by Paul A. Rice
‘Then again, maybe it’ll turn me into a...a green fireball, or something worse!’ He hesitated at the thought, and then reached out anyway, knowing that if it was going to do him any harm, then the chances were it would already have done so. After all, he’d been asleep in front of it only a short while ago, sound asleep.
He needn’t have worried as the spear was actually a hologram, and his hand passed right through its shimmering form without mishap – the only effect was a slight tingling in his injured cheek. The spear never moved. Ken was just in the process of getting back down onto his hands and knees...thinking about maybe putting his specs on to see if there were some cracks he’d missed ...when, in a blur of green light, the spearhead came down through the table. It passed his nose less than two inches in front of his face and disappeared straight through the solid floor without a sound.
He fell backwards in shock, banging his head on the underside of the desk as he did so, the impact being hard enough to move the desk about an inch or two out of its current position. He reached around and angrily rubbed the back of his head, cursing as he did so. ‘Damn it, this bloody place is cracking me up!’ With his voice ringing out a bit too loudly in the huge building, and just as he was starting to sense the madness of his situation again, he saw a glow of light from the tiny hole in the floor, a hole that had previously been concealed by one of the table’s legs.
Standing up, he dragged the whole table to one side, the spindly wooden legs squealing loudly as he shoved it into the corner of the office. He knelt down on all fours and crawled over to the small hole. Taking a breath he lowered his face and peered into it. The tiny vent seemed to go all the way through the floor. It was as though he was standing at the top of a very tall building, leaning over the edge and looking straight down. The sensation was strong – too high and too near the edge. Vertigo seeped into him, made his balls feel like they’d risen into his stomach. He lifted his head away and tried to think. The smell of the dust tickled his nasal hairs and he very nearly laughed out loud at his ridiculous posture. He whispered: ‘Mike will be pissing himself if he’s watching this!’
Then he looked down at the floor again, placing his hand over the tiny hole as he did so. There was probably a pressure point or something, perhaps he should simply push down on the floor and it would release a hidden mechanism. There would be a loud clunking noise and a stone staircase would rumble out of the wall, at which point he’d take a casual walk down its skull-strewn steps and gleefully discover a hidden cellar, filled with gold and jewels.
Oh, and of course the mandatory evil mummies would be there, too. Yes, they’d all come alive and he’d happily blast them to pieces, their sand-filled heads being of no match for his skill and the power of his awesome AK. Then he would heroically rescue some damsel in distress, escape with the loot and live happily ever after. Ken felt his skin crawling.
He was, deep inside his own petrified mind, actually hoping for those events to happen – after all, they usually did at the cinema. Ken found the idea of starring in that particular film rather attractive, definitely preferable to being where he was right at this moment. He hadn’t liked the way in which the spear had simply disappeared straight through the floor. No, he wasn’t happy with that at all, not one little bit.
As he began pushing down onto the floor, right hand covering the hole, the wound on his cheek began to tingle – he tried to raise the hand to see if his face had started bleeding again. However, to his surprise, Ken found that his hand was stuck fast. He was just in the process of yanking the hand upwards, when he began to hear a noise, it was a sound similar to that of rushing water, but not exactly, it was more like the sound of water being torn.
As he looked up from the hole in surprise, Ken simply couldn’t believe his eyes: he had somehow become engulfed in a waterfall, without the water. It was a pool of glowing green air, a buffeting melee of energy, one that roared and bubbled with power. It was similar to being in the middle of a huge plughole, or a giant whirlpool, perhaps. Then he felt something weird happening...a sucking sensation began to surround his whole body, he had the strangest feeling of being pulled inwards, sucked into his own body.
Looking around in horror, he found that he’d been drawn into the hole and was now whirling downwards. The tiny speck of daylight above reminded him of a bright star that lay millions of light years above his head. With the terrible sucking sensation overcoming all others, Ken felt himself being turned to liquid. Sucked inwards, liquefied, and then catapulted into the darkness. And then there was nothing more.
7
Room for Insanity
The crispness of starched sheets rasped against his freshly-shaven chin. He snuggled deeper under the eiderdown and smelt the odour of soap emanating from his own warm, squeakily-clean body. Then the thoughts raced into his mind. ‘Freshly-shaved, soaped body...what?’ He sat bolt upright in bed and then flopped back down as a sudden rush of blood made his vision blur and his head shriek with pain.
Regaining his senses somewhat, Ken ran his left hand around the contours of his face. Sure enough, he was shaved and it was a really close one, too. He lifted the quilt and looked under, naked except for a pair of white boxer shorts, not his, but they, too, felt crispy clean. Looking at his fingernails, Ken saw that all the blood and grime of the last few days was long gone. He positively glowed, and to be honest, he felt good. Maybe a little thirsty, perhaps, but all things considered he was still in pretty good shape. Ken felt the fuzzy memories of the recent past running through his head.
Letting his eyes drift over to the left, he saw that the room was indeed spectacular. Perhaps slightly clinical, its stainless steel work surfaces, immaculately tiled floors and air of expensive minimalism, all making the room seem rather unfeeling, but whichever way he looked at it, the place was still very impressive. He saw two doorways over to the right side of his room. He guessed the first one led into a bathroom as he was able to see the edge of a mirror through the open door. The second door resembled the inside of a Fort Knox deposit room. It appeared to be constructed from stainless steel and definitely looked to be impassable. There was a red light glowing upon its surface.
Next to his bed was an intricately designed table, fashioned in the same manner as the picture frame, the one he had left in some other place. With plaited wooden legs of heavy, grey-green wood minutely decorated with carvings and figurines, it looked to be a precise piece of furniture from ages long past. Sitting on top of the table was one of the weird looking phones he had seen in the offices back at the Funny House. This one had a small green light on the front of its face. The phone was made from the same grey-green material as the amazing holographic spear. Ken was tempted to pick it up and ask for ‘Room Service’, but after a few moments, he decided to give the idea a miss, just for now at least.
He threw the covers off his legs. ‘Yeah, clean, very clean,’ he thought, once again receiving the whiff of soap rising from his body. Slinging his legs over the right side of the bed, Ken placed his bare feet on the floor and stood up.
‘Whoa, still a bit dizzy there boy…’ He stood swaying whilst waiting for the blood to flow properly into his brain, hoping that once it did then perhaps the rushing noise in his ears would also cease. When the sensation had calmed slightly, he took a few more tentative steps away from the bed, and began to pad around the room, bare feet whispering on the white tiled floor. There was a pleasant aroma in the air, spicy and almost appetising, obviously temperature controlled. His skin felt neither too warm nor too cool, the temperature was perfect.
Looking at the wall on the left, which he had previously thought to be bare, Ken noticed two small apertures mounted at slightly above waist height. Making his way over, he saw they were handles of some sort and they had been recessed into the wall. As he neared them, he realised they were buttons. Pausing momentarily, wondering if he would be able to take any more surreal events, he extended his forefinger and touched one of the buttons. Without a sound the
wall slid smoothly open into two halves.
Once fully-open, the doors revealed a walk-in wardrobe, well-stocked with a variety of garments. A hidden light source flickered momentarily and then brightened to illuminate the clothes therein. The garments all looked to be for men and he reached for a pair of khaki-coloured trousers. Taking them off the hanger, Ken held the trousers up to his waist to see if they would fit, they looked close enough to his size so he slid them over his boxer shorts – the trousers were a perfect fit. Making his way deeper into the closet, he chose a thick, dark-green, cotton shirt with long sleeves and a collar. Unbuttoning the top three rows, he slid the shirt on over his head and forced his arms into the sleeves.
Ken noticed his boots on the floor, they looked as though they’d been cleaned and were next to a new pair of tan-coloured sandals. Deciding upon the sandals, he bent down to examine them. They were a ten. ‘Just my size,’ he said, without a trace of humour. Loosening the side straps, Ken slid his feet into the well-made shoes. Behind his boots, sitting on a small shelf, he also found his spectacles and their case. They seemed to be in good order so he browsed through the rest of the garments in the wardrobe. There was a decent arrangement of trousers, some shirts, and also a neat pile of underwear and socks. In addition, there were several jackets and a strange flight suit made from a type of material unknown to him. It felt like parachute silk interwoven with Kevlar, or something similar. The suit’s material had a silver sheen to it and glistened under the wardrobe light. Putting it back on the rack, he turned and walked out of the wardrobe.
There was no sign of his weapons and that bothered him.
With those new sandals squeaking on the clean floor, Ken made his way over to where he thought the bathroom was. Without being asked, The Eagles began punching out their most famous tune at the private show inside Ken’s head – unplugged: ‘You can check out any time you like, but you can never leeeaave…’ Ken blinked when he heard the words from one of his favourite songs. He also desperately hoped that those clever lyrics didn’t strictly apply to him. Turning away from the thoughts, he wandered into the bathroom, which lay dead ahead.
The first thing he did upon entering was to square up in front of the mirror, whose corner he had caught a glimpse of earlier. It was a massive piece of glass...he supposed it was glass...and looked to be part of the wall. The mirror had within its design a lighting system that came on as he stared into the gleaming surface. It was rather a spectacular system and illuminated whoever looked into it without blinding them.
‘Very high-speed!’ was what Mike would have said.
The arrival of Ken’s next thought was almost like an electric shock.
He physically jerked. ‘Mikey!’ The Australian’s face flashed into his mind and it was his image that filled Ken’s thoughts as he stared into the mirror. He had completely forgotten about his friend and let out a low groan of self-contempt at the thoughts. Whilst he’d been poncing around in his plush lodgings he still had no clue as to Mike’s fate. Ken snarled at himself with anger. ‘He might be dead and you’re pissing about looking at fancy cupboards and…’ Then the mirror in front of him gently faded into a smoky green opaque.
‘It’s two-way glass!’ The thought was his instant, mental reaction.
Leaning forward, whilst cupping his hands over his forehead, he tried to peer through the soft glow. Ken was just beginning to contemplate throwing something heavy through the glass, when, incredibly, the mirror became a monitor. There, in the centre of its screen, was Mike.
8
Old Friends Return
It was a live image of Mike, lying on a hospital bed that had some sort of translucent veil around it. The pulsing wave of energy was very similar in appearance to that of the strange whirlpool which Ken had encountered earlier. The substance was shimmering green and seemed to move almost imperceptibly in waves as it encircled his stricken friend’s bed. Ken couldn’t exactly see Mike’s face through the shield, but there were several other small screens, like popups on a laptop, along the bottom of the huge mirror. Each one of these smaller screens had some sort of medical data being displayed on them, most of which Ken was unable to decipher.
However, the screen flashing at the bottom right looked like a heartbeat, regular pulses of light with some sort of graph underneath, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He imagined he heard the beeping and clicking noises the machine would be making. There was another small screen in the middle. And this one did show a picture of Mike’s face. The image was so clear that Ken was able to see the movement of the Australian’s eyes beneath his closed lids. They were flickering away like crazy. Ken guessed his friend was having a fairly wild ride in his current dream-world. The fact he looked like shit...with a deathly pale face and dark rings below his eyes...was of little concern. Ken had seen Mike alive and that’s all he needed to know.
He considered using the bedside telephone again, but, instead of calling Room Service, this time he would ring the Hotel’s ‘Proof of Life’ department. Call and tell them something along the lines of: ‘I’d better see something to confirm Mike’s well-being...yeah, and I’d better see it pretty rapido otherwise I’m gonna smash this place up!’ Almost as soon as the thought entered his head, the screen in front of his face flickered and went dark. Ken stood and stared in amazement at the mind-warping words that, as if in answer to his questions, had unexpectedly appeared upon the surface of the mirror.
‘Mr MJW is well.
He has been very unwell, but he will live.
You will be with him soon. Do not worry.
Please make yourself at home.
Best regards – Hotel Management.’
Whoever had written the sentence had also inserted a smiley face after the instructions. Ken didn’t feel even remotely like laughing. He was about to say something along the lines of: ‘Don’t give up your bloody day job, you prick,’ to the unseen comedian, when the screen decided it was time to become a mirror once more. With another blink it darkened again and then simply left him looking at a reflection of himself, one which he studied for a while. When he took into account everything that had been going on of late, Ken was surprised by his appearance.
‘Yeah, I’m still in pretty-good nick, all things considered,’ he thought as he leaned forward and stared at his own image. Short, greying, brown hair topped his rugged, well-defined features, humorous eyes flashed from beneath thick eyebrows; the slightly large nose still had a bump on its bridge from the old break. He snarled, looking at his teeth – they were all there, present and correct. The stubble, usually to be found sprouting from his strong chin and climbing down that ropy neck, was totally absent. Ken mentally commended his unknown barber upon their excellent handiwork.
However, the one thing that had changed, and that he had to look at twice, and then a third time, before he was able accept it was actually there, was the scar on his face. Right on the apex of his cheekbone, about an inch below the right eye, was a pointed scar – a scar that very much resembled the shape of a basic spearhead.
‘No problems with that…’ he thought. After all, he had smacked himself pretty hard on that bloody shelf in the bunker. But, there was one thing that didn’t sit quite comfortably in his guts – the outline of the cut seemed to be covered in something silver. Running his finger across his cheek, Ken let it trace the edges of the cut, gently searching for any raised surface so that he would be able to peel off the antiseptic covering, which he felt sure is what they had placed on the wound whilst he was unconscious. He couldn’t feel anything and the scar was not even the slightest bit raised above the normal contour of his skin. Ken pinched the flesh and the scar bent easily along with the rest of his skin. He scratched at it with his left thumbnail, but that did nothing, either.
He thought: ‘That’s weird – it must be some sort of implant...looks pretty cool, though. Yeah, I can get a new fashion going. Yeah, call the company something like: ‘Face Implants Are Us!’
The small voi
ce in the back of his mind shrieked at the madness of it all. ‘What is that you say? A face implant, are you crazeeee? Run, Ken, run now!’
Ken pushed Mr Tiny away and let the calm side of his inner-self take control. With ingrained sarcasm, he thought: ‘Cheeky bastards, they could’ve asked me first!’ He grinned ironically, saying: ‘Man, I’m gonna make a mint when I get outta here...cool, metal implants and mirror TVs! Yeah, I’ve got the whole damned shooting match! Hey, fella, you’ve got it made!’ He laughed out loud and then took one last glance in the mirror. This time there was no humour sparkling in those green eyes, they were hollow. Putting the scar to the back of his mind, and being conscious of the fact that it was most likely getting quite cluttered back there, Ken gazed around the rest of the bathroom.
It was clad wall-to-floor in dazzling white tiles; there was a porcelain toilet bowl and a beautifully-sculpted, freestanding sink with solid glass taps. An oversized shower swooped down from the ceiling on the end of a gleaming, steel pipe, the perforated rose of the shower-head seemed large enough for a whole platoon of soldiers to get under. Beneath the shower, recessed into the floor, lay a shiny drain hole, one where Ken assumed the waste water, or perhaps he, would be swirled away. He stared at it and shuddered, the sight of holes in floors just seemed to sicken his gut these days. The smell of the bathroom became decidedly antiseptic, his stomach lurched.
