Annihilation Engine Seven, Part Three

I don't really understand how I know what I'm doing, or why I'm so calm. I'm mashed between two walls, but they're soft. They squeeze me gently, almost comforting like swaddling clothes or that time I crawled inside the old fold-out bed in the sofa. It was a secret place, and it felt safe despite the obvious fact that a grown-up might walk by at any time and decide to neaten up. They might fold up the bed, collapsing the legs and pushing it together. The steel frame would bow and slide inwards, slowly crushing me in my little hidden place. I might not say anything. I might let it happen. Those places were so impossible, so magical, that danger or death seemed very unlikely.

And here, in between again, the walls clench and slide me along. I can feel a ripple through the smooth walls, pushing me farther down. It's a natural sort of state, feeling that movement. I can bear the strangeness knowing I will not be here much longer. Knowing that I am moving is comfort enough.

It's dark and I can't really breathe, but none of this can be real, so I'm not very worried. How can a building eat me? What nutrients could it pull from my body? Like a marble swallowed by a child, I will pass cleanly through and drop with a clank against the bottom of the toilet.

With this simple clarity, I find myself deposited in a thin metal chair and my hands resting on a chipped glass table. I feel wind blowing across my neck, so I must be outside. It's probably safe to breathe again, but I'm savoring the air in my lungs, holding it in till the last possible moment.

"Are you alright?" someone asks me. The voice doesn't sound familiar. I should open my eyes. It must be safe now that I'm sitting somewhere outside. Nothing terrible has happened.

"Do you want some water?" that voice again, sounds like a man, and he sounds honestly concerned. I should start breathing again so he doesn't have to worry. I could have held it longer. I could hold it forever, just not now because I don't want this guy to worry.

I let my breath out in a rush and a cough. I reply, "No, I'm fine, thank you. What were we talking about?" as if I knew where I was and what was happening.

He's a thin man with very intelligent eyes. His curious little smile quirks up, "You wanted to know about my work,"

"Yes, it's fascinating," my hand raises to my lips and I'm surprised to find a lit cigarette. I don't smoke, yet I take a drag naturally, enjoying the warmth filling up, the flavor rolling over my mouth. "Please continue," I add.

"Well, the thing is, I never really thought they would work. It was one thing to see it on paper, another thing entirely to see it actually happen. Something like that shouldn't exist. It doesn't belong,"

The man's words circle around in my head. I'm nodding as if I know what he's talking about. I toss the cigarette onto the ground and crush it out. My hands dig naturally into my pockets for another. This is an old, automatic sort of motion. The sort of thing a perrson does after smoking for years. It occurs to me that I might not be in the right person. I hold up the pack of cigarettes and offer one to the man.

"Ah, no thanks," he shakes his head politely, though he's obviously tempted, "I'm afraid that's what gets me. Throat cancer,"

"What do you mean?"

"I've skipped to the end of the book. 1967, throat cancer. That's how I go,"

"Well it seems you've missed the mark. We're much farther along than that,"

He shifts in his chair and furrows his brow. He thinks for a pregnant moment, "Time works a little different when you're hooked up to the engine,"

"So when does 1967 happen to you?"

"Hard to say, really. Might have already happened. I'd have no way of knowing. That's how it feels anyway, it's all a part of the process. You have to step outside the engine in order to access it. You have to see how it's working,"

"Can you help me find my sister? She went running off again. She could hurt herself,"

"Your sister?" He seems startled. He stares at me carefully. "What is her name?"

"Laney. I already checked all her favorite spots. She could be anywhere,"

"I don't think I can help. I just make bombs, big ones,"

"You think maybe she's hooked up to the engine? Maybe time works different for her. Maybe she's in 1967,"

"Well then I certainly can't go after her," he chuckles. There's something he doesn't want to tell me. He's avoiding my gaze.

"Maybe you know how I can get started. Maybe you know someone I can talk to," I suggest.

"Yeah," he sighs. He's dissappointed in someone, but I can't tell if it's me or him, "Go talk to Chalk the Smith. Take my bike, it's just outside. It'll take you right to him,"

"Thanks," I said as I stood up. "You said you made bombs, right?"

"Yeah, never thought it would happen like it did, but yeah, bombs,"

"What sort?"

"The sort that blows up everything,"

"What do you mean everything?"

"Everything forever," he replied, looking down with no small amount of regret.