Filaria - Brent Hayward [103]
“I understand what you’re saying.”
“Thank goodness.” The teens glanced at each other; the effect was as if mirrors had suddenly appeared between them. They turned their wide eyes back to Tran so. The one in the middle spoke again, “Sir, we are very sorry to bother you, but . . .”
“Yes?” Tran so Phengh folded his arms. The boys were shorter than he, and slimmer. Though they had shown no signs of hostility so far, he did not trust their unease, their politeness, or their clean uniforms. If they wanted to fight, he was sure he could take all of them.
The one on the right spoke now, talking in the same tone and voice as his comrade: “We need help, sir. It’s important. Crucial, in fact. Crucial.”
The one on the left said, “Do you know anything about what’s happened to the floor plan? Or to the infrastructure? In general terms? Do you?”
“Slow down,” Tran so said. “Explain.”
“To the rest of the staff?”
“To management?”
“To anything?”
“Management?” Tran so nodded. “I’m also looking for management.”
“You are?” This appeared to cheer the boys somewhat, for they became slightly animated. Certainly their interest was piqued. “Do you work for the network?”
“No . . .” The network. The god of all gods. Once again, maybe this strange place he found was on the path to getting answers. Just as he was ready to cease his search, and go home to Minnie sue, would he discover the truth? Could a hint come from such unlikely sources as these three lost souls? “I’m not from around here,” Tran so said, cautious. “I just arrived. What can you tell me about this network?”
“It’s broken.”
“Kaput.”
“And this is really not the scenario we were trained to expect.”
“I have the growing feeling,” Tran so said, “we have all been led astray.”
“Pardon me?”
“Lied to.”
“Lied to? I hardly see how, but . . .” There was a long pause during which the boy in the centre bit his lower lip and more looks were exchanged. “Sir, you may be right. Though it’s not our place to speculate. And the word ‘lie’ has strong connotations . . . Something has certainly gone awry. We don’t mean to alarm you, sir, but it looks like time is running out.”
“Perhaps,” the boy on the right said, “it already has.”
They all agreed, nodding.
“Look here,” the centre boy continued, “this hall — the hall we’re in — isn’t on our map.” He held out a small, flat device, which rested inert in his pink, trembling palm, and exposed a meaningless picture of colour and lines.
Was this, Tran so wondered, proof of what the boy had said, about time running out? Tran so watched the image. Oily colours moved across each other, lines wavered. He had no clue what he was looking at.
“Our world,” one of the boys whispered, returning the device to his pocket, “is falling apart.”
Tran so Phengh replied that this information was not news to him, and, having arrived at the conclusion that the three boys were soft in their collective head, and that they would, in fact, be no help to him, walked away, heading in the direction he had been heading before he’d stopped for the snack. His back tingled in anticipation of an attack, for he still did not trust the youths; the only thing he heard were mumbled consultations.
He did not look back.
Another hour or so of more flooded corridors, slogging through more kilometres of muck, he decided that if Minnie sue had died in his absence, he would return to his fishing spot a humbled man, and sit there every day, as before, but never would he resume his attempt at forgetting his losses in life. They were integral to his being —
He saw the three boys again. Appearing from a wide opening in the wall, the trio bolted across, passing briefly from one side to the other, splashing in the shallow puddle there before vanishing into another archway. They looked as lost and scared as when they had first confronted him; they did not see him this time, staring down at their tiny device, arguing among themselves about whatever it was they saw there.