25

The second floor begins as a tunnel of cages underneath crates. Chicken fence dangles from one top edge of each crate to the adjacent. Blade wire rolls at the two sides and down the middle, creating a slicing ceiling. The mesh and blade wire tangle the entrance of the flight to the third floor, like thick, eviscerating spider webs.

The second floor is caliginous. Lights continuously flicker dimly from bulb to bulb in such a way as to exhaust the eyes. Thin shadows craft their umbra into a bright black and black and white illusion. It's almost as if the eye cannot decipher colour in this place.

There're no bodies. No malevolent art projects. No dead meat like the main floor. But behind each cage is the gurgling of what might've been. Time's fed notices the absence of eyes among the passing of each young earth cage. And their mouths hold no tongues. But they seem hungry, as what might've been generally are. They can smell her sweat. His, too. He smells of gunpowder and old worn clothes. Thick, earthen bacteria.

Their eyeless faces turn toward her as she passes. They sniff and snap their teeth.

When Henry follows, the cages rattle and their arms extend toward him in lingering grasps.

Their attention is not for her. They want Henry. Why don't they reach through the bars for her?

Henry notices as they step further into the second floor labyrinth. Their direction seems more like a twisting pathway than a puzzle of dead ends.

"What in Holden are you, bitch?"

He raises his rifle toward her and steps quickly to nudge it between her shoulder blades in a spear motion. She grunts when he rams it into a pressure point.

"Fuckate you. I fell in a river of dead things at the zoo and I can't get rid of the fucking smell."

"Camouflage. Accidentally clever. That's why you stink like the balls of a thousand dead donkeys."

"Yeah, what's your excuse? Hecate asshole."

Henry lowers the rifle.

"We ran out of deodorant."

"That's not all you'll run out of if you jab me again."

"Next time I'll ram something else up into your bits you piece of..."

The intercom system explodes with a crackle and a man's voice echos loudly throughout the Ark. Blasts above the gurgles and groans of hungry intentional white noise.

He sings in distortion and reverb.

"How lost they are. How lost they are. How lost they are. How lost they are..."

The words screech again and again. Lightbulbs glow extremely bright in the ceiling above the blade wire mesh. Flicker, one by one, and disappear. The Ark becomes tenebrous, like the hollow of a cave. She knew this was coming.

A horn grows louder and louder behind the man's words until it slowly swallows each syllable and all that remains is the sound of the ominous, groaning mid pitch of warning.

Under the noise, a muffle of soft clicks. Latches spasm into the time's fed girl's eardrums. Sudden hinges squeal like bodies fucking before a car crash.

She knows what's happening.

Time's fed bolts to the right and quickly avoids what's coming out of each set of opening bars. They ignore her.

She leaps and reaches onto the top of a cage, lifting herself above. Her body stands and her hands grab the chicken mesh to balance on the ledge, in front of the crate.

She looks down. What might've been are loose upon the second floor.

Henry's rifle fires in the dark three times. She can't tell if he's being eaten or if he's running or climbing to safety. The ominous horn and the white noise are too loud to recognize anything individually as human below.

What might've been horde the cage and crate corridor. One takes her into account and reaches for her bare feet. It touches her toes. She moves back, away from the ledge. More notice. They're interested in her now.

Her left hand hugs the pineapple grenade in her hoodie pouch. Fingers play with the pin for a moment. She pulls her hand from the pouch. Turns away from the ledge. Swears and punches the crate in a rage of frustration. Festering fear. Her hand easily breaks through the thin quarter inch plywood. She tears open the thin veneer and makes a hole big enough to climb through. The crate's hollow. She looks above. Bashes the roof of the crate. Veneer breaks apart as easily as the side. She climbs out, onto the top of the crate. Balances her body on the sturdier frame of the box. Feels past the grenade in her pouch. Grasps her final camper flashlight. Pulls it out. Thumb clicks it on.

She instantly witnesses a way to the third floor stairwell. It doesn't involve climbing over mesh and razor wire. The labyrinth is a one way zig zag path to her destination. She just has to manoeuvre on top of the crates. Worry about falling through, as each crate seems flimsy.

What might've been linger below. Holler up at her like waves in a sinking ship. Her extremities cautiously move atop and beyond them. They lose interest. What might've been can't see or hear anything. They're all sniffers and whiffers and she sort of smells like they do. As she leaves, the knowledge of her presence disappears from whatever memory they recollect.

She points her flashlight into the horde. There's no sign of Henry.