He swallowed hard. He had to get out and find help. He took a fresh
grip on the sides of his vat and pulled himself from the liquid’s sucking
embrace. Standing, the stuff came up to his knees. When he stepped up, out of
the tank, his toes curled against the chill metal floor and gooseflesh prickled his
calves and thighs. The air smelled cold and sterile like the inside of a fridge.
The vat yawned open like a grave behind him. He needed to find a doctor or
nurse, somebody to tell him what was going on, and what was wrong with
him. “Hello?”
No answer came. Hugging himself and shivering, he made his way
along the row of sunken, frozen caskets. Through the transparent lid of each,
he could see a shadowed, sleeping form within.
“Anybody?”
He left gloopy-wet footprints behind him. Every few paces, he had to
stop to hawk and spit phlegm onto the floor.
Was this a morgue? Were those vats filled with the preserved dead?
At the end of the row, he came to some stairs, which led him down to
the floor of the ‘auditorium’, to a thick metal door of the kind he imagined
you’d find on a submarine.
A chrome wheel opened the door. He tried to turn it the wrong way. His
arms felt weaker than they should have done. When the wheel got stuck, he
cursed through chattering teeth and hauled it back in the opposite direction.
Right tight, left loose. Somebody had taught him that once, but he didn’t
know who it might have been, or when.
After a few rotations, the wheel clunked to a stop and the lock
disengaged. The door swung inwards. After the gloom of the vault, he had to
shade his eyes against the light from within.
“Hello?” He could hear the alarm more clearly now. The walls and floor
were tiled in white. Lockers lined the centre of the room. If you added the smell
of chlorine, this could have been the changing room of a public swimming
baths anywhere in the world. The air in this room was warmer than in the vault,
though, and triggered a fresh bout of shivering.
He needed to find some clothes.
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Each of the lockers had a number, and a hand-shaped scanner set into
its door. He worked his way along the row, mashing his fingers and palm
against each one in turn. On the nineteenth attempt, the scanner accepted his
handprint and the locker door clicked open. Inside, he found a towel and a set
of shrink-wrapped clothes hanging from a hook. He took the towel and used it
to dry the worst of the goo from his skin and hair, then picked the package out.
Inside the polythene was a blue one-piece overall in tough, durable cotton, with
a coloured mission patch sewn onto the left shoulder and some sort of logo
sewn onto the right. The nametag on the breast read, ‘Pembroke, Jason. The
writing on the mission patch appeared to be in French. Hands shaking, he tore
off the thin plastic covering and lets it fall to the tiled floor. He didn’t bother
looking for underwear. Instead, he threaded his feet through the legs of the
suit, wriggled his arms into its sleeves, and pulled the zipper up as far as it
would go. The wrists and ankles had Velcro cuffs, and he fastened these as
well. Then he stood straight and tried to control his breathing. Clothed, he felt
less vulnerable and more in control. His chest and throat hurt, and he kept
coughing up scraps of green vat gunk, but at least he was alive.
The mirror on the inside of the locker door showed the reflection of a
middle-aged man: a few grey hairs; nothing he recognised.
“Jason Pembroke,” he said aloud. The name meant nothing. It didn’t feel
familiar on his tongue and he wasn’t even sure how to pronounce it. Should
the end of the surname rhyme with crook or croak? He repeated it a few times,
trying each variation, and then shrugged.
The only other items left in the locker were a pair of soft-soled shoes and
a wooden box. He slipped the shoes over his half-frozen feet, and carefully
lifted out the box. The word, ‘MEMORIES’ had been sprayed across the lid in
military stencil. He opened it and frowned at the objects inside: a scrap of
sheep’s wool; an old USB memory stick; a gold ring; a lump of clear Perspex;
something which he suspected might be a used plastic bullet; a pebble; a silver
ball bearing; and a gold pen. He stirred them with his index finger, trying to
decode meaning from their jumble.
Something’s badly wrong, he thought. The alarm was still ringing, but he
could hear no voices, no running feet. A hospital shouldn’t have been this
deserted, even at night. And then there was the fact that he’d almost drowned.
He clenched his jaw. How the hell had that been allowed to happen? And what
were those tanks, anyway? What were those people doing in them, and why
were they submerged?
He snapped the box’s lid shut and made for the door at the far end of
the changing room. It opened onto a wide corridor. Perhaps, if he could make
his way to an exit, he could get out into the street and find someone who could
tell him what was going on. But which way should he turn? There weren’t any
windows; no clues as to which floor he was on. Not even an emergency exit
sign.
He coughed and spat, and, still carrying the wooden box in his hands,
set off to the left. Somebody had once told him that the key to solving a maze
was to keep turning left. He didn’t know how true that was, but it was better
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than nothing. In the land of the lost, the half-assed theory was king. If he kept
turning left, he was sure he’d eventually come to a lift or some stairs, or some
other means of escape.
THE MONSTER WALKED for what seemed a long time, but the only doors he
passed lead into rooms identical to the one he’d just left – more changing
rooms, with further vaults beyond. After a couple of hundred metres, he came
to a place where the corridor walls were stained with something that looked
like mildew or black mould. Water dripped from the seals around the light
panels set into the roof, forming little pools on the floor. Half the lights weren’t
working properly. Some stuttered intermittently. Wires hung from an
unscrewed wall fixture. He slowed his pace. This was starting to look less like
forwards; he didn’t know what else to do.
At the end of the corridor, a pair of thick double doors blocked his path.
Pushing through, he found himself in a much larger space. The corridor had
become a bridge across a wide, bowl-shaped depression. A circular window
had been set into the bottom of the bowl. Through its shattered remains, he
could see leaping orange flames.
Something in the basement’s on fire, the monster thought. Smoke
trickled up through the gaps in the broken glass. It stank of burning plastic.
Instinctively, he covered his mouth and nose, and, on wobbling legs, began to
cross the bridge.
The few remaining panels in the circular window were coloured with
abstract tessellations: fractal fern leaves interlocked in a jagged riot of flowery
light, giving
an effect similar to a cathedral’s rose window. Above, the arching
ceiling had been mirrored with thousands of silvery tiles, like an inverted disco
ball. Mote-like reflections of dancing firelight speckled the walls.
When he reached the bridge’s midway point, directly above the broken
window, he heard a loud whoosh. The light from below snapped off. The
flames disappeared, as if sucked away, and the smoke spilling from the
opening stopped, and then started draining back the way it had come, whirling
around the bottom of the bowl-shaped room like water leaving a bath. The
monster felt the air in the chamber stir as it started to move along with the
smoke. The pressure changed, and he had to swallow to pop his ears.
The air was being pulled from the room. He assumed it had something
to do with the flames below consuming all the oxygen. The wind of it tugged
at his clothing with insistent fingers, and he ran.
Bursting through the doors at the far end of the bridge, he gulped in a
series of grateful, heaving breaths. His clothes and hair smelled like a bonfire,
his lips and tongue were dry.
The building was ablaze! He had to get out.
ON THIS SIDE of the double doors, the corridor walls seemed to have been hewn
from black stone. He didn’t stop to admire them. Instead, he ran away from the
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burning room, soft shoes slapping the flagstone floor. There was another door
ahead.
Oh God, he thought, please don’t let me die in a fire.
Passing through this next door, he entered a large space filled with a
knot of corrugated pipes and tubes. Water dripped from leaky joints; steam
hissed. Some of the pipes were copper and pencil-thin; others were made of
tough black plastic and were as wide as subway tunnels. He couldn’t see the
roof or the floor. A metal catwalk led him through the tangle. In places, he had
to duck or even crawl.
When he reached the far end, he emerged into a large gallery: a rock-
walled cavern lined with statues carved from what looked like gold. He
guessed each of the sculpted figures was at least thirty feet in height. They
wore suits and ties, open-necked shirts and sweaters, skirts, spectacles, and
wristwatches, and their stances were relaxed, almost informal. They weren’t
beseeching or striking heroic poses; they were simply standing companionably,
oblivious to the fire alarm. Some of the figures had their hands in their pockets;
some held champagne glasses. They radiated calm. In the dim light, their
burnished skin seemed to glow with subtle radiance. To the monster, the effect
was of being a small child at a cocktail party.
What kind of fucked-up hospital was this, anyway?
The fire alarm still rang in his ears and the scent of smoke clung to his
clothes. He gripped the wooden box to stop his hands from trembling. His
stomach felt like a clenched fist. Behind him, the nest of pipes hissed and
gurgled. Ahead, through the thicket of golden legs, he caught sight of a
window. It was round, like the smashed glass porthole he’d passed a few
moments earlier, but this one looked intact, and it was set into the wall rather
than the floor. Through its clear glass, he saw darkness.
Nighttime, he thought, and his heart surged. That would explain why
there was nobody about. As he staggered closer, he made out a handful of stars:
tiny, cold points of light scattered like static against the sky.
This could be his way out. At the very least, he thought he might be able
to hammer on the glass to attract attention.
When he reached it, the window was as wide across as his outstretched
arms, and the glass was cold against his forehead. He looked down, expecting
to see a street or parking lot, and his mouth fell open.
There were no firefighters.
There was no street.
There were no cars or buildings.
The monster’s legs finally gave out and he slid down into a kneeling
position. The memory box fell from his fingers and spilled its contents against
the base of the window. Plastic, stone and metal objects rattled and skittered
across the rock floor.
Stars lay beyond the window. Stars, and something the shape of a vast,
dark rugby ball, which he now realised had always been there, waiting for him.
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THE END
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Thanks for reading!
If you enjoyed this novella, please visit my website: www.garethlpowell.com
and check out my other works.
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