Out of the Black - Lee Doty [67]
The room was unfamiliar. The lighting was indirect, coming from a recessed border where the walls and ceiling met. The ceiling was an odd cross between stucco and textured brown finger-painting. With a little effort, he pushed himself up on his elbows and looked around. The walls were a lustrous dark wood, unadorned by hangings. The lines of the furniture were efficient. The overall look was that of well-funded eccentricity.
His chest hurt, or more accurately, stung. He now remembered ribs breaking as he was ground into the library archive ceiling by a sadistic wizard who might have worked for the FBI. No wonder his dreams were weirder now.
He fingered his ribs, but the pain wasn't as intense as it should have been if the bones were broken, or even cracked. It felt more like needles had been inserted into the bone, but it didn't hurt more or less as he moved or pressed on them. Maybe they hadn't broken after all? Maybe he'd been sleeping for six weeks. He swung his feet off the edge of the bed. More aches, but none as serious as he expected. The worst was his right knee, which had the same localized sting as his ribs.
Someone had undressed him, which made him just a bit uncomfortable. At least they hadn't robbed him of his underwear. It was times like this he was glad he was in top shape... and didn't prefer furry leather Daffy Duck lingerie. It was one thing to be stripped naked by strangers while unconscious, but quite another to think of them poking his belly or laughing at his most private fashion sense. At least his vanity hadn't been irreparably harmed by Good Cop's little tantrum.
His shoes were by the nightstand at the side of the bed, along with the rest of his possessions. Warped pistols, warped badge, Uni, warped tablet- warped ring of old metal keys. He picked up the keys, "You again." he said with a small shake of his head. He dropped the keys back onto the nightstand.
The remnants of his clothes were neatly folded on the floor by his shoes. The scuffs and bloodstains on his shoes took a back seat to the wholesale destruction of his suit. The shirt, jacket, and pants had been slashed into several large pieces with a very sharp instrument. It was as if some capricious adolescent had hacked them in pieces and then, snickering at his prank, folded them neatly for Ping to discover later.
He stood, stretched, and made for the closet. There he found a wealth of clothes. Most were black or earth toned. He selected a pair of dark baggy pants made of a tough organic fiber, a black T-shirt, and a dark brown loose-fitting jacket. The clothes were slightly big, but he wasn't swimming in them. Apparently, the owner ly slightly less runty than Ping, further proof that it was indeed a small world after all.
He returned to the bed and dressed. He slung the now-empty holsters under the jacket and tried the tablet- useless. He filled his holsters with the pistol-paperweights and useless tablet. His badge and Uni went into pockets in his pants and jacket.
At the door, he paused. He put a hand on it and eased his ear against the rich wood. From the other side he heard the distinctive sound of absolutely nothing. He felt the same giddy optimism he'd felt as he had approached the library. Of course, he thought, that had worked out well. But his was not an optimism to be ruled by the memory of bad experiences or any other form of wisdom.
This was Wonderland. Though it was a dangerous and completely daft world he had blundered into, he found comfort in its distractions. He didn't fear the death that seemed to hover around every corner- harsh experience had taught him that death was unavoidable even back in the real world. Here, bereft of familiar surroundings and comfortable routines, his mind was occupied with mystery, with the riddle of survival. He felt that in stepping through the looking glass he had left some of the worst parts of himself behind. He felt free. Of course this, like most feelings, was utter nonsense.
He shrugged and opened the door.
Across the hallway, he saw his reflection in a waist-to-ceiling