by A. P. Fuchs
But if there is a way out . . .
She also wondered how she got herself mixed up in this strange sequence of events to begin with. There was no place she knew of that had a tower with a rotating floor around it---a spinning room---with purple and gray clouds consistently storming above, clouds so vast and dense that they were everything and all; no sign of a world below.
Similar to how her aunt's white dress had earlier, the tattered ends of the figure in black's cloak peeked out from around the curve far ahead, blowing in a wind that Sharon couldn't feel at her present point along the wall.
Digging her heels into the floor, she charged ahead and when she came to where her father should be defending himself against the figure in black, he instead lay in a pool of blood at the figure's feet, the hem of the black cloak drenched in wet, dark crimson.
The figure in black raised its arm, a gun protruding slowly from its sleeve.
A loud bang shook her from within.
* * * *
She had done this more than five or six times, now. Maybe it was eight or nine? A wave of nausea swept through Sharon's stomach and intestines even before she started running.
There had to be a way to save time. Avoiding Aunt Clora, helping her mom, then getting to her dad . . . too many precious moments wasted.
If I could get to him first then maybe---She turned and ran the other way, not sure how far she had to go before . . . before she'd be forced to start all over again. Aunt Clora would be last. If it isn't a super long run to Dad, then maybe . . .
There was no telling how big the disc that encircled the gigantic marble pillar was. For all she knew, her aunt, her parents, and their assailants were only at the beginning of the circle. There was no set concept of time here. Moments sped, moments slowed; time was not steady like in the outside world.
She played over her run from the previous---Six? Seven? Ten?---times she tried to save her parents. She'd been so preoccupied with surviving and saving their lives it was hard to tell how many minutes passed between each encounter. She glanced at her wrist. No watch.
Figures, she thought.
It was weird running with the wall on her left instead of her right this time. More than once she noticed herself drifting off course toward the railing, her right side needing something solid beside it.
As with the previous times she'd done this, sharp, zig-zagging lightning crackled in the sky and thunder boomed low and full.
Out of habit, she prepared herself for Aunt Clora's attack. A wonderful relief followed when she reminded herself that Aunt Clora would not be showing up this time. At least not until later. She checked over her shoulder for Clora just in case.
The sound of wet cloth slapping polished stone came from up ahead.
No, not yet. Not ever! Dad! Sharon's heart kicked up its speed.
Tendrils of black material snaked out from around the curve in the wall.
Sharon ran faster.
The thick ribbons of dark fabric swam through the air in smooth waves, flowing inwards to a large figure in a black cloak. Sharon could not see its face. Around twenty feet away, she stopped, still beneath the figure's notice.
She couldn't be one-hundred percent sure, but the being in the huge black cloak seemed bigger. It might have seemed that way because she had previously come in from the other side, but yet the more she thought of it, the more she was certain the figure had grown since last time.
It doesn't want me to pass. That's why it's bigger, she assumed. She didn't know what she needed to do first: try and get her father out of the way, then face the cloaked figure, or go after the figure first, then help her father escape?
Maybe Dad could help me save Mom if we survive this? she thought.
Charging toward the figure, arms out, she grabbed hold of the cloak's thick, prickly fabric. The dark abyss of its face turned her way, the sheer blackness of its gaze she felt instead of saw; eyeless wonder pierced her through and through. She stumbled back, pulling the black cloak with her. Her father shouted something, but she couldn't hear him from beneath the figure's cloak. The material was dense, like a heavy sponge or carpet. It smelled of poison mushrooms and rotting wood.
Click-clack. Thok! Click-clack. Thok! The creature's steps were like horse hooves on a cobbled street, but with more weight behind them, more force.
Click-clack. Thok!
Hands shaking, she slowly pushed the heavy material off her face, eyes squeezed shut.
You must face him, it, whatever it is. You have to. Dad's gonna die and even if you save Mom and avoid Aunt Clora, you're gonna hafta do this all over again, face this stupid thing---man---thing again. Gah! Her thoughts were too loud for comfort.
Sharon's eyes opened to a gray-boned skeleton, the bones as thick as a pair of flesh-covered arms or legs. Behind the figure's ribcage, a heart beat amidst a mess of stringy veins, muscle and fat, appearing more like red spider webs thatched to the bone, crisscrossing from rib to rib, covering them like something out of an anatomy book.
She had been right about the hooves. At the bottom of the creature's shin bones, dirty gray hooves were cracked down the center, giving the impression of toes. The creature's fingers ran off jointed wrists like gangly branches off a tree. Its heart caught her attention again. It was vibrant red. Wiry veins snaked upward and coiled around vertebrae that appeared broken or cracked in a few places. Sharon expected the creature's head to be a skull; instead, the black abyss was still there, no longer the once-thought endless shadow created by the creature's large hood. The black nothingness was oval-like, the same as a person's head. Looking closer, she saw there was a skull of a kind---the back portion of one, a cranial cavity that was from about the middle of the creature's forehead, running up and over and down the back, connecting to the vertebrae with stringy veins.
Lightning flashed as the creature neared her, a soft, echoey moan coming from a mouth she could not see. The lightning lit up its face for a moment and, for the briefest of instances, a pale dead face appeared beneath the murky darkness.
The creature grabbed her, and moaned again. She shrieked as she was hoisted up.
"Hey!" her father shouted behind her.
She strained to look over her shoulder. He stood on top of the heap of discarded cloak, holding the creature's rifle.
"Put my girl down!" he said and cocked the gun.
Click-clack. Thok! The creature took one step forward, its long, bony fingers tightening around Sharon's neck, each finger a spike that felt as if it was being forced through her windpipe. Tears leaked from her eyes and fluid filled her nose, giving her a headache.
In a swirl of darkness, the creature's cloak took on a life of its own, wrapping itself around her father, covering him up to his armpits. His arms were still free.
So was the gun.
The extra fabric, around his feet like a puddle, slowly slid toward her. Her father took aim.
It an ear-splitting shriek, like a thousand children screaming, the creature threw Sharon off to the side. She slid across the floor and crashed hard against the railing. Something crunched in her lower back and a burst of aching pain flared up in her tailbone.
The creature had her father's wrist in one skeletal hand, its other moving toward the gun.
"Sharon, here!" her dad shouted and flicked his wrists forward.
The rifle hit the ground butt-end first, and a yellow flash sparked from the end of the barrel as it went off. The creature, keeping watch on the gun, twisted its torso in a powerful jerk, the living cloak throwing her father against the wall. He lay there, his limbs twisted as if his arms and legs had been broken.
Each movement excruciating, Sharon forced herself toward the gun, her fingers clawing the floor as she pulled her body along. The pain in her lower back forbade her to stand.
The dark cloak rose up like a tornado and covered the skeletal creature, forming to its master like food-wrap to a dish.
A blur of black darted toward her and a chunk of the cloak knoc
ked her back. Dazed, she tried to remember where she was and what she had been trying to do.
The gun.
Dad.
"Get away, you freak!" she yelled, emptying her lungs.
Adrenaline pumping, she frantically pulled herself along the floor. The creature's cloak shot out again, the tips of thick fabric whipping a fiery slash across her shoulder blades. She heard her T-shirt---a green one now---tear; the sudden wetness of blood from at least three slashes dampened the fabric and the skin beneath. Wincing, setting the fiery pain aside, she forced herself to move quickly. Anger and murderous rage ran through her. In a burst of energy, her legs came alive and though she could not stand, she used her knees to help her along the floor. The moment her fingertips touched the warm barrel of the rifle, the creature threw its cloak out once more, the fabric wrapping around the rifle's butt-end.
The fabric, like a hand, yanked backward.
She hung on.
It snapped its cloak back a second time, dragged her forward, her fingers clamping on the rifle.
Her kneecaps felt as though they were going to pop off as she tried to bend her legs. Painfully, she managed to get her legs under her, squatting as she struggled to maintain her grip on the gun.
The creature pulled.
Sharon slid along the floor, the soles of her feet burning as her skin skidded on marble. It was only then she realized she wasn't wearing any shoes.
The moment she felt the creature's pull ease some, she yanked the barrel as hard as she could and, her knees now at an angle, got her feet beneath her, and pressed backward against the floor as hard as she could. She fell, her tailbone smashing a second time from her weight. The rifle landed on an angle and whacked her in the shoulder where it was more bone than flesh.
Wasting no time as the creature moved toward her, Sharon cocked the rifle and pulled the trigger.
Her father was still out when she checked on him right after the creature fell. She was surprised she killed it. The bullet disappeared into the black deep of its face and, like smoke sucked into a fan, the black nothingness funneled inward, toward the back of its skull. It dropped dead and all that was left of its face was the lower half of a head, the top now missing thanks to the bullet, and thin lips. Pus-filled sores dotted the powdery-gray skin. The rifle in her hands dissolved into thin air as if the creature's demise triggered its own.
Her dad was unconscious. She rearranged his limbs so he was in a more comfortable position and hoped he'd be safe. It was only after she did that she realized she shouldn't have moved him if indeed his limbs had been broken.
I'm so . . . "I'm so sorry, Dad."
There weren't any other threats roaming the Spinning Room that she knew of. Any that had been directed specifically their way, at least.
Mom. The thought was like a hot needle driven into her brain.
Keeping her guard up, her sense of awareness in a heightened state, she charged alongside the wall, racing to save her mother. She had time. The distance---from what she could remember---between Aunt Clora and her mother was a long one. Between her father and her mother, it was shorter. Those few extra minutes could be enough to finally get to her in time.
A few moments later, no more than a couple feet away, there was a ridge in the wall she hadn't noticed before. The ridge ran the wall's height, nearly blending completely into its counterpart that was an inch higher---if you turned your head on its side---as it was an inch or so in thickness. She checked the wall's smooth texture, suddenly captivated by its polished surface.
Can't stop to look at this. No time, she thought. She broke back into a run. Her fingers were still on the ridge in the wall and had pushed against it. The wall slid forward like a gigantic drawer.
She went in. The hallway inside was painted a dull, light blue, the paint's finish marred by scratches and dirty fingerprints. The hallway ran to the right, the same way she was headed. It did not extend to the left. Small, dim lamps lit the hallway, but not nearly enough to be called bright or just right. The floor was tiled in that grungy grayish-beige that reminded her of elementary school.
Sharon took a few steps in. Up ahead on the right side, a shadow ran floor to ceiling. A room, perhaps?
The markings and smudges on the wall remained consistent as she ran toward the room.
Mom's in there, she thought with conviction. The room was where the large, rectangular window would be if she was outside.
If all occurred as before---and she had no reason to believe that it wouldn't; of her attempted rescues, there had been no alterations to her mother's, unlike her dad who had been killed in a different manner each time by the cloaked skeleton man---then the tall man in blue would have his back to her, a gun on her mom. If her mother didn't see her sneak in or didn't display any form of change in her facial expression or body language, indicating she was aware of her daughter's presence, that was.
She slowed to a brisk walk; her feet trotting along the tiled floor made too much noise.
Back against the wall, she peered inside the room. The man in the blue suit---Blue, she'd called him once before---yelled at her mom in a language she didn't understand; all spits and garbles and a dialect that sounded something like Pig Latin.
If I just had a rock or something to throw at him or break that window with, she thought. There was nothing except for an empty hallway. The guy in red would be along soon. He'd have his weapon with him, but she wasn't sure if she could wrestle it free from him without getting killed.
She wasn't wearing shoes so even throwing those at him wasn't possible.
Time was running out.
Sharon gathered her courage and entered the room. Holding her breath, keeping silent, she heel-toed toward the man as slow as she was able, unsure whether Mom had seen her or not.
Please don't say anything, please don't look at me. Keep watching him, Mom. Don't throw him off---The toes on her right foot rolled under her, pulling her instep along with them. Quickly recovering her balance, she cursed herself when Blue turned around.
Moving swiftly, she grabbed the gun with both hands, tugging with jerky pulls, trying to free it from Blue's steel-like grip.
"Hatwsh rea ouys oingdsh!" he said.
"Sharon!" her mom called. She hesitated for a moment then said, "I'll get help."
"Mom, don't!" Putting her shoulder into the man's sternum, Sharon twisted his arms to the front of her body, putting them in to some kind of lock. "Another . . . guy's . . . coming . . . he's . . . he's in red!"
Blue's foot hooked around her ankle from behind, locking in just above it. He pulled forward; she toppled onto him. The man's bony fingers and the hard metal handle of the gun stabbed her gut on impact. The air shot out of her in a short wheeze, a sudden pang of sharp pain plowing into her ribs. It didn't take a chiropractor to know something was out of place.
"Sharon!" her mother screamed.
"Ivegsh tish otsh ems!" He pressed into her, his fingers squirming beneath her, trying to get a better grip on the pistol.
Forcing her weight downward to forbid any further movement, she caught a glimpse of her mother coming toward them.
"Mom . . . help . . . the guy . . . watching . . . red . . . coming . . ." Her air was gone and there was too much weight being pressed into her ribcage to inhale.
His lips to Sharon's ear, Blue grunted and something snapped like a pencil. The man's body went limp and the two dropped to the floor.
Rolling the two over as far as able, giving her some breathing room, her mother said, "Sharon, did you . . . are you . . . come . . . come here." She helped her off the floor.
"Go slow," Sharon said. Having the corpse's weight lifted from her was both relieving and painful. The gun's curved handle had been pressed so tight into her solar plexus it had nearly made a home there.
"Mom." Sharon's voice was barely a whisper.
Her mother embraced her. Blue's corpse lay there, his eyes still open, staring at them.
"What did you do?" Sharon asked.
"Kicked him. Meant to get him in the jaw, but I think I missed. I guess I kicked too hard because his head shot back at an odd angle and his neck bent outward in front. Broken." She squeezed Sharon tighter. "I don't care. He would have killed y---"
The short fellow in the red suit---Red---entered the room, rifle drawn. Without word or confirmation that his comrade was dead, he cocked the gun, brought it eye-level and stared down the barrel.
A loud popping-crack echoed throughout the room. The rifle flew from his hands, his first two fingers nothing more than bleeding, fleshy stumps, a gush of red spewing out their ends.
"Now!" Sharon grabbed her mom by the hand and reloaded the pistol's firing chamber. She fired, the window leading outside shattered, fell, and the two escaped. The anguished howling of the man in the red suit followed them.
"Aunt Clora's just around the corner," Sharon said. "She's got a gun, too, and she's trying to kill me. Was trying to kill me. Gah! Never mind."
"What does Clora have to do with---What?"
"Just like . . . what I said was . . . never mind." If Aunt Clora gets Mom, I'd have to start over again, wouldn't I? No way. This is the last time, she thought. Enough repetition. The thought of running in circles again made her head and stomach swim. The thought of being in that place at the beginning of the . . . challenge? Never again. The sores on her feet---she shuddered to think of the hard, pus-filled, yellowy-orange bumps on the balls of her feet and heels. But her body renewed itself with each cycle, didn't it? The bullet wound from Aunt Clora's gun was no longer present on her shoulder.
It doesn't matter, she thought. It'll all be over soon.
The pain-filled howls began to fade, and was soon lost behind them.
Yet when Sharon looked over her shoulder, she saw a red speck in the distance.
