Strange City Magic

3: A Wending Way

A small, bald man stood in the middle of a blank white expanse. It rolled infinitely in every direction, and he lingered there, debating which direction he ought to take. What manner of decision can a man make, with so little information? All he knew, instantaneously and with absolute certainty, was that something loomed behind him. Something large. Something violent. The small, bald man dared not turn around.

He ran. It did not, could not, matter where - only that in running, he was taken away from the monstrosity. Cramped, cold muscles protested in the small, bald man's calves. The monster did not give chase. At least, not in any way that would imply feet or legs or intent. It expanded, rolling like a wave of thick black molasses. The small, bald man's feet grew wet.

He looked down and was shocked to find a pair of manacles binding his wrists together. Halting, he poured all of his energy into breaking these bonds. Sweat trickled down his face. The monster lapped around his ankles. The small, bald man squinted, and with a snap the metal gave way. He continued to run. Yet no sooner had he outpaced the monster than he looked down and found the manacles returned to his wrists. Once more he paused, and focused all of his concentration on breaking the restraints. The horrid liquid rose around his ankles. Sweat dripped off his chin. The molasses tickled his knees.

Run! Just run!

The metal gave way with a snap once again, and the small, bald man squelched out of the gelatinous ooze. No sooner had he escaped, however, than he looked down and was amazed to find...

*

Loren's eyes fluttered halfway open then closed again. A cloying odor of fried food, garbage, and animal musk was stuck somewhere deep in her nasal cavity. Her body was lead. Her head was liquid. And there was another sensation too. Something she couldn't get a bead on. River water rushing over smooth stones. Bellows expanding and contracting, expanding and contracting. Up and over, down and under, in and out, over and over and over. Breathing. Not her own. Loren opened her eyes, and took a moment to adjust to the dark.

She was lying on damp pavement, her neck cricked uncomfortably against a brick wall. To her left, the mouth of an alley and a fire escape ladder. To her right, an overflowing dumpster. At the base of the dumpster sat a boy with long hair and a septum piercing.

His face was bloodless, his eyes saucer wide. He breathed in an irregular, heavy fashion, sucking down air and choking it back out. She tried to reach out to him. Her vision swam with the effort; it seemed like her hand floated through the air for hours before it landed on his quivering knee. She squeezed, and he looked down at her. "Where are we?" he asked. "How... how..."

"Don't worry about that." She squeezed again. "Breathe. Try to match my rhythm." He shuddered. "Don't worry," Loren tried to say. "Just match me. Just run."

A small, bald man broke the chains of the manacles restraining his wrists. Rivulets of sweat streaked down his chest. He waded forward through a sea of thick, rancid ooze.

"Breathe, okay? Like you said, right?"

Loren woke again. There was a different quality to the darkness of the night. Time had passed. The teenager hunched over her, rhythmically squeezing her hand. "Are you okay?" he asked, staring at her forehead.

Her skin felt tight there, like it'd been pinched together and taped in place. She reached up and felt a mound of dried blood. "How long have I been out?" she asked.

"I don't know, but I think we're in trouble."

Loren followed his gaze. Three shadowy figures stood at the lip of the alley, silently observing. Even in the low light she recognized the colors they wore. "Yes, we are."