STRANGER WORLD

by Jack Castle

  Salt-n-pepper’s eyebrows raised inches; his eyes went wild. He stepped forward and demanded to know, “Where are they taking her?”

  Cheeves made a derogatory noise. “Why to Portlandia, of course.”

  “Portlandia?” the man with the potbelly asked, “Where’s that?”

  The gargoyle rolled his head drolly toward him. “You know, Portlandia.” When he didn’t get a response from any of them he added, “Really? None of you know about Portlandia? Mighty port of call on top of Mt. Olympus? Last stopping point for all airships before journeying into the Madlands and beyond?”

  Salt-n-pepper, his patience waning, stepped forward. “How do we get there? Can you draw us a map?”

  Cheeves shook his head. “You can’t drive to Portlandia. There are no roads. At least not anymore.”

  Sophia, seeing the concern the father had for his kidnapped daughter asked, “If not drive there, then how?”

  Cheeves thought about this for a moment, scratching his horn before answering, “I suppose you could take the train. With all Lady Wellington’s stops to pillage and plunder settlements and lands, you might even beat them there.”

  Salt-n-pepper spotted the train station she had fled earlier. “What train?” Pointing to the depot he spotted, “This train? When’s the next one?”

  Cheeves made another derogatory noise. “Oh, the train doesn’t stop here anymore. Hasn’t in years. At least not since the Zombie-Pirate King blew up the trestle across the gorge just north of here.” The gargoyle held up a hand to his mouth and whispered to Sophia. “He lives in the swamp, you know.” The gargoyle then looked around to see if anyone else was listening. Certain that they weren’t he added, “He’s actually pretty gross.”

  “Terrific,” salt-n-pepper mumbled.

  “Why, thank you,” Cheeves responded. Then rubbing his claws briskly together he asked, “Okay, who’s hungry?” Not waiting for answer he bounded away toward the old inn.

  Seeing Barnaby followed after him salt-n-pepper asked him, “Where you going?”

  The obese man stopped in his tracks, gazed over at him his mouth hanging open slightly. “What? I’m starving.”

  Salt-n-pepper raised a hand toward the manor at the end of the street. “This is obviously a dead end. We need to double-back.”

  “We gotta eat,” the pot-bellied man retorted, his stomach rumbling for emphasis.

  “Cheeves,” Sophia cried out after the gargoyle butler. “Cheeves, wait. Come back.”

  Chapter 34

  “The Inn”

  “Monsieur Cheeves, wait! Wait up! Come back here!”

  Sophia ran up the short flight of stairs and entered the building with a sign out front that read Wolf’s Den Ale House.

  She left the two men outside. Obviously neither of them were going to be any good to her. Introductions had been made. Each shared the last thing they remembered before waking up here, where they had woken up, and everything that had happened since their arrival. None of which explained where she was, or how she could leave this place. It didn’t take long to figure out neither of them knew any more than she did. She was furious with them for that, but she also knew she could hardly blame them. Other than the information dangling off her lanyard, she hadn’t exactly been a plethora of information either. So when they began to argue over as to whether to continue on or stay for the night she had decided to speak with the strange gargoyle-butler Cheeves. So far, all they got out of him was he used to be the butler for the owner of the manor on the hill, and after everybody left he’d been here by himself ever since. But Sophia could tell the gargoyle was holding something back. And she figured she could probably get him to tell her a bit more if they were alone.

  Inside the dilapidated inn she spied Cheeves nimbly dodging through a maze of tables and chairs. He easily bounded over a counter near the wall and vanished into an unlit doorway beyond. “Cheeves, where are you going?”

  His voice echoed from the back room. “Must find you food, must find you food. Prepare a feast for you and all our guests. Must find you food.” She heard the clanging of pots and pans and guessed he was in some sort of kitchen.

  At the mere thought of food her stomach rumbled. She was ravenous.

  While she waited for Cheeves to return, Sophia took in more of the rundown tavern. The main floor was a wide open area crammed with plenty of wooden tables and chairs. The center of the room was dominated by a massive stone hearth that had to be at least two stories high and ran all the way to the ceiling. She held her shoulders for warmth. A fire sure would be good right about now. Presently the hearth was barren but she didn’t think anyone would mind if she threw in a few of the old wooden barstools for kindling. Not sure how to light it though, without matches or some other form of ignition source. Scanning the inn further she spied a short stairway leading up to a balcony and upstairs rooms. The entire place was dimly lit and as the last of the daylight left them, she became painfully aware that if she didn’t get some candles going soon they’d be dwelling in darkness.

  “Ahhh-chooo!” After the first big one, she sneezed several more times. Ugh, on top of everything else I’m allergic to dust. The Inn was coated in a thick layer of it, made more apparent every time she moved or touched anything. She seriously doubted Cheeves would come up with any sort of food. It was obvious it had been a long time, perhaps even decades since anyone had entered the decrepit old inn. Even the floorboards creaked beneath her feet, and she worried she might fall through them at any second.

  A small wave of nausea swept over her. She leaned on a thick timbered post to let it pass. As she did so a sharp stabbing pain reminded her of her injuries. She needed to clean the wound on her arm soon or run the risk of infection.

  “Cheeves?” she called to where he had vanished behind the bar. “Cheeves, are you still back there?” She could still hear the clanging of pans but he didn’t answer her.

  “BWAH-HA-HA-HA!”

  Sophia nearly leapt out of her skin and onto the ceiling like a scared cartoon cat when she heard an abrupt, loud boisterous laughter that shattered the silent inn. Turning toward it she saw a man sitting in a corner booth. He was dressed in a vest, thick heavy Frock coat, and felt derby hat. A stout walking stick was leaning against his booth nearby. Laughter subsiding he picked up a flask of frothy ale, and noisily consumed it, much of the alcohol running down his chubby cheeks. Finishing every last drop, he dropped the mug heavily to the wooden table. He let out a large satisfied belch and began attacking a slab of blood-red meat on a round tin plate with an oversized serrated knife and medieval fork.

  This is impossible. She had been certain that when she had first come into the room there had been no one inside, and yet she could smell the cooked steak in the air.

  Wringing her hands, she walked over to the man with bushy sideburns who stopped shoveling in his food long enough to release an even louder belch than the first.

  “Excuse me, Monsieur,” she began meekly. When she realized the patron didn’t hear her she repeated herself and added, “I am so sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I seem to be lost, and I was wondering if you could…”

  Waving his empty mug at her, he howled in a drunken stupor, “You there, wench! Bring me another mug.”

  “Uhhhmmm… I am so sorry, Monsieur. I don’t work here. I was wondering if you could tell me where I am.”

  The drunk glutton blinked at her several times, as though trying to comprehend the question. “Where are you?” he asked loudly. “Why, you’re in the Wolf’s Tavern, Pub and Inn--home to thieves, scalawags, and your basic dregs of society.” Pointing his meat-addled fork at his considerable girth, he added, “Present company included.” Having said that, he studied her as though seeing her for the first time. Dropping his utensils on the table, he brushed off his hands and said to her, “My, you are a pretty one. You must be new. Why don’t you give ole’ Angus here a kiss.” He lunged forward, snaked an arm around her waist, and pulled her to him, sitting back down wi
th her firmly on his lap.

  Sophia tugged at her pinned arms but he tightened his grip and held her fast. “Let me go, Monsieur!”

  “Not before you give me a kiss.”

  Sophia could smell the alcohol on man’s breath and the savory aroma of the meat on the table. She could even feel the heat from the lit candle on the table. Despite the brigand pawing at her, what was at the forefront of her mind was how all this was possible when there was nothing inside the inn a mere moment ago. As the ruffian leaned in for a kiss she shied away. “I said, let me go.”

  The brute held on like a pit bull with a burglar’s leg. “And I said, give me a kiss.” He pouted and made smacking, kissy-kiss sounds.

  Sophia did her best to pull away and free herself but the big man was far too strong for her.

  She heard a loud crash, and a moment later, the man with salt-n-pepper hair pulled her out of the man’s grasp and tossed her to Barnaby, who caught her easily.

  “See there, get your own wench.” Fists clenched, the drunken patron rose clumsily to his feet.

  George jabbed the man twice in the nose with his left, reared back with his right, and walloped him a good one. The surly drunk stumbled back into his booth with a clatter, knocking his dinner, and eventually himself, to the floor.

  Still keeping one eye on the stunned brutish man, George asked, “Sophia, are you alright?” She nodded but took a step back when the drunk, now holding a meaty hand to his eye whined, “Now what in blimey did you go and do that for?”

  Ignoring the question George responded, “What are you doing here?”

  The drunk sized George up with his one visible eye. He must’ve decided George was too much for him to handle, for he said, “Sire. I had no idea this was your woman, and I offer up my most humblest apologies.”

  “What are you doing here all by yourself?”

  The drunk seemed genuinely surprised by George’s question and answered incredulously, “What do you mean, sire. I’m not ‘ere all by myself.”

  A loud din of laughter, music, and basic merriment was suddenly heard behind them.

  She and George turned around and were shocked to find the tavern no longer abandoned but crowded with patrons, bright candles, and a trio of musicians playing their instruments. Sophia saw serving wenches weaving in and out of tables delivering mugs of frothy ales to waiting customers. A warm glow emanated in the previously dank hearth, and a pig with an apple in its mouth roasted on a spit over an open fire.

  Echoing her thoughts George breathed, “Where did they come from?”

  Sophia shook her head and followed George through the crowded room humming with activity. Each of them tried talking to patrons but they were either outright ignored or achieved variations of, “Piss off,” or “Why don’t you go and bother someone else.”

  Against the wall a barkeep with long white hair, a white shirt, and brown vest was standing behind a thick mahogany counter, serving brew on tap.

  Dazed and confused, and with few other options, she and George approached the counter.

  Sophia was the first to speak to the barkeep. “Excuse me, sir. We need help,” she said urgently.

  The man behind the bar swiveled around so swiftly it was as though his upper body was attached independently of his lower half. “What’ll you have, friend?”

  Sophia was immediately taken aback because now she could see the barkeep’s face was not real. It was plastic.

  A robot barkeep?

  The mannequin-faced bartender tilted his head mechanically to the side. “Sorry, I didn’t quite get that, Miss,” he said through phony, unmoving plastic lips.

  Even though the barkeep was an obvious fake and she felt a twinge of unease, he at least acknowledged her presence, which was more than Sophia could say for any of the other patrons they had met so far.

  Not knowing what else to say, she stammered before answering, “We, uh, need help.” Holding up her bandaged arm, “We also need medical assistance.”

  “Sorry,” he said with his perpetual smile, and tilting his head in the opposite direction he added, “Can’t say I am familiar with that particular brand of refreshment.”

  George must’ve decided to take a different route with the plastic bartender for he asked, “What is this place?”

  “You walked in here, don’t you know?” the barkeep asked good-naturedly.

  George let out a practiced breath, forcing himself to remain calm. “I mean, where are we?”

  “Why, you’re in the Wolf’s Tavern and Inn.” Placing the clean glass down on the bar, he leaned slightly forward and asked, “Now how about I pour you a nice cold glass of ale? Just got some ice in this morning.”

  Sophia laid a hand on George’s arm. “Let me try.” To the barkeep she asked, “What is this place we are in right now?”

  The barkeep tilted his head quizzically before responding, and as dryly as his programming would allow, he said, “It’s a tavern.”

  “I mean this town, where are we?” Sophia asked quickly, no longer trying to hide her own frustration.

  “We’re wasting time. Don’t you get it? He’s just a robot, like those things that look like Presidents in that theme park down in Florida?”

  Sophia wasn’t so sure.

  Almost appearing beside the barkeep as if by magic, Cheeves dropped two tin plates of delicious smelling food onto the bar and exclaimed, “See? I told you I’d get you some food. Here you go, eat up!”

  Almost in a trance, she and George slowly sat down at the two empty stools and pulled the food closer to them. Each plate had a small roasted chicken, baked potato, and a side of bread.

  “Bon appetit!” Cheeves shouted, almost gleefully. He tried to tuck a napkin into George’s collar, but George jerked back and removed the cloth napkin from Cheeves’s talons. George, scowling at Cheeves, put the napkin down next to his plate. This, of course, did not dampen Cheeves’s spirits in the slightest.

  “Hey, where’s mine?”

  Sophia turned and saw Barnaby had finally entered the inn. She noted that he seemed unfazed by all of the patrons and was focused only on the fact that he hadn’t been offered any food.

  A sheepish expression crossed Cheeves’s face. He scratched his horns and answered, “Oh, I’m sorry, Barnabus. I thought… ah… with your…” his cat-like eyes kept flicking to Barnaby’s belly and back up to his eyes, “…you know… with your…” he gestured at his own belly and shook it, “that ah… you wouldn’t be as hungry as your two friends here.”

  Barnaby squinted as he frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, nothing,” Cheeves responded quickly, although Sophia thought she detected a slight grin in the corner of the gargoyle’s mouth. “I’ll go get you something right now, post haste.” And he vanished into the kitchen again.

  As Barnaby searched for an empty stool George shrugged and ripped a leg off the baked chicken. Seeing her staring at him he said, “I suppose if they wanted us dead they could’ve killed us already. Besides, we have to eat sometime.” That said he took a hearty bite. Mouth filled with food, he managed, “It’s good. Real good.” And as the juices rolled down his chin he grabbed the napkin Cheeves had given him earlier.

  At this point, with the savory smells, combined with George wolfing down his own meal right in front of her, she knew there was no going back now. It occurred to her that the food could be poisoned, and maybe that’s what happened to everybody in town, but George was right, at some point, they had to eat.

  She cut off a dainty piece of white meat, brought it to her lips, and just happened to see the sailor man in his booth again. Like before he was swilling his ale, stopping only to belch, and carving into his meat. It took her a moment to sort out why this bothered her so much until she realized, it was exactly as before, the same mannerisms, the same portions. It was like the man was repeating himself, as though he were on some sort of loop.

  That’s when she had her first real memory of exactly what this pla
ce really was.

  And it terrified her to the core.

  Chapter 35

  “The Ornate Box”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “Before I woke up in this place? Nothing.”

  George watched Sophia lift the laminate badge hanging from her slender neck and hold it toward him. “According to this my name is Dr. Sophia Davenport and I am a Microbiologist.” She seemed to think this over for a second. “And I can’t shake the feeling I’ve said all of this before.”

  George cut another slice of chicken and shoved it in his mouth. He was starving, but as soon as he was finished with the meal he was out of here. Clearly there was no one here willing, or capable, of helping him find Maddie.

  Chewing a large tender bite he asked, “Anything else?”

  “I remember floating down a long tunnel; lights kept passing overhead intermittently for what seemed like eternity.”

  George hadn’t told her yet how he had seen her down in the tunnels. Whether this was because he didn’t trust her yet, or he didn’t wish to frighten her any further, he wasn’t quite sure. Besides, you don’t even know for certain if that was even her. He was about to mention it anyway, but she continued on with her recollection.

  “I also remember a bright white light. And a pair of yellow eyes looming over me.” The memory was obviously causing her distress and she was eager to change the subject. “What about you?”

  George felt himself blink several times and felt like an idiot for doing so. “What now?” he asked, feigning like he hadn’t heard her.

  “What about you, how much do you remember before you woke up in the tunnels with your daughter?”

  He purposely took another bite of his chicken, and forced himself to chew more slowly.

  “I remember everything before I got here.” But was that really true? If his memory had been erased, as Sophia’s clearly had, how would he even know that it had? Seeing her still looking at him expectantly he answered, “I remember my wife, Tessa, my childhood, my daughter, the fact that I got assigned the worst parking spot possible at work.” A memory of his co-pilot sitting lifeless in his seat with a gaping hole in his chest flashed across his mind. “I remember flying a combat mission in Afghanistan…” In his mind’s eye George was back in his dying helicopter doing everything he possibly could to keep it airborne. ‘Missiles locked. Deploy countermeasures!’ someone yelled in the memory, but their voice was muffled, like they were screaming the words underwater. Then the memory was gone, or maybe he purposely forced it from his mind. Too painful. Also eager to dismiss the unpleasant memories he joked, “I remember N.A.S.A. landed a land rover on Mars.”