STRANGER WORLD Page 16

  George, nearly handshaken out of his skull, pulled his hand out of his firm grasp and asked, “Who are you! And how do you know my name? Where am I?”

  “Where are you?” he repeated. “Oh, my, my, my.” He outstretched both arms to his sides. “Why, you are at the crossroads of course, you silly. Why? Where else would you be?”

  George sighed, fought down his frustration, and asked, “Well, which way do I go from here?”

  “Which way do you want to go?” the Lamppost Man asked.

  George noticed the man had the annoying habit of repeating his questions before answering. “I don’t know. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Why, that’s entirely up to you, my boy.” Without warning the Lamppost Man jumped up onto the bumper of the truck and pin-wheeled his arms before pointing out the road to his left and said, “If you go that way you will certainly meet something large and chilly that is sure to eat you.” Pin-wheeling his arms a second time and landing his fingers toward the opposite direction he then said, “And this way, many chills, spills, and nightmares await you.”

  George checked both directions. He didn’t see any of those things, only barren, narrow road in a sea of grasses as far as the eye could see. He checked to see the Lamppost Man hadn’t moved from his perch on the front bumper, and retrieved his binoculars. Focusing them to the left he could see formidable snowcapped mountains far off. He knew there was no point in going back the way they had come with the bridge out, and the road that led back to Dino-Town had only food and shelter at best; nothing that would help them save Maddie. He swung his binoculars to the last road. This was also the same direction they had seen the other, smaller floating ship earlier. He focused the binoculars a bit more down the road and there, just on the horizon, a dot really, was a ramshackle of buildings, maybe even the beginnings of a town.

  Lowering the binoculars he asked, “Is that a town over there?”

  In a move that George would not have thought the Lamppost Man capable of the strange man bounced off the front bumper, did a smooth back somersault in the air, and landed in front of him. The Lamppost Man abruptly put his face next to his cheek and stared off at the town in the distance. “Oh, that is a very good choice indeed, very good. I see many adventures waiting you there, but--” He checked to see if anyone was listening. Certain they weren’t he added, “Beware the doctor.”

  “The doctor,” George repeated. The Lamppost Man made a sour face while nodding profusely. This guy is obviously a couple cans short of a six-pack. “Okay,” George said in the most pacifying tone he could muster, all the while backing away from the strange individual until he was safely back beside his open door.

  The Lamppost Man followed closely behind. He was so close, in fact, that George’s hand began inching toward the flare gun in his shoulder holster.

  The Lamppost Man didn’t see this, however, he was focused on Barnaby sleeping in the passenger seat. Without dropping that idiotic grin of his the Lamppost Man studied both of them for a moment and retreated toward the lamp.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say he recognized Barnaby, George thought, but didn’t mention it.

  “All righty then. If you need any more help I’ll be right here.” The Lamppost Man nodded, tipped his hat, and in a very deft move jumped backward onto his Lamppost. He then leaned out and assumed his position of being frozen again.

  What...a… whackadoodle.

  George was about to climb back into the cab of the truck, but feeling a chilly wind assault him, and perhaps feeling a bit sorry for the man, he asked, “Listen, buddy, it’s getting pretty cold out here, you sure I can’t give you a lift somewhere?”

  The Lamppost Man didn’t answer. He just remained unmoving with that perpetual grin on his face.

  “Okay, suit yourself,” he said aloud. Conscience clear, he climbed back into the truck.

  This day just keeps getting weirder and weirder.

  George put the truck in drive and made a hard right. Absentmindedly, he hit the turn signal, and immediately felt foolish for doing so, and switched it back off.

  As he began his trek toward the distant town he noticed Barnaby hadn’t so much as stirred the entire time and simply continued snoring away.

  Chapter 30

  “The Damaged Hover Ship”

  “Barnaby, wake up.”

  Barnaby heard himself snort as he finally woke the rest of the way up. “What did you say?” he asked sleepily, his hands dragging down his face. “Where are we?”

  George didn’t answer him. He was leaning forward in his seat, his elbows on the wheel, preoccupied with something up ahead.

  Barnaby leaned forward to look out the windshield but saw nothing other than more road in an endless sea of grasses. Seeing nothing of interest he asked, “What are you staring at?”

  “Remember that smaller, what’d you call it, hover barge?”

  Barnaby thought about it for a moment.“Yeah. Why? Do you see it again?”

  With a long, drawn out drawl he answered, “Yep,” and then added, “Only this time it’s on our right, and a lot closer to the road.”

  “So it’s moving?”

  “No. On the way back I took a right at the crossroads (he purposely left out the part about the Lamppost Man) so it makes sense it’s on our right now.”

  It took Barnaby a moment for his eyes to focus but he soon saw a hovering barge on the right. And George was right, this one was definitely not moving. In fact, it looked like it was barely staying afloat.

  “You ever see anything like this before?” George asked.

  “No. This one doesn’t look like Lady Wellington’s Royal Barge; this one looks more like some kinda boat.”

  “Let’s check it out.”

  Barnaby took note of the dwindling sun. They couldn’t have more than another hour of sunlight left. “You sure that’s a good idea? I mean, it’ll be dark soon, and we still haven’t found any place to bed down for the night.”

  Still leaning on the steering wheel and staring out the window George said, “There’s a town up ahead. We’ll just take a quick look.”

  “Town?” Barnaby heard himself ask. “What town?”

  George parked the truck beside the road. Thankfully the grasses were much shorter here, only about mid-calf, and the hover barge wasn’t far off the road. Armed with only the flare gun they set out for it.

  It took them almost fifteen minutes of precious daylight to walk beneath the entire length of the hovering boat and then circle around it.

  Scratching the itch on his forehead, Barnaby asked, “How long do you think it is?”

  George continued studying and without looking at him finally replied, “At least ninety feet.”

  They backed away from it once more to get a better view and saw a railing encircling the top deck. To George the best way to sum up the whole ensemble was if Captain Nemo built a jungle cruise boat instead of the Nautilus, and it floated high in the air.

  Standing in the shadow of the bow George yelled to Barnaby, “I reckon that’s the cockpit.”

  Barnaby checked where George was pointing and saw a box-shaped glass house hanging from the belly of the ship.

  “What, you mean like a wheelhouse?” Barnaby asked.

  “Uh, sure,” George responded.

  “And check out along the sides.” George pointed again. “Scorch marks.”

  “Where, I don’t see anything.” Barnaby raised the binoculars he had forgotten he was wearing around his neck.

  “You’re right. Firefight damage all over the thing. I’ll say this for ya… You got eyes like an eagle.”

  “I ain’t no expert on floating boats or nuthin’,” George began, “but if I were to guess, this thing was in a battle and lost.”

  Examining the hover barge through the binoculars Barnaby asked, “Do you think those paddle wheels on the sides are large enough to create lift for a craft that size?”

  “No way,” George answered immediately. And then added, “Bes
ides, they’re not spinning.”

  “Maybe they’re directional.” Barnaby said, surprising even himself. And when George turned toward him he explained, “You know, like a rudder, only instead of water currents they paddle the air?” He made cupping motions with his hands to illustrate his point.

  “Uh-huh,” George agreed. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun. “Hey, what’s it say on the bow?”

  “Huh?” Barnaby asked. He was about to say, ‘How the heck should I know’, when he remembered he was the one with the binoculars. He focused on the lettering just beneath the bow railing:

  H.M.A.S. DAUNTLESS

  “The Dauntless,” George breathed. “That’s a good name.” He checked on the sun and added, “We best be going if we’re going to reach that town before dark.” And with that, he started hiking back toward the truck.

  But Barnaby stayed behind.

  Seeing this, George moved back over to him and raised his eyebrows in question.

  Barnaby lifted the brim of his bush hat for one last inspection and let out a long slow whistle. “I sure would like to have gotten up there and taken a gander inside.”

  “Yeah, but how?” George asked him. “That thing has gotta be at least thirty feet up there.”

  “I don’t know. We’d almost need a helicopter, or one of those grappling hook guns or sumthin’.”

  A helicopter. Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice. For some reason, after two decades of flying whirlybirds for the military he shivered, and was unsure why. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he still had no explanation of how he had gotten from the middle of the Gulf War in Afghanistan to this very strange, very bizarre place.

  Shaking it off he told Barnaby, “C’mon. Let’s get going. After everything we’ve seen so far who knows what horror is waiting for us in that town.”

  MEET

  SOPHIA DAVENPORT

  Chapter 31

  “The Doc with Horn-Rimmed Glasses”

  Wait. Did I slit my wrists?

  A tall woman with blond hair and black, horn-rimmed glasses awoke to find herself sitting in a comfy arm-backed chair. For some reason she couldn’t explain, she was wearing a long white lab coat. In one hand dangling loosely beside her chair, her fingers still clutched the handle of a knife dripping with blood.

  Adding further to her dismay she found the sleeve of her lab coat pushed up to her elbow, her forearm bleeding from multiple lacerations. Realizing she was obviously the perpetrator, she immediately dropped the stained blade where it thudded to the floor.

  Why would I cut myself? I haven’t cut myself since I was in high school. And that was never on my forearms where someone could see. No, this wasn’t the same thing. And I don’t think I was trying to kill myself either. These cuts are on the back of my forearm, if they had been on the front I would’ve bled out in moments. Although painful, the slashes were mostly superficial. So if not stemming from a self-injury disorder, or trying to kill myself, why would I do such a thing? What was I trying to prove?

  This last question seemed to strike a chord in her and she suddenly saw several images flash across her mindscape--an endless field of prairie grass, a tiny yellow VW bug, and a strangely-clad man leaning off a lamppost, but aside from that, no other memories were forthcoming.

  Adjusting her glasses on her nose, she scanned her surroundings. The room was dimly lit by a large cobweb-covered chandelier with flickering candles and, at first glance it appeared to be the lobby of a very fancy Victorian hotel. Lush red velvet curtains draped over the windows and the walls were covered with bright pink and white pastels. On an ivory mantelpiece sat an old-timey clock ticking loud enough to drive a Hatter mad.

  Spooky.

  As she shifted in her chair her forearm throbbed slightly, a painful reminder of her injury. She grabbed a small linen throw off the back of a nearby couch and carefully wrapped it around her lacerations, tight enough to staunch the bleeding, but not so tight as to cut off her circulation.

  Wound bandaged, she staggered to her feet. When she did, the room spun about, but she managed to stay upright until the episode passed. Lifting her gaze she was startled by the arrival of a tall, beautiful blond-haired woman wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses. The bespectacled woman was standing only a few scant feet away and had a confused look on her face.

  “Hello?” she said tentatively.

  She quickly admonished herself when she realized this was only her reflection in the lobby’s rectangular ornate mirror.

  Is that really me?

  She pinched her cheek to be certain.

  It’s me alright, but it doesn’t seem right,and why can’t I remember what I look like?

  Gazing at her reflection further she realized she was wearing a blue lanyard draped around her neck. Attached to the end of the lanyard was some kind of laminated identification badge. A clue. Studying the I.D. she saw an unflattering picture of herself, and next to the photo was the name: DR. SOPHIA DAVENPORT

  Oh. So my name is Sophia, but the name didn’t sound quite right. Close, but not quite all the way there. She continued to examine the badge in the hopes of finding other clues to her identity, but all she found was one word in another little box under the category of division:MICROBIOLOGY.

  Why does this all seem so familiar? I feel as though I’ve done this hundreds of times.

  Fighting down the urge to scream, she squared her shoulders back, flashed herself a polite smile in the mirror, and said, “Well, hello there, Dr. Sophia Davenport… Micro-biologist…” and with the smallest of curtseys added, “It’s nice to meet you.”

  She noted that when she spoke aloud her accent sounded French. Whether she was from France, Quebec, or even New Orleans in the states, she still had no clue.

  Her nose wrinkled and she thought she detected a stale odor with a slight hint of formaldehyde.

  I can remember what formaldehyde smells like, but not how I got here? Let’s see, the last thing I remember… what is the last thing I remember? Her mind was a complete blank on that score.

  Okay, let’s start with, where am I?

  Turning away from the mirror her original assessment of the place was still the lobby of a Victorian motel. This summation did not change until she saw the ghastly white corpse of an old woman lying in an upright open casket leaning against the wall.

  I’m in a funeral parlor?

  She took a few steps backward and nearly toppled over a small tea cart behind her--the ornate ceramics tinkling loudly in protest as she did so.

  Will you calm down already!

  The dead woman in the casket was dressed in a plain black Victorian dress. Her cheeks were sunken and grey (as though she had been dead for a very long time), and her eyes and lips had been haphazardly sewn shut with thick strands of brown leather.

  To calm her nerves the blond-haired doctor with horn-rimmed glasses said, again with a French accent, “Well, you certainly gave me a start.”

  Her heart had finally begun to slow when she was pretty sure she heard the old woman reply with a muffled, “Mmmmphfff... Mmmmphfff.”

  Dr. Sophia Davenport, Microbiologist, with a French accent, released a startled cry and quickly vacated the room.

  In the next room she found a set of stairs leading upward to another floor. The stairway had been made impassable by various pieces of random furniture, as though someone had been trying to form a crude barricade.

  She cried out, “Hello… Is anybody here?”

  Still not spying an exit, she moved into another room and came upon a dark and foreboding hallway. Framing the entrance to the seemingly endless corridor were two statuary busts depicting a stern-looking man and an equally cantankerous-looking woman. When Sophia took a few steps to peer into the hallway she was fairly certain the eyes of the statues followed her every move.

  This place is starting to really, really creep me out.

  Steadying herself, she called out tentatively, “Bonjour? Is anybody here?”

&
nbsp; When she looked at the statues again she noticed the expressions on their faces had changed from a stern gaze to one of horror.

  “Stop it, Sophie, you just stop it right now,” she scolded herself, using her Mamere’s tone. “You’re simply letting your imagination get the better of you.”

  Turning away from the disturbing busts and endless corridor she nearly ran face-first into a full suit of armor. She began to jokingly say, “Excuse me,” but when she heard breathing coming from within the helmet she backed carefully away. Once she was certain the suit of armor wasn’t about to step off its pedestal, she turned around and quickly fled into another room.

  Thankfully, the next chamber had large paned windows, and plenty of daylight was streaming in, made lazy by the thick window panes. The room appeared to be a large conservatory filled with withered plants and dead flowers. An empty bird cage with tiny bamboo bars stood upright near the room’s entrance, and when she peered into it she saw a dead canary.

  Well that’s morbid.

  A slight rustling of leaves caught her attention, and turning toward it she glimpsed a strange shadow with horns sliding across the wall. Holding her breath she waited for the shadow’s owner to reveal itself.

  “Hello?” she said again cautiously, then a bit louder, with more fervor. “Hello? Is anybody here?”

  Still no answer. The bouncing leaves of an exotic plant were the only sure sign she hadn’t imagined seeing someone.

  First the statues, then the suit of armor--ever since she had woken up she couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched.

  This is so ridiculously creepy.

  Spying an exit haphazardly boarded up with planks, she decided to venture outside. She moved over to the blockaded door and started pulling off the planks one by one. The boards were loosely nailed and semi-rotted so they came off easily.

  As she pulled off the last plank she didn’t see the outline of the gargoyle shadow on the wall, its thick outstretched claws reaching for her.