Thunder roared through the deserted street, illuminated only by the light of the moon. Torrential cries of raindrops splashing against rock blew across the road with gusts of cold wind to accompany them. Night had swept all attention from the road as those who had not any greater destination in mind during the day than the cluster of thirteen buildings along the sides of the street now huddled in them.

Five of these buildings were residences, all as devoid of activity as the street to their right; their inhabitants were asleep, oblivious to the storm that raged all around them. All five of the two-story structures had been made many hundreds of years ago, elaborately constructed from intricate patterns of rocks, paint, and wood, only to lose their glory with the passage of time and the effects of chronic neglect. Now they did not resemble their original incarnations as works of art, the results of sweat and tears and collaboration; neither did they manage to present themselves as ordinary, well-maintained residencies. Each and every one of the five houses on the west side of the road was in a state of perpetual collapse, with paint peeling and wood rotting, yet they never seemed to collapse, never seemed to fall away to the mice and molds, never seemed capable of yielding to nature’s desire to wash them away. They simply clung to the earth, blighting the landscape. Perhaps their aged residents would have done something, improved their homes or even rebuilt them, had they possessed the proper resources, but none of them had any skill with carpentry that they could remember, and the passage of time had stolen their will and ability to learn.

Seven metallic towers built next to the houses, each tall enough to hold three stories but with windows only on the first two, comprised the office buildings of a company that built gears. It was rumored that the company might have several high-profile contracts, including one with the Office of Oversight itself. At the moment, however, there was little activity in the building. All of the employees had retired, either to cots arrayed amongst the machines on the first floor or to the tavern by the first residence; the corporation’s executives, on the other hand, had mysteriously disappeared after entering elevators seemingly bound for the second floor of the third building.

The final building, the tavern, was shabby, comprised of a single story. Its haphazard wooden construction made it anything but remarkable. It had, however, one unique trait: even now, with a storm battering against the earth, with the veil of night spread across the sky, with its surroundings completely dormant, the structure was still lit by the yellowish glow of an incandescent light, and within the world was alive, bright, and cheery. Against the wrath of nature, against the wrath of time, the tavern still stood, simple, unassuming, and yet somehow quietly indomitable. There was no weathering on its wood, nor any damage to its single story, nor any sign that it had not been built in the past week despite the fact that it had been constructed far before the gear-builders and even the residents had arrived.

It was in this tavern that the man arrived, wearing a dark green, meticulously crafted traveling cloak wrapped around a thick coat. He cast a somewhat tall figure, but a thinness about him implied that he had not eaten a full meal for many days. To the current proprietor of the tavern, Ernest “Ernie” Hayes, he seemed the perfect opportunity to make a sale to. Ernie abandoned his fiftieth attempt to force open the mysteriously locked storeroom door of the tavern, straightened his overcoat, and moved to greet the new arrival to his establishment.

Amidst the chatter of the employees and the shouts of a few residents playing cards in a corner, the stranger might have been able to advance unnoticed had it not been for his cloak. As he stumbled across the floor towards the counter, his boots leaving a trail of mud across the floor, customers ceased their conversations and turned their heads to look at him. Their eyes probed the folds of his cloak, spattered with the impact of rain and smeared with mud. Seemingly oblivious to the attention being given to him, the traveler collapsed into a chair next to the counter and lowered his head, pulling a piece of charcoal and a small slate from within his coat and beginning to scribble intently.

Ernest walked over to him. “I’ve never seen anyone like you in this tavern.”

“I don’t expect so,” rasped the stranger, turning the slate over. “Or at least, I should hope that none like me have had to set foot in this pathetic place ever before.” His voice seemed to scrape through the air like the cries of a dying animal. Ernie flinched, and although the man’s voice had not been particularly loud, the stillness in the air helped carry its sound to all of the now fully attentive listeners. His cloak may have been elegant, but his tone was harsh and more dispirited than that of the poorest industrial worker. It was with that tone that the man interrupted Ernest’s thoughts.

“Access to your storeroom is what I want.”

“What?” The request was mind-boggling. There was no food in the storeroom that Ernest knew of, and in any case, it would have spoiled by now. Why would the stranger ask for the storeroom here, anyway? It made no sense.

Ernie decided on a simple excuse. “It’s locked… and I don’t have the key.”

“I do.” The stranger shoved a hand into the interior of his coat, fished around for a moment, and brought out a small key fashioned out of a silver-and-gold alloy. It reflected the orange light of the tavern and caught the eyes of the amazed onlookers.

Gold was something that was never found in any town, ever. It was a symbol of power, of control, and as a matter of course were possessed only by Overseers, of whom this man could not possibly be a member. After all, he lacked an armed escort, a monocle, a gold-trimmed hat, or an automobile; instead, he possessed a cloak which seemed a relic of a forgotten age.

To the sudden appearance of the golden key, therefore, Ernest genuinely did not know how to respond. His mouth opened slightly, and closed again without a single word passing from his lips. Being dumbstruck was a novel experience for him, but he quickly regained his composure long enough to utter, “Um, in that case, I suppose you can go ahead.” He had always wanted to know what the contents of the storeroom were, and in any case, he did not think it would be wise to anger further this mysterious man, with his traveling cloak of the highest quality, his voice like that of a dying lion, his possession of a mysterious key that might be to the tavern’s own storeroom. Ernest Hayes, for the first time in his life, was genuinely confused, and so he deferred to someone who seemed more certain of himself. It was an action that he regretted seconds later, when the stranger vaulted over the counter.

Ernest dove to the side, shielding himself as the glass bottles knocked aside by the stranger fell off of the counter and shattered in a deafening cacophony that was quickly joined by the shouts and screams of the onlookers. In the confusion, the stranger swirled his cloak around, obscuring himself from the view of everyone except for Ernest, who saw everything that the visitor to his tavern proceeded to do.  First he inserted the key into the storeroom lock. As he turned it, a blue light suddenly appeared above the door lock. Then, apparently of its own accord, the door sank into the ground. Beyond lay a room of blinking lights and an array of dials. The man stepped forward, smoothly spreading his cloak to hang over the doorframe. The green cloth blocked Ernie’s vision as to what the traveler did next.

Slowly, the tavern began to settle down. People recovered from the shock of the stranger’s sudden actions and began to talk rapidly amongst themselves. As for Ernest, he picked himself up off the floor and walked over to gaze at the shards of glass that now lined the countertop. It was at this point that he noticed the slate that the stranger had been writing on, still lying face-down on the counter top. Tucking it in his overcoat, he began to think about the mysterious storeroom that—  The door to the tavern burst open and another man walked in. There was no doubt as to who this was- everything about him, from his elegant, military-style clothing to his gold-trimmed hat to the revolver he held in his hand, he was clearly an Overseer.

 “Where is he? Where’s he gone? Which one of you saw him las—” The Overseer broke off abruptly as the green cloak spread over the storeroom door caught his eye. He uttered a soft curse and turned to Ernest.

“Who are you?”

Ernest swallowed his fear. He had never been interrogated before.  “Ernest Hayes, proprietor of this establishment.”

“You’re the bartender?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“The room?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The storeroom. What’d you know about it?”

“Th-the storeroom? Nothing. It was, well, locked, you see, and I—”

“You’ve been here how many years?“

“I have owned the tavern since I, um, inherited it from my father before me, who—”

“He told you nothing about the room?”

“Nothing.”

“Of course. Of course! Why do I even bother? Lies, lies, here, have something in exchange!”

The Overseer shot Ernest Hayes.

The crowd of onlookers watched as he fell backwards, his head smashing against the wall and his eyes rolling back into his head. They saw the Overseer laugh bitterly, heard him curse the green cloak, his job, and the weather. They watched him march out the door and vanish into the night. Once they were certain that he was a respectable distance away from them, they all stood up and rushed to the door, all jostling against one another in their efforts to leave. One of them turned off the lighting, leaving the tavern as desolate and empty as all twelve other buildings on the west side of the road.

 

The Elevator

Ernest Hayes was alone when he came to, rising gingerly as the back of his head ached from colliding with the tavern wall. He felt the bullet hole in his overcoat. It hit the slate, he thought. That’s why I’m still alive. Reaching inside the coat, he pulled out the slate and looked at it. Right at its center, the bulled was lodged amidst nonsensical scribbles.

Suddenly, he felt a burning in his hand. Dropping the slate, he nearly lost consciousness again as pain shot through his arm. What he saw on the slate, however, drove even the pain from his mind. What he had taken to be an ordinary tablet with nonsensical scribbles was now rearranging those scribbles into meaningful text. With fascination and fear swirling around him, Ernest began to read:  “Go to the elevator of the seventh corporate building. Take the slate. The access code is 1-1-2-3.”

He frowned. There was something suspicious about this whole business… now he was being ordered around by a man who had just fled from an Overseer. What would be the consequences if he was caught?  Then again, he was supposed dead. Regardless of what he did, he was sure to be discovered eventually. Perhaps he had some hope if he followed the slate’s instructions—certainly, his odds were much better than they would be if he remained in the tavern.  Before he left, though, he wanted to see what had happened to the storeroom. He turned to the door, now blocking the entrance once again, and was surprised to find the key was still in the lock. Would the traveler really be so foolish as to leave the storeroom open to anyone who wanted to enter?

Ernest reached out and tried to turn the key, but it wouldn’t budge. Disappointed, he tried to pull it out of the lock. However, when he did so, he ended up with only the key’s handle in his palm. As to what had happened to the rest of it, if the fact that a gold-and-silver liquid was dripping out of the lock was any indication, the traveler had covered his tracks better than Ernie had first anticipated.

Well, he thought, there’s nothing for me here.

So it was that Ernest walked out into the storm to do the traveler’s bidding. Unseen by any, he trudged along the dark, deserted road, headed for the corporate buildings. Obelisks of steel, they towered above him, visible only as shadowy outlines against the backdrop of moonlight.

Before long, he came to the seventh of the corporate buildings, which lay at the end of the road.  It’s taller up close, he thought. Now that he was closer to the building, he could make out the land around it. Around him, grass grew wildly, but after a three-yard boundary only metallic paving lay on the ground. As Ernest stepped onto it, he felt the chill through his shoes.

When he reached the entrance door to the building, a sudden feeling of fear coursed through him. For a moment, he considered running from the building, running from the tavern, running from the city by the road…  He saw himself, running until the grass grew so tall that it became a forest, and it protected him. He could hide, nobody could ever find him. He’d be safe…  The memory of being shot by the Overseer returned to him, and he realized that there was no way out. Even if his wildest hope was true, and there was a forest in which he could hide, he would only delay the inevitable. Someone would find him, someday, and he would be shot, and he would not survive. They would come for him, just as they had twenty years earlier, when he had presided over a prosperous city.

Don’t think about the days before they came to power. Those days will never come again, and hoping for their return will just make the Overseers suspicious… besides, you were lucky to survive in the first place…

Breathing deeply to calm himself, Ernest Hayes returned to the present, raising once more the barricade against the past. Regardless of what his longing for the past, or his fear in the present, the fact of the matter was that he had no future without a miracle—and the mysterious traveler’s slate was more likely to grant him one than simply standing at the door of the gear company’s seventh building, lost in recollection.

He grabbed the door handle and pushed it, but the door would not open.  It’s locked, he thought. What am I going to do now? There’s no access code… how will I get to the elevator?

Despairing, he noticed a sign next to the door, barely illuminated, that read,  “Pull to open.”  He frowned.  Surely this is some kind of cruel joke.  Alas, the door wasn’t even locked.

When he was safely inside, Ernest cursed himself for his foolishness. I was still lost in thought. I didn’t even consider that the door might not be locked. No, it’s worse than that. I wanted it to be locked. I wanted this to fail, so that I could run from this entire roadside building assortment…  I have to stay focused. What I want doesn’t matter anymore. If I fail here, I will die. If I abandon this effort, I will die. If I succeed…  Well, at least I don’t know for certain that this task will kill me.  Unsurprisingly, this did not do much to calm Ernie’s nerves. Being inside the company building, however, gave the entire mission a certain reality. Now that he had crossed the three-yard barrier between the world and this machined reality.

Indeed, there was an orderliness about the entire darkened room through which Ernest now crept. As he traversed the vast divide between the factory floor and the elevator, he noted the perfection with which all of the sleeping cots for the employees had been placed amongst the grid-organized machinery. Even the workers themselves seemed similar—they all wore the same working uniforms, had the same hair styles, and slept in the same cots.

There was, however, something troubling about all of this. Perhaps it was the fact that Ernest had seen these same people as individuals at his tavern, laughing and talking and conversing. Not one of them had ever come to the tavern in these gray uniforms; they had all come in normal garb, as normal people. Here, they had ceased to be individuals—indeed, were it not for their human faces, they would seem perfectly at home amongst the machines.  The sight of these people reduced to ant-like servants of the gear company reminded Ernest of what had happened to the people whom he had governed two decades earlier. They, too, had been lively individuals. He remembered seeing all of them at festivals and celebrations—his colleagues, both formal and friendly; his uncle, with a beard so great he had tied it to his head and created a wig; his beautiful wife, in a bright orange dress…  Perhaps it was because the world of the machines through which he stepped was so colorless, but his memories seemed almost real for a moment.

No, don’t think about that… it’ll happen. You’ll see it again… no… no…

Then, just as the employees had scrambled from his tavern to their cots in this building, Ernest saw the inhabitants of the old world fall from color to the dull gray of their gravestones.  One of those gravestones should have held me… but instead I chose to sentence all of them to death, just to save myself…

Ernest felt a droplet of salty water trace a path from his eye to his mouth, but when he tasted it he thought he was drinking blood.  I knew this would happen… but I let myself think about them anyways… perhaps I deserve this punishment, murderer that I am…

He continued onwards, past the cots, and reached the elevator doors. He pulled at the handles, and when that failed, pushed open the elevator doors. Stepping in, he entered a different world.  It was still machined, but no longer of dull gray. He could tell that the employees rarely used this elevator—most likely they took stairs to the second floor, or else this electric transport would be sufficiently sapped of all warmth to demoralize them further. Instead, the elevator was colored by mahogany wood finish and brass-decorated buttons. It was no Overseer’s carriage, at least as far as Ernest remembered, but then, it was fairly high quality…

I rode through the rain, in an ornately decorated gold-and-silver car. Next to me, the fat man with the had and the red mustache talked of compensation for his help and the plan of action of the overseers. I don’t remember what he was saying now, but I did not hear it even then, for my heart was heavy… not so heavy that I could dare oppose him, of course. My fear was too great, and it crafted me for evil as it does all to whom its forging hammer is directed. All it took to cool me and fix my condemnation was a bucket of the liquefied bones of the dead…

More saltwater fell down Ernest’s face, and more blood entered his mouth.  He stared at the buttons on the elevator. There were but two:  “Floor One” and “Floor Two.”  Glancing at the slate again, Ernest pressed them in the order 1-1-2. Then a small patch of discolored wood next to the button for Floor Two slid down, revealing a button labeled “Floor Three.”  Ernest swallowed, and for a moment felt like salt burnt his throat.

 It’s all in your head. They’ve been gone for twenty years. You were able to forget them. Why did you have to remember them again?

He pressed the button for the third floor.  The elevator slowly ascended, mechanical gears whirring. After a brief moment it stopped, and Ernest knew that he was about to discover whether the traveler would save his life or end it.

He wasn’t sure which one he wanted, but he knew for certain which he deserved.  Pulling the elevator doors open, he walked into an impossibility.

The room was filled with color—elegant red chairs, a wooden table, and warming white light from multiple fixtures. The people in the room were clearly unlike the workers on the first floor. Some were corporate executives, and some were Overseers. All were listening to a report on production values and tactical efforts, and all were shocked to see an ordinary bartender return from the dead to their secret base of operations.  It happened that one of the Overseers in attendance had recently entered a tavern, and he still had the weapon he had carried there, and so it was that for the second time, he shot Ernest Hayes.

Once again, Hayes was hit by a bullet wound. This time, there was nothing to protect him, and he staggered backwards from the force of the impact. The slate burned in his hand and he dropped it, barely noticing as he staggered back to the elevator and hit the button for Floor One before slumping against the wall of the elevator, his breathing growing ragged and the world blurring as his senses seemed to fade.  They had not faded so much, however, that he failed to hear the sound of the slate exploding on the third floor.