Hide and Seek

How the hell did I get here? I prop my elbow on the tile floor, causing a cloud of charcoal ash to lift into the air. A sharp pain drills itself into my lungs when I inhale. The room is incredibly dark, and as my eyes adjust, I can see the boarded windows across from me, streams of light peering through the cracks into the room. This place is strangely familiar. The Hill-Brooke Mall, I remember. The circular, white marble fountain to my right is unmistakable. However, now it is missing a beach ball sized chunk out of the side of it and a pool of murky water has accumulated onto the surrounding floor.

What happened to this place and why can't I remember a thing? The first thought that comes to my head is terrorist attack and the next thought is what now? A couple feet away from my position rests a black pile, which appears to be a jacket. The air is so damp and chilled; a jacket seems like a great place to start. I shift my weight towards the bulk, dust billowing up into my face. I place my hand under what looks to be a trench coat. Whatever this is, it is heavier than just a coat. I sit up on my knees and flip the bulk onto its side.

"Holy hell!" The mass is a person. I am on my feet in seconds, wiping my palms on my – where are my bloody clothes? My body is naked, except for my cotton briefs. That explains why I am so damn cold. I turn in circles, searching the floor for my shirt, my pants, a sock, anything. While I am busy twisting around like a madman, my heel sinks onto something solid, sucking the breathe out of my tainted, ash covered lungs. I grab my foot and massage the dented skin. Oh lord, it's a gun. The corpse's pale hand grips an assault rifle as if it were its baby. I might as well take it so I don't end up like trench coat man.

I have never held real a gun before; so having one in my hands feels like I possess some sort of mystical authority. What I know about guns is knowledge learned from video games I played as a teenage boy. I look through the little round sight, pretending to know what I am doing. My finger rests on the trigger and I aim for a little silver nail that sticks abruptly out of one of the boarded windows. The sound of the gunfire is louder than I had anticipated. My ears ring and I drop the gun.

I'm off track; I need to find a way out of here. I pause, my hands on my knees, waiting for my hearing to return. Then I'm off, the gun between my sweaty palms, running through an almost pitch black mall, searching for any way to escape. A lifeless escalator directs me to the bottom floor and I navigate around a corner towards the Bass Pro Shop. The exit is just down this hall.

The doors are chained shut and the word "quarantined" is pasted all over the wooden boards that prevent me from smashing in the glass. My fist pounds the wood, only causing damage to my knuckles. "Help me!" I scream as loud as an air raid siren, my voice echoing off the enclosed walls. My crimson blood paints the boards. I can't stop. I need to get out of here; I need to know what is going on.

Then something else echoes against the walls and this time it isn't me. Behind me, the air stands still. My eyes scan the area, but nothing has changed from what I can see.

"Hello? Is someone there?" I immediately regret speaking the moment the words leave my lips. Am I being watched? The sound bounces into my eardrums again. A weeping puppy? A crying child? No. This sound is deeper; its vibration makes my stomach churn. I hold up the gun's barrel, swiping left to right, readying myself for an attack from any direction. I slide my feet along the icy floor, collecting another layer of grime onto my already blackened soles. Eventually I reach the source of the sound, or at least the location of which it is coming from. A bald man huddles against a handbag kiosk, his face buried between his knees. His skin is sickly, almost transparent, his veins pulse with every sob. I lower my gun, but not enough that I can't use it if needed.

I clear my blocked airway and phlegm collects in the back of my throat. I swallow it and ask in a raspy voice, "Do you need help?" The man stays hidden and continues to cry, but it's starting to become more drawn out like a moan of sorts.