The Void

3

3
Descent

With another panicked cry, he flails his arms and kicks out his legs, refusing to be carried away without a fight. His wild movements span the area around him but do not make contact with a body. A sharp pop echoes under him as his weight shifts further behind. Backwards he tumbles, the back of his head meeting the thin carpet with a muted thud before he rolls onto his knees. Still under threat, he rises from the floor and staggers back a few steps, feeling out the wall at his back.

Finally, his blurry sight focuses, the sanctity of his lit office coming into frame. Seconds pass with frenzied breaths, short and hollow as his anxiety flares. Huddled in the corner, his eyes examine every inch of his still office, unsure if he can trust his own vision in the moment. As his panic settles, he feels a cold trickle fall down his forehead and flush further down his cheeks. Nausea follows, and he feels off-balance like a sailor finally stepping onto dry land.

He exhales a slow breath. It provides some relief, but a putrid taste of salt-cured rotting meat sets in his mouth and nose.

His reaction is harsh and reflexive. Kneeling over, a violent spasm punches his chest and gut with a boxer's force. He retches, coughing up strings of saliva as the sourness remains embedded on his tongue. And with one final heave, a bout of stomach bile expels and splatters onto the carpet.

His nausea swirls as he straightens his posture. The awful taste is still present and now mixes with the bitterness of his own bile. Desperate, he rushes to his whiskey bottle and takes a swig, swirling the stiff liquor around his mouth before spitting it into his drinking glass. To his relief, the makeshift mouthwash works, and his palate is clear.

Feeling a bit more composed, he eyes his phone on the desk. Curious of the time, he lifts it, and the screen comes to life. But the clock displays an oddity, reading 00:00 despite not being set to military time. His brow furrows and the sickness returns, along with fragments of an unsettling memory.

"No, no, no..." he mutters, pocketing his phone.

Moving like a man fleeing a crime scene, he stows his liquor back into the underside cabinet and signs out of his computer. Hung on the back of his chair is his suit jacket, the arms dangling down and touching the ground due to the busted backrest. Agitated, he tugs it off the back piece, the force enough to break it completely and send it crashing to the ground.

"Piece of shit..." he grumbles.

He slips into his jacket and shoulders his leather satchel, patting out one of the pockets to confirm he had his car keys. Wasting no more time, he heads for the door in long, hurried strides. Stepping out into the main room he follows the walkway towards the reception desk, edging closer to the wall and refusing to look out towards the cubicles to his left.

It is not long before he reaches the reception desk, and he rounds the corner to enter the elevator lobby. He passes through a set of double glass doors and approaches the panel. Pressing the button, it glows red behind the downward arrow. The dead silence is finally broken by the sounds of clanking metal and the whirring of the steel cable pulley working just past the silver doors.

As he waits for the elevator to rise, he looks around the small lobby. Along the wall is a small, cushioned seat, hardly ever used given its useless location, a fake plant mocking some kind of large palm with monstera leaves, and a circular clock hung between the two. His eyes squint with curiosity and he takes a few steps towards the wall.

Focusing in on the clock, he sees the hour, minute, and second hands each pointing at 12. The secondhand ticks on, producing its steady, gentle tap like a slow metronome, but remains pointed north. His lips press into a thin line, and a cold chill crawls down his neck and causes a sudden spasm in his shoulder. Pulling out his phone, his eyes bounce back and forth between the clock and his screen still reading 00:00.