Timeless

Timeless

By Daniel Davis

Copyright 2012-2014 Daniel Davis

SmashWords Edition

Table Of Contents

Chapter 1- Enter The Labyrinth

Chapter 2- Bacon And Fog

Chapter 3- Your Reality Is Not Mine

Chapter 4- Ward 4D

Chapter 5- Me and Me and Me

Chapter 6- Dawn Gives Way to Darkness

Chapter 7- Revenge

Chapter 8- I’ve Seen That Inn Before…

Chapter 9- Infiltration And Ruffly Collars

Chapter 10- Figments Can’t Order Pizza

Chapter 11- Observers Incorporated

Chapter 12- Terry

Chapter 13- A Single Photo

Chapter 14- Betrayal

Chapter 15- Revelations

Chapter 1

There was the sound of a gun, hollow and cold… then, nothing…

"Am I… still alive?

Am I dreaming?

Where the hell am I?

Is this… death?"

No.

Wait, who is this?

You know who it is. You know you're not dead. Not yet anyway.

I don't know what you mean…

It's time to go.

Wait, what?

The nothingness slowly parted; out of the inky blackness, the blurred image of an old, rundown motel coalesced. Faint red neon hues of the motel's logo ("The Grande Inn), a buzzing green vacancy" sign and what looked like a few dim yellow lights were the only illumination. The pelting assault of a driving rain began to cascade across the worn, shingled roof.

So is this heaven? It's raining in heaven?

I already told you. You aren't dead.

So then what is this?

You ask too many questions.

Doing their best to shield the hotel's interior from the outside, a set of old glass double doors led to the main entryway. Smudged and stained, they looked like they had apparently once been elegant and tasteful, but the years had long since taken their toll. The rose-shaped handles on each side were cracked and loose, and the dark cherry wood that framed the glass had long since lost its polished, reflective shine.

So this is… my hell? Faded paintings on the wall, wallpaper on the verge of total disintegration and various unknown stains in random places? My afterlife is a tacky rundown motel?

What did I JUST say? You aren't dead. Get that through your… well… you don't have a head, but…

The entryway was an obvious attempt in years past to give guests a pleasant first impression. However, these days, it simply stood as a modern example of what happens to a business when the world just stops caring. This place looked like it hadn't seen the touch of an interior designer's love in decades.

Near the cracked front desk, a restroom door rested listlessly open, hanging half off its hinges. There was one hallway off to the left (no door, just an archway) with a tired, weathered sign over it. In hand-painted calligraphy, it said simply Rooms. There were a few other doorways from the lobby, but none were labeled.

As the rain pounded its way across the motel roof, inside the lobby a man lay sprawled across the filthy rug on his back, his eyes closed. He looked about forty, with flecks of gray strewn through tousled hair that ended just below his ears. The man had the remnants of about two days worth of stubble on his chin, and was wearing a dirty white collared shirt underneath a filthy long brown overcoat. He was drenched completely. His sopping hair hung limply down; a few fat water droplets ran off his head and soaked into the tired orange shag.

And here we are.

All at once the man's eyes snapped open. He blinked and stirred a little, and a low, painful moan escaped from his mouth. Slowly, dizzily, he sat up, still blinking, then rubbed his head and looked around. His temples throbbed, and his vision blurred in and out of focus.

So you're not dead, a child's voice softly whispered from behind him. You've been lying there for a while now.

The man turned his head. The voice had come from a girl- twelve, maybe thirteen years old. She sat with her legs pulled up under her chin, and her arms were wrapped around her knees. She was wearing a torn, baggy blue sweatshirt and faded jeans. He could see that she was thin- not the healthy kind of thin one gets from too much time in a gym, but a haggard, tired kind of thin. The kind of thin you get when you haven't seen a decent meal in weeks and survival depends on what you can get by fighting the dogs in the dumpster.

Where am I? the man asked.

Beats me. I don't even really know how I got here myself. She tilted her head to the side. So who are you, mister?

I… I am… my name is… But the words didn't come. He couldn't think; couldn't remember his name, couldn't remember anything, really.

Your name is Jack, I bet.

How do you know? the man asked, puzzled.

Somehow she managed to work up a weary half grin. Look on your jacket.

The man fumbled with the coat, lifting the front pocket up. Sometime in the past he had apparently felt the need to emblazon his name onto the front pocket. Jack, he whispered to himself. He slowly stood up and brushed himself off. Is there a phone in here?

I haven't seen one, the girl muttered.

What about outside? Is there a payphone or something?

There's… nothing outside there. Besides, Jack, who would you call?

I don't know! Jack exclaimed, exasperated. Maybe some mental health professional or something. He fumbled around in his jacket pockets; maybe there was a cell phone or something there. His fingers clasped around a leather rectangle; he pulled it out. It was a torn, faded wallet. He pulled it out and sifted through it. There was a frequent buyer card to some taco place, a couple twenties, a library card, a picture of a motorboat with him in it, a driver's license, and a few other miscellaneous photographs. But it looked like someone had scratched out every single written word on every card. The photographs were no better; every face except his had been cruelly etched out, leaving only torn fragments of what had once been moments in his life. He looked around at the dirty motel's lobby. Someone was playing a game with him here. I have to get out of here. It's better than doing nothing.

Wait! the girl called to him as he walked towards the hotel's entrance. He reached for the handles on the glass double doors that led to the exit corridor. All at once the hotel seemed to disappear in a blinding flash of light…

His hands gripped the cold, hard steel of the fence. The razor wire dug into his skin, and blood streamed down his arms. He screamed, a howl not merely born of physical pain from the cuts inflicted by the steel wire, but a scream of pure despair and horror. Yet the fence before him stood firm- imposing and stark against the blistering orange dusk sky.

Jack gasped and fell backwards onto the orange rug. Unable to understand, unable to comprehend what had just happened, he screamed again. His hands were a bloody mess, a tangle of shredded flesh.

The girl did not move. She continued sitting, her arms wrapped around her knees. Jack glowered at her, then staggered towards the restroom, kicking the old door aside. The tiny little space was even filthier than the lobby, but he didn't care. He turned the hot water on the stained yellow porcelain sink with his palm and stuck his hands under the faucet. Stabs of pain shot through his body, but he forced himself to continue holding his bleeding appendages until he was sure the wounds had been washed out. He grabbed a towel hanging from a hook near the tub and painfully tore it into strips, then bandaged his hands. It would have to suffice, for now.

Still feeling a little dizzy, Jack stared at his own haggard reflection in the dirty, cracked mirror. God, I am a mess. You know, you haven't even told me who you are, he called out to the girl. No response. Annoyed, he turned around and looked out of the restroom. The corner where the girl had sat was empty. He walked into the hotel lobby. Kid? he called to no avail. The place now seemed entirely deserted.

The rain was no longer pounding at the motel ceiling, and moonlight was flickering across the wet concrete outside beyond the first set of double doors. He didn't want to try the doors again though- he couldn't risk another incident. Was he really a prisoner here? Of whom? He was too tired to think about it. He needed rest. He wobbled through the arch with the Rooms sign above it, into a long, narrow hallway. It was illuminated only by the moonlight shining through a series of panel windows that spanned across the left wall. Silk rose-patterned curtains, tattered and stained, hung limply across them, obscuring the outside view.

Jack wondered which room was his, realized that he didn't have a key, then promptly passed out on the old orange rug.

There was sun streaming down across his face this morning. The ascending rays highlighted the quickly approaching spring sun. Jack was… happy. He smiled at the thought. It had taken him a while to find his niche, but he was certainly in it. He had chosen to walk today; it was a warm, clear dawn and his job wasn't more than a brisk walk away. When he walked, it gave him time to think- about where he was, where he was going, where he wanted to be. At this point he was honestly happy with his place in life. He grinned- how many other people could say that? None, that's who, at least out of all the people that he knew.

Hey, Mr. Atra! called a voice from the end of the hedge.

Jack smiled. Good morning Tommy. Fifteen-year-old Tommy Franks- he lived with his family in an old shack near the highway. They didn't have much, but they managed somehow. Tommy was a smart kid- a real whiz when it came to math. Jack hoped that someday he'd be able to get himself a scholarship- go to a real college and make something out of himself. You gonna go into town with your mom today?

Tommy's gift of genius was, unfortunately, not shared with the rest of his family. His mother and father both were afflicted with mental handicaps, so it usually fell to the short, scrawny teenage kid with the perpetually ruffled hair to make sure they didn't get swindled by the local shopkeepers here.

Jack turned the corner leading to the front of Mel's Tires, nearly smacking into a small man with thinning hair who was hurrying across the sidewalk. It was still early- Jack was always the first employee to arrive, and he honestly liked things that way. His hands cupped around the brass knob of the entrance…

All at once Jack's eyes snapped open, and the memory slowly faded. He was lying on his back in the hotel again, staring at the moldy popcorn ceiling. A soft morning light filtered its way through the old curtains. Slowly he sat up, his hands burning with the pain of the wounds inflicted the previous night. Even though the daylight betrayed the hour, it seemed quieter than the night had been. No birds, no familiar noises typical of a suburban hotel… nothing.

Jack brushed himself off and walked out through the archway into the main lobby. The lights were out, leaving the only illumination the sunlight streaming through the glass double doors. He took a step towards them, but the still-present pain in his bandaged hands made him pause. I'm not gonna try that again, he muttered to himself.

Jack slowly turned around and surveyed the lobby. Despite the fact that it was obviously late in the morning, the place was deserted. Cobwebs flecked their way across the ceiling, and a thick layer of dust permeated every surface. He made his way through the darkness to the front desk and rang the bell, and waited. Nothing. As he stood at the desk, outside a wind chime tinkled in the breeze.

He rang the bell again, growing a little more impatient. Hello? he called. Anybody in here? Still nothing.

He noticed that was an unlabeled door directly behind the main desk. Might as well give it a knock, he thought to himself. He raised his hand and rapped a few times. No answer, but the door seemed to sway a little as he knocked. He tried it. No dice- it was locked, almost as if to say, "Silly Jack. There's nothing you want through here".

He shook his head. Now is not the time to be philosophical, he thought to himself. He squinted in the dark. Now is the time to find a lightswitch. He slid his hands along the lobby wall, his fingers clasping onto an old metal switch. He flipped it with a loud clack. Nothing. There was no power, apparently, to this entire place. Then where the hell did the electricity come from last night? None of this made any sense. Maybe I was drunk, he thought to himself. I was drunk and cut my hands on a barbed wire fence outside somewhere, and wandered into this abandoned hotel and passed out. Only one way to find out. Jack walked towards the exit.

God, but my hands… He paced back and forth a little, then stopped in front of the hotel lobby's desk. There had been a chair there, last night. Hadn't there? He felt his way along the side of the desk, his hands finally gripping the old leather of the seat back. Ok, now we're getting somewhere. He bent down and took hold of one of the chair legs, then yanked. With a tired groan, the wood joint cracked and broke, leaving Jack with about two feet, at least in his mind, of protection.

The glass doors of the main entryway creaked as he pushed them open with the stick and stepped out of the hotel…

And fell nearly four feet downwards into a pile of sand baking in the morning heat. He spat out a mouthful and blinked in the glaring sunlight, then looked around. A desolate, barren wasteland surrounded Jack. In every direction, nothing but empty wind-wrinkled dunes stretched across the landscape. It was as if a gargantuan sandbox had overturned itself across the world, leaving only him intact. A single, solitary road stretched into the distance, leaving Jack with the vague impression that maybe the hotel hadn't been in business for a long, long time.

Behind him, the set of old windchimes behind him had stopped clinking back and forth. The breeze was gone, and the sun cooked the desert sand unmercifully. How the hell could I have just wandered over here last night? There's nothing else around here for miles.

A bead of sweat ran down Jack's forehead, hung off his nose for a moment, then leapt off into the sand. He shook his head. He had to do SOMETHING- he couldn't just stand here roasting like a ham in an oven. There's water back in the hotel; maybe I can find a map there too… and figure out where the hell