises in architecture regardless of budget. His father, a structural engineer, taught Cranston that much before he became anathema to his own family.
Hand over hand he slashed through the water. He couldn’t go as fast as he wanted, needed to check the wall markings to retrace his path. He remembered there was an arrow that pointed south and another one that jutted northeast. South was better, would take him to the intersection where he separated from the group.
On one of his strokes, Cranston bumped the smart watch on his wrist against a wall. The digital face lit up a bright shade of green. His heart rate was abnormal. Excellent freakin’ deduction from an expensive piece of technology.
What was the purpose of that damn thing, anyway? The Overlord told them they had to wear it or they’d die, but so far it was a worthless accessory and a bunch of bull hockey.
“Useless piece of junk,” he said aloud, whacking the watch with his palm.
The image on the screen flashed and changed. Four green circles replaced the bumpy EKG line. Ranging from the smallest on the interior to largest on the perimeter, numbers were assigned to them, measured in metered distance. A blinking line journeyed clockwise around the center point which was a red dot Cranston presumed must be him.
Well, maybe it wasn’t totally useless. He could use the radar function to find Zachary and the others. Three bodies huddled together should be big enough for him to locate one corridor away.
The water settled up to his cheeks now. It must’ve completely flooded the maze. The near-silence unnerved him; the beeps of the watch’s radar were the only sounds that accompanied his meaty arms splashing in the gunk-filled, black-green liquid.
He arrived at the three-way fork where he’d almost pissed himself while leaving the group. He inspected the watch monitor. There he was in the middle, but there weren’t any big red dots like he envisioned.
A small blip appeared on the edge of the screen, moving toward him. Maybe Evelyn or Michael split off from the rest…
“If it’s not,” he said to no one, “you’re in over your head and dead.”
As if in reply, there was a loud suctioning noise somewhere in the maze.
Bad. It had to be the monster. Damn it, why was it still here? Why hadn’t it gone elsewhere, chased after the larger feast? Three meals were better than one.
Unless it was targeting him. He was the one that had gotten away, the gazelle that skirted the cheetah’s grasp. Maybe he’d made it angry enough to hunt him out o
f spite.
As he listened, he heard a swooshing sound in the dark water. Then silence. He waited and heard the suctioning noise again. It sounded huge. And close.
The creature was moving swiftly through the water toward him.
Cranston swam, harder and faster than his limbs should’ve allowed. He could hear the monster flying through the water. He didn’t dare turn his head, didn’t dare glance at the red dots converging on his watch.
His nostrils sucked in salty water. He continued to swim, fighting the urge to stop, the need to sneeze and clear his nose. The creature had to be closing in, had to be preparing to section his body like a beefy cow in a slaughterhouse.
He saw the door ahead, prayed to every deity he could think of that it would open. If he put all his muscle into it, if the water wasn’t too much pressure, if it swung inward, then he had hope.
Cranston scrambled around the next corner and froze. The monster was already there.
His memory of the creature in the basement was striking, but seeing it clinging to the wall twenty feet away, dread overtook him. Leathery gray-green skin covered it from head to toe. The arms were something else, at once fibrous and without structure like the stem of a dying plant. The suction cup feet secured it in place, looking very much like octopus tentacles or maybe barnacles.
And the mouth—oh God, the mouth—funneled outward, a pulsating bulb that looked like a flower that hadn’t blossomed.
Cranston waited, paralyzed by the sight, to see what it would do. It didn’t attack. It wasn’t making the alligator-jackal hissing noise he’d heard that night. Its eyes were closed as if it were sleeping.
The monster hovered beside the door, flimsy arms folded like bat wings across its chest. The watch confirmed his suspicion that this creature was the other red dot on the radar. He thought it was in a hurry to get to him what with all that crashing through the water. Why stop for a nap?
Either he could swim away or he could try to make it through the door. How good was its hearing? If it woke up, how much time would he have to react?
Cranston couldn’t coast in the water forever. If he turned back, he’d just be lost in the maze again. And the monster would get him.
He had to sneak past it, had to open the door and chance the monster swooping down to engulf him.
Cranston dunked his head underneath the water, figuring it was better to be obscured by the goop than to be an identifiable target above the surface.
Slowly, he swam toward the door, knowing if it opened the wrong way he was live bait.
He felt but didn’t hear the tremendous splash of something hitting the water behind him. He was a dozen feet from the door; he could make it, would make it.
Something sprayed his thrashing leg. In the deep dark water, he couldn’t tell what it was, didn’t much care. Cranston knew he was six feet away from freedom if he could open that door.
A piercing sting shot through his leg. He looked down, agonizing, not comprehending. The flesh was red and raw and blistered like it had been burned.
He clutched at it, screaming but there were no words, only bubbles and gargled water.
A stringy limb ensnared his throat. Cranston closed his eyes, didn’t want to see that face, that horrible gaping mouth.
Triangular, shark-like teeth attached to the rim of his mouth, spreading his lips apart.
Cranston couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe, as the monster inhaled, vacuuming his insides. He was locked in its cold embrace, warmed only by the thought of death’s blissful release.
KISS THE SAND
It couldn’t be true, but as Zachary stared wide-eyed at the black liquid smeared across his palm, he knew it was. He’d been an idiot to think of his truth as the truth. The writing had literally been on the wall: YOU ARE.
“I am,” he said to his absent audience. What else could the words have meant? They were his words, all in black.
Veiled recollections and memories were no longer distant or vague. The lighthouse beam of reality swirled and penetrated the fog in his mind, dissipating it. His ship had come in and, like a captain returning to his loved ones, the sight relieved him.
Yet he couldn’t help feeling a reluctance to accept that his haze of memory had ended. As Zachary gazed upon the murky waters, he knew no greater fear than acknowledging the cold, hard truth.
He was infected. And, if Michael and Evelyn were correct, he could no longer call himself human. With blood as dark as the night, who was he to argue?
He hadn’t spent two months of captivity in isolation. Every morning he woke up in a cell on a cold wet floor—hadn’t that been a dream rather than his waking nightmare? Was there ever a time when he wasn’t leading others through a maze of terror? How many had died under his watch while he followed unknown marching orders?
Some part of Zachary had the foresight to darken the walls with messages to himself. But what good had that done? Men and women were still dead and they might as well have been at his hand. The contamination ran so deep he didn’t dare trust his own judgments.
As a journalist, he’d prided himself on reporting the truth no matter the outcome or who it implicated. Now he was the headliner of his own controversial lead story and had no idea how to reconcile the facts with the fiction.
What sort of magician had performed this trick on his mind? How had he come to not only be infected, but also incapable of remembering his deeds until this moment? On the line between dreams and delusions where did his state of being come to rest?
These were questions for scientists, psychologists, philosophers, and theologians. While he stood in the Labyrinth, his addled mind couldn’t solve the question. Out in the watery depths, the creature lurked, but inside also, a monster surged.
Even with what Evelyn and Michael had told him, Zachary didn’t know enough about the parasite to be sure of how it had affected him. He couldn’t be sure which thoughts were his and which were alien.
Once more, the surface of the water fizzed and shifted. The Overlord’s beast must still be near. Or it was merely the projection of his compromised thought, rationalizing every objectionable sight as a possible threat. Either way, he couldn’t stay here forever.
Unless he wanted to commit suicide by freak of nature, his only option was to follow Michael and Evelyn’s path up the stairs. They couldn’t have gone far. He doubted they locked the door behind them; they were good kids.
He moved up the steps, fighting against a mind that ached with the fatigue of uncertainty and guilt. He lost the struggle. Another thread of memory unraveled, and he remembered that the Overlord equipped the smart watches with multiple special features.
Not only did they monitor heart rate and perform basic watch functions, but the unwanted accessories also contained radar mapping. They tracked electromagnetic signatures embedded in the watch microchips and in the genetic freaks. He could locate Michael and Evelyn with ease.
Zachary switched on the radar and saw two blips huddled together north of his position. He frowned. Why weren’t they moving? If they were in trouble, he would’ve heard the screams.
Another blip was to his back and moving toward him. It could’ve been Cranston or the monster in the water, but even a betting man knew better than to test fifty-fifty odds when his life was at stake.
He ran the rest of the way up the steps, not looking back, knowing if he did, his own imperfect courage would get the best of him. If the big man was still alive, he was on his own. And if it was the creature, Zachary aimed to put as much distance between him and gruesome death as possible.
He made it through the door. Hot air greeted him on the other side and he saw desert and battlements. Michael and Evelyn hunkered down by sandbags, with rifles in hand. They looked sweaty and pale but intact.
What were they looking at? But he knew the answer already. None of the previous participants had made it past the Labyrinth, but if they had the occupants of Test Chamber 3 would’ve preoccupied them.
Zachary felt me
chanical eyes turn toward him. He looked down and saw the green dot of the laser trained on his chest. His own eyes followed the line and locked onto the machine menace on the end.
The turret opened fire.
*
When the turrets first attacked them, Michael and Evelyn thought it must be Zachary, under the control of the parasite, coming to fulfill his master’s wish after the playground of horrors hadn’t killed them. But that was wrong-headed. This was all part of the experiment and the Overlord wasn’t done with his guinea pigs.
At least there was plenty of cover. He would’ve liked the barrier to be a smidge higher, but for now it shielded them from the turret’s persistent salvo of bullets. He’d tried to return fire once or twice, but the angle was no good.
No doubt the turrets were lightly armored. What would’ve been the point of the rifles otherwise? Without a clear shot, it didn’t matter. Standing up would be a one-way ticket to a closed casket.
He heard the turret shooting again and peered up at the top layer of sandbags. The barrage he expected wasn’t there. Instead, the laser pointed at a distant spot to their left and moved west, tracing bullets along the wall in pursuit of a blurry figure.
“Michael,” said Evelyn, glancing past his shoulder, “it’s him.”
He squinted into the heat haze and watched as Wayland Zachary sprinted beside the wall, leading the fire of the turrets away from the battlements. His great strides kept him ahead of the bullets—for now.
As large as the room appeared, the space wasn’t infinite. The parasite bolstered his stamina, but when it ran dry he’d be as much of an easy target as anyone. He needed a better plan than outrunning gunfire.
Michael recognized the opportunity. With the turrets distracted, he and Evelyn could make a run for it. With any luck, they could make it over the dune and through the door that had to be waiting for them at the end.
Lightened as he was by the relief he felt at the prospect of an easy escape, the inconvenient truth of Zachary’s eminent demise weighed him down. Infected or not, the man was trying to help them. They’d have to be the worst kind of ungrateful to leave him to his death.