THE WORLD BEYOND

Quite a few years ago I played around with the idea of a little dystopian world. Thought I would share a snippet from that story here...

It had been a normal day, the day he lost himself. He had gotten up, washed, dressed, eaten a balanced breakfast at exactly 7:05am and had then walked the 40.2 meters to his office door, waving a “hello” to Megan who had casually waved back and smiled. He had sat down in front of his screen and stared at it blankly, trying to come up with something unintelligent and boring to write.

“Greg!”

The voice of his supervisor jerked Greg out of his thoughts, “Sir?”

“I have a new assignment for you,” Mr. Vanch said.

Greg turned to face his boss, his face appropriately questioning and thoughtful, “New assignment, sir?”

Mr. Vanch was the director of the 75^th Newsfloor (which Greg had always considered as a highly unimaginative name for a newspaper, but he supposed that it was better than the 64^th Floor News that they competed with). A weedy-looking man, Vanch's quiet and serene appearance was deceiving. He was muscular, but hid his strength well, a part of his deception, behind overlarge button-down dress shirts and striped pants that made him appear gawky and ill formed. He had blond hair and quiet blue eyes, which only helped make him seem small and un-intimidating; however, Greg had seen this man angry, had seen him chase down and throw a hardened criminal into a wall, and had seen videos of his boxing days before he settled down into a more steady job. Greg always felt slightly uncomfortable around his boss.

“It's just a quick errand, actually,” Mr. Vanch said, handing Greg a slip of paper and a large manila envelope. “These are the directions so that you don’t get lost, I need you to go down to the first level and deliver this envelope to Dr. Karns.”

“Right away sir. Did you want to see my latest column?”

“No,” Mr. Vanch said hurriedly, “I'm sure it's word perfect, as usual. If I could find a paper-boy I wouldn't be asking you... of course..."

“I could stand to stretch my legs, it's no trouble."

Mr. Vanch nodded and then turned and walked out into the hall. Greg stood up, ran his fingers through his dark hair, grabbed the package, and began his trip to the first level. The directions were clear and easy to follow, but he was glad of them; otherwise it would have been easy to get lost on a level  he had never been on before. Greg had never been one with a good sense of direction, and every level was set up differently from every other level, though they all shared similar features.

Dr. Karns met him at the door and thanked him for delivering the envelope, and then she offered him coffee, which he gladly accepted. They chatted for a while, but there really was nothing to talk about and Greg began to feel as though he would be overstaying his welcome if he did not take his leave.

“Well, it has been nice talking with you ma’am,” Greg finally said respectfully, “but I really must get back up to my office.”

She said she understood and that she had much work to do as well. Once again she thanked him for taking the time to deliver the envelope. Then she ushered him to the door.

Greg had gotten down the first corridor and turned several corners before he realized that he had left his directions in Dr. Karn’s office. Furrowing his brow in frustration, he turned to go back the way that he had come. Within a few moments he was hopelessly lost. Muttering to himself under his breath, Greg stopped to think. He glanced down the hallway, made a quick decision, and turned left. He came to another junction and he turned right. He wandered around like this for over a standard hour, becoming more and more confused and mixed up.

Then he turned down a hallway that was not as well lit as the rest. As he followed it, and turned a few more times the hallway began to look more and more unkempt, dirty, dark, and ominous. He went down a small flight of three stairs and suddenly found himself in an even older looking hallway; the paint was peeling and looked stained and dark. The lights were dim and it did not seem as clean somehow, but he did not know what else to do other than continue on until he found something familiar. Besides, his reporter's "sense" was interested. This was something different... something interesting.

The hall ended abruptly at a door that looked as though it had not been opened in years, Greg began to feel the skin on the back of his neck prickling as though someone was following him. A nervous, jumpy sensation arrested his stomach as he reached for the knob. Something was seriously wrong, but he could not seem to stop his hand. The knob was cold, shockingly cold, almost icy, and it turned grudgingly, screeching in protest. The door stuck and he had to jerk it open, throwing his whole weight into the effort.

Behind the door was a dark, musty smelling hall, an extension of the one that he was standing in, but so different that he never would have guessed that the two were on the same level. The new hall was made of wood, and the air felt stale and moist. Greg hesitated, fearful, but something within him, maybe it was the reporter coming alive, or maybe it was his imagination that longed for inspiration and something to feed upon, prompted him forward. He could barely make out a dim light peeking out through the crack under another door at the other end of the hallway and he made for it, stepping carefully lest the boards beneath his feet break. They did not break, but they groaned plaintively as he walked across them, whining and complaining as he disturbed their rest.

The second door was even more reluctant than the first to open, but it gave in to the force of his shoulder. It opened so abruptly that he stumbled into the room and almost fell on his face. As he stumbled into the room, Greg’s eyes were assailed by a brightness that he had never before encountered. He knelt on the floor holding his hands over his face as tears squeezed out of his eyes at the painful bright light.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his hands from his face and stood, blinking at the room around him. It was bare and empty, except for the remains of a tattered old couch that looked more like an old much-used blanket than anything else. This did not hold his attention long, however, for as his eyes adjusted to the brightness, Greg suddenly realized the true treasure of this room: a window. The light was coming through a tall pane of clear glass, covered in a thick layer of dust. Transfixed, he walked towards it as though someone else was moving him. Not daring to believe, Greg wiped at the glass with his sleeve and then peered through it with the wonder of a child who has suddenly discovered his hands. The sight before him made him sway unsteadily upon his shaking legs and his head spun as the room twisted and twirled around him.

Several levels below him was a vast expanse of water that stretched out in all directions, more water than he had ever seen in one spot, more water than he could ever capture with a name. It sparkled in the great light that hung above it, a huge sphere of blazing light that he could not look at directly. Far across the water was solid ground, or at least that is what he would have guessed, but it seemed to move much as the water did. It was a vibrant, brilliant, colorful green that covered everything and moved as though alive. There were enormous plants blooming out of this floor of green-ness, plants that rose almost to eye-level, plants with great brown and white and gray trunks and green leaves sprouting out of their branches like so much unruly hair. He could also see a few creatures: all variety and size and shape of creatures, moving around near the water and through the plants, creatures that Greg could not name, creatures he could hardly hope to describe. He pressed his hands and face to the warm glass, longing to join the new world that spread out below him, but the window had no latches, no hinges, no way of opening. So he stood there, longing, unable to become a part of the dream.

How long he stood staring out of the window he did not know, all he knew was that suddenly he came to himself and realized that he would soon be missed. He could hardly bear to tear himself away from the window, but he managed to pull away, promising himself that he would soon return. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and wrote down each turn as he took it until he reached inhabited hallways again. Once he came out into the offices, he asked someone where the lifts were for the seventy-fifth level and was able to find his way back to familiar surroundings.

“Greg, where have you been?” Megan ran up to him when he arrived back in his own home section, a worried expression on her pretty, pixie-like face. “You’ve been unaccounted for since 8:00 this morning!”

“Relax,” Greg replied quietly, “Mr. Vanch sent me to the first level and I got lost on the way back, I’m ok.”

She asked a few more questions, and then let him return to his office. Over the next few weeks, Greg went back to the window on the first level again and again, and his writing became more brilliant and beautiful, brimming with vivid descriptions and emotions that had never before filled the pages of his column. However, although his stories became more alive, Greg himself seemed to fade.