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Gertrude had said that it would be far. She had told him everything. He was ready to face whatever horror awaited them on the strange, distant island. Michael trusted her.
A grim, surly looking captain greeted her on the docks. Michael wondered how they knew each other. Old bridge partners perhaps? He had to have been an old acquaintance. In all the time he had known her, Gertrude had not struck him as the type to be resourceful. Besides, they looked to be nearing the same age.
"Come aboard." Those were the only words uttered by the old man during the entire trip. Even upon their initial arrival he had nodded, just once, at Gertrude. It struck Michael that they must have discussed this journey in a previous conversation and the details had likely been ironed out already. Maybe they had caught him at a bad time. After all, not everyone was a morning person.
The cold chill grasped Michael Shelley's bones, shaking him out of his musings and tightening its grip until his teeth were chattering. Looking down at his hands, his mind registered a mild shock at how pale his skin looked against the deck. Almost translucent. Suddenly, protective instinct kicking in, his head jerked up almost of its own volition, eyes seeking out his traveling companion. Surely, if he was so chilled she must be freezing.
Eyes frantically scanning the deck, his gaze finally rested upon Gertrude Robinson's form, just a silhouette against the bone-chilling fog. She turned around, seemingly aware of his gaze. It's funny how she did that; almost unnerving. If he didn't know any better, Michael might almost say that she had an extra pair of eyes in the back of her head. But of course, that would be silly. The older generations always had a propensity for knowing things that younger folk might be too distracted to see.
"Yes, Michael?"
His mind raced, searching for an answer to the unexpected question.
"Where are we going?"
"Zemlya Sannikova. A place where we must face a great evil."
Of course! Stupid Michael. That was pretty much the only thing he knew. She sounded so sure of herself. Very firm. Not at all the bumbling, forgetful grandmother figure he had become used to seeing in the Archives. What was that noise? Ah. The chattering of teeth. His own. How could he forget?
"Are you not cold, Gertrude? Why don't we head below decks? I could prepare some tea-?"
"That won't be necessary Michael, no. Perhaps the chill you feel was caused by a breeze that slipped past your windbreaker."
That matter-of-fact tone left no room for argument. A breeze. Of course. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't felt cold since coming over to speak with her. How embarrassing that he came over to pester this frail old woman because of a brief chill. She'd probably been enjoying the view of those hypnotic waves until he came, bumbling in to destroy her peace. Feeling childish, he looked down at his hands once more. They were the color they had always been, just as solid; just as real. He shook himself and - offering a feeble smile and nodding in agreement - descended into the ship for the rest of the journey.
Maybe traveling out of the office was doing her good. It certainly did liven her movements, which he noticed had quickened as they had left the boat. They hadn't seen the captain again but when he brought this up with Gertrude, she waved him off saying, "He likes his privacy," and elaborated no further. He did his best to quiet the unease building in the back of his throat. The warmth of solid ground beneath his feet dispelled it easily.
A green jungle of smiling masks and twisting vines filled his vision and Michael Shelley knew fear. Not the paltry twinge of a mildly embarrassing moment like the one on the boat nor the mortification of having to redo a week's worth of work. No, this fear was far more potent. A fear that he had not felt since his school days. Since... since Ryan.
Something was wrong. He had to get Gertrude out of here. For all the planning she may have done, she did not know what this power was capable of. But then again... she had chosen him. Him! Out of all her assistants, she trusted him to help her fight this evil. He could finally prevent it from taking someone else. It was within his power now. All he had to do was return the favor Gertrude had given him, and Michael trusted her.
As the two advanced further, the pit in his stomach opened wider and wider, gnawing at him from the inside out. Even as he reached a hand out, offering the old woman help with the climb, he knew that they were headed for certain death. Or, in the worst-case scenario, a fate worse than death. Having scaled the mountain, he turned his gaze to the top. One look at the peak confirmed all his fears. Nothing here could be real. Or maybe everything was, and the life he remembered was false. All of a sudden, he- remembers? Ryan, ranting on and on about the construct of reality and how nothing could be trusted, how none of it could be real. Too late, he finally understands. Someone is shaking him, grabbing him by the shoulders, yelling over the cacophony of Not-Voices joining in celebration.
The final moments of Michael Shelley's life are snapshots that occur in the following order:
He is in a maze. Impossible in its colors and twisting corridors. Mirrors warp and distort the spaces between each other. Distance is a hazy concept in the back of his mind. Not even a memory. It would have to be real for that to be true.
There is nothing in his flat. He gets the vague idea that something was missing. No, not something. Someone. Shaking his head in confusion, he wonders who it might be and walks on.
An old woman, Gertrude, his mind helpfully supplies is shoving a map into his trembling hands. Pointing at the center of the chaos, she shouts directions. This person can feel the urgency in her voice and surmises that the words are important in some way. To them they cannot matter. How could anything be important if there is nothing to be? Nowhere to be? No one to be?
This is the end of Michael Shelley's life.
A door creaks open. Screams and Not-Screams cannot be heard through everywhere and nowhere at once.
The Distortion is. Its being bound to reality.
Michael opens its eyes. Dizzying spirals and clashing colors emerge.
And Gertrude Robinson is nowhere to be found.