by Enoch Enns
What? Where was 43? Carls felt a swirl in his stomach as he stared at the blank wall. The door should be right there!
His body jolted back—his daughter just barely slipping from his fingers as they both plummeted.
Everything stopped. It had happened so quickly he had not the time to even take it all in. A light had flashed... but just before it had everything around him seemed to collapse. His eyes opened to an endless white about him—nothing expanded below, above, or to either side. All he could make out was a few chunks of concrete and the relief of his daughter not too far from him. She was unscathed and her hair twisting and winding as through a gentle breeze swept past them. But he felt nothing. Externally. Inside, his body felt a wave of something so surreal he had no idea of where to begin describing it. He looked and saw his wounds closing. The blood and sweat faded from his clothes; the rips in his shirt closed shut and the pain in his bones and bruises on his skin left him.
He'd nearly forgotten of his coat. Such a mystery as to how he had received it. A place so bizarre one would either remember everything or disregard it all. In his case: he remembered. Yes, he recalled. “Pamela...” his voice whispered from within. Such a strange character. It was almost as though he could vaguely see her amidst the white space. So willing. So caring. So....
His eyes awakened to everything but a sense of surreal. The shades around him, the dim reflections of dying light, the cold touch of some dark aurora-- it all embraced him as his hand pushed upward through the latch. The next thing he knew, he was pulling his daughter up from behind him and from a dark descent of unknown from which he also emerged.
He heard the fading stampede of crumbling below him and cleared the tunnel way. For a moment he simply stood, breathing. Little Joan behaved as though no recollection of what had occurred. Just like any five-year-old, she was drawing upon the walls of the alley. Carls leaned up against the side, taking into account the healed wounds and mended clothes. How, who, and why remained a mystery to him. But he was thankful. Grateful. Thank you, Lord—for there was none else to give credit to at the time.
“Carls? (It was Trip on his Hand-Pal) Is that you? I thought I'd lost you in the collapse. I know you've been put through enough wreck already, but I need to you meet me outside of Theatra. Be careful, there's a lot of ruckus from that collapse. You're lucky to be alive-- please just keep it that way. I've tried detouring most of the commotion but I can't guarantee it all clear. I'll be waiting for you there.”
Great. Not only had he fell short of getting to Tenius on time, but he'd found only more questions than answers. Right now he didn't seem to be helping any bit.
Wait—the tablet. He reached into his sash and pulled it out. 319.
Seeing Past The Illusion
“Take caution in your steps, my friend, and heed my words. Your eyes are still but opening to what lies beneath. Do not overstep yourself else you be swallowed up like the rest. The illusions are powerful. Do not think you are yet free of them.”
-Philis Antoinette
It had been a while since he’d felt so much strength flow through him. For so long had he not slept, not ate, not tended to his wounds. His last good meal had been at the encampment, but whatever had happened to him earlier-- the white space he had been enveloped by-- he felt satisfied within. So long had it been that he nearly forgot what satisfaction felt like. He could step now without limp. He would breathe now without liquid filling his lungs and choking him.
And he could notice how much he had previously become accustom to the coarse air. The place was thick and cold-- the air polluted with some substance. Even in the vast halls of the mall he could feel the dampness upon his skin. And it was cold. He could imagine how these halls were once filled with warmth and people. Indeed, now vacant, the vents simply brought about a chill. And almost, just briefly, could he see them-- people. The scene unfolded before him in a manner of no alarm. To his right smiled his beautiful wife. His nerves trembled at the very sight of her. Her smile… her laugh… the look she gave-- his legs nearly knocked out from beneath him. Joanna had grabbed hold of Elairah’s hand and was running about her bright colors. The whole sense of an unexplainable peace swept about him. It was just as when he’d first arrived at the so-called “Grand Attraction”. Light filled the place. People filled the place.
But it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. He tried opening his eyes but they wouldn’t wield. He tried shutting them but could only blink. And with every cover of his eyelid, the scenery flashed to reality until, finally, it shattered.
He saw his daughter fall (for whom she had been grasping was no longer there, but an illusion). His senses sparked. He could hear the steps closing in and quickly saw them. “Joan!” he called, reaching out for her just in time. A thud hit behind him.
What?! He still didn’t know what happened, only that now he was fighting for his life. He’d managed to stand ground between the offender and his daughter and now grappled with the powerful force of an illusionate. They were everywhere and rushing toward him. How?! He knocked the male figure before him to the ground, stumbling backward, shielding his daughter from a faulty projectile. These were people, not illusionate. They were just as human as he was—only at the moment his daughter’s safety was of more concern then theirs. He reached into his sash and withdrew the weapon. It glowed a vibrant blue and either of its sides extended into a staff. He wielded off another two—feeling his back pressed to a corner. His movements were being hindered by the clasp his daughter had upon his thigh. He picked her up and tossed her upon his back (a burden he would gladly bear).
He had to reach Trip, but with this many illusionate he doubted his ability. He made a break for it-- the cover of a dress shop would have to suffice. He peeled behind the glass doors and braced their handles with his staff. The pale forms hit up against the glass mindlessly and craved. He saw the smudges left by their stained forms; he saw the bloodshot veins of their eyes; he saw the drying skin upon their necks and limbs.
No different from I… he thought to himself, remembering exactly how he also felt, and remembering the words Xavier had spoken, “Your pain, your hurt; your doubt, your fear-- they too had struggled with it all.” Indeed, he’d been there and ever so closely. But why was he different? Why had he retained his sanity? Why had a God spared him from such depravity and yet others fell all about him?
And why were they some still like him?
Your eyes are still but opening to what lies beneath. The illusions are powerful. Do not think you are yet free of them—that had been Antoinette’s heeding.
Their hoarse breathes just barely reached through the glass barrier. Carls felt numb, his daughter clinging to his leg, to the vibrations of a frail protection before him. How did it all come to this? Why do I feel so much burden to what would otherwise harm me? Why do I struggle so much to swing any blow at them? Why…?
The front-most figure jolted to the side, ravaging to break past the gathering horde. Something else had caught their attention as, one by one, they began peeling from the glass doors of the dress shop. In but seconds Carls was left to watch the last of them escape his view. He stood in silence for a moment, then removed the staff which had long since returned to its original state.
Mistaken Agenda
“If only one could learn from another’s mistakes and act upon such valuable knowledge-- maybe then history would not so often repeat itself.”
-Mike Dyrdrik, In Search of Life's Mysteries
Trip stood amidst the vast hall running adjacent to the Theatra. His composure was steadfast, his eyes gazing forward to the appearance of two-- a man and small child. Locke had managed to maneuver his way undetected for the most part. He now was before Trip, curious for answers; worried of his short comings.
Trip crouched low to Joanna’s level, holding out a candy cane, “Here you go, I got it just for you.”
Little Joan smiled and looked up to Carls for the “okay” before running out to retrieve the candy.
> “Thank you,” Carls said to the man, more appreciative of the smile his daughter bore than the treat smeared all over her face.
“Thought I’d lost you,” Trip stated, shoving his hands back into his tight pockets beneath his heavy-loaded belt. “Did Friedelock find out anything? Listen, Locke, I don’t know what business you had with him, but it could have cost us everything. Going in there was risky, and you know that-- you nearly came to your end.”
“He had Tenius.”
“And you believed him? He’s a murderer of any scientists in opposition to his work, I thought you would know….”
“Then tell me what I don’t. Cause as far as I can tell, I still have something to lose and I’m not about to risk my daughter for something I am uncertain if even exists. And Friedelock is dead… he shot himself. There was something much more twisted in that man than anyone, you included, had warned me about. What. Is. Going. On?!”
Trip held silent. Carls could tell he was holding something back. It didn’t seem to fit the man’s character to hold to such privacy. Trip finally broke.
“You’re right, and I’m sorry. There is a whole lot more going on here. But to be frank, I am just as confused as you, and giving you every detail will still leave you with countless questions. As for Friedelock, he’s inevitably why TAP fell apart from the start. Friedelock broke the chain. Friedelock fell. As for what the reason, I can only speculate. Some say it is because he works with the Big Man….”
“Works with? I saw the Big Man, or something so close I couldn’t tell the difference. Friedelock was being controlled by him, not used. And when he saw this--”
“The tape!” Trip cut, “You still have it?”
Carls reached into his sash.
It wasn’t there.
Trip clenched his jaws. Carls handed him the sash and he searched for himself. “Before it all came down, did he manage to take anything? How close was he to you?”
“I was at gunpoint--“ Carls remembered. He recalled thinking of his daughter. And he could still see the expression Friedelock had carried. A sudden change in character-- a split personality. And it was then that whatever had been inside him, the Big Man, had stepped out.
“The Big Man…” Carls mumbled. He’d somehow grabbed hold of it.
“This isn’t good… not one bit good….” Trip stepped back, hand through his hair. “Friedelock was trouble enough, I can’t even begin to imagine what the Big Man would do if he found out about TAP’s intentions. This couldn’t have gone more wrong--“
Trip had his gun drawn before Carls could blink. But it wasn’t pointed at him, rather to the left at a familiar face. “Kit…” he relieved tension. “What are you doing here?”
Carls’ Hand-Pal buzzed. It was Antoinette. “It’s been a while, my friend. There’s been a slight change in plan--“ the voice was choppy with hard lungs of the old man. “I need you to come to my place ASAP. As for Trip, you are needed elsewhere.”
Trip seemed astonished at the recognition of the speaker’s voice, but before Carls could ask why, Antoinette added, “Time is flashing zero, we must act NOW. I know where it is, but we cannot delay in detail at the moment. The numbers are few and the pawns must be set in place quickly. So come, Mr Locke, that we might act quickly--” Carls had to dodge the swing of a barrel as Trip suddenly twisted to behind him. A figure that had emerged.
One that neither he, Trip, nor Kit would have guessed to make appearance.
“Trip, don’t. I know this one.”
“A lot of people do, Locke, and I can’t risk it--“ he tried pushing past Locke, but Carls held his ground.
“Trip, he’s with me! Stop. Narrl is with me.”
The words held him still.
“We don’t have time to quarrel,” Kit put in. “Leave him be. Least you can do is respect the man for what he’s already sacrificed for you… and everyone else.”
Trip stepped away, steadily lowering his judgment. “I’m trusting you, Locke. Rather, I trust you, and I’m gonna hold you to this.”
Kit was already gone-- Trip close behind him. Carls could but turn to see the shy figure stammer in the distance. So weak… so frail… so….
“Why are you here? How long have you been listening?” He could tell Narrl was without excuse. The kid was completely broken. “Why do they fear you so?” he asked.
“I just want to follow you…” the tender voice came. His long hair dangled about his face as he knelt, bracing his forehead. “I can’t do this alone… please…. I promise I won’t get in your way, I’ll help you. I’ll even carry your stuff….”
Carls felt a strong sense of pity for the man. Everyone hated him. And it wasn’t without reason. There was something about the young man that gave even Carls the chills, and yet he saw a genuine heart. He tossed his sash across the distance-- a valuable asset to him entrusted to a yet-to-be-determined ally. “There is water in there, if you desire.”
Narrl shook his head, simply placing the bag over his shoulders. Carls didn’t know what to think of his actions. He hoped it wouldn’t come back to haunt him.
Getting To Antoinette
Narrl had a sense of expertise when it came to avoiding the wandering illusionate. Each time they drew near, his body seemed to serge with such an inner pain that he would nearly flee. The fear wasn’t of them, but something within himself—a pain that raged constantly and that he devoted all his strength toward hiding. Insecure, yet stable enough. They had reached the main hall to the e-Company in a short matter of time. He still held securely to the baggage Carls had handed to him to carry. It was as though he found recognition in it, and to it clang for acceptance.
Carls pressed gently to the edge of the corner, peering down the hall for roamers. Joanna was holding to his thigh as she always did. He knew she needed rest. But that was not a comfort he could offer at the moment.
There were three.
Why can’t this ever just be easy? Carls pondered. If they etched closely enough to the walls, he wondered if they just might go undetected from the cover of pillars rising to the floor above. The hall expanded all four floors and a vibrant light dared to shimmer through the smogged glass. Yes, that would have to do.
He looked to Narrl, gesturing for them to move. Narrl cleared the corner first and crossed to the first pillar. Carls stepped out and held his daughter close. One pillar down. Just about fourteen left.
They crept to the second-- Narrl was surprisingly alert. “I… I don’t like this,” he whispered back as he braced behind the sixth pillar. He was shaking his head at Carls. Something was up.
Carls peered back into the hall. Two illusionate were across from them and the third a bit of a ways more down. Narrl was right. Carls was getting the feeling too.
He heard a thud and glass shatter from the floor above. A black mass hit the tiles and roared. Carls’ first thought was Joan. He had to protect her. Narrl had pick-locked the shop across from them, signaling for Locke to follow him. Carls made one step before finding himself lunging backwards by the second one. An object hit across the window display and glass burst. He’d just enough time to shield his daughter’s face but could feel the cuts against his-- his coat protected the rest of him. With what little time he had he made a break for the shop, finding Narrl in the back grabbing hold of a small pot. Yes, they had stumbled into a pottery as their refuge.
The Fallen One was tarring to shreds anything its vast hammer-arms could touch. The illusionate acted helplessly to overtake it, for some reason deciding not to run. And they were being crushed. More came and yet again failed at subduing the monster. Narrl took the pot and chunked it across the hallway into an adjacent shop. Glass broke and the Fallen One ravaged its way toward the sound. A dangerous maneuver, but it gave them just the time to advance--
Carls ducked beneath a fist of an illusionate. It’d come from nowhere and was now clawing at his coat. He couldn’t move. Joan had stumbled just from his reach and turned to him scared-- a form rising behind her
with clamped fists.
“No!” Carls screamed, his face being pounded into the floor. All he heard was a grunt and through a trickle of blood from his brow, he saw a figure rapped about his daughter-- Narrl was shielding her.
Carls did his best to drive and elbow into his offender’s jaw. The illusionate released and stammered backward. But before he could do anything else, another illusionate pounded him into the wall. “Narrl!” he choked, a hand outstretched. Narrl was busy enough dodging for himself and the little angel he held to, yet, in a brief twist of favor, a small object landed perfectly between Carls’ fingers….
Bone and hammer met unforgivingly as Carls thrust the tool into the illusionate’s ribcage. He was clear of bondage and could not catch up to Narrl and his daughter. But now they had another problem. A barreling bench crashed across their path to the roar of a powerful foe. They broke hard to the right and into the denounced store-- illusionate quickly on their trail, as was the Fallen One. The beast came through the entrance as though a man punching through a plate of dry mud. The isles of displays were made alive in flying shrapnel. The illustionate were piling upon it and the creature soon lost control of its course-- its weight and force more than enough to break through the barrier of the two stores. The hole in the wall crumbled in disturbance as the Fallen One proceeded lashing at the little pests to which its attention was drawn. Narrl’s was unexplainably terrified. His whole body shook and every bit of him was in sweat. Seeing her dad, little Joan slipped from the fear-stricken hands and into those of her father. “Narrl!” he called out, making a move toward the hole between the two shops. The commotion had moved back into the vast openness of the hall, leaving them just the space to pass by the last few pillars. And to their relief, the doors opened just quickly enough to mask their escape. There were inside Antoinette’s protection now (if one could even call such a place safe in of itself).
