The Great Mall Mirage

Glass Staircase

You close your eyes, willing the nausea to wash away like the sea of blood gushing through the drain. Pretend the sound of scarlett water is the lapping of waves on a distant beach, the shredded corpses sundried driftwood, and the shards of glass discarded beer bottles, and you can almost ignore the crimson that sneaks its way beneath your eyelids. Almost. But not quite.

The elevators are silent, but the four of you gasp like divers from the depths, the wheezing betraying your shock.

"Breathe," Mr. Aspen says, laying a hand on your back.

When you inhale, the thickness of blood weaves itself into your being. When you exhale, your eyes flutter open and meet his. They're the softest pale blue, crowned by eyebrows arched high.

"I'll be ok." Your voice is hoarse. You turn away, hoping that he won't know you're lying.

Jack lets go of you, and you sway for a moment before regaining your balance. You search for the words to convey what you saw, but they're lost somewhere under the pile of glass at your feet. Jack, always the faster tongue, speaks for you.

"It's not possible. Miles Dane can't be a machine. I mean, he's been around for decades. We've seen him on TV all this time. He has to be real, right?"

"I don't think that was him," Mr. Roots says.

Mr. Aspen nods. "We should leave. It's not safe here."

Jack's jaw is clenched, and in his eyes you can feel a metallic sharpness that tells you that he doesn't agree. "I'm going to stay here," he says. "We need to figure out what's going on."

Mr. Roots shakes his head. "With all respect, you're just kids. People have died here. It's too dangerous. This is a job for the police."

Your head's still swirling, but the word police nags at you. "The police? Why aren't they here?"

"It seems like no one's able to contact the outside." Mr. Roots holds up his phone, which has no signal. "Everything's blocked. We need to go outside to report this to the authorities."

Jack looks at you, waiting for your decision. You bite your lip, letting the sting ground you. This game is dangerous, sure but part of you craves the danger. Part of you is curious to know how much more is out there, and part of you wants to prove you're worthy. All your life, you've been waiting to prove yourself. Always second best, always the shy one, always waiting for the chance to prove what you really hope you are: worthy of something more than the quiet little life you've been given. Maybe this is your time to shine.

Jack understands. He knows you're staying with him. And when Mr. Aspen and Mr. Roots see the triumph in his eyes, they know it too.

Mr. Aspen pretends to be displeased, but the wistfulness of his gaze gives him away. He was a little like you when he was younger. He ran away, hitchhiking the country, and once, so the rumors go, chaining himself to railroad tracks to protest predatory company practices.

Mr. Roots begins to speak, but Mr. Aspen's silence stops him. Mr. Aspen does something you never thought he'd do. One by one, he undoes the buttons on his lab coat. You hear the clink of metal on metal in the pockets as he slips it off his shoulders and holds it out to you. The pockets bulge, weighed down by the tools inside, ever so slightly distorting the embroidered gears on the breast pocket.

"This comes back to me," he says. "Whether you live or die, this comes back to me."

You bow your head, feeling the weight and smoothness of the silk in your hands. When you raise your eyes, he's smiling. You can't help but return the smile.

Mr. Roots reaches to his help and unclips something from it: a length of rope with a water bottle flashlight, and climbing harness. He holds it out to Jack, who cradles it like a newborn.