Walk around, I guess?

You tried to stick to one direction, but the walls mazed around so much that you weren’t sure if you could return to where you started. Eventually, however, the walls opened up, and you found yourself “outside” of the twisted rooms. The sky was dark, filled with twinkling stars and pristine houses flanked the street. The lights are off, and the doors are closed, though. Street lights are lining the street. And beneath them are parked cars, also pristine.

The weather outside was also pleasant if the fixed, undamaged houses and cars weren’t enough red flags for something wrong. It was far too pleasant for the snow and winter weather you were attuned to. Again, you cough.

The street lights buzzed as you walked, still feeling watched from the unlit windows and dark corners of the green lawns. Just as you were thinking this neighborhood would last more miles and you would have to resort down to approaching one of these dark homes for help, you saw a light flick on at one of the many houses. It was only for a second, but you thought you saw someone standing at the window where you saw the light first turn on.

Your instincts buzzed like the lights to proceed down the street and ignore it— pay no attention to the building. But, the curious side of your head told you this is precisely where you could get some answers. You stood at the gate, a white picket fence with perfect hedges and a small garden that seemed oddly familiar. The turns off, and for the first time, you hear something that isn’t from you.

It sounds like someone is running up the stairs from the inside. It’s quiet for a moment, but then the light upstairs turns out. “OK…” you take a deep breath and approach the door. You wish you had a gun or something else you could use as an equalizer, but all you have is your hands.

The door is unlocked. The house has no furniture. There are no sounds inside that don’t come from you.

You open your mouth, almost wanting to ask if there’s anyone inside. Your words refuse to come out; all that comes out is air. You swallow hard and clear your throat after a curse. You’re about to leave when someone calls out.

“Are you real?” A girl from the upstairs says. “I don’t know if you’re real, so don’t go upstairs.”

“I’m real,” you say, relieved to hear someone. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know!” She sobs. “I really want to trust you, I do! But I’ve seen so many monsters I don't want to risk it.”

“How long have you been here? I’ve only been here for a few hours…I think?”

“A day or two? I-I don’t know, OK? Please go away!” She shouts again, her voice trembling.

“I can help,” you offer, and there’s a pause. “Or at least help each other,” you add, hoping to entice her to let either you come up down on her own.

“I’m coming down,” she says. “I have a knife.”

“And I’m unarmed,” you shrug. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You’re surprised to see bare feet under fishnets descend the stairs. Long legs and black lingerie complement a curvy body and big breasts on a petite frame. Dark brown eyes with smudged makeup and messy brown hair pinned into twin buns. She’s probably in her early 20s.

“Fuck,” she almost breaks into tears. “You are real.”

In her tattooed hands is a kitchen knife, but it’s trembling in her hands. You nod, eyeing the knife more than the rest of her. “Yes. If I move, are you going to stab me?”

She laughs, breaking the tension. “No! I promise. But I could use a hug right now.”

The knife clatters to the floor when she runs forward to be embraced. She’s warm and smells like a fruity drink. You hold her, surprised by her willingness to be touched by a stranger.

“You’re alright, kid,” you pat her back, squeezing her lightly. “Where are you from?”

“Florida,” she mutters.

“What?”

“Florida,” she repeats, exhaling loudly as she becomes comfortable in your arms. “Cuban District in the deep southern beaches.”

When she says this, you realize she’s speaking with a slight accent. You know it’s hindered by a Spanish tongue. “How about you?”

“I was in Montana—“

She pushes you back. “No me tomes por tonto!”

And there it is, you think briefly, but return to the matter in a heartbeat. “How long have you been in here?”

“I told you, just a day or 2!” She stumbles back and retrieves the knife. “Where are you from!?”

You extend your hands out. “Listen to me. Something is very wrong here, aight? We can either start arguing where we came from, or we can try to work with each other to get out.”

The girl crosses her arms, the blade of the knife shining as the light from the street post outside catches it. “Dalila,” she says, making your heart skip a little.

“Delilah?”

She nods. “I’m not very delicate, though. I will stab you if you try to eat me…monstruo.”

“I’m Warren. And don’t be alarmed, but I’m an independent contractor.”

Delila looks over at you, her eyes fixed on your biceps, and nods. “You seem to take care of yourself. So I don’t doubt that.”

Delila covers herself, becoming bashful with the mention of careers now. She doesn’t say her occupation and returns to the original subject. “We should get moving,” she coughs a few times into my closed fist. “Find a way out of here.”

The girl still has her arms around her, and you wonder if she’s cold. You can’t offer anything, but she notices you leering at her. “What?”

“Are you cold?” You blush, your eyes on her round ass a second longer than you intended.

“Kind of,” she whimpers. “I’ve gone through at least 5 houses and can’t find anything to cover myself in.”

The concept of leaving felt like it was nothing more than hopeful thinking. You didn’t know where you were or how far you’d gotten from Montana, let alone the bar. “What’s the date?” You blurt out, looking at Delila again.

“January 5th?” She supplies. “No, it’s the 3rd.”

She was four days off of her guess, which was disconcerting. “It’s the 7th. What year?”

“1987,” she says.

“What?”

She giggles. “I’m kidding.”

“What year then?”

“2483,” she squints. “2484.”

There honestly wasn’t anything else to investigate. You could have dived in and discovered more about the girl, but you didn’t see that as helpful. You glance down at her feet and frown. “Do you need shoes?”

She shakes her head. “Not really. I have sneakers up the stairs. I was grabbing my stuff outside the locker at work when I…fell through the floor.”

“Let’s get those on and keep moving then.”