The Lost Level, page 3
Armed with my new staff, I came to a spot where the trail was overgrown with a snarl of vines. Strange leaves sprouted from them. Their shape and sheen reminded me of poison ivy, but they were pink in color, turning to a deep magenta at the tips, and they gave off a noticeably sweet scent that reminded me of honeysuckle. A few butterflies flitted around them, the same size as the butterflies back home, but with multi–colored wing patterns of blue, purple, orange, and green. They seemed to be feeding on the leaves. I’d always been under the impression that butterflies ate shit—literally, based on how many of them I’d seen alighting on the marshy area of the grass above our septic tank when I was a kid—but these particular butterflies were apparently attracted to the sweet aroma coming from the vines. Despite that, the similarity of the leaves to poison ivy made me wary. Rather than just shoving my way through, I pushed the foliage aside with one end of my stick. There was no immediate reaction from the plant. I’d half expected the leaves to eat through my staff with some type of corrosive sap. The butterflies scattered, alarmed by my intrusion, and I paused, considering them for a moment. The foliage, insects, and placement of the sun certainly seemed to indicate that this level was not an alternate version of Earth, but then how to explain the American coin I’d found? And if this wasn’t an Earth, then where was I? It seemed like the more I tried to figure it out, the more confused and frustrated I became. I decided instead to focus again on more immediate things like finding food and water and shelter.
After clearing the path, I continued on my way. Soon, I became aware of the sound of trickling water. I slowed my pace even more, listening carefully. The sound got clearer. Pushing through some ferns, I paused. Twenty yards ahead, a deer stood with its back to me. Its head was bowed, and it lapped from a small spring trickling from an outcropping of moss–covered rock alongside the trail. I wasn’t sure if it was the same deer I’d seen earlier, but it certainly looked identical, right down to the fuzzy velvet on its antlers. I stood there, watching in silence as it drank, overwhelmed with its simple beauty and majesty. Then, the wind shifted and the deer caught my scent. Its white tail twitched. It raised its head, saw me, and snorted. Its eyes widened in fear. Then it darted off, running down the path and disappearing into the foliage. Even after it had vanished from sight, I heard it rustling through the undergrowth. Soon, the sound faded.
I approached the spring. The water looked clean and inviting. I decided that if the deer was drinking it, then it was probably safe for me to do the same. If there were parasites or other dangers in the water, I’d rather face them than die of thirst. I cupped my hands under the trickle and filled my palms. Then I rubbed my hands together, washing the remaining remnants of bug venom from them. Satisfied that my hands were clean, I then drank. The water was crisp and cold and pure, tasting just like bottled spring water back home. I gulped it eagerly, filling my cupped hands again and again until my thirst was sated. Then I splashed water on my face and neck, washing the sweat away and relishing the coolness against my skin. Reinvigorated, I smiled, forgetting all about my situation for a moment. Finally, I decided to try cleaning the venom out of my shirt.
I had just stuck my shirt under the trickling water and was rubbing the fabric briskly when I heard the deer cry out in pain. There was no mistaking the sound. I’d heard deer back home make the same noise when a hunter’s misplaced bullet or arrow didn’t kill them right away. As I stood there listening, the poor creature cried out again. There were no other noises—no growls or sounds of struggle to indicate that it had been attacked by a predator. I wondered if perhaps the deer had tripped or fallen in its rush to flee from me. If so, and it was disabled or injured, then it was my duty to put the poor thing out of its misery. I couldn’t stand the thought of an animal suffering, unless perhaps it was a snake. I’ve always loathed snakes, even non–poisonous ones, and usually killed them on sight.
The deer squealed again. Forgetting about cleaning my shirt, I tied it around my waist. Then I grabbed my walking stick and rushed down the trail. After a few dozen yards, I emerged into a wide clearing that was free of trees or overhead growth. Sunlight filled the area, illuminating a bizarre and horrific scene. Large swaths of green grass grew on both sides of the trail. The deer lay on its side in the middle of the grass, bleeding profusely from dozens of cuts and gashes. Something had slashed it from head to tail. When I saw what it was, I gasped.
The injured animal thrashed, trying to escape, and the grass swayed, slicing at the deer. Each individual blade of grass was like a razor blade, and they moved in tandem, cutting through fur and flesh. Blood gushed out over the blades and into the dirt, vanishing as quickly as it spilled, slurped up by a thirsty network of roots beneath the soil. The deer shuddered and screamed as the grass rustled and writhed, slashing its abdomen open with a frightening, savage precision and delivering a mortal wound. The animal’s eyes rolled up white in its head. Warm innards splashed out onto the ground. Despite the temperature of the day, steam rose from the pile of offal. The blades of grass began dicing the organs into smaller bits, while more blood was sucked into the dirt.
My heart went out to the deer, but there was nothing I could do for it. There was no way for me to reach it without stepping onto the grass myself, not even with my staff. And besides, the poor animal was already dying. Its movements had slowed to spasmodic twitches. Taking a deep breath, I ran down the trail, making sure I avoided stepping into the grass on either side. Somehow, the grass knew I was there. The blades moved, slashing at my ankles, but they weren’t long enough to reach me. I shuddered at the thought of what they could do to me should I make one misstep.
Clearing the patch, I plunged back into the jungle again, following the footpath. For a while, I viewed all of the vegetation around me with fear and suspicion. Every tree, every leaf, every vine, branch, twig, and flower became a cause for alarm. I recognized some of the plants. Others were utterly alien to me. I passed through a wet, marshy area covered in yellow mushrooms that quivered and swayed at my approach—so I went around them. In another area, I heard leaves whisper overhead. When I glanced up at the tree branches directly above me, I noticed the limbs moving despite the lack of a breeze. I hurried past, expecting a claw–like branch to descend and snag my arm at any moment. The leaves grew silent as I moved on.
Eventually, the ground began to rise again, and the foliage grew less thick. Jungle vegetation gave way to sparsely forested hillsides and boulders. The game trail ended at a narrow, shallow gorge. I stood at the edge, peering down. The bottom of the gorge was strewn with rocks, and the bones of an animal skeleton lay scattered and broken among them. The bones belonged to something I couldn’t identify. The body was like that of a large cat, perhaps a panther or a tiger, but the skull was similar to a wooly mammoth’s, and it had three eye sockets instead of two. One glance at the skeleton’s tusks and claws convinced me that I didn’t want to meet a living specimen out here while I was unprotected and defenseless, so I continued on my way, going around the gorge and hiking up into the hills. My staff thudded dully against the rocks.
As I walked, I wondered what new terror awaited me next. In a world where even something as seemingly innocuous as a blade of grass could kill you, what hope did I have?
3
CAVE AND CACHE
I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG I walked, but eventually, I found the Jeep.
I was scaling up a treacherous outcropping of rock and having second thoughts about it. When I’d started the climb, I hadn’t thought the going would be so difficult. My original intent had been to reach a high vantage point and survey the land around me. I was especially interested in any signs of intelligent life—smoke from a campfire, or perhaps huts or a village or maybe even a city. Instead, all I saw were more trees. The forest and jungle (because they seemed to grow amongst each other at points) ran all the way to each horizon. When I finally spotted a thin, curling line of white smoke, I wasn’t sure what it was at first. I thought perhaps it was a cloud or fog. It was drifting up from the trees. When I realized that it was indeed smoke, I decided to climb higher in the hopes of seeing the source.
My progress became even more grueling. Unlike the jungle below, there was no footpath cutting through the boulders and ridges, and the rocks grew steeper and sharper the higher I went. Reluctantly, I had to give up my walking stick, since I needed both hands to climb. I cast it aside with some regret. That simple stick had given me courage and focus and a sense of protection. I watched the staff clatter off a boulder far below, snapping in half as it plunged from sight. Then, I returned to my arduous climb. I looked carefully before each handhold or footstep, mindful of snakes. Given what I’d seen from the mosquitoes and grass of this world, I could only imagine what the serpents might be like. The very idea terrified me.
Although it looked barren, this region was just as alive as the jungle had been. Birds circled overhead, their shadows painting the rocks. Spiders, ants, centipedes, and other insects skittered in the crevices. Some of them looked normal. Others were strangely colored. A tiny brown lizard, the size of my thumb, poked its head out at me from a crack in the rocks and then vanished. A bird squawked overhead. It sounded like a crow, but was much smaller.
Occasionally, the slight breeze turned into a quick gust of wind that whistled through the ravines and peaks. The sun remained where it was, seemingly frozen at high noon. Sweat dripped from my hair, nose, and upper lip, and ran down my back and shoulders.
I glanced below again, but the smoke I’d spotted earlier was now gone. Sighing with frustration, I decided to keep climbing anyway, in the hopes of spying it again and ascertaining its source. Smoke most likely meant one of two things—either a wildfire or a campfire. Judging by the shape of the column I’d seen, I judged it had been the latter, and that was a good thing. A campfire meant some other form of intelligent life. So, I continued my climb.
I was about fifty feet from the peak, clinging to a jagged, triangular outcropping of grey, lichen–covered stone which teetered above a steep, almost vertical drop to more rocks far below, when I spotted the Jeep. It was painted red, with big, fat tires, a roll cage, and a black canvas top attached to the roll bars. The front half of the vehicle was sticking out of a cliff face to my right. The rear of the Jeep wasn’t visible. Indeed, it was fused with the rock, as if the vehicle had materialized on the hillside, half in and half out of the cliff.
Overcoming my initial surprise, I edged my way over to the precariously suspended vehicle and managed to get the driver’s side door open. The hinges squeaked and flakes of rust drifted down into the gorge below. I clambered inside and sat down. Sure enough, the bucket seats gave way to sheer cliff face. It felt like I was sitting inside some bizarre sculpture, as if someone had carved an incredibly realistic vehicle out of granite. But when I reached out and touched the Jeep, I felt steel and vinyl, rather than rock. I was nervous at first, half–expecting the cab to snap off and plummet into the ravine, but it didn’t. It didn’t even wobble as I moved around. It was truly fused with the stone behind it, becoming just another outcropping in the cliff face.
I sat there for a moment, wondering how this was possible and what it meant. That was my first inkling that I was in the fabled Lost Level that I’d read about—that dimension from which there is no exit, where cosmic castaways wash up and are abandoned. Several occult tomes had suggested that doorways to this dimension could sometimes open at random, without magical means. It had been proposed that this was the secret behind everything from the Bermuda Triangle to some of the thousands of missing persons cases each year. Could that have been what happened here? Maybe a temporary doorway had opened up back home (or in a reality similar to my home) and this Jeep had driven through it, materializing here, high above the jungle. And then the doorway had closed just as abruptly, leaving the vehicle half–embedded in solid rock. But if so, where was the driver?
My hands were scraped and chafed from crawling up the rocks, and my jeans were torn and dirty. I’d lost my shirt somewhere along the way, too. I’d had it tied around my waist when I started climbing, but now it was gone. Despite the heat, I started shivering.
“Shock,” I muttered. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. “You’re going into shock. You need to focus, Aaron. You’ve had a very stressful day, so focus on the tasks at hand.”
I did just that, starting with a thorough search of the Jeep’s interior. It had obviously been there a while. In addition to the rusty door hinges, time and exposure to the elements had faded the seat covers and left the vinyl dashboard cracked and dirty. The windshield was covered with a thick coat of dirt and dead bugs. Most of the insects appeared normal, except for one that was as big as my fist and looked like a cross between a bumblebee and a caterpillar. A key–ring filled with keys dangled from the ignition. The floor was filthy, and the scattered remains of a bird’s nest poked out of the cup holder. I tried the glove compartment. It was unlocked. Inside was a green plastic folder containing the vehicle registration and insurance information. The Jeep belonged to a John LeMay of Statesboro, Georgia, and the vehicle registration card had expired in October of 2001. I wondered if somewhere back in Statesboro, Mr. John LeMay was listed as a missing person. I put the folder aside and continued rooting through the glove compartment. There was a pile of faded, crinkled paperwork, half a pack of chewing gum which had long since hardened, and a tube of lip balm. I pulled the cap off the lip balm and smelled it. There was a hint of cherries. I rubbed some on my lips and found that it was okay. I stuck the tube in my jeans pocket and kept searching. The cherry flavor made my mouth water. Worse, it made me strangely homesick.
My fingers brushed against something hard and metallic hidden beneath the papers. I grabbed the object, pulled it out, and whistled with appreciation. It was a .45 handgun, weathered and in desperate need of a cleaning, but still perfectly functional. I released the magazine and checked it. There were a total of eight bullets in the magazine, plus one more inside the chamber of the gun. I ejected that one into my palm and studied it. Mr. John LeMay had apparently reloaded his own ammunition, judging by the flattened lead flush with the edge of the brass casing. I chambered the round again and engaged the safety.
“Thank you, John LeMay, wherever you are.”
Encouraged by this find, my trembling subsided, and I felt a burst of renewed energy. I was in a bad spot, certainly, but I would persevere. I sat the gun next to me on the seat and kept searching.
There was an empty plastic bag on the floor. I grabbed the paperwork from the glove compartment and stuffed the pile inside the bag, thinking it might come in handy later if I needed to start a fire. Unfortunately, the Jeep’s owner hadn’t been a smoker. There were no matches or lighters to be found. In the center console compartment, I discovered several compact discs. I added them to the bag. I could snap the plastic and fashion it into arrowheads or spear tips, and the discs’ reflective backsides might prove useful if I needed a mirror. Also in the console compartment were a cell phone charger and adapter, a small pair of collapsible binoculars, a ballpoint pen, and broken pair of sunglasses. The binoculars were a great find, and I grabbed them right away. I added the charger and adapter to my bag, thinking I could use the cords for something—as makeshift fishing line perhaps. I also took the pen. Beneath the driver’s seat was a dirty travel mug. Something rust–colored had dried inside of it, but I dropped it into the bag, as well. I assumed the stain was just coffee or tea, rather than blood.
On a whim, I reached for the key ring. There were about a half–dozen keys on it. They jangled as my hand brushed against them. I pumped the gas pedal and then turned the key, but the Jeep didn’t start. It wasn’t until I’d tried it a third time that I realized the gas tank was located in the part of the vehicle that had been fused with the rock. Did that half of the Jeep even exist anymore? Had its atoms joined with the cliff face? Or was the rear half of John LeMay’s Jeep still back in Georgia? I turned the key back to the accessory position, wondering if the Jeep’s battery still worked. I tried the headlights, but they were dead. Experimenting with the stereo produced similar results. Sighing, I pulled the key from the ignition and put the key ring in my pocket, thinking I might be able to fashion the keys into tools or weapons at some point.
My stomach grumbled. I was still tired and hungry, but I felt a little better about my situation now that I was armed with something more than a walking stick. Once I’d found food and shelter, and had a chance to rest, I intended to start looking for a way back home. I considered retracing my steps and turning to the jungle to find the corpse of the deer, but the thought of trying to free the dead animal from the razor–grass seemed foolish. I’d have better luck hunting something I didn’t have to fight another predator for—especially if that predator was a plant that could slice me to ribbons. A .45 is a formidable handgun, capable of stopping almost any attacker—from an armed intruder to a bear in the wild—but it wouldn’t do much against blades of grass. I’d be better armed with a weed whacker or a lawnmower.
After tying the plastic bag’s handles around one of my belt loops, I stuck the .45 in my waistband. The metal felt cool against the small of my sweaty back. I’d made sure no rounds were chambered and wasn’t too worried that I’d accidentally shoot myself while climbing down. I clambered out of the Jeep and out onto the rocks, scaling the cliff face like a spider. I descended at a different point from my initial climb, and in doing so, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. On the other side of the peak lay a long, shadowed crevice. A narrow, winding trail snaked along the bottom of it, providing less treacherous footing and more importantly, an escape from the ever present sun.
