The Hunt for Reduk Topa

by Barry J. Hutchison

“Fine. Fine.”

  Cal glared up at the cameras. “Fine. I’m going in. You happy? Oh, and by the way…”

  He turned to show Floora to the cameras. “I’m helping a Floomfle. Doesn’t that prove I’m not who you think I am?”

  “They probably think you’ve kidnapped me,” Floora pointed out. “It probably made them hate you even more.”

  “Son of a…” Cal groaned. “Some days, I just can’t win.”

  He straightened and addressed the camera again. “But not today, you voyeuristic shizzholes. Today, I’m taking the victory. I’m getting out, I’m getting the money, and then I’m kicking the asses of everyone involved in this whole—”

  Somewhere not too far behind him, a Sloorg howled.

  “Fonk, fonk,” Cal whimpered, instantly forgoing his speech in favor of running as fast as he could in through the Boneyard entrance.

  The wind whistled through the gaps in the giant jaws as he passed through, then the whole thing snapped shut a half-inch behind him, cutting off his escape and shaving a good two-to-six years off his life expectancy.

  “Jesus!” he gasped, clutching at his chest. “I thought it had us.”

  He craned his neck back. “Are you still there?”

  “Just,” Floora answered. “It nearly cut my wings off.”

  “Be a damn shame to lose those,” said Cal. “They’ve proven so useful up till now.”

  With the jaws closed, there was only one route available to them—dead ahead. And there were dead ahead. Lots of dead. The walls of the passageway stretched on for forty feet or more, before ending in a T-shaped junction at the end.

  There was no roof to the yard, so the bones, carcasses, and other organic detritus were bathed in a red glow that conjured up images of Hell and damnation. Most of the corpses that made up the walls were long-dead, reduced to nothing but their skeletons. A few had died more recently, though, and dried flesh clung to them like leather on an old sofa that should’ve been dumped on some random sidewalk years ago.

  One or two of the fresher bodies even seemed to be moving. Cal looked at them long enough to be sure they weren’t about to jump out and grab him, then took great pleasure in turning away and not looking at them any longer.

  “This place is horrible,” he remarked.

  “It is,” Floora agreed, her voice somehow even smaller than the rest of her.

  Cal crept on along the passageway, his head tick-tocking for danger, drawn to any movement in the walls.

  “I mean, it’s got everything. Ominous atmosphere, scary lighting, a billion dead bodies. Could it get any worse?”

  A buzzerfly landed on his arm. Cal screamed and swatted it beneath a gloved hand. He felt the thing discharge its electricity, but the suit and the glove reduced it to a prickling sensation that quickly passed.

  “OK, now could it get any worse?” he asked.

  “It will. It’s bound to,” Floora told him. Her voice was shrinking fast, and cracking around the edges. He could feel her shaking on his back.

  “So, tell me about yourself,” said Cal.

  Floora frowned. “Huh?”

  “What brings a nice Floomfle like you to a place like this?”

  “It’s… Like I said, it’s an honor to be chosen. My people take their place in the Hunt very seriously. We are trained from a young age to be Sloorg feed.”

  “Right. Right,” said Cal. He wasn’t sure what sort of training would be involved, beyond run at the Sloorg and jump, but he decided not to press her for more information. “But you didn’t fancy it?”

  “Not really, no,” Floora admitted.

  “What did you want to do?”

  “Is this really the time to be discussing this?” Floora whispered.

  Cal shrugged, forcing her to cling to the backpack more tightly. “Good a time as any. We might not have much left. So, what did you want to do? Besides not be eaten by Sloorgs, I mean, which from now on let’s just take as a given.”

  “I… I don’t know,” said Floora.

  “Yeah, you do. Come on, tell me,” Cal said.

  “Science,” said Floora. “I mean, I suppose, if I had to choose. Science.”

  “There you go!” Cal said, turning his head and beaming encouragement back at her. “Science. Is that how you know about the…”

  He gestured vaguely around them.

  “The mind’s eye thing?”

  “Perception field,” Floora corrected. “And yes. Sort of. I read what I can.”

  “Good for you,” said Cal. “With your brains, and… uh, everything I bring to the table, we can’t fail to get out of here.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so,” said Cal. “It’s a Cal Carver Guarantee. And those are rock-solid.”

  He shot her another smile. “Stick with me, kid, and everything’s going to be just fine,” he said, then he let out a hysterical scream as a hand grabbed at him from the wall.

  “Let’s pretend that didn’t happen,” he said, once he’d successfully avoided the zombie-like grasp.

  They reached the end of the passageway and stopped. The corridor split in two directions—one leading left, the other leading right. The one on the left came to an end just a few feet away, then doubled back the way they’d come.

  The corridor on the right stretched out for much longer, with two other passageways running off from it at irregular intervals.

  “Ah, shizz, I think I know what this is,” Cal said. He took the Preypad from his pocket and shouted over Perko before he could speak. “Is this a maze?”

  “You’re right on the money, old chum!” Perko confirmed. “This is—”

  Cal stuffed it back into his pocket.

  “Fonking mazes. I hate mazes. You think it’s too late to turn back?”

  He turned back. The corridor they had just walked down was gone, replaced by a wall of bones and corpses.

  “Yes, I’d say it’s too late,” Floora confirmed. “Perko might know which way to go.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to give the bamston the satisfaction,” Cal said. “Let’s go this way.”

  He went left and took the next left turn almost immediately. The corridor stretched out into what appeared to be infinity. Hundreds of hands reached out through bleached ribcages and the eye sockets of giant skulls, their withered fingers twisting and clawing at the air.

  “On second thought, let’s try the other way,” Cal decided, turning around and heading in the opposite direction.

  They reached one of the side-passages after thirty seconds or so of walking. Cal peered down it, but saw only more corners and yet further corridors branching off.

  He ignored that turn and continued on to where the next one branched off.

  “You know why I hate mazes?” he asked.

  “No, why?”

  “Because they’re terrible,” Cal said. “Also, because when I was five, we went to visit some of my dad’s family in Kansas. Earth Kansas, I mean. I don’t know if there’s a Space Kansas.”

  Floora’s expression suggested that she had no idea, either.

  “Anyway, they had this, like, I don’t know, country fair going on, or whatever. There was a big maze made out of haystacks or, I don’t know, corn. Some farm shizz. My dad’s brother—my uncle—he thought it’d be funny to lead me into it, then run off,” Cal said. “Just run off, leaving me to find my own way out. Said it’d be good for me. Said it’d be a fun challenge.”

  Cal’s lips drew tight.

  “Took me four days to find my way out.”

  “Seriously?” asked Floora.

  Cal nodded. “Yep. Well, not four whole days. More like, I don’t know, forty minutes. But it felt like longer, is my point.”

  Floora nodded in understanding. “Must’ve been scary.”

  “Terrifying,” Cal confirmed. “There was this scarecrow that kept chasing me. Pumpkin for a head. Eyes that were just these black holes. These… voids, trying to suck me in.”

  He shrugged. “I
mean, that part was only in my head, but it felt real at the time. That’s what I’m getting at. And that’s why I hate mazes.”

  “I can see it had an effect,” said Floora. “How did you find your way out?”

  “Hmm? Oh, I cheated,” said Cal. “I climbed up on the stacks and looked across until…”

  He stopped walking and considered the walls around them. They were far too tall to see over, but the ‘bundle of bones’ construction meant climbing was a real possibility.

  “Hold that thought,” he said.

  Picking a likely spot, Cal reached up, found a handhold, and was immediately grabbed by the throat by a rotting arm. For a dead guy, the thing’s grip was incredible, and Cal’s face turned a shade of bruise-purple almost immediately.

  The head appeared next, a mosaic of empty eye sockets, exposed teeth, and straggly clumps of filthy hair. It squirmed and struggled, trying to force itself through the ribcage of some giant whatever-the-fonk that had it pinned in place.

  Cal slammed his hand against the zombie’s elbow joint. Once. Twice. Bone splintered and cracked, but the grip didn’t lessen.

  Grabbing it by the forearm, he twisted, pulled, wrenched with all his strength. Darkness crept in at the corners of his eyes as his brain came to the conclusion that it wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Cal put a foot on a cow-sized skull at the base of the wall and kicked back, putting everything he had into one last escape attempt.

  Rrrip.

  The last of the arm’s ragged flesh tore away. Cal stumbled backward, prising the now-limp fingers from around his throat. The undead thing in the wall glared at him with contempt, then slowly slid back into the recesses of the bone mound.

  Cal tossed the arm away and rubbed his throat. He could still feel the thing’s grip, still smell its fetid stink loitering around in his nostrils, still see the horror story of its face.

  “Are you OK?” asked Floora from his back.

  “I’m fine. But fonk the climbing idea,” he decided. “I’m not risking getting grabbed by another of those things.”

  “I guess we just have to do it the old-fashioned way,” said Floora.

  Cal nodded reluctantly. “Yeah.”

  He looked along the maze’s long passageway and winced.

  He looked up at the top of the wall, maybe twenty feet in the air. So near, and yet…

  And yet…

  Slowly, as innocently as he could, Cal turned his gaze on the little winged figure holding onto his back.

  “What?” asked Floora.

  Cal smiled.

  Floora shifted uncomfortably. “What is it?”

  “I have an idea,” Cal told her.

  Floora’s wings twitched with excitement. “Great! That’s fantastic!”

  “Yeah,” said Cal, making a weighing motion with his hands. “You might want to reserve judgment on that.”

  Floora did her best not to scream as she sailed up through the air, flipped clumsily at the apex, then frantically beat her wings to slow her descent. Her wings, which were capable of only minimal lift at the best of times, failed to pull it out of the hat when she needed them most.

  Cal caught her just before she crunched against the ground in a landing that would otherwise have been almost Loren-esque.

  “What did you see?” Cal asked her, turning her right way up and setting her down.

  “What, besides my life flashing before my eyes?” Floora panted. “Not much.”

  Cal picked her up again. “OK, this time keep your eyes open.”

  “Wait! Stop!” Floora pleaded. “I think we take the second exit up ahead, then go right.”

  “You think? Or you know?” asked Cal. “How sure are you?”

  Floora sighed. “Fifty percent?”

  Cal launched her upward, throwing her with both hands the way a doting parent might throw a toddler into the air, only much faster and higher, and with fewer funny faces.

  Floora gritted her teeth and forced herself to pay attention as she rose up above the top of the walls. She fluttered her wings as fast as she could, buying herself almost a whole half-second before gravity took hold and dragged her down again.

  “Anything?” Cal asked, as she landed in his arms.

  Floora nodded breathlessly. “I was right. There’s an open area in the middle. Second exit ahead, then left, two rights, straight on, and we’re there.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Cal, adjusting his grip on her again. “Should we double-check?”

  “No!” Floora yelped. “I’m sure. Second exit, left, two rights, straight on. That’s the way.”

  Cal looked dubious, but slowly lowered her to the ground. “OK. But if we get lost, this is on you. I’m putting my faith in you here. So, that’s a big responsibility. You know how I feel about mazes.”

  “It’s the way. I promise,” Floora told him.

  “Well, OK, then,” said Cal. He jabbed a thumb at his back. “Want to hop on?”

  Floora shook her head. “I think I’ll walk,” she wheezed. “It’ll be nice to be near the ground for a while.”

  “Fair enough,” said Cal, and they set off to follow Floora’s directions.

  A turn, a left, and two rights later, Cal found himself standing at the end of a passageway that seemed narrower than the others.

  At the far end, it opened to reveal a much wider area where the amber glow of flames flickered across the bones, making them appear alive.

  “Looks like this is it,” Cal said.

  “Told you,” said Floora. “That’s the center.”

  “You did tell me, you’re absolutely right,” Cal agreed. He nodded at the walls ahead of them. “But you didn’t tell me about those.”

  This passageway was a forest of grasping arms, protruding heads, and a few bony tentacle things that may well have belonged to the Death of Octopuses. They stretched across the gap between the narrow walls, as if trying to shake hands with those across from them. A few of them came dangerously close, their fingertips brushing together as they flailed around.

  As if all that wasn’t enough, twenty to thirty buzzerflies pootled around in amongst it all. Sure, they were currently minding their own business, but Cal knew it would only be a matter of time before the little bamstons started electrocuting his face.

  “Maybe there’s another way,” Floora said.

  She dusted herself down, straightened herself up, then raised her arms to Cal. “Do it. Throw me. I’ll find another route.”

  Cal picked her up. “You sure?”

  “What other choice do we have?”

  Cal looked back in the direction they’d come, up at the top of the wall, then ahead at the sea anemone of limbs, heads, and assorted other bits and pieces.

  “I hate fonking mazes,” Cal said.

  And then, he tucked Floora under one arm, threw the other out in front of him like a charging quarterback, and ran.

  Half a dozen paces in, he concluded that this was probably a mistake, but there was no turning back now. The fingers were everywhere, snatching at his hair, hauling at his arms, grasping for his ankles as he barged on through. He punched, slapped, and karate-chopped as many as he could, shrugged off all those he couldn’t, swatting buzzerflies and dodging teeth as he ran and ran and ran.

  Floora was screaming, but the sound was broken by the jarring impact of Cal’s footsteps, turning her solid “Eeeeeeeek!” into a car-alarm style vibrato.

  EeeeEEEEeeeeEEEEeeeeEEEEK!

  But, despite it all, they were almost there. Almost to the end. Almost made it.

  Almost.

  But not quite.

  One of the hands caught Cal’s arm high up, the fingers snagging on the torn bodysuit. Cal’s momentum pulled him free, but he spun wildly, tripped on a flailing tentacle, then fell. As he did, he tossed Floora ahead of him, launching her through the forest of limbs in a desperate attempt to get her clear.

  Cal hit the ground hard. He tried to kick himself onward, but hands had him by the ankle, by the wrist, by the h
air. He hissed in pain as they clawed at him through the bodysuit. He struggled on a few inches until it became impossible to go any further.

  The things in the walls babbled and groaned, their teeth gnashing as they all pulled him in opposite directions.

  Up ahead, he could just make out Floora. She had landed beyond the end of the corridor. She was safe. He’d managed that much, at least. He’d saved her, even if he wasn’t able to save himself.

  Of course, she’d probably be eaten alive by Sloorgs in the next two-to-three minutes, but he’d be dead by then, so wouldn’t know anything about it.

  And then, from somewhere a little beyond the Floomfle, he heard it. A sound. One of the greatest sounds he’d ever heard, he thought. It was a sound he’d never appreciated fully in the past, but which he vowed to make a point of treasuring from this moment on.

  It was the single clank of a metal footstep.

  “Y’all better let him go,” Mech warned.

  Cal sobbed with relief as the hands released him and retreated into the bones. “Oh, thank God!” he croaked, pushing himself up onto his knees. “Mech, am I glad to see…”

  “This son-of-a-bedge is mine,” Mech said. His face contorted in rage as he raised both fists above his head and struck a pose.

  The voice of the Host came blaring from nowhere. As Cal watched, a rusted metal logo appeared in the air in front of the cyborg—a hologram, projected from God-knew-where.

  “Meet Pulverizor!” the Host announced, really dragging out the ‘L’ sound. “The first of our all new Hunters!”

  Cal swallowed, his eyes growing almost as wide as Floora’s.

  “Oh, shizzbiscuits,” he groaned. “You have got to be fonking kidding me…”

  Thirty

  “Hey, Mech. Buddy. It’s me. What are you doing? What’s with Mr Angry Face?” said Cal.

  Or, that was his intention, at least. He made is as far as the, “Hey M—” before the cyborg’s fists swung down, forcing him to roll sideways out of their path.

  They struck the ground with a bone-shaking thoom. Literally bone-shaking. The walls on either side of them trembled, and a selection of skulls and femurs clattered down like the first few rocks in a landslide.