The Grand Attraction Read online

  “I am still a hologram, my ever so anxious acquaintance. It is only in my nature that interaction attracts. You’re lucky I was able to misguide them even for this long...” and the man disappeared, leaving Carls to face the illusionate yet again. The light above him flickered and dimmed, the sounds from outside the doors now piercing in through the cracked glass. It was only moments till it shattered, and he was unprepared.

  What They Really Are

  With reality screaming back at him, he had no choice but to force his attention to the savages now bursting through the glass. He hadn’t been blind the whole conversation with Xavier. He’d noticed to have woken in a security center of sorts, and behind the counter were locked casings of what he guessed to be weapons. However, they were locked, and he had not the time to open them himself.

  He wasn’t very knowledgeable in weapon types or their ammo either, so he stashed as many as he could into a bag and leaped the table—a single case in his right hand. Please be a shotgun, he whispered to himself, the initial remembrance of the illusionate pounding at him. Am I really resorting to this?

  But it was already too late. The first figure crashed into him, knocking Locke from his holdings and against another empty rack. They tumbled to the floor as nails yet again dug into his skin. He noted there were only four illusionate.

  Thinking on his wits, he quickly neck-handled the first, ignoring her hands as the flung violently about to stop him. He needed farther back—just a little more—and he got that request as the rest tackled into him. He let go of the first illusionate and hit the floor rolling, his reach just near enough to grab a re-bar and wield it to another’s face. Now he used his surroundings to his advantage, dodging them from side to side as they collided into the racks.

  First mistake: there were six. Second: he was farther from the weapon’s case than he’d anticipated. He had to lunge for it.

  And lunge he did—his body screeching across the cold tile flooring—his injuries more than just crying out in pain. They had reached his feet before he had the chance to pry at the seal, leaving his tool with the case. I can’t multi-task like this. I can’t face them all at once.

  Bearing his teeth, he drove a fist at one of them, loosening their grip. But just as two more nearly jumped him, they suddenly stopped, hands to their ears, voices cracking under the pressure that they seemed to be experiencing. Thank you, God, he praised, crawling back over to the case and prying it open. He hadn’t the time or pleasure of knowing which gun fate had given him. He simply unlocked and loaded the ammo casing beside it, spun around, and froze.

  He didn’t know what to think of the dismembered bench flying over him—only that it collided mercilessly into two of the illusionate, instantly putting them out of the picture. He needn’t even to have turned around to hear the trembling voice of a Fallen One (as he recalled what had happened to his wife). Pain erupted in his head to the remorseful thoughts and the agony that came with them. He was on his feet and to the side as yet another object, a large vase, flung through the air. What on earth are those things? He couldn’t say it hadn’t crossed his mind to ask Xavier of them while he had the chance, but Xavier was gone, leaving him to face the demons of corrupted madness. If you are so curious, why not ask them yourself? Or so Xavier had told him.

  Ask them yourself, what a strange thought to actually have running through one’s head while fighting for one’s life. He pulled the gun to his chest and fired.

  His body shook as a blanket of bullets tore past the distance between them and into the enlarged figure of a physically altered being. He forgot to take into account he was still fighting the illusionate, for he hit him from the side and against the counter. Both? His mind was yelling at him. I’m fighting both?

  The beast charged toward him, ignoring the bullets it had taken (yet somehow still feeling them all the same). Carls and the illusionate could not escape the Fallen One’s thrust and were sent crashing out of the shop and into one of the hall’s pillars. Carls had just managed to get behind the illusionate before impact—saving him from the brunt of it. He slid to the floor, the gun skidding away from him. More illusionate were arriving at the scene, but he noticed it wasn’t just him they were fighting now. They almost seemed team-focused as they half-heartedly coordinated their attacks on the creature—all of which had grotesque results. But they did do one thing: they bought him time. Time to drag himself toward his gun, time to realize a couple stray had noticed him and changed direction. God help me now, he said, forcing his feet to catch grip and put him in motion.

  He dove for the gun, sliding (as if to say) behind one of the nearer pillars, placing his last cartridge into its chambers. They emerged around his cover. The first was easy. It took the hilt of his gun to its gut and bellowed over. The second, he’d bent low as a fulcrum to propel the figure over him—knocking out both its knees. And the third, he knelt and in a single fluid action, sent four bullets flying into its chest.

  The chest of a male.

  Before the illusionate could drop, he slammed it with the hilt yet again, quickly turning his attention to the fifth figure coming toward him. This is the one, he said, taking a breath and step back. I have to keep this one alive.

  He barely cleared the path as a rack from the store was sent crashing into and through the figure. The beast had redirected its rage at him, ignoring completely the last few illusionate tackling it (as it was ten times their size in body mass). One by one, they lost grip as it charged at Carls.

  He lifted his gun yet again and unloaded all that he could at the creature’s legs—but it didn’t need them anyway, its massive forearms making up for the loss as they bore its entire body across the distance.

  Bitter remorse, he noted. The creature seemed raged with hate of its actions yet carried them out nonetheless. Locke dove for more cover while he had the chance.

  The hallway exploded. Or rather, not the hallway itself but the room from which he had come. The blast ignited Carls’ eardrums, and he covered them a moment too late, the force only but knocking the creature off balance and against the opposing wall—the action of which angered it as it roared at the cracked glass, running its fists violently through them and into the room. It re-emerged even more so outraged to confront Locke’s still numb body. He’d lost his opportunity to escape—ears still pounding.

  Carls was scared. And in that fear, he fled as swift as his body could in the opposite direction. He could only make it to the other side before the creature had caught up to him and had lunged both its fists through the air. He ducked, and the power collided with the near pillar, now fragile from the explosion. It broke, and the whole section above, which it held on the second floor, showered down upon the Fallen One in pieces.

  He praised the Lord in one breath and caught eye of a wounded illusionate with the other. He’d barely escaped the ruble and already had a new threat the worry about. But this illusionate was weeping at the far side, hands to its head and shaking from right to left. He limped toward it, picking up the gun from where it had lain. Reaching out, he grabbed the figure and thrust it against the wall opposing.

  “Why are you after me? Why are you so different?”

  There was only more weeping.

  “Answer me!” he shouted, leaning all his weight into the interrogation—also keeping his own body from falling.

  The figure’s hands were at her side, her face tilted to the side and up as if crying for release. Tears. He could see her tears and the blood that stained her face. His aggression deflated, and he lowered her to the floor; he himself dropped to his knees beside her.

  “Why are you so different?” he asked in a change of tone.

  She looked at him, and for the first time he could see her aching inside and felt pity. How could he feel pity for such a creature? She’s not a creature; she’s human. They’re all human.

  “What happened to you to make you like this?”

  The girl but wept. She must have only been in her early twenties.
She was scathed—scrapes and bruises were all over her face and body. How can they be so inhumane? How can they act so ruthless yet be in pain? Then the answer came to him: they were doubtful of their actions but convinced they were necessary. How this answer came to him, he did not know, but it burdened him all the more for their condition. The words of Xavier came to his mind: “...all of which you have undergone, they have as well. Your pain, your hurt, your doubt, your fear. They too had struggled with it all.”

  So they were just like him. Their sanity had once been there, but they too had been exposed to the condition of the place. They had been drawn in, misled, and ravaged by the Grand Attraction—just as he had. Only they had fallen for its trick and stumbled to its bait. They were illusioned to what it was haunting them, acting as if it had overtaken them with no choice to resist or fight it back. He remembered how he had felt, how he’d been weakened, how he’d nearly given in to the madness and insecurity. In fact, even now he was not much different. Who was to say he didn’t look like them? For all he knew, the only difference was that he was still fighting it.

  He had resisted the plagued mind-set. He had chosen to not be defeated by it.

  He’d chosen to hope for something beyond the suffering and illusion that there was no hope at all. And he had God to thank for that.

  To Speak & Be Spoken To

  Carls Locke stood as the illusionate’s limp form collapsed cold to the floor. Xavier had meant something in that conversation—something that he only wanted Locke to realize on his own. He’d hinted at it, but now Locke knew what it was.

  Conversation. Xavier wanted him to converse with the illusionate, to speak and be spoken to. Somehow, he was supposed to save them, or at least open their eyes. Saving them against their will was pointless and impossible. Thank God I’m not alone, he reassured himself as he turned to face the wreckage that had been caused. What had caused that explosion?

  So I’m supposed to reach out to them, is that why you locked the doors shut? Why you took from me the love of my life that I would feel the need for theirs. But how? How am I to save them less they choose? Is it my place to act outside their will for what’s better? Or am I to only speak when spoken to? Please, God, help me.

  He looked down at the ruble where the Fallen One had been slain. On his own he had done nothing. Something of fate was consistently favoring him. He knew it was only a matter of time before his favor ran out—and by then, he’d better know how to fight himself. But he was no fighter. Being in the military again was the last objective on his list since his younger days when he’d served six years. He’d joined fresh out of high school and scaled the ranks before finding that it just wasn’t what he wanted. And of course he had five years of engineering at college after that. That’s where he’d met Elairah; that’s when he’d started his family.

  Now he was thirty-three and stuck inside a super center of mankind’s fatal attractions, fighting off demons and illusions and just hoping for a peace of heart and desiring rest. And a bath. His body reeked of blood and sweat. His skin was dry from a fear-shot nervous system. He knew it would take time before he could calm himself before every confrontation. As for now, he was glad to just be alive, but he needed to rejuvenate less his body drop from the physical stress that was demanded of it.

  I need a place to gather myself—a safe haven. But he knew they’d manage to find him regardless of where he was. At the time, to keep moving was the best idea. Thus, he moved. Onward down the hall and past several blocks. Since he’d awaken from that pipe to the face, everything seemed so abandoned. He knew there were people all over the halls—but where were they? Why had it all changed so much after that moment?

  He remembered his daughter. Joanna, he whispered to himself, where did you go? He could only pray that she wasn’t seeing all of this. That she was still seeing everything as they had at first. As his wife had. “Honey, what happened?” she had asked him. The words hurt. She hadn’t seen them or the world she was really in. But he’d been able to hold her hands...he’d been able to see her smile one last time...to call his name.

  Why, God? Why did she have to go? The doubt still filled him as his nerves began to tingle yet again to the thought. She’d also died in his hands—her body so savagely pinned up against that wall. Anger was now infiltrating him, his lungs and heart now pounding. Why did she have to go?

  He had to find little Joan. He had to see if she was alive and oblivious or not to what surrounded them. She had better be here...somewhere, but here. He heard their growling in the distance—the tension breaking to an uneasy feeling. He didn’t know where from, but he knew he had better find refuge quickly before they found him. I have to find ammo, he told himself. I need another gun.

  Breaking The Typical Regime

  He’d turned the corner to catch sight of a white-clothed table. It was off in the distance and the obstacles in-between made it impossible to see but the edges. At first he’d crouched low and crept slowly toward it, but upon further revealing, he could see a rounded figure of a man in a blue tux seated behind it. Another tripper was the first thing to come to mind. It’s all in your head, he repeated, easing even closer to get a better look. He knew not the full extent of trippers except that they distracted from the real threat. He remembered the girl and man at that corner. He recalled their pain and pleas. He could feel the chill that vibrated in the atmosphere—

  His body jerked to the left from a sliding sound. It was just in your head, he said to the overreaction of his senses. I cannot be so easily distracted. He drew near to the figure at the randomly placed table. Who would station themselves in the middle of a hall and right behind a center display?

  There was more growling in the distance. He could only pray it wasn’t another horde of illusionate or, worse yet, a Fallen One. The man seemed distracted to the cards he dealt with. Locke stood slowly from behind the center display, gun held forward. It was empty of bullets, but the presence was all he was using at the moment. Another illusion of sound sent his nerves jumping, but he remained steady, peeling (as if to say) from behind the display.

  The figure seemed to not notice him.

  “Who are you?” he asked, taking one more step.

  No response. The man but played his cards and reshuffled them.

  Locke took yet another step— the howling suddenly stopped. Everything was silent but the figure before him. He could hear the cards now as they were being shuffled and stacked. Carls’ heart began racing as he came up to the table’s front. What trick is this now?

  The man looked up, but not at him. To his right. Carls followed his gaze, eyes widening. He could see it, but there was no sound emanating from it at all. No sound but the dealer and his cards. There, not but twenty paces from where he stood, was a Fallen One— pounding an illusionate against a pillar supporting the overhang of the second floor. The expressions and the actions were all real, just absent of noise. The illusionate dropped, mouth gaping open, but was picked up again and tossed in their direction. A shrill cry filled Carls’s ears as in flew past his perimeter. And then silence as it hit the opposing wall. The Fallen One was quickly after it— Carls’ body cringing but not knowing what to do. It was almost as if he wasn’t there. And for a brief moment, the beast’s stench filled his nostrils as it raced toward its prey. It seemed to recognize something too and spun around. Locke was ready to break off in a run but the man before him motioned otherwise. He remained still, the smell no longer there, the beast’s breathing past. It was staring right at him, but soon quickly lost interest in whatever it saw and returned to the crippled illusion. Were they in some cloak of protection?

  “If you hadn’t noticed yet,” the dealer spoke, “we’re in a bubble that prohibits ANYTHING inside to be seen, smelt, or noticed from the outside, and vise-versa for the most part.”

  “What? Who are you? And what did you say this was again? A bubble?” Carls was astounded at the statement, and at lost for grasping it as the norm.

  “Yes,
a bubble. You’re safe as long as you’re in here, so long as you don’t decide to lure it inside too. I don’t think it can hold one of those things and I don’t want it damaging my table.”

  “Wait, then how did I see you? Who are you? What are you?”

  “I am Serve Per Card!” he announced proudly, obviously a card dealer who knew the business (and was obsessed with it, seeing as his body had grown big from sitting so long). “And I am so glad to have met you, Carls!”

  “How do you know my name?” Locke asked.

  “Ah, I’d be a fool not too with a character so familiar to one I’ve known before.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “And rightly so! Here, I have a little gift for you as we embark on this new business relationship!”

  “A gift? I don’t need a gift, I want answers.”

  “Oh, hush. You don’t have to be so excited all the time! Here, watch.” The man dropped the deck to the table and spread his hands over it. Cards flowed flawlessly where his hands went and soon the whole surface was covered. Carls’ mind was boggled at the sight of them as they began moving apart from the dealers immediate cause— and they began interacted (so as to say) with each other. Before he knew it, he was staring at a single card held before his very eyes.

  “Take it, my friend. It is a gift that we may continue business together.”

  He shook his head, not knowing whether to believe it or take it as the work of a tripper. Despite the confusion, he took the card, turning it over and reading its name. “The Inquisitor?”

  The man laughed. “You don’t say! Let me see!” he said, taking it back and chuckling some more. “Oh, the memories! You’re just like him! Here, let me get you another.”

  “Just like who?” Locke asked.

  “Here, try this one.” The dealer handed him a second card, his expression obviously anxious with joy to see Carls’ response.

  “The Seal of Bondage?”