IN MY HASTE TO CHASE THE FLEEING STRING and the distraction of the hoofprint, I’ve failed to notice odd similarities between this hole in the wall and the one I smashed one floor down. Looking at it closer, it’s damn near identical.
For instance, just above the hole sits a ceiling tile that’s askew—I’d swear it’s in the same spot I climbed up. There’s even a smaller hole kicked into the drywall—a foothold, exactly like the one I’d made, for someone to clamber up with. It seems someone had the same idea I did—blaze your own trail instead following the one laid out.
I’m halfway up the wall when I realize that there’s no actual reason to believe that this other person, whoever they are, went this way. Maybe they climbed down instead of up. Maybe they, like me, were weirded out after realizing that the ceiling panels double as floor tiles, and decided to break through a wall instead of climbing anywhere.
I hunker down in front of the ruined wall and give myself a mental kick. If only I hadn’t destroyed the drywall in my fit of frustration, I might get some clue based on which side the dust had fallen. I might have even found a trail to follow. Now, of course, the dust I stirred up coats everything, and my footprints mangle any evidence the other might have left behind.
So should I head up? Up and out, only to find another series of doppelgänger corridors? Or should I carry on? Perhaps there’s another trail I can follow....
I walk through the shards of drywall, disturbing dust in my wake, to examine the hoofprint again. Maybe the other person decided not to climb when this cow, or whatever it is, wandered over. Maybe they followed the animal instead.
I search for more hoofprints. My rampage unsettled new dust and drywall fragments, so I can only make out one or two. The rest, if there are any more, have been obscured.
One important detail differs from the spot where I climbed up, however—a third corridor. I’d Kool-Aid Manned my way through a couple hallways before finally climbing through the ceiling and the place I’d climbed up had been completely straight. This hole, on the other hand, was clearly broken at an intersection—stepping through it, I can travel left, right, or straight ahead.
I suppose I could go up, too ... but something holds me back.
It’s the hoofprints. The two that are visible clearly point towards the corridor straight ahead. So do I head up, in the hope that my Italian friend went that way, or do I follow the poor cow stuck in this maze?
I opt for the latter. If any other human being is stuck in here with me, they’re just as lost as I am. I’ll take animal instincts over human uncertainty any day.
A dozen steps down this new hallway, which I’m playfully calling the ‘Minotaur’s corridor,’ I check myself. What do I do if I catch up with the cow? Eat it? No, I’m not hungry—and besides, I have no tools with which to butcher it and no fire with which to cook it. Can one ride a cow? Maybe I should just follow it. Are cows dangerous? Do they bite?
Maybe, if I meet the beast, I’d be better off avoiding it. When I escape—when I’m finally out—I’ll phone animal services to come collect it. Right after I phone the city and have them condemn this madhouse.
Yes, that’s the plan. I walk down the Minotaur’s corridor and check my broken watch. It’s twenty minutes to something. I walk for a time and take note when the minute hand again sweeps past the four. Two more hours pass and still I walk down the Minotaur’s corridor.
I haven’t yet seen a hallway like this one. No branching paths interrupt it at all and it seems to stretch on forever. Should I turn back?
No. Different is what I wanted. It’s what I hoped for. With any luck, this path will take me up and out of whatever maze I’ve wound up in. There’s nothing to be afraid of here—no monsters in this maze.