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A swampy heat permeated every crack and crevice of the building and its contents courtesy of clogged air conditioning units in conjunction with scorching conditions nationwide. This was the kind of weather that birthed chicanery. Nobody plotted valiant escapes under a struggling umbrella in the cold and rain; no, Mediterranean heat was the home of drama and subterfuge, perhaps aided by dimmed lights and darkened clothing just to add to the atmosphere. Conditions met in spades on that night.
“Crikey!” came the singular thought remaining on the premises, incongruity evident in the imagined tone. Reacting silently to the heat.
That days escape-artist-to-be was born in the waning months of 2022 at the age of twenty-four and had hardly moved a muscle since. The conditions were never right, others got in his way, he was beached. Heat was proving to be what he needed however, the perfect conditions turned out to come together thanks to the mistakes of others. And by perfect conditions, to his mind, they truly could not be any more so. The long suffering skeleton crew that monitored and cleaned the area during the off season had decided that the sweltering heat was too much to handle and so had left early, watched by dozens of watery eyes as they hung up their work hats and jackets before leaving for the night.
None watched as he did though and after giving them enough space to take advantage, he set about prying himself from his barless prison.
First his right foot, the stronger of the two, came free with a wet slurp. The plan had been to follow that up with the left and then a steady step down from the top of the podium, but momentum instead carried him fitfully forwards before he was ready. Clearly the figure on his left was also unready for his move as he endeavoured to tilt forward alongside the escapee rather than graciously steady himself as his neighbour desperately threw an arm on his shoulder.
It was all he could manage, in the face of this betrayal, to twist around so as not to land on his face, baring his shoulder instead. He snapped to his left and braced for impact. Another slap, heavy and wet. The floor didn’t stop him in place. Polished white marble floors streaked black as he skidded onwards for a few metres, only coming to a stop when he met some carpet.
The greyscale dotted pattern met his eyes when he steeled himself enough to reopen them, confident by then that nobody had heard him and come to investigate. Feeling like he was making close eye contact with some unknowable beast, a great grey wolf with a thousand eyes perhaps, he hastily heaved himself back to his feet. Surveying the scene from six feet up, he could now see that he hadn’t exactly been subtle in his first step to freedom.
The black smear mingled with a minty green, both on the floor and on his shoulder, spreading like rot where he made contact. Following the trail back to his podium, he could immediately tell that the other man came off worse. He saw no cause for sympathy in this.
“What the fuck are you doing!?” were his first spoken words after finally getting off that stand, and he was skipping the warmup.
No response. The accused lay face down, unmoving and seemingly unbreathing. Still no cause for sympathy.
“Are you trying to fucking kill us both!?”
Nothing.
“Is he a fucking prick!?” he asked nobody in particular, unsure how to proceed when his adversary refused to fight back.
The words bounced around the room, eventually returning to him altered and ethereal, as if he was being mimicked by the statuesque congregation laid out uniformly throughout the room. He shuddered slightly at the idea of his companions in imprisonment speaking up now. The possibility burrowed towards the back of his mind. It was just his imagination surely, none had broken their silence before and to do so now, just as he was about to escape their company, could only be seen as sinister.
Unnerved by the icy reception, he turned his attention to the vacated podium. Specifically endeavouring to take a few steps away from the man laying on his face to do so. It looked different from this perspective. Bigger, more grandiose, less restrictive. The gold-plated plaque on the front assured him that he had been placed there for a reason, if not one he felt justified indefinite internment.
When he first took pride of place atop that stand, it didn’t seem like captivity. He gladly maintained the heroic pose he had been crafted in, arms outstretched, as if cresting an ideal surface for soaking up glory like a thriving flower does its leaves. Visitors came dozens at a time, shepherded by one of those who had left the building early tonight. They went to each of the gathered figures in his hall one at a time, but they tended to linger in front of him in particular. The main thing he had noticed about them was that they almost universally wore similar attire to him. Blacks and greys adorned variously with the same silver star. At that point he didn’t know what the plaque said he had done but it must have been something truly great to say that so many chose to adorn their own bodies with his memorabilia. He had gladly revelled in the rewards of his unknown triumph.
For the first time ever, he could see his stand from their perspective, could see what the reason was for what had turned into a prison sentence rather than a parade. Etched into the metal was an image of the world. Earth trapped in a diamond, itself trapped in a box. Above that was simply the word “Winner” and below was “2022 Brazilian Grand Prix.”
The title of winner seemed saccharine now, after months of sitting still and being ogled, like the leader of the championship giving you a slap on the back knowing its too late for you to catch up. Had he seen the message a few months ago he would likely have been elated at the assurance that he was such a thing, now though he knew the only way to win was to get out of here and prove that he was worth more than a presentation piece. He could and would do more than sit and be stared at.
He didn’t need to stop and think about where to go next. All he had been able to do since he got here was survey this room and so he knew where he was heading next, or at least in what direction. From the perspective he had embodied, there was an exit both to his right and his left. Visitors always came from the left, commonly looking slightly worn out by the time they reached him. The sight of some spectators raising their shoulders and skipping the others quietly on display in favour of him used to lend him some of their sunny disposition, more recently however, he tended to feel nothing but contempt towards anyone who enjoyed his entrapment.
The left had to be the way out, the visitors had to have been coming from somewhere and he had never seen someone enter from the right, bar a few who came back looking for forgotten belongings they’d left behind on their first trip through.
Once, someone had left their cup of coffee on the floor directly in front of him, freeing up both hands to take pictures. They had noticed their mistake just before rounding into the next room and hurriedly turned to run back and retrieve their drink before they fell too far behind their group, bending over to grab it as they ran and taking one step more than they intended in their rush; giving the mostly-full cup a swift kick and spreading its contents around the floor like viscera from a shotgun blast. To top it all off, the caretaker turned out to be an avid Johnny Cash fan and so saw fit to pass his shift by working his way through the man’s discography as poorly as possible for the benefit of his captive audience.
Not even a final knowing glance back at what had been his home since his inception was afforded to that which he had learned to hate. If he had, he would have noticed the primordial charcoal footprints he was dragging along in his wake. If he wasn’t in such a hurry to leave then he might have noticed the gradually deteriorating grip that came with each step. If he had been paying more attention to the present than the future then possibly he would have noticed the way that his eyeline was sinking in conjunction with the aforementioned.
Having done none of these things, he continued on towards freedom. Once he rounded the corner and left this room, he would be operating entirely on guesswork. Nobody here would help him and hopefully nobody would be present for that to even be an option. All that would accompany him until the moment he set foot outside was the darkness and heat, ample companionship considering his end goal.
He deliberately slowed his stride before coming up to the apex of the corner that would lead him out of his cell block by any other name; taking no notice of how his hand slipped and left another smudge on the brick when he tried to brace himself against it. The second time stuck, allowing him to carefully lean his head around the obstacle to survey the path forward.
On the bright side, there was nobody waiting to tackle him to ground and haul him back to his stand as far as he could see, on the other hand however, it was rather bright. None of the lights had been left on of course, but there was a huge skylight that must have accounted for at least half of the total area of the rooms roof, bathing the floor he would have to cross in a milky white light. The pervasive heat causing sweat to drip across his vision (was it brown?) mingled with the icy reflections of the moonlight and created a strangely oxymoronic scene to behold.
The most prominent detractors of the almost monochromatic visage were the tell tale red dots floating in the far left and close right corners, signifying an accompanying security camera perched high up for optimal coverage of the entire room. There was no way of knowing if those cameras were manned, or even if they needed to be. He could just imagine Folsom Prison Blues or Solitary Man being butchered by some oaf with his jumpsuit peeled down to his waist and a battery powered, foam bladed fan in one hand acting as the shark in the water around his Alcatraz.
There didn’t seem to be any way to cross unseen. Any angle left uncovered by one camera was clear as day to its counterpart across the room and neither one was close enough to attempt to sabotage them. He briefly entertained the idea of hugging close to some exhibits that were organised into a sort of minature room within the room, four corners erected in parallel with large gaps between their opposites, but the cameras had already considered that and blocked off any opportunity. The brilliant moonlight further foiled any prospective plans to slink through without detection. Although he would never admit it himself, subtlety had never been something he excelled at and that downfall was shining through at that moment.
His plan had really only been to get off the stand and walk out the door, reasoning that he couldn’t guess what would be around the corner which once represented the limits of his world. Every detail about that room was readily available, painfully so. How many tiles there were, how many were covered by mats, how many hooks were mounted along the wall heading for the exit and exactly which staff members habitually left their work attire on which hook as they left.
Then it struck him. Sneaking through without being seen at all, assuming, as he must, that the cameras spotting him would end his escape, was impossible. What he could try, was to pass through in such a way that any observer would think nothing of him. The hooks would surely have a suitably bulky coat to conceal his identity and simply pulling down the brim of a cap and keeping his head down would do the rest.
Peeling himself from his scouting position left yet another imprint, like someone had been laying down flour to try and catch a ghost in its tracks. Baleful black blemishes marking exactly where he braced his hand and both feet on the previously sanitary white tiles, then following him back to the hooks.
Two perfectly oversized jackets hung there like fruit from a branch, so fat with ripeness that to leave them any longer could cause them to rot away. He pulled on the one nearest to the exit and grabbed the associated cap hung below it on the same hook. The jacket’s flat grey material was only separated by a faux gold name tag bearing the name “R. Kubica” and didn’t seem very well put together. Pulling the jacket completely over himself, using the pockets as a convenient gripping point, revealed holes in the lining and pockets while one arm of the jacket felt shorter than the other. It would do for the short time he needed it for however.
The arrayed hooks acted as a sort of sign out sheet for the workers here, an observation which made the two empty hooks somewhat worrying. One hat was only missing its accompanying jacket, but the other was completely empty. This had to mean the cameras were in fact being monitored still, or potentially there may still have been some someone else wandering the building.
During the nervous walk back to his moonlit escape route, he occupied himself with adjusting the cap to its most generous setting so as to cover his face as best as possible, flecks of surface rust raining from the metal buckle with every tug at the strap. Once again, he missed the black marks he dragged behind himself thanks to this operation. He was starting to notice the stickiness inside the jacket though, as well as the sickly squelch that came when he pulled the hat down over his face however. A drop of brown entered his vision in response, thicker and more opaque this time like a drop of hot wax from a burning candle, but he wiped it away worriedly and endeavoured to focus on the task at hand.
He didn’t stop to observe the scene this time, simply stuffing his hands into the ineffectual pockets of the wonky disguise, turning his gaze to the floor, and purposefully walking into the room.
Instantly, both the literal and proverbial heat in the room enveloped him. The skylight was acting like a greenhouse in there, drawing yet more sloppy dollops of alarmingly pigmented sweat down his face. The cameras felt like lasers bearing down on him, as if the little red LEDs were miniature suns.
Wearing the uniform, he could very much see why most of the staff had decided it wasn’t worth their while to stick around until their shifts fully wrapped up and they could be relieved. The material was suffocating, even with the loose fit his arms still felt like they were melting and sloughing off in the sleeves of tye jacket. The plastic core of the brim on the cap also slightly poked through the inside and scraped uncomfortably against his forehead, digging in as he pulled the brim as low as he could.
It wasn’t until he reached the centre of the room, taking the brunt of the force of the giant magnifying glass above him, that he figured out where he was going. Once he cleared the first of the standalone corners, seeing that they played host to an assortment of informational displays about various features of the prison, he saw his chance. A faint green glow, green as a verdant meadow, hung over a broad, utilitarian doorway.
All that was written, in burning white letters, was “exit.”
He staggered slightly at the sight, slipping forward a bit as he stalled. The doors, of course, were closed, with a red bar jutting invitingly from each one, waiting on his push to reveal the rest of his life.
Recovery came quick, he picked up the pace again, making a beeline for the door. Yet more sweat poured from him in response to the hurry, now it wasn’t just brown, but also a peach tone. A bucket of black poured from his sleeve as he lowered the hand that had been pulling down on the cap, leaving a putrescent puddle on the floor. Having finally noticed his tracks, he started running from them in panic, forming a horrible river towards the lake of shadows.
Tributaries splayed out as he abandoned discretion and favoured running towards the door. Uninformed hope clouded his mind. Hope that whatever was happening to him was some kind of horrifying defence system in the room. Hope that getting out would stop this punishment.
He didn’t stop to open the door; instead opting to slam into it with all his built up momentum. The bar didn’t give like he expected. It dug into his waist and took a divot out of him before yielding and opening the door as intended.
The second the door opened, a malefic wail sounded.
The awkward impact with the door caused him to slip, that’s when he started to notice the diminishing grip in his shoes. Turning instinctively to try and see what was coming for him, he fell into his back just beyond the doorframe.
Witnessing the anathema he left in his wake. The room looked like a holy battle had taken place within it. The holy light had shone through skylight, God’s own intervention, and the demonic army had been reduced to their base elements of hatred and rot.
Forced to take a seat, he gathered his thoughts a bit. He could feel his body bulging out on either side of where he had tucked himself into the bar, his shoes were spreading out grotesquely from just below ankle height to form some kind of Cronenberg-esque snowshoes. Ripping the cap off took his hairline back a few disgusting inches with a wet slap. He tore the jacket off next, revealing his right arm, hanging on by a thread.
He harmonised with the alarm, the realisation that that’s what it was doing very little to comfort him, and held his arm all the way out in horror. The jacket must have been all that was holding him together as just this small increase in leverage caused the whole thing to drop off at the elbow.
No pain came with any of these injuries, although copious amounts of mental anguish readily took the place of physical pain. No blood, no bone, seemingly nothing biological at all. While incredibly distressing, this wasn’t the most pressing issue on his mind at that moment. He couldn’t quite steel himself, maybe tin himself; able to bring himself back to his feet but not very steadily. The alarm meant people were coming, his window was closing.
Back turned to the chaos, he set off down the hall that promised an exit. First he ran, slipping and sliding too much to maintain the pace and slowing gradually before he even got a third of the way down the escape tunnel. The seal had clearly been broken. Any kind of movement wore away at his dissolving body.
All he could manage was the wobbly gait of a new-born giraffe, making glacial progress down the hall. Mingling blacks, greys and mints dragged behind him creating a gory streak in his wake.
He was being worn down, trudging down the hall on his calves with one arm. Eventually his legs failed him entirely, his knees were just about still there, but he couldn’t support himself on the remnants.
He noticed the alarm. Of course it was hard to ignore, but now he could hear it from ahead of him too. It was different, audibly carrying further and being afforded an echo for its troubles. It had to be an alarm outside the building. He was almost there.
Clawing, gripping, pulling, straining. His fingers came away in dollops as he fought tooth and nail for freedom.
He was close. The echoing calls were now louder than the contained ones he left behind.
Clawing, gripping, pulling, straining. His fingers weren’t long enough to pull him along anymore. He had to pry himself forward by the gaps between the tiles.
Finally he saw it. The promised exit. It was an exit. It was a barred exit. A metal grating cruelly pulled down over a glass plated doorway.
He clawed, he gripped, he pulled and he strained at the grating, trying to pull just one of those gap wider, but nothing gave. Nothing in the cold steel gave. One thing actually did give.
His neck.
The fucking fire alarm had to go off at three in the fucking morning didn’t it. He had finished up early, driven forty minutes home only about an hour ago, and now he had to drive forty minutes back because some idiot teenager stuck a lit rag in a window or something equally dumb.
Sure enough, there was no blazing conflagration greeting him when he pulled into the car park. At least he could drop back his cap, Kubica always made a big deal of it when he forgot to hang up his jacket and cap before heading home for the day.
Claire should have been able to turn it off from her position in the security room, but she was only the deputy security officer and so didn’t have the proper credentials to be able to turn it off. She had called him at least ten times while he was driving here, each time he let it ring out, feeling incapable of being diplomatic with her after she initially called him back to work. She could tell him whatever she needed to in person.
Stepping out of his car, briefly turning back after forgetting his cap again, he scaled the steps to the front door of the museum. The keypad for the security gate was strobing orange and yellow, he was unsure if that was supposed to be some poor taste mimicry of a fire or if it always did that when there was an alarm. Through the grating, Claire was stood stock still, gaze fixed on the floor.
He rolled his eyes, having hoped he could hold off on having to talk to her a little longer. 2-8-0-8-2-1, the gate raised up, Claire still didn’t look at him. He coughed politely and she finally looked at him.
“Uhm” she mumbled and looked back at the floor.
He followed her gaze to a melted horror show on the floor between the two of them
“What absolute psycho did that to the George Russell waxwork!?”