Corridor (A MythWorks Novel)

by Robin Parrish

  As he soared higher and higher, he screamed involuntarily, certain that his arm was going to snap any moment and he would plummet to his death on the slowly moving yellow rocks far, far below.

  “Open your eyes, I need to see where you are!” she said.

  Troy hadn’t realized his eyes were closed. He was squeezing them as tightly as he could, not to block his vision but because of his struggle to endure the pain. His bad hand was clutching his good one with every ounce of will he could muster, forcing his left arm—which had long since gone numb—to remain locked inside that hole in the rock, and praying that the tiny outcropping that created the hole wouldn’t break.

  It took extreme effort, but he managed to crack his eyes open. He was unable to focus on anything, the strain to hold on requiring too much of him, as he dangled freely, unable to keep his footing on the rocks.

  “Look down and to your left,” said Victoria. She sucked in a breath.

  He craned his neck obediently, trying to scan the massive wheel. Was she trying to decide how close the Exit door was to lining up with the passageway behind it? The door would get there before he did, so at the right moment, he was going to have to try to climb down the wall to the Exit. Already he was descending down the side of the wheel, becoming vertical again, but in his haze of pain, it was all happening way too fast.

  Troy had to start climbing down now or he’d never make it. There was no way he could make a second trip around the wheel. But as soon as he began wiggling his arm free from the hole, his broken wrist gave an incredibly sharp twinge, and he lost his grip on his other hand for half a second. That was all it took for his good arm to fall free of the hole.

  He grabbed hard at the loop of rock with his good hand. Even though it was still numb, he found a solid handhold on it before he dove to his death, but his strength was all but gone and he couldn’t keep his grip for long.

  “There!” shouted Victoria. “Hold on, you’re almost there!”

  “I can’t!” His good wrist was cramping as the feeling started to return, spasms shooting down his arm.

  “Yes you can!” said Victoria. “Just a few more seconds. A few more seconds…”

  But Troy shook his head. “I’m losing it,” he moaned. “I can’t—”

  Too late. He fell.

  “TROY, WAVE YOUR ARM!” shouted Victoria.

  He’d landed on his rear end, right inside the alcove where the Exit door was. Still dazed, it took him half a second to figure out what she meant. She wanted him to pass that bracelet key thing—which was thankfully affixed to his good wrist—in front of the door to open it.

  Not bothering to take the time to stand, he wiggled his hand up in the air, and shivered from the prickly sensation of the blood rushing back through his arm.

  The circular engraving on the Exit door lit up—and he saw that the matching emblem on his bracelet did exactly the same—as the door slid upward, much faster than the last one. He saw the hole behind the door that opened into the next Room. He dove headfirst through the doorway and slammed his bad hand palm-first against hard ground that looked like burned cinders. No time to consider this. He ignored the pain shooting through his broken wrist, which was properly broken now if it hadn’t been before, and pulled the rest of his body through the hole. His feet cleared the doorway just as the wheel behind it passed over the hole, closing it off again.

  “Congratulations, Runner thirty-seven thirty-five,” the Corridor announced. “You have escaped the Yellow Room.”

  “Well done,” said Victoria. She sounded genuinely chipper. Was that a trace of hope he detected? Was she starting to believe he might actually survive this? It might have been touching if he weren’t so weary and damaged. But all he could think about was how much more of this there could be. Torture. That’s what it was. There was no other word for it. Sadistic, evil, torture.

  Why would anyone build a place like this?

  And these bizarre Rooms? They were places of wonder, alright, as Victoria had put it. But they were disjointed. Completely random. And yet…

  Troy couldn’t put his finger on any particular reason for it, but something about all of this felt methodical. Intentional. Deliberate. As if there were a good reason why he was here, and that these Rooms weren’t as arbitrary as they seemed. He couldn’t make out the pattern, but he was certain it was there. Hiding just out of view.

  He didn’t reply to Victoria. He had nothing to say, no confident statement of victory, and no confirmation that her hope wasn’t misplaced.

  The one thing he wanted in all the world was rest.

  “Look beside the door,” said Victoria.

  Not really caring what he might see there, he glanced up and saw a tiny door inset within the wall. It was identical to the metal Exit doors, just smaller.

  Troy tried getting to his feet, but found it remarkably difficult. He settled for a pathetic hobble, hunched over and ready to hit all fours and crawl at any second. When he reached the little door, he put his hands on the wall and walked them up until he was standing upright in front of the door.

  “Open it,” she instructed.

  He waved a halfhearted hand over the door, and it began to retract, sliding up just as the Exit doors did.

  Other things, Victoria had said. This bracelet/key thing would unlock doors and other things. Troy supposed this was what she meant.

  Inside the small alcove behind the door was a cylinder about the width of a two-liter soda bottle. It lay on its side, with one end facing him and the other somewhere so deep inside the wall he couldn’t see it. He reached inside to pull it out, and found that it was nearly two feet long, made entirely of some kind of stainless steel. It looked like a giant thermos, and he wondered if that might be exactly what it was. Its weight was more than enough to confirm that something was inside. But there was no lid to unscrew.

  “Open it,” said Victoria again.

  He waved his bracelet over one end of the cylinder; the two ends were identical so there was no way to know which was the top. A seam appeared in the metal and then the entire top retracted until it was gone.

  Troy hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the moment he was looking down at the clear, cold water.

  “Take it slow,” warned Victoria as he raised the water to his dry lips.

  He didn’t have the energy to argue. Slower than he wanted, he let the water trickle past his mouth until it reached his sandpapery tongue and parched throat. It was glorious.

  Throwing out Victoria’s warning, he took three big gulps, unable to stop himself. How had he never noticed before how wonderful water tasted? It was ice cold, smooth, and clear, and it felt like a salve healing his insides. In this moment, in this place, it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

  “Is this…?”

  “It’s a little more than water. It has some mild rejuvenating properties.”

  Wow. So the Corridor wasn’t a merciless deathtrap after all. It did have a measure of kindness built into its…programming, or whatever.

  “You might want to use some to wash those cuts and scrapes,” said Victoria.

  He thought this was a good idea, despite the deep longing within him to drain the cylinder dry. He hoped that Victoria didn’t assume he was angry with her again, because he wasn’t, but in his current state, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Addressing her feelings wasn’t something he could spare energy for right now.

  He poured tiny spurts of the precious water over a few of the larger gashes, and gave himself a moment to revel in the freezing sensation as the water touched his broken skin. He watched his flesh to see how it might react to the water, but there was no visible effect. Still, the water felt remarkably good.

  Would this one tube of water be his entire supply for the duration of his Run? Or did other Rooms have tiny alcoves with water inside? He didn’t bother asking Victoria; he assumed she wouldn’t be allowed to tell.

  Troy was still facing the black wall by the entrance, cleans
ing his wounds, when he heard an offensive sound from behind. He knew it well; it was his least favorite sound in the world. It was the unmistakable whoosh of flames being born.

  Involuntarily, his entire body clenched as some of his cruelest memories came roaring through his head like a thunderclap. His heart rate soared so high, he knew his connection to Victoria must’ve been instantly severed.

  With terrible dread, he turned. He knew why the ground in this Room was like charcoal. It had been burned. Again and again and again.

  He didn’t need Victoria to tell him where he was. This was the Orange Room. Nothing in the world was more orange than fire.

  The room was about the same size as the White Room—a humongous square—but the ceiling was lower, no more than eight feet above the ground. And everything in sight was a charred, ruined shade of obsidian, though the Room itself offered plenty of light for him to see.

  He recoiled instinctively as the fire appeared. His back touched the wall, but he wanted to pull back farther, to melt through the wall and even go back to the massive wheel of the Yellow Room. Anything would be better than this.

  The fire began on the ground, touching the spot where the floor touched the wall on his far right. As he watched, it moved along a straight line with a purpose, spreading to the wall on his far left, and creating an impassable line just a few feet from where he stood, separating him from the rest of the Room. Including the Exit.

  Troy didn’t move. No willpower could spring his legs to life against this obstacle. He stood in silence as the flames grew in height until they touched the ceiling.

  “Why fire?” said Troy, his voice hoarse and dry again already, despite the water. If the Corridor had given him any kind of say, any choice at all in what obstacle he could face next, fire would be the farthest thing possible from the top of his list.

  “You don’t like fire?” asked Victoria, their connection restored.

  “I like fire just fine,” he said, unmoving, unable to tear his gaze away from the eight-foot-high flames. “It’s the paralyzing fear I hate.”

  He didn’t need her advice for this. The solution to this problem was as obvious as it was malicious. He was holding it in his hands.

  “This is every movie I ever saw, every book I’ve read. The hero has to face his fear,” he mumbled. “Alright, okay…”

  Cursing the Corridor in his mind—and Victoria, too, for good measure—he stepped as close to the wall of fire as he dared, and swished his cylinder of water toward a spot on the floor at the base of the flames, allowing a small amount of the precious liquid to fly out.

  The water splashed onto the floor, and whatever was feeding the flames vanished, creating a gap in the fire wall.

  Troy tried to move forward, but faltered. The gap was narrow, no more than a foot-and-a-half. He’d have to turn sideways to squeeze through.

  “What are you waiting for!” said Victoria, her voice rising. “Go! It won’t stay open long!”

  With an audible gulp, he launched himself forward, turned sideways at the last second, and slid through the opening. On the other side, he stooped over and gasped. It was an uneven, shuddering breath, but it was all he could manage.

  He’d done it. He walked through fire. But it couldn’t possibly be this easy. Victoria’s silence only reinforced this suspicion; she’d have congratulated him if the Orange Room’s challenge was done.

  Troy almost asked her what was coming, but stopped short. She would never be able to tell him, and truthfully, he didn’t really want to know. Especially since it probably involved more fire.

  That was when he heard the sound again. The vile sound that he hated more than any other. Louder this time.

  He slowly returned to fully vertical, his blood running cold at the sight before him. The fire was spreading out in straight lines, in every direction. Turning at ninety degree angles, moving on, and then turning again. On it went, fire everywhere he could see.

  He turned back toward the entrance, but his tiny gap had disappeared. He still had his water, but didn’t want to use anymore of it against the flames. It would just be a waste, anyway.

  “It’s a fire maze,” he said, realizing it as the words left his mouth. “A huge maze with walls of fire.”

  He’d ventured inside a life-sized maze once while on vacation, but that one was made in a cornfield. Instead of corn, hedges, or wooden boards, this maze’s walls were made of fire.

  “Yes,” said Victoria. The succinct confirmation was probably all the Corridor would allow her to eke out.

  Troy forced himself to slow his breathing, not wanting to lose contact with her again. Not now. Not when he was surrounded by this.

  “Is there a solution to the maze?” he asked.

  Victoria was slow to answer. “There’s always a solution.”

  Not good enough. He needed more.

  “What I need to know is, can I get to the Exit without having to navigate the maze? You said there’s always another way, right?”

  “Yes,” she said, choosing her words with care. “But the only way out is to Run.”

  Hopeless. He would never survive this. He could feel it in his bones. It was one thing to risk his skin in some physical challenge, but this one went way beyond physical. It dug deep into his psyche.

  The thought made him pull up short. Did the Corridor know? Was it tailoring the Rooms specifically to him and his own shortcomings and fears?

  Did it understand just what fire meant to him?

  “Best get moving,” said Victoria.

  He knew what that meant. This one was on a timer. Like the White Room. What would happen if it took him too long to find the solution?

  Troy didn’t feel like finding out. With one last deep breath and closed eyes, he knew it was time. He picked the closest open lane and walked carefully into it. Again, the flame walls were too close together for his liking, and he had to squeeze through.

  Sweat formed on his brow, this time from the heat instead of exertion. But at least this room was a mental problem. That made him feel marginally better than if it’d been a physical challenge. He told himself to ignore the fire and focus on the maze. A puzzle he could handle. He was good at puzzles; it was a natural talent he’d first displayed at just three years of age. His mom had always told him he’d gotten that talent from his grandfather. Took him less than thirty minutes to do the crossword puzzle in the newspaper every week, she used to say.

  One foot in front of the other. That was all it took. That was all he had to do. Don’t think about the fire, just put that left food forward. Now the right one. Yes, he could do this. The fire wouldn’t burn him, it wouldn’t do to him what—

  No, don’t think about that. Not now. Think about anything else. Think about Granddad. Yeah, that’s good...

  The first path he tried ended after one turn, so he turned around and tried another. He had assumed he could use his water again, forge his own path through the maze by putting out pieces of the fires, but this Room was so large, he couldn’t even see the far side of it. He’d run out of water long before he reached the end, and with the heat rising by the moment, he’d need his precious canister to hold onto as much of its life-saving liquid as possible.

  As the heat rose, so did the intensity of the flames. Troy was unaware of it at first, but it was impossible to miss after a while. What had been a thin wall of orange fire stretching from floor to ceiling was growing thicker by the minute. He realized with a start that the size of the maze’s already narrow pathways were shrinking. It was happening so gradually he couldn’t see it in progress, but it was there. Every now and then the change would become perceptible, and his heart would skip another beat.

  He wondered how much time he had to do this, and decided to pick up the pace. More than once, edges of his clothes caught fire, but he was keeping a close watch on it, so he could frequently pat away the flames like swatting a mosquito. He had to be extra careful with his bad hand, which was now missing the protection of a sleeve
. Twice he caught himself rolling up his other sleeve due to the heat, and forced it back down to protect his pale skin.

  He wandered the maze for what felt like hours. Maybe days, all while scarcely avoiding the fire baring down on him from all sides. It was exhausting work, even more so than crawling blind through the White Room, because it required a constant state of alert. He had to keep an eye on the encroaching walls while watching his clothes for errant flames, and also memorizing the pathways he’d already taken so he didn’t repeat them.

  Would his grandfather have already solved this maze and gotten out? He’d probably be well into the next Room by now. He was such a gentle but strong old man who had no reputation for high intelligence, having worked on an assembly line most of his life. But his grandfather was smart enough to know the value of hard work. And he had a much sharper mind than most people realized.

  It occurred to him that there should be an awful lot of smoke pouring out of all these flames, yet he was having no trouble breathing. Whatever was fueling the fires must not have been that kind of combustible. Or maybe the Orange Room was equipped with vents hidden somewhere in the ceiling to whisk all that smoke away.

  Either way, he was thankful for this small miracle.

  He lost himself in his task for fifteen or twenty minutes, during which Victoria was silent so that he could concentrate. He wondered how long it would last. Probably not as long as he’d like.

  “What are you thinking about?” she said at last.

  He wiped his brow for at least the tenth time. “Nothing, except…everything. This is the third time I’ve stared down my own death in—what? A couple of hours? But I keep thinking about all the stuff I never bother thinking about. Like my pocketknife.”

  Victoria was probably trying to figure out what to make of that, because she didn’t respond immediately. “What kind of knife is it?” she asked. He assumed she had no idea where to go with this, and asked the only question she could come up with, just to keep the conversation going.