10

She enters the indoor savanna through the completion of the Amazon corridor. Naked except for her flip flops and backpack. Light hollows dimly from where she's come.

Time's fed can almost witness an echo of the vast indoor field. Sense the adumbrate ricochet of a tenebrous atmosphere.

Closed ceiling shutters prevent old Sol from revealing the expanse. Silence and emptiness haunt this place like the wisdom of eternity laughing at the effort and futility of life.

Baobab trees loom like giant silhouette walls of gnarly girth forearms, reaching their twisting, thin fingers upward and outward at the ends. Callous and crooked.

Past the phantom wall is a breathless, unknown depth of topographic pitch black. She could know nothing of light and darkness and still witness her path through the trees with just as much clarity.

The time's fed girl limps. Can hear her own footsteps crunch on dry, dead, prickly kangaroo grass. Crumbling leaves climb between toes. The dirt itself is a deceased dust.

She stumbles through short branches of an unknown bush. Cuts her legs and ankles on the tough, sharp thorny ends. Bushwhacks as the branches become thicker in number. Her whole body covers in little cuts and scrapes. A branch breaks between her legs. Startles and pauses. Continues.

Time's fed bumps against the rattle of a chain link fence. Presses her pierced nipples against the hard steel wire. A barbell catches and she pulls away, finding slight sexual enjoyment in the stretching of her nipple.

Not now, bitch. Calm down. Everything here wants to eat you and not in a good way.

She remembers the map and the direction of the fence. Her memory is a guide. She continues with such simulacrum in mind.

The trees give way to a path. Maybe a trail. No more bushwhacking.

Time's fed knows she's not lost in the disastrous dark anymore. Not lost at all. Maybe it's the rest of the world that's truly lost in the ominous, scowling silence and infernal darkness under the false dichotomous shadows of Shamayim and Sheol.

She knows the way out, now. Doesn't need any sun.

She looks back for a moment. Tongue tastes salt. Notices a distant light flicker in the past of her steps for a single moment. Flickers again. She watches. Flickers a third time. Removes her flip flops in a single, clumsy stride and rights herself. The light behind flickers a fourth time. She limp runs, reaching and touching the fence with her fingertips every few seconds. Her swollen ankle throbs with each step.

What might've been are coming.

Something crunches the ground close to her, but on the other side of the fence. Adrenaline hits. Fear engages her instincts. Sprints like her ankle isn't sprained. Cringes and grunts and tries to ignore the pain of sharp stones and hard brittle grass pricking her soles.
Time's fed flees the flickering light behind that seems more like a twinkling, distant star at the edge of an extinct horizon.

She feels and smells the cadaverine breath of what's running beside her. Completely forgets about the flickering light for a moment. Feels a shaking terror tighten her courage and strangle each inhale. As the moment becomes the focus of something beside her, she slams through a double doorway and into the cafeteria.

Light fragments through the ceiling and murky, grungy windows.

Whatever was beside her slams into black, spray paint tempered plexiglass. She falls to the thin carpet floor as the double doors slam shut. Breathes. Coils a carpet fibre between her fingers. Pulls it like string. Discards. Stands and grabs a red cafeteria chair. Positions the legs through the two handles. Knows her attempt at security won't do any good to keep what's coming from getting in. Notices cane locks on both doors for the upper casing and the ground. Quickly slides the four large pins into their lock positions. 

The thing from behind the fence slams into the plexiglass again and again, wobbling the dull surface, causing dust and debris to fall from the edges of the window at the ceiling.

She pulls off and unzips her backpack. Finds the second Beretta and a box of 9mm bullets. Quickly loads a cartridge and turns to face the cafeteria.

The counters and the kitchen are at her left, littered with broken plates and smashed sugar jars. Round burnt-orange tables and chairs are bolted down. A circle clock above the kitchen doors still ticks the time; a kind of time, maybe not this time. On her right is a gift shop with open glass, sliding panels and displays of nicknacks like pendulums. Science books and advertisement clothing. The centre of the room is of wine dark and orange leopard print.

The thing slams into the tempered plexiglass again.

Double swinging doors of the kitchen, behind the register counter, push open. The clock ticks. What might've been stumble out, glaring like yellow eyes in the vignette depth of a starving, naked winter.

The thing slams into the glass behind her again. She normalizes the situation and doesn't flinch.

Time's fed raises her gun and shoots one that's armless and chest-less. Through the cheeks. Fires again. Misses. Tries a third and hits a nearly whole body in the eye, blowing the back of its head off. It stumbles but rights itself and continues toward her.

One screams at her like it's being burned alive. Another gurgles like it's drowning. What might've been breath white noise, chewing and swallowing all other sound.

One with hollows for eyes turns its head and seems to listen to the others to know which way to go. Charges after them. Trips and falls. Curls into a fetal position and loses interest.

The time's fed girl limps to her right and enters the gift store. Closes the folding glass doors until they latch shut. A second layer of barrier is above her. She pulls the gate bars down and locks them in place with latches upon the ceramic tile floor. Stands back as what might've been come up against the obstacle of their entry and feeding. Thirty or forty. They smell like a face in the sand washed away by a decomposing tide. Putrid and frothy.

All the pendulums on a shelf swing.

She grabs a wine dark shirt from the rack that has orange sweatpants attached at the hanger. Quickly dresses. A wine dark orange hoodie she's instantly fond of is situated on a mannequin. Time's fed pulls the automaton down and strips it. Places the hoodie over her head. Keeps the hood up.

She backs into and knocks over a display of necklaces and earrings. Shapes of sharks and elephants and birds. Curving moons and crucifixes.

What might've been pile against the glass and bars. Howling. Moaning. One screams like a raven. The glass bulges. Pressure begins popping panels from metal frames. A hinge bends. The panels succumb to the weight and bust to the floor in the ruckus of bodies. The bar gate holds better, as arms reach through and grasp the air savagely, up and down.

She groans unconfidently at the reprieve and backs further into the shadowy bowels of the gift store. Bumps into a glass display of polished stones and hunting knives. Her finger flicks the safety on the Beretta and she places it in the pouch of her hoodie. Opens the broken glass case. Takes a brown handle buck knife and a black handle gutting knife. Twirls the buck knife in her hand. She misses her machete.

The steel bars creak at the ceiling. She recognizes that the whole security measure will soon collapse. Time's fed spits when she witnesses flip flops and shoes beside the edge of the failing bars. Turns to the back of the room and witnesses an exit sign above a metal door. The bars bend and the ceiling creaks as what might've been grow in number. Press all their weight into entering the gift store to eat her.

Fuck the shoes.

She drops the gutting knife into her backpack and unsheathes the buck knife. Limps to the exit. Presses her forearm on the push bar and opens the door. Stumbles out and down a flight of orange, perforated stairs into a bottleneck alley. Witnesses the coming dusk as the door slams, locking her out but not locking what might've been in.