Puppet on a String chapter 13

Chapter 13

It is nice to get out from behind those massive walls for once. As I walk away from the complex, I cast my eyes backward and take in the enormity of the opposing structure. I shiver — partly from the cold but also from the sight of what does look in the growing daylight to be a prison. Mark had been right. It really is a prison! Now, from this side of the walls, the full impact of that realization strikes me. I turn back around. I really don’t want to go back in there. My mood becomes solemn.

We trudge on. I can see that we are coming to a large stone wall with a wrought iron gate. The gate is breaking up the seemingly endless expanse of stone. Every once in awhile, I look up and see that we are making slow but steady progress towards it. Then, we are there. And the music, such as it is, suddenly stops.

Mark and I turn alarmed looks toward the box. Then, we look at the gate.

“I guess this is where we’re supposed to be.” Mark concludes.

“Who is luring us here, and for what purpose?” I wonder to myself. I had never been driven to leave the complex before. What of importance is on the other side of this gate? I reflect on how many strange things have occurred since the day I found Mark nearly drowned in that coffin. My already strange life has become disturbingly bizarre. I don’t trust it — even more so than usual. Something is off. And yet, what choice do we have but to continue on? This quest can’t end — can’t be ignored — until we find the missing person we are looking for.

Mark, for his part, seems excited about the gate. I can’t tell whether he has hope that answers will be forthcoming or whether he’s just eager to get beyond the bounds of the complex. Perhaps, it is both.

He shifts the box, so that he can hold it underneath his left arm and then proceeds toward the gate. Apparently, he still intends to take the box with us. He pushes on the metal bars, and slowly they give way with a low screech. I am surprised the gate was left unlocked. So much in the complex had been locked. I shudder slightly then step forward.

“Is something wrong?” Mark asks me.

I hadn’t noticed that he was looking at me when I shuddered. I had hoped my continuing on would hide the fact that I am again having doubts about the whole endeavor. I look up at him hesitatingly. What should I say? Would it make any difference anyway? I sigh.

“It’s just …” I start. “… it seems too easy.”

“You think this has been easy?” he asks in disbelief.

I shrug off his retort.

“Not all of it has been … but this, yes. Compared to what I’m used to going through it is. Once I was kept in a cell for days until I learned the lesson that I shouldn’t have let my curiosity get the better of me. You see, I had gone through a hole in the floor he had made in the kitchen. Then again, I forgot that lesson when I entered the vent … Still … the point is … this doesn’t seem like the Instructor to me. And truthfully, in a variety of ways nothing has for a while now.” I admit.

Mark looks from me back to the gate.

“What are you suggesting we do?” he asks me dismally.

“What can we do?” I reply. “Whoever it is has got us. We have to see this through. We won’t get answers otherwise.”

Mark seems pleasantly surprised by my response. I can tell he thought I was going to back out. That would be disastrous at this point. I still couldn’t stand the thought of what it would do to Mark if that happened. He’d never know whether his sister were here or not.

Plus, looking at the gate slightly shifting in the wind, I realize that I haven’t been so tantalizingly close to freedom in such a very long time. It seems worth the risk of walking into a trap just to get a taste of freedom again.

There isn’t much on the other side of the gate. Still, I am expecting something to happen when I step across the threshold. But instead, it is eerily silent. The only sounds are the wind and the slight squeaking noise from the gate. All I can see in front of us is a path … a dirt path that winds around a dense forest of barren trees. Leaves scatter to and fro among its twists and turns. Later, much later, the path acquires some gravel … then some stones. It is at this point that I realize we are heading toward something. We aren’t just taking a stroll … we are being led to a specific place. Though, for what purpose, I don’t know; I can’t even guess.

Mark notices too when the road begins to take on a more solid form. At first, the gravel is a bit of a nuisance. It isn’t enough to offset the mud that has accumulated along the roadway; and yet, on occasion, I can feel the stones pressing against the soles of my shoes. My shoes also don’t have the best traction, and they begin to slide out from under me when they encounter the loose rocks. And still, even the loose gravel is better than having the path be buried in snow — a few days before it probably would have been completely covered. Still, when I see pavement begin to form ahead of me, I am relieved. Now I am sure we must be heading somewhere that is better developed than where we have been. Is there some sort of a town ahead of us?

I strain my eyes to see in front of me. The melting snow has created a fog so dense that the visibility has become slight. Yet, I can vaguely make out a large pale structure beyond the fog. It meets us at a angle perpendicular to the path we are on. Is it some sort of a fence? If it is, it is much taller and thicker than the last one. As we near the wall of the structure, I can make out that there is no gate. If there ever had been a gate, it is gone now. Instead, there is just a large open space with an arch overhead. The space is huge. It towers over fifty feet above our heads, and it is wide enough to pass two semitrucks through. I enter underneath it in a kind of daze, so it takes me a moment to register that the music box has begun playing again. Only this time, it isn’t playing the scratchy tune from before. Eerily, it is now playing a dirge instead.

“What is that?” Mark queries incredulously.

“A dirge.” I respond matter-of-factly.

“Well,” he begins. “If we’re going to die, we might as well get it over with.”

There is laughter in his voice. He thinks he is funny. I don’t find it funny.

“We’ll be all right.” His voice is suddenly reassuring.

I sigh. Again, what choice do we really have?

It is like another world as we start to step underneath the thick arch. Snow has begun to fall again, though it is the kind of snow that begins to melt shortly upon hitting the ground. Still, the snowflakes in the air are big and beautiful and give the environment a dreamlike quality.

And yet, it only takes me a moment to realize that something is off. The snowflakes that are merely feet in front of me are indeed melting when they come in contact with the ground, but strangely farther ahead there appears to be a fine white powder layering the ground. I focus my eyes upon the ground as I approach the transition line between the stone floor of the arch and the upcoming path.

Then, when I get close enough, I realize that it isn’t snow there at all but some sort of dust.

“What …?” Mark utters.

Mark is walking in front of me, and I almost bump into him when he stops abruptly.

“Mark?”

I look up at the back of his head. Then, I step to the side of him. What I behold beyond the threshold of the arch astonishes me. Spreading out even beyond the scope of my vision … in all its vastness … is a city — a city of ruins.

It takes me a moment to take it all in. The buildings have the appearance of towering skeletons. It feels as though they were built of sandstone — eroding sandstone transitioning to dust right in front of us. It seems as though a stiff wind could knock the whole scene over. So, when a breeze does cause the snowflakes to swirl around me, I shudder involuntarily. Still, fortunately, nothing happens. Apparently, the structures are sturdier than they look. And yet, in the past, the buildings must have melted in on themselves … collapsing into dust upon their foundations. And then, a pillar of dust must have been unleashed into the air, dusting the entire landscape. Merely imagining the rumbling that preceded that devastation shakes me to my foundation. But is it just my imagination or something more? Something I remember? There is a pervasive silence at this moment, and it haunts me.

“What happened here?” I stammer, hoping Mark will have a good theory.

He doesn’t … it would seem. He shakes his head.

“I don’t know.” he finally responds with words. “But it seems as though it happened a long time ago.”

“Then, where has all this dust come from?” I ponder. “Surely it should have washed away a long time ago in the rain.”

“I don’t know.” he repeats. “The only thing I’m fairly certain of is that someone bombed this place out. It seems doubtful by the look of the area that there would have been any survivors either.”

I shiver again.

“Oh, you’re probably cold.” Mark observes.

While I appreciate his concern, it isn’t just the temperature that is making me feel cold. The scene has left me cold — emotionally.

“Maybe we should find some place to get out of the wind.” he suggests.

I nod.

“We can start our search inside the buildings. So, where do you think we should look first?” Mark queries.

Mark turns while he speaks and seems to be taking in the scene. While he appears motivated by what he sees, I am once again reticent. The area doesn’t look stable to me. As I think through the situation, I begin to stir the ground with my foot. This is something I occasionally do when I get nervous. As I look down indifferently at my foot, I notice for the first time that I am shifting the dust around. My eyebrows furrow. Then, I look up.

“Mark.” I say.

“Yeah?” he utters before turning towards me.

“If someone else has been around here recently, their footprints would be left behind in the dust.”

A light seems to glow behind Mark’s eyes. He looks around him. But when he reports on what he sees, there is disappointment in his voice.

“I don’t see anything.” he admits. “But it’s certainly something to look for. After all, we don’t know how long this particular dust has been here. It could have covered some older tracks.”

He turns back to me with a reassuring smile.

“Good thought, Aronade.” he states approvingly.

I smile back.

“Well, we’d better get looking.” I tell him, my confidence having received a jolt by the encouragement.

We proceed. The light of the day manages to trick my mind into having fresh enthusiasm about our mission. It almost makes me forget that I am in such desperate need of sleep … almost. I do have a crick in my neck that is bothering me — partly from the cold, partly from my lack of rest, and partly from the heaviness of the box I had been carrying earlier. I run my hand upon the back of my neck, hoping to ease the tension from my muscles, but it proves to be of limited benefit.

So instead, I decide to distract myself by focusing on something else. My something else is trying to find a trace of some kind that someone else has been around the area recently. It was, after all, my brilliant idea. I meticulously scan the ground all around us, searching for a disturbance in the dust. I am particularly concerned with making sure that the area is looked over before we step on it. It is a little disappointing that we hadn’t seen anything at the outset, but perhaps someone had entered the city from a different direction. Or, as Mark suggested, the footprints may have been covered, or at least partially covered, by the dust. If that is the case, it will make what I am trying to do all the more important. Maybe I will spot something that isn’t altogether obvious. What an accomplishment that would be!

As I go on, I am mainly focused on my task at hand. I rarely look up to see what is going on around me. But once I do, I happen to look up at a long white building we are approaching. It looks much like a box and has sterile-looking, symmetrical windows along its sides. I freeze inside.

I can’t seem to catch my breath. It is as though something has smacked me straight in the face. And the image that is presented before me is etched into my mind’s eye.

“Why?” I utter, though I don’t know the reason for the utterance. Mark turns around towards me, then. I look of concern crosses his face.

“Aronade?”

“I know this place.” I stammer. Though, I had no idea why I said that either. But it is true. On some level, I know that it is true. I start to shiver, and it feels as though I won’t be able to stop.

Mark looks from me then back to the building. I can tell that he wants to go inside but is too afraid to bring it up to me. My reaction could be a clue, which could lead to some answers. I could have been set on this path, so that some sort of distant memory would be triggered. How could we not see where it goes? What else can we do? Go everywhere but here until we invariably come back to the beginning, having realized that there is no other avenue but this one? That, for the first time in a long time, seems like a lesson that the Instructor would present.

To even consider moving forward is hard, though. I feel paralyzed. My feet feel cemented to the ground. I wish Mark could pick me up and carry me inside, so I won’t have to move myself. But I do have to move. I do have to face this — whatever it is.

“Okay.” I mumble.

Mark looks upon me with surprise … and possibly admiration — I hope anyway — as I step forward.

The building reminds me of an institution or a very utilitarian grammar school. Mark forces the large, wooden double doors open without much difficulty. The chains that hang limply from the door handles come apart with ease. Inside, there are particles of dust that are revealed by the day’s light. They had been suspended idly in the air and now fly about as a result of the movement of the door.

Particles of dust also cling to the cold ceramic floor — much as the dust surrounding the exterior of the building does. Only unlike the outside, where there appears to be an almost uniform covering of dust, inside there is mostly bare floor and comparatively small sections of dust. Those small patches of dust are shaped like footprints! Strangely, I had been looking for the opposite. I had thought I would find footprints within the dust outside. Instead, there are tracks from the dust on the outside brought in and smeared upon the barren floor inside.

“These must have been here awhile, or at least they were made before the last layer of dust was deposited outside.” Mark concludes.

I could see Mark’s point. After all, there are no visible footprints leading up to the building. Therefore, it stands to reason that those footprints must have been covered up. How else could one explain it?

We stand at the threshold of the door. Light manages to penetrate through the boarded-up windows allowing us to see the interior somewhat. I peer inside, but there is nothing much here. Also, everything is eerily silent. The dust isn’t the only thing that is suspended. Time itself seems to be suspended.

“You still think you know this place?” Mark asks me.

I nod but do not speak. He looks around.

“Well, I think we should follow these tracks. They’re old, but they’re the freshest ones we’ve got.”

I agree with him, and I follow him as he sets forth after the trail. We both instinctively avoid stepping directly on the makeshift path left by the dirty feet. Sometimes it looks as though the trail was left carelessly; while other times it appears to have been purposefully placed. What I find most peculiar is that at one point the dust that composes the trail appears to be getting fainter — as though it is running out of substance. But then, moments later, it appears to have been replenished by a fresh supply of particles.

“Odd.” Mark remarks, as though I had spoken my thoughts out loud.

The prints seem to be leading us into one room in particular. This room is situated in the middle of a really long corridor. Mark slides back the double sliding doors. The footprints stop abruptly a couple of feet from the door’s threshold.

I am afraid to look up to see what is inside, but I eventually force myself to do just that. The room is vast — cafeteria-size. Poorly boarded-up windows run down the length of its walls. There are desks, and there are tables, and there are single beds arranged in neat rows.

“I know this place.” I utter. “I just wish I knew why.”

“Or maybe you don’t want to know.” Mark puts forth.

He is right, of course. The room had been set up as a makeshift hospital. And the effect is downright bone-chilling.

Upon closer inspection, it looks as though the beds had been left in a hurry. Most of them are unmade. A couple of IV poles had fallen down upon the ground. Thankfully, the room isn’t particularly bloody, but there are some bandages strewn about.

“The windows must have been boarded up before the room was abandoned.” I comment. “I can’t imagine someone would have come back to board them up afterward.”

Mark looks at me for a moment then back at the scene.

“What’s up with the dust?” he mentions. “There’s hardly any where we’re standing, but farther in the whole place is covered with the stuff.”

He is correct. I hadn’t put it together before. What could that mean? Then, a strong wind comes into the room from the cracks on the boards, and I have my answer. The glass is apparently gone from the windows, but the boards appear undamaged. That suggested the explosion had occurred first, and then the boards had been placed. Perhaps I had been wrong. But why does it matter really? I guess the real question that is nagging at me is why they had felt the need to board up the windows after the explosion. Wouldn’t they have just fled the scene and not returned?

The answer to that question may shed some light on what this place was used for and what had happened here. The truth is I would rather figure out the past the way Mark, a comparatively disinterested third party, would rather than through the seemingly unpleasant memories I feel are lurking just at the fringes of my mind. If I could piece together what had happened here by merely observing what is around me, then I would not have to remember at all. Yes, that is definitely what I want.

But Mark keeps looking over at me. I can tell that he is wondering whether I have remembered something. I redden. Finally, I look upon him with irritation.

“Sorry.” he mumbles, apparently realizing he was staring.

“It’s fine.” I mutter. “Maybe I don’t want to remember after all.” I announce.

Mark looks surprised and a bit dismayed.

“Do you suppose it matters whether you want to?” he puts forth. “You either can or you can’t.”

I look at him questioningly, thrown off by his response.

“If whoever set up the scenario is trying to get you to remember, I guess he only half-succeeded.” Mark added.

“I hope that’s not all this was for.” I admit. “As you said, I probably couldn’t force the memories to return, even if I wanted to.”

“It seems something traumatic happened here.” Mark observes. “And then, the place was abandoned. Maybe you were here that day then evacuated to the Instructor’s place.”

I shiver. It sounds true.

“I wish there were some sort of record.” I bemoan. “But I don’t suppose there would be if people fled from here in a hurry.”

Mark looks on me with pity in his eyes. I don’t know what to make of that, and it disturbs me.

“You don’t think there were any survivors, do you?” I ask him.

“Well … you.” he says.

“Then, where are the bodies?” I question.

“It’s true they aren’t here.” he acknowledges. “But this happened a long time ago, and no one came back.”

“Well, there was whoever left those footprints.”

“Yes.” Mark responds. “But that was probably the Instructor … or someone like him.”

“Someone like him …” I repeat, processing the words.

“The people from here must have left, or their bodies were removed afterward. But I doubt there are many survivors because no one came back for you.”

“There is my brother.” I say. “But he was away the last I remember.”

Mark nods.

“Could he have come looking for me and left those prints?” I wonder.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him. But where is he now?” Mark questions.

“I don’t know. I wonder whether I really know this place even. Maybe I’m just letting my imagination run wild.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” Mark replies. “Nobody put the idea into your mind. You just reacted.”

“I guess you’re right. Where would I have come up with a connection to this place if it weren’t true?”

Mark scans the area.

“Well, we could search the place — if you’re up for it — see whether we can find any records or anything.”

“I guess.” I reluctantly respond. My enthusiasm has waned again. Or, maybe I’m just tired. I remind myself I can’t just go back to my room at this point. What are the odds we would be able to get back here? And yet, I know the clock is ticking on our little adventure here all the same. Nan will come looking for me soon if she hasn’t already. Then, when her search for me proves fruitless, she will inevitably bring my absence to the attention of the Instructor — assuming he is still around. And that is, of course, if he doesn’t already know where I am, I remind myself.

Why am I so convinced that he doesn’t know? What is it about this situation that doesn’t seem like him? And if this is my past, why hadn’t he told me about it before now? And why spring it on me like this? It seems as though it has been kept a secret all this time — shuttered up from the light like the room with boarded-up windows.

But obviously someone wants me to know about it — that much is certain. Of course, I have no idea who that person could be. Chances are they’ll reveal themselves eventually. In the meantime, I have to rouse myself again; time is of the essence. We have to make more progress in finding answers before it is too late.

Copyright © Jennifer Alice Chandler 2020