La Muerte Subita

The Indoor Forest

Dan wakes up on the ground.
His eyes are heavy and blurry as if he'd fallen asleep with a cold and his limbs feel sluggish and weak.
What happened?
He remembers being led up a flight of stairs to a glass room, but he doesn't remember anything after that.

The distinct smell of damp soil and green jerks him back to reality and he fights for vision with a set of aggressive blinks. As his eyes start to clear, he can finally make out his surroundings and...
Fuck.
A forest was not where Dan was expecting to be. Forests weren't in buildings; forests were outside. Far away from him.
Well, they should be.
Fuck.
Dan feels his stomach tighten in fear as he surveys the sturdy trees and green grass around him. There are stars over his head and a chain-link fence to his back...
Oh god, he hates trees. He hates forests. He hates the dark.

The term "existential crisis" had nothing on the panic attack building in his chest. He attempts to breathe.
An inhale, focusing on the exhale.
It isn't relaxing; it's a long ragged breath that hitches on a sob.
He presses his dirty hands into his eyes and holds back the hyperventilation. He's on the verge of tears, whimpering to himself as he attempts to gain control. He wishes Phil was here. Phil always knows what to do...

The sound of rustling leaves startles Dan into action, and he flinches bodily as he frantically scans the surrounding area for any signs of life. To his left, he hears the crunch of a footstep and the sheer adrenaline has him scrambling to his feet and attempting to run. He feels his blood in his feet and stumbles, catching the fence and barely managing to keep himself from falling face first into the dirt.
Fuck.

He runs.
Away from the trees, away from whoever was stupid enough to hang around a forest at all, much less at night.
He pauses against an old, rusting truck to regain his breath.
The door is locked when he tries it, and he isn't stupid enough to break the window, so he leans against the side and tries to calm down.

A slight breeze ruffles through his curls and Dan feels a bit less afraid.
The sound of fluttering catches his attention and he steps around to the front of the vehicle, stomach dropping at the sight of a small paper square fluttering against the bumper. He reaches forward and pulls it from the cold metal, inspecting it.
It's a drawing of a large man with arms a little too long and a blank face; its page two of eight.
Dan can feel the tears streaming down his face now, and he doesn't bother to wipe them as he stumbles toward the fence and presses his back into it.
Strafe, strafe. Back to the wall, Dan.
He sidles against the wall for a few feet before the sound of deep drums reverberate around him, as if every blade of grass were a speaker set on loud.
The tears come faster now, and he grips his one page tightly.
Fuck.

He finds another page in the large concrete tunnel: and the slendy tube couldn't be left behind faster as the drums start to speed up.
The fence is his friend and he returns to it, his back covered and his feet moving quickly but clumsily as he tries to run sideways.

He finds the third page in the bathroom-like structure.
It takes him too long to work up the courage to enter, and not enough time to get out. He runs like a bat out of hell and presses himself against the fence once more.
The drums are too loud, just the sound is enough to bring Dan to the verge of wetting himself, but the sound of footsteps beside him makes him run.
Full pelt, Dan dashes forward; away from the noise, away from the bathroom, away from the trees...
He runs until he's breathing so hard it hurts.
Runs until the sound of blood in his ears drowns out the sound of drums.
Until he reaches the giant tree in the center of the forest, and he leans against it in pain.

He can barely make out the paper against the bark, but he reaches for it nonetheless. Grasps it too hard in his fist; the fourth page...

It's overwhelming when the drums speed way up, getting louder. The atmosphere gets too heavy. He feels his legs wobbling under the stress; but he's okay.
He'll be okay.
He's breathing, he's blinking; he's living.
He focuses on recovering enough to run again, to find the other pages. He stumbles forward, only to be caught in a tight grip. His body goes ridged, heart drops, spine numbs.