THE GAUNTLET

By John Henry Carrozza

I push through the turnstile with trepidation and step up to the railing. A

man in a gray uniform instructs me to hold out my arms, and he proceeds to

frisk me. When he is finished, he waves a metal baton in front of my body.

Green lights on the thing stay green, which lets him know that I am not

concealing any metal or electronic objects.

“Move ahead,” he instructs.

I do as he says, and a second man stamps my wrist with the current date

and time. He reaches into a bag beside him and pulls out a small plastic

pouch. He hands it to me and motions me forward, where a steel gate bars

the passage ahead. He pushes a button, and the gate slides into the wall,

leaving the portal open as he prompts me to enter.

I step onto a dark metal floor, and the sound of my footsteps echoes

beneath it. The walls and ceiling of the corridor are painted black, and only

dim red running lights along the floor allow visibility ahead of me, as the

hallway turns to the left, into darkness. I can hear mechanical noises

coming from somewhere inside the walls, and I shudder as I hear what

sounds like someone screaming far in the distance. After about a hundred

feet, the corridor ends at an elevator platform that automatically activates

moments after I step onto it. As it descends, I open the clasp on the pouch I

was given and examine its contents.

There is a folding knife with two blades — one serrated for cutting, and

one double-edged for stabbing. It is accompanied by a round, shiny

compass, the back of which is so well polished that I can see my reflection

in it even in the dismal light of the elevator shaft (I can’t resist winking at

myself for good luck), a tiny red flashlight and a yellow and black capsule

contained in a zip-lock bag that is marked with a symbol of a skull and

crossbones. The latter is a pill for those who are unfortunate enough to

become incapacitated in this place and unable to bear the agony of waiting

for the reaper. I hope that, one way or another, I will not have the occasion

to use it. While most face a quick demise here, there are plenty of

opportunities for a slow, painful death as well. I have heard tales of the

reaper having to finish off more than a few unlucky souls at the end of the

day. If you see him coming, they say, then it is too late. You’d best take

your pill, if you haven’t lost it, and say a final prayer or recite a mantra or

whatever you have been instructed to do when you hear death calling.

I’m not going to think about that, unless … no, I’m not going to think

about it at all, because I’m going to make it out of here alive. I’ve read

about survivors like Judas Marks, who escaped this place twice — the only

person to ever accomplish that feat. Of the few who have lived to tell tales

of their experience, fewer still actually tell any. Perhaps the traumas have

been hidden from their memories, or maybe they view it as a personal

triumph that others can only find for themselves. Whatever the case, I am

armed with very little knowledge of what to expect, unless I choose to

believe the countless rumors of fiery chasms, poison-spiked clockwork

traps, voracious cave-dwelling dragons and worse.

I stuff the pouch into my pocket, keeping the knife gripped tightly in my

hand, awaiting the first obstacle. It will only be a few more seconds before

it begins, and my heartbeat pounds with anticipation and fear. Suddenly,

Helen’s face comes ghostlike to my mind. She had such pretty eyes. I think

I really did love her ... maybe I still do. I suppose I shouldn’t have told her

to go to hell. Still, she could do better than me; and there’s that old adage

about setting someone free, I tell myself, as the elevator halts abruptly at the

bottom of its line.

The door slides open, and I step onto a wooden platform in front of me.

As I do so, the door slams shut at my back. A whirring sound informs me

that the elevator is retreating – much more quickly than it descended, and I

realize that there is no turning back. I am here in this poorly lit oubliette,

with only my memories to talk to; and they’re not the chatty type. When the

whirring stops with a sudden click from somewhere above that echoes sadly

around me, my survival instincts kick in, and I decide I had better focus

upon the task at hand.

The platform I am standing upon hovers maybe eight feet above a water-

filled pit that takes up most of a twenty-foot-square room. Directly across

from me is a similar platform, at the other side of which lies the room’s

only exit. A tight metal wire spans the distance between the platforms.

Okay, this doesn’t seem too bad. If I fall off of the wire, I can swim to the

other side and scale the dirt wall to the trellis supporting the platform there.

I had practiced my balancing skills, because I heard there might be such

trials as this, and I am confident that I can make it twenty feet along the

wire, which looks to be a good half-inch thick. I take a breath and prepare

to place my right foot on the wire when something catches my eye. The

floor of the room slopes upward from the water onto low, rocky shelves on

either side of the pit. What caught my attention was movement from one of

these ledges. My breathing pauses while I study the alligator that turns

toward me and slides its body into the water. I notice another, larger such

creature lying on the rocks as well, and then I look to the other side of the

room to see four equally large specimens there. Three of those join the first

in the water, and they swim to positions directly below the wire and float

motionless, eight eyes examining my peril. So, suddenly the stakes have

increased dramatically. A fall into the water means being devoured by

hungry alligators (crocodiles? I could never remember the difference), and I

am not in the mood for that. I get the impression, however, that there is

nothing the creatures would like more than a fresh snack of human meat. I

study the portal across from me and decide that the best plan of action will

be to focus on the exit and not think about the danger below me. If I

concentrate, I should be able to get across without incident. It occurs to me

that I could balance better without my shoes and with my hands free, so I

close the knife and stuff it into my pocket (only then noticing how tightly I

had been gripping it) and pull off my shoes and toss them over the water.

The first one bounces into the doorway, but the second hits the platform at

an awkward angle and bounces sideways, stopping with its front half

dangling precariously over the ledge. I breathe a sigh of relief —I’m

probably going to want to have those shoes on my feet for the journey

ahead.

I spread my arms and step onto the wire, which is taut. Good. Left foot

forward. Weight shift right. Pause. Right foot forward. Right arm up. Pause.

Three more steps. No problem. Five more steps. I’m halfway across the pit

now, and movement on the shore to my left makes me turn my head. Whoa!

Left arm up! Right arm up! Find the center … there. Whew. Deep breath.

Focus on the exit. Left foot forward. Three more steps. Pause. I shouldn’t

have done that. Another step, slowly and with great difficulty. Another. OK.

Two more should do it. One. Two. My right foot rests upon the solid wood

planks and I lunge forward. A feeling of exhilaration comes over me as I

realize that I made it across. As I pull my sneakers on, the reptiles disperse

and take their positions on opposite shores of the pool, obviously annoyed

by the turn of events. I would be willing to bet that they rarely go hungry

for long in this place. I stand up and head through the door as I wipe the

sweat from my brow with the front of my shirt.

As I step through the portal, a beep sounds and a light above me displays

the number twenty-seven. Some quick math in my head tells me that the

number represents about one-quarter of the people who have entered thus

far today. The realization of what that means causes me to shudder, and I

can’t help but feel a little bit guilty for having survived a test during which

many others have perished. Yet I must concentrate on the task ahead of me,

I tell myself, instead of the gruesome consequences of failure. My footsteps

carry me around a corner and down a short flight of stairs, and the path

curves to the right ahead of me. As I follow the winding hall through

several undulations, I wonder what the next obstacle will be.

A faint roar becomes audible from somewhere behind me; it sounds like

wind in the tunnel. I glance back and pause for a moment to listen. The

rumbling sound grows louder, and seems to be approaching rapidly. I step

backwards slowly, preparing to run if necessary, stumbling through another

turn in the passage. A red glow appears and begins to brighten the corridor

in the direction from which I had come. As the light increases, I notice that

the walls are studded with a multitude of small metallic holes at irregular

intervals, and the dirt of the floor, walls and ceiling are streaked with black

scars running in all directions. The scent of burning sulfur reaches my

nostrils. It grows stronger, stronger. I turn and break into a run, which

proves to be difficult as the passage begins to wind back and forth

erratically and with increasing frequency. The roar is deafening now, and

prongs of heat claw at my back. At last the twisting of the trail stops and I

sprint down what has become a long straightaway, finally able to pick up

my pace. I cast an idle glance over my shoulder in time to see an explosion

of flame bursting around the corner. The fire is shooting out of the wall

sockets and approaching quickly. I focus ahead once more and put as much

strength as I can muster into my gait.

An opening in the floor comes into view perhaps twenty yards away. A

safe haven, perhaps? The heat is almost unbearable now, and it pushes me

forward faster … faster. The walls on the opposite side of the opening

appear to be free of flamethrowers; so if I can leap the pit, I should be out

of danger, if only temporarily. I long-jumped sixteen feet in college, so I

figure I’ve got a pretty good chance. The opening draws nearer and looks to

be about fifteen feet across. To land on the other side will take quite a jump,

and I have no idea how deep the hole is or what lies at its bottom. I pace my

steps as I did on the track … three … two … one …

Suddenly, the heat is torn from my back and I am flying through the air.

Halfway over the pit it becomes clear that I cannot land on the other side on

my feet, so I stretch my arms forward, reaching. The force of the ground

coming up into my armpits almost causes me to slip back, but I hug the

edge of the pit, fearful of tumbling down into … what, I don’t know. I begin

to lose my grip, and I kick at the wall, trying to make a foot hold. The walls

of the pit are smooth and hard, however, and as my fingers succumb to

gravity’s pull, I glance downward to see the dirt floor, maybe twelve feet

below, approaching rapidly. I hit hard and bend my knees, rolling backward.

The flames let out a final howl and end their screaming above me as I

examine the place into which I have fallen. The walls are shiny, and look to

be polished granite. I cannot reach the ledge above by jumping, even if I

kick off of the wall on the way up for an additional boost.

Before I have much time to devise a plan, a loud ‘sproing,’ followed by a

creaking sound, sends a chill up my spine. The creaking gives way to

scraping, and immediately I am aware of the nature of the trap. I rush to

greet the wall and push, futilely, against it. The stone surface continues to

move inward, mirroring the action of its counterpart behind me. It occurs to

me that the movement of the walls toward me should allow the rubber soles

of my shoes to grip if I push against them. I wait for several long moments,

trying unsuccessfully to not stare at the faint crimson stains on the walls.

Finally, the distance seems right, so I quickly step high onto one of the

approaching walls with my right foot, then kick upward toward the other

with my left. I brace myself with my hands and step upwards, pushing

against the rock to hold my grip. The additional pressure provided by the

stone’s movement aids greatly in this endeavor, as I hoped it would. Soon

my knees are bent, and I am using my forearms to help pull myself upward.

When my hand reaches the top of the wall, I am forced to spin sideways

and use my back for leverage. I stretch both legs, kick backwards and lunge

forward, getting my elbows over the top. A final kick and I somersault over

the edge, stopping on my stomach to watch the vice-walls close the gap.

I lie panting for about a minute, until finally I feel able to lift myself and

move onward. Lying about for too long could bring an early visit from the

reaper, who could mistake me for dead or injured. I would just as soon not

make his acquaintance at all. As I pass a sensor on the wall, a display above

me flashes the number fourteen. That’s about half the number that survived

the first obstacle. Shiver.

The tunnel winds upward through several sharp turns and then opens

abruptly into a great chasm, the bottom of which I cannot make out in the

darkness below. A ledge-less opening similar to the one in which I am

standing gapes from the opposite wall, perhaps seventy-five yards away. A

series of ropes hangs from the ceiling between the two adits, each separated

by what looks to be an arm’s length. Images of Tarzan swing through my

mind as I grab hold of the first rope, which is anchored to the ceiling by a

metal ring about fifteen feet above me. The woven cord proves strong

enough to support me easily, so I wrap my feet around it and reach for the

next one. My legs are still somewhat weak from the previous endeavor;

however, my arms have plenty of strength in them — I think they can carry

me to the other side.

Maneuvering between the first few ropes proves fairly easy, and I am

halfway across when I hear a snapping sound behind me. As I turn my

head, the rope nearest the entrance drops downward. It falls, falls … is

devoured by blackness. Another snap, this time combined with a fizzle. I

notice a red beam of light near the ceiling, pointed at the second rope, or at

least where the second rope used to be. The laser is moving toward me, and

moments later another severed, twisting line descends, trailing a thread of

black smoke. I quickly turn and grab hold of the next rope, and the next

one. Snap! Fizzle! After a short time, I turn to find that the laser is gaining

on me. A thought occurs to me, and I gaze in the direction from which the

beam comes. I see a small turret attached to the ceiling, which is rotating in

my direction. Snap! Fizzle! A dozen cords separate me from the far opening

— I don’t think I can make it before the laser catches up. So, I begin

climbing upward, pulling with one arm at a time, pushing my feet against

the twine for support. When I reach the top, I wrap my left arm in the rope

and dig into my pocket with my right hand. I pull out the shiny compass I

was given with the survival pack and wait. Three more. Snap! Two.

Crackle! One. I raise the back of the compass into the beam and it is

diverted instantly, etching a line in the far wall. I rotate the mirror,

following the movement of the beam with my arm. It moves erratically, but

I am finally able to double the light back on itself. Pop! The gun explodes

in a puff of smoke, and bits of metal and plastic rain into the chasm. I rest

for a few moments, supporting my weight with my legs as much as

possible, then lower myself and continue my journey, at last reaching the

opening in the wall and swinging through onto solid ground, which I

embrace.

Now the pain rushes into my arms. I stand with difficulty, curl gravity’s

invisible weights several times and then tarry in the opening to rub all of the

sore muscles I can reach. A whirring echoes in the seemingly bottomless

chamber, and a flying robot comes into view. It is not after me, however; it

carries replacement ropes for the obstacle I just completed. Still, I had

better keep moving. I trot down stone stairs that have seen use only seven

previous times today. Following my descent, a metal door slides from the

ceiling, blocking my retreat. I should have expected no less. And then the

lights go out.

I fumble in my pocket for the miniature flashlight and press a button on

its side. The beam is focused, and now a small spotlight dances on the

ground in front of me, scouting the way. I tiptoe across a threshold into a

room, which, judging from the echoes of my heavy breathing, is cavernous.

The floor is dirt and is damp in some places. Water drips somewhere. A

scent of rotting flesh permeates the air. Instinctively, I retrieve the knife and

open the double-edged blade. I wave the light around, trying to get an

impression of my surroundings. A sound off to the right draws the attention

of my spotlight.

A huge cat-like creature has its head to the ground, then looks up. Or at

least I was expecting it to look. The thing does not have eyes as far as I can

tell, but its huge nostrils and wide, twitching ears lead me to believe that it

doesn’t need them. It resembles a cross between a lion and a bat, and stands

in a posture that makes me think of a hyena. Bony spikes protrude from its

spine, and a pair of sharp, curved horns punctuate its brow. Perhaps it has

some of the Devil’s blood as well. It seems curious rather than angry, and

soon it turns away from me, leaning its head toward the floor. I gasp

audibly when I realize why its interest was not piqued by my presence. The

poor soul probably didn’t stand a chance. He is lying face down, left arm

outstretched, hand clutching a knife like mine. The creature must have leapt

at him from behind. As with the alligators, I both pity the victim and am

glad that it wasn’t me. If he had made it, then I would likely be in his

position now.

I turn the light back to the direction I had been walking and continue,

now with a greater sense of urgency. My haste is heightened further when I

hear a high-pitched wail that seems to resonate from the left side of the

cavern. It had not occurred to me that the cat/bat/demon might not be alone.

I break into a run, splashing through puddles that could be water or blood,

and I am certain that the echoing footsteps I hear are not just my own. The

scream comes again, this time much nearer. Suddenly, a wall appears in

front of me. Left, I decide hurriedly. As I turn, a glimpse of what looks to

be an exit to my right taunts me, but I fear the creature is too near to

warrant changing direction now. A small boulder materializes out of the

darkness at my feet, causing me to stumble. My ankle turns beneath me,

sending me tumbling to the dirt. I roll forward, then push myself sideways

as something heavy brushes against my back. I feel the wall beside me, so I

use it to brace myself and rise, flashing the light about me. The creature had

taken a spill as well. Thank the maker. It must have been at my heels when I

fell. It regains its footing quickly, however, and lunges toward me. I thrust

forward with the knife, aiming for the monster’s breast, hoping to dodge as

soon as contact is made. My blade is on target, but my weakened ankle does

not allow me to jump quickly enough to avoid the force of the impact. Its

horns tear my shirt across the left shoulder, and my arm is thrown against

the wall, knocking the light from my grip. The beam cuts a path through the

darkness, briefly illuminating what seems to be the movement of another

beast in the center of the room. I jerk my arm from under my assailant as it

slumps to the floor, screeching.

I want to run back to the place where I saw what looked like a way out,

but the flashlight is lying at such an angle as to reveal that the other creature

has positioned itself between here and there. It seems to know that that is

where I want to go, which means that it probably is in fact the room’s only

exit. It expects me to come toward it, so instead I turn and bolt in the

opposite direction. It gives chase, and unfortunately my blind footsteps lead

me into what feels like a narrow passageway. It is pitch black, but the hard,

slick walls are close to either side as I stumble forward. Suddenly it ends,

and I turn defenseless to face my pursuer. The dark demon-sihlouette grows

larger as it screeches in my direction. I turn to the wall again and frantically

feel for what could be a foothold or any way to climb. My hand fumbles

across a protrusion that is cold and smooth like metal. I grab hold of it and

it gives way beneath my weight. A door falls away from me, and I scramble

through it, kicking it closed behind me. The animal hits the door with a

tremendous thud before the latch has a chance to close completely. It bangs

into the metal wall of the corridor where I am standing, which is probably

an access tunnel of some sort. As I turn, I hear the creature scrambling to its

feet. The doorway slowed its progress, but not long enough for me to gain

any considerable ground. A dim red light illuminates a ladder ahead to the

left rising through a hole in the ceiling, but I can’t stop to climb it, or else

I’m sure to be monster chow. The hallway turns a corner and runs another

twenty feet before ending in a wire screen. I can’t tell what’s on the other

side, but it looks weak enough for me to smash through. Besides, without a

weapon, I would be no match for the thing behind me. Once again, I focus

as much strength as I can summon into my legs, ignoring the disapproval

from my ankle, and dive into the screen with all my force. The wires bend,

and the frame of the screen breaks free from the wall. A squeal emanates

from my back, rises above me. I tumble over the top of the frame and I am

flying through the air in an unbelievably expansive chamber. The wall I

came through is the only one visible in the dim light, although my attention

is immediately diverted downward. Below me, the floor resembles a maze,

grows larger, larger. The lines converge upon me until a violent punch jars

the light from my eyes.

The sound of a reverberating human voice wakes me. The muffled origin

of the sound seems to be a point below where I am lying. I raise my head

from the stone surface and open my eyes. The light, what little there is, fills

my retina slowly, like warm bathwater filling a tub. Playing the part of the

prospective bather, I wait patiently as the scene wavers into view. My body

weighs heavy upon the ground, at least what little of it there is beneath me.

My right arm hangs down over a rocky edge, and my fingers detect a

similar precipice on my left. I lift my right arm, which doesn’t seem to be as

sore as the rest of my body, and use it to push my torso into a reclining

position. I am on the top of a wall that appears to be one of many laid out in

a labyrinthine pattern around me. Terra firma lay maybe fifteen feet below,

so perhaps it is lucky that I landed where I did. Fifteen more feet might

have been enough to kill me — although it is a wonder that I survived the

fall as it was.

“Hey,” the voice says. “Are you alright?”

The speaker is standing in the corridor below. My mouth opens, but I

succeed only in inhaling a mouthful of stale air and uttering a moan. “I’m

alive,” I finally manage to say, although the remark is intended more for my

benefit than the unseen converser.

“Who are you?” the man asks. “Are you a runner?”

“Yes. My name’s Carl,” I tell him. I manage to sit up and lift my feet

over the ledge. Leaning forward, I can make out a figure below me.

“How did you get up there?” he queries.

“It’s more like ‘down here’,” I tell him. “I fell through a hole in the

wall.” I wave my arm around behind me and motion in what I guess to be

the direction from which I came.

“Wow,” he says. After a pause during which I wipe my mouth with my

arm, pull it back and examine a small line of blood, he continues. “That

explains why you’re not on the counter. It said I was the only to make it this

far today.”

I realize then that I don’t know how long I’ve been out. I question the

man, and he informs me that today is Saturday, and that it is about five

o’clock. That means I’ve only been unconscious for a couple of hours. The

memories rush back to me then, and I feel dizzy. The long line outside

beneath the sweltering sun … the alligator pit, where I nearly lost a shoe …

the corridor of fire … the vice pit … the rope swings … the laser … then

the viscous creatures that chased me here … “where?” I asked out loud.

“What’s that?”

“Where am I now?”

“This is the labyrinth. I’ve just entered, about a hundred yards that way.

Where were you when you fell through the hole in the wall?”

“I was being chased by some kind of demon-cats. Found an access

tunnel <cough> and crashed through a grate. Then I woke up.”

“So that’s what happened to the cats. I was surprised when they didn’t

show up.”

“Surprised? You sound like you’ve been through here before.”

“I have,” he informs me. Then adds, “twice.”

I stop massaging my legs and lean further forward to get a better look at

the man below. He is wearing denim pants and a white T-shirt. His hair is

short, dark and ruffled. He looks up with an awkward grin scrawled on his

face. He looks self-confident, maybe a little bit cocky, but then I guess he

has the right to be.

“Judas Marks?” I asked.

“Yep,” he looks around, as though he were anticipating something to

happen. “We’d better get moving,” he says in whisper, “and lower our

voices.”

“Why?” I try to force a whisper loud enough for him to hear, but it

comes out too loud and too course. I clear my throat in my hand. “Why?” I

try again, successfully.

“The minotaur. It’ll be here soon.”

“Minotaur? Like from the labyrinth in the Greek myth?”

“Not exactly. This one is about twelve feet tall, made of steel, and rolls

around on tank treads blasting anything that moves with laser cannons.”

Gulp. “I think I like the traditional version better,” I muse. Casting my

eyes around the room, I can see that the tops of the walls are about three

feet wide, and the spaces in between look to be eight feet.

“I don’t think I can make it down there,” I advise my companion, “but I

can follow you from above and keep a lookout for the minotaur. Do you

know the way out?”

“No,” he says. He explains that the walls move each night, so the pattern

is never the same. He also informs me that my fall allowed me to skip a

half-dozen obstacles. Lucky me.

I stand up slowly, gaining my footing relatively easily. I pace back and

forth a couple of times and then let Judas know that I’m ready to go. We

decide that I should lead the way, since my vantage provides a much better

view for navigating the maze. We start ahead, and I lead him around several

turns before I have to jump across a corridor to the facing wall. I waver

slightly upon my landing, but regain my balance quickly. It proves to be a

little bit easier than I had thought it would be, considering that my leg

muscles are stiff and sore. The day’s strenuous exercise combined with the

nap I had unwillingly taken have created a less than ideal state of

preparedness for long jumping. We continue on for several minutes before

the groan of metal-on-metal shatters the silence and echoes eerily around

us. The sound’s origin is indeterminable, and although I can see the tops of

the walls rather clearly for some distance, I cannot see very far towards the

floor of the maze except for the corridor directly beneath me. If the sound

of its machinery didn’t give it away, the minotaur could appear without

warning and use us for target practice. The sound comes again, and a low

rumbling arises slowly from somewhere nearby, vibrating the walls beside

us. Now it’s too close for comfort.

“I don’t see it,” I whisper urgently.

“Don’t worry about it,” Judas tells me. “Just keep moving. Try to head

us away from the sound.”

Since I cannot pinpoint the exact direction from which the sound

emanates, I try my best to lead us along a course in which the walls aren’t

shaking as much, and after a short time the rumbling begins to grow fainter.

“I think we lost him,” I offer.

“Not for long,” Judas responds. It seems there’s never an optimist around

when you need one.

I scout a path onward for several more minutes until a monstrous wall

steps out of the darkness in front of us. The corridor turns to follow this

outer wall, and my wall-top becomes a ledge running along beside it. After

we make the turn, my stomach drops. Twenty yards ahead, the corridor

dead ends.

“Judas! It’s a dead end!” I rasp. “Turn around!”

We both spin on our heels and run back in direction we had come. There

was another promising path about fifty yards back; maybe that trail will

prove fruitious. As if on cue, however, the rumbling commences once

again. The moaning and creaking of wheels is louder now than before, and

then the creature makes its entrance, turning out of a corridor ahead and to

the left to face us. I guess that path wasn’t so promising after all.

I know instinctively that I can jump across to another wall and avoid the

thing, but Judas is trapped. It continues to roll forward, and Judas retreats

into the dead end. As he rounds the corner, I see him pull out his knife. He

doesn’t stand a chance against the juggernaut. Its huge tank treads support a

shiny steel frame that is actually fashioned in the form of its namesake —

bulging arms hold quarter-inch laser cannons which rotate on ball and

socket joints at their base, making quick movement and aim possible. The

head sports two tremendous horns, and its eyes emit a sinister crimson

glow. My legs are trembling, but I can’t tell how much is due to the

vibration of the walls and how much is due to fear. It approaches more

quickly than seems possible and is nearly upon me when I realize that it

hasn’t even noticed me. It passes directly beneath me without

acknowledging my presence. Of course. It is only expecting to find runners

in the maze. Its eyes are probably not designed to look up. An idea hatches

within me, takes flight. I turn and track the behemoth for several paces,

waiting for the proper timing.

Now! I leap forward, landing on top of the minotaur’s head. Grabbing

hold of the massive horns to keep from sliding off, I steady myself and pull

my body upward. I reach forward as far as I can and try to cover the thing’s

eyes with my hands. As it rounds the corner, my grip nearly fails me, but I

manage to hang on to the base of one of the horns. At last, my right hand

moves into the desired position, covering one of the eyes. The machine’s

arms instantly come alive, firing the cannons with crackling fury into the

air, aiming as high they seem to be able to go. Pebbles rain from the sky as

the recoil shakes my left arm free of its slippery grip. I slide backwards and

careen off the machine’s back, hitting the dirt floor on my side. All of the

air takes leave of my lungs and I gasp for a breath, which finally comes and

chokes me.

The cannons erupt again, now barreling down in Judas’ direction. I try to

get up and run, but my legs won’t let me. The guns’ blaring ceases, and a

high-pitched whirring sound follows in its absence, building in pitch and

intensity. A loud pop precedes a louder explosion, and then all is quiet.

Even the rumbling has stopped.

“Judas!” I call out. There is no response. Slowly, I crawl toward the

silent hulk, which is pouring white smoke from its insides. When I reach its

front, I see Judas’ lifeless body crumpled beneath the wheels of the death

machine. His arm is bent backwards, and his knife is embedded between

two exposed gears on the thing’s underbelly. They don’t make them like

they used to, I guess …

It is quite some time before I am able to regain my focus and continue on

my way through the labyrinth. As I wander on aching legs amid the dark,

quiet corrida, my mind returns once more to Helen. I decide that I ought to

call her and try to make things right, if she hasn’t moved too far down the

relationship road to catch up. Anyway, it would be good to hear her voice

again, at least once. And I’ve had enough near-death experiences now to

make me put most of my past mistakes into perspective. Carpe diem, and

all that; assuming this day doesn’t seize me first.

It is perhaps an hour, or perhaps a hundred hours, of feeling my way

around endless corners before I come upon a door bearing a neon sign that

reads EXIT. I stumble through the portal and past another sign that instructs

me to watch my step. That one draws a chuckle. A flight of stairs takes me

to a corridor made of metal, and I can hear the sounds of calliope music and

the roaring of an exuberant crowd. A bright light causes me to squint, but I

can make out the figure of a beautiful, scantily clad woman who hands me a

button as I pass by her. I regard it. “I survived The Gauntlet,” it proclaims. I

step past a cheering congregation of people, some of whom pat me on the

back as I go by, and look around.

I see a gigantic Ferris wheel spinning wildly in the distance. It bursts into

flames.

Later, I muse. Right now, I could use a drink.