And then it’s blocked.
Someone is standing in front of me. Taking my place. I recognize the silhouette.
“Maigo, no!”
I launch to my feet, oblivious to the tug on my arm until it stings. I glance down, breathing hard, coming out of the nightmare. An IV needle twists in my arm. I yank it away, stumbling back onto the bed. Dazed and confused in a non-Matthew McConaughey fun way, I search the room for clues about my location.
There’s no window. No mirror. No cabinets or counters. Definitely not a hospital. The medical equipment beside the flat, normal looking bed is nominal: an IV bag and a heart monitor, which is still beeping away, rather fast. I glance down at my hand and pull the heart monitor clip from my finger. The beep becomes a droning squeal, announcing my death. And yet, no one comes running.
It’s an illusion, I think. Someone is trying to make me think I’m being cared for. But is it totally? I reach up and touch my aching head. Instead of my beanie cap, I find a bandage. The last thing I remember is hitting the water...and my head? And then water rushing up over the helicopter. Everything after that is...nothing. I passed out.
Or I died.
Which would make this what? Hell? Purgatory? I’m not arrogant enough to assume I’d be quickly spirited away to the pearly gates. “Hello?” I say to the ceiling. “Anybody there? God? Steve Jobs? Mother Teresa? Uh...Bazuzal?”
Nothing. I figured that if a human being was listening in, that might get a response. Of course, if I am dead and it is God listening, does the guy even talk to people anymore? And if so, how? There isn’t even a bush to burn in the room.
My next observation is an embarrassing one. I’m buck naked. And there aren’t any clothes or even a johnny in the room. “Looks like it’s time to go Roman,” I say to myself. “Senator style, not Olympian.”
I pull the top sheet off the bed and wrap it around my body like a toga. I feel ridiculous, but this is as good as it’s going to get. I head for the door and open it, jumping back with a start, because of the proximity of the person on the other side. “Holy geez, Ash.”
“Like your outfit,” Collins says, lowering the hand she was about to use to knock on my door.
I look her up and down, noticing her own sheet turned toga. “Et tu Brute?”
“That makes no sense.”
I shrug. “We’re a regular Grumio and Metella.”
“A what?”
“Look it up.”
“I think you should lie back down,” she says, looking honestly concerned. “You hit your head pretty hard.”
I half take her advice and sit down on the bed. “What happened? After we crashed.”
Collins scours the room, no doubt looking for clues about where we are. “You were knocked unconscious. Woodstock, too.”
“Is he okay?”
“I haven’t seen him. This was the first room I tried. I was next door. But he was alive last time I saw him. In bad shape, though. Bleeding a lot. Broken bones. Alessi got him to the surface, while I dragged your sorry ass up. A chopper pulled us out a few minutes later. Unmarked. Black.” The kind government agents know to avoid because they’re the kind we use. “Last thing I remember was a needle going into my neck.” She moves her curly red hair aside, revealing a small needle puncture with bruising around it. Whoever jabbed her hadn’t been gentle.
I feel my neck for a needle wound, but there’s nothing. I was out cold already.
“What about Nemesis?” I ask.
“Out to sea.”
“And the Tsuchi?”
“I didn’t see them again.”
I push myself back up, head spinning a little, but I steady myself, set my resolve on ludicrous and head for the door. “Let’s get some answers.”
The hallway beyond is white, like the room. Bland and featureless. Linoleum floors. The hell is this place? I stop at the door next to mine and glance in.
“That was my room,” Collins says.
It’s identical to mine. I move to the next door and try the handle. It’s locked. The next three doors I try have the same result. We turn a corner and we’re faced with an open door. Beyond it, darkness.
“Feeling a little like a mouse in a maze,” I say. “And I don’t think we’ll get cheese at the end.”
Collins steps around me and into the dark. “If they wanted us dead, we would be already.”
“You don’t always have to be braver than me, you know.” I follow her in. Lights in the ceiling click and blink to life, illuminating a rectangular room. Three of the walls are mirrored, reflecting endless duplicates of each other. The effect is nauseating.
With a hydraulic hiss, the door behind us closes and locks. Aside from the door, the room is featureless. No furniture. No outlets. Just a ceiling full of long light bulbs and the same white linoleum floor.
I turn my attention to Collins, focusing on her instead of the mirrors.
“So,” she says. “Planning to propose, are you?”
“What? Really? Now?”