Through the Guts of the Maze
Part Two
Since I had become aware that other living beings were crawling around in this place, I started scratching imagination-induced itches, recoiling at the contact of my own limbs, and hearing things that might have been in my head. The sound of my feet trailing behind had me turn and shiver. My estranged mind was disconnected from my body, or merely delayed.
I moved slowly, but continuously. I weighed a thousand pounds, so it seemed. Was crushed by an invisible load. Strain, pain, and exhaustion were salient agents of physical torture. My back, hands, neck, and knees, my knees of fire and blood, screamed for relief. Heavy thoughts tormented my mind like rabid bees. Always picturing something behind me or in front of me. I would die here, or I would reach the end only to fall into a gigantic grinder. The persistent and alluring temptation to stop and rest would come back, again and again, and it was only a matter of time before I gave in. The risk of being unable to get back up could be fatal. Never break the momentum.
I followed the pipes whichever way they went. When one forked into two or three paths, I had to make a choice. One that could mean life or death. I went by instinct. My good sense told me to go up whenever I could, but the challenge of pulling myself into an upper pipe daunted me. A waste of energy, and deep down, I dreaded my strength would fail me. Any confirmation of my weakening brought further mental decline. Going down was less demanding. And maybe it was the way to go. Maybe. If the maze was inside a mountain, then one should seek to reach the bottom. But if the maze was underground, going deeper would mean away from the light.
When I couldn’t move anymore, I did stop. Faint and worn out. I tilted my head to bring blood to my brain.
Where am I? What is this place? When will it end? How do I get out? Who’s in here with me?
Throughout my life, I had learned to ask how rather than why. More proactive. Knowing why they put me in there, why the place was shaped this way, why they bothered to leave me alive, more or less — none of that helped me escape. But one why bugged me. Why did I insist on going on? Obvious, because I wanted to live. But why? The lure of giving up taunted me at every corner, every time I turned into another tube stretching into abyssal infinity. Each time a long screech of pain shoved its way through my bones, that question came back. Why was my life so valuable?
No one waited for me back on Earth. They had mentioned it in the job interview. Those ties really pull on you when you’re light-years away, they said. I told them I would have nothing to miss in space.
The only dream I ever had — being a pilot — I had achieved it. Even before it turned into a nightmare, it had become just a job. A dull routine. An endless loop of procedures, technicalities, and training. The adventure I had envisioned in a spacecraft as a child had morphed into long hours of sitting at the control board, staring into the nothing before me, trapped in a confined metal box that quickly felt crowded, too small for the number of crew members.
I had no idea how valuable that space, that air, that company were. I fully embodied that loss now. It was drilled into my brain every time I scraped my elbow on one of those walls.
Was it merely survival instinct that kept me going? Respect for life itself, and an acknowledgment that it was worth fighting for down to the last breath? Was it rebellion — the desire to deprive my captors of the satisfaction of my death?
Even if I got out, then what? I’d still be stuck on this planet. Maybe the base had sent people to search for the crashed spaceship. Maybe they would risk it. Or not.
Scenarios came to mind.
I find the exit, and it leads to a huge banquet room with balloons and food and a fountain with fresh water and a shower. My entire crew, alive, greets me with champagne glasses and a cake with “Congratulations for your five years of service” written in the icing, and they explain how it was all a big joke.
Nonsense.
I find the exit, and the inhabitants of the planet greet me with exotic fruits and colorful drinks with strong alcohol unknown to mankind that will numb my brain until I forget about my life so far and everyone who died. Because it turns out the maze was a test to see if I truly was the God fallen from the sky they had been expecting for centuries.
Nonsense.
I find the exit, and get shot as soon as I get out because my captors are constantly tracking their prisoners’ movements, and they’ve been waiting for me outside. Or worse, they put me back in.
The shittiest scenarios are always the most probable.
Unable to continue, I lay on my quivering stomach and focused on the cold metal on my forehead. My eyes closed.
In dream, I walked down a spiral sinking into the ground, as if digging my grave with every step until I was completely buried. Things would be simpler if the mind came up with solutions rather than a mere report of a predicament through symbolic imagery.
Water woke me up. Aware of the wetness on my face, entering my nostrils and mouth, I sprang up and hit my head on the top of the pipe. Once I had identified the liquid, it filled me with ecstasy. My hands were useless to hold it. There was less than half an inch.
I lay flat on my chest to prevent, as much as I could, the water from flowing away. A dam of flesh and bones. I dove my face into the thin stream, tilted my head to find the most efficient drinking angle. I licked and slurped until my tongue got numb, enjoyed the runny caress on my skin. It tasted metallic and soiled with whatever filth it had dragged along on its path. I worshiped every drop. I grieved every molecule that flowed behind me.
Thinking ruined the moment. Where did that water come from? A leak? Maybe this whole thing was underwater and there was a crack somewhere. A flood might follow. My drowning. But the pipes were so thick. I hadn’t felt an earthquake or something that could have broken one.
The truth came to me as a shadow over my fleeting delight. This was a prison, an ingeniously designed maze to ensure the prisoners never got out, but thought they could. They were keeping me alive.
A noise yanked me out of my head. Like distant gusts of wind. I pointed my ear at the darkness ahead. It was coming my way.
Breaths.
Tired, heavy pounding in the water.
Judging from the sounds, it was about my size.
It crawled slowly, burdened by weariness, but with determination and aggressiveness.
Could it be a human? From my crew? I wanted to shout, but couldn’t bring myself to do it.
As it got closer, its hoarse panting grew louder.
I was wrong. It was bigger.
We would soon be face to face. The path was too narrow for both to pass. One had to back up. Neither of us would.
I stared into the darkness, braced myself for the contact. It picked up speed, or maybe I was imagining that. It was surely as hungry as I was, if not more.
I had to know. I shouted, “Hey!”
My trembling voice sounded foreign to me. No response. Only grunts. Grunts that annihilated any doubt.
It wasn’t human.
A wave of fetid stench reached my nostrils.
When the cold, soft scales touched my arm, a scream of terror and surprise burst out of me.
Repulsed and riled, I sunk my teeth into what seemed to be its neck. Only one of us would survive. My mouth filled with leathery skin and chewy veins. My jaw hurt. A bitter, thick liquid filled my mouth. The creature let out a shriek of pain and rage, which froze me for a moment.
It fought back. Hit the sides of my head and clawed my cheeks.
I took another bite. It wasn’t self-defense anymore; I was feeding.
Whatever life remained in my opponent left its body.
“Sorry,” I panted.
I bit off and chewed chunks of grimy flesh and gristle, struggled to hold it in. Hands on my mouth, I swallowed back the vomit. The bitterness of the meat and the acidity of the bile inflamed my throat.
I waited next to the carcass for a long time, refused to abandon the only food I had found in days. I was torn in half between the desire to keep moving and the need to stay with the nutrients.
As a pilot, I made important decisions all the time. But the choice was often obvious, given the information I had. There was no info here. I swam in the unknown.
I dove into my past for situational references, for things I could tap into and bring with me into the maze. Everything before the crash seemed to belong to a different life. I craved the blissful ignorance I’d had as a teenager when I got lost in the woods, but, having never faced a serious threat, I had the certitude I would find my way eventually. I wanted the determination and focus I had maintained all night long when studying for the theory test to become a pilot, underfed and optimistic about my future. Needed the strength and endurance I had shown when I was sick in bed, for days, with fever. I tried to revive those feelings that had made me push through difficult times, and add them up as the ultimate boost for my ultimate challenge.
Why bother?
I plodded on.
At some point, the bottom stopped being wet, as if water had never passed there.
It pained me to leave meat behind. At least I’d never have that taste on my tongue again. I could always go back. No, of course not. That would be counterproductive.
Another scenario came to mind: the maze had no exit. Just a loop. Or a dead end at the end of every possible path. I ignored that. Tried to.
In a dreadful way, it was likely. Why would they put an exit in a prison? If that’s what it was. That would make little sense. Did anything make sense?
Get out get out get out. Positive thinking. Visualization. I visualized myself getting out.
I asked out loud:
“Can I get out?”
Nothing.
I added:
“Please.”
If you don’t ask, you don’t get. I laughed. Then I teared up. I let it happen. Tears are a natural painkiller.
As I crawled again, I whistled weakly, poorly, little melodies to keep my spirits up. To make the darkness feel lighter.
Then I remembered I wasn’t alone. I shut it. Better to hear than to be heard. A shiver ran through me.
I gave myself goals. Counting in my head, I’d trudge for a hundred seconds, followed by a quick break. Only five seconds. Or ten. Or twenty. When I stopped for too long, every inch of my body felt like it had an iron anvil attached to it. My numb muscles wouldn’t respond.
You will die here.
With intense concentration of will, I managed to go on like that for about fifty slices of hundred seconds before I dropped. I dozed off.
You can read Part One here:
