The Lost Level (4 page)

I had just stuck my shirt under the trickling water and was
rubbing the fabric briskly when I heard the deer cry out in pain. There was no
mistaking the sound. I’d heard deer back home make the same noise when a hunter’s
misplaced bullet or arrow didn’t kill them right away. As I stood there
listening, the poor creature cried out again. There were no other noises—no
growls or sounds of struggle to indicate that it had been attacked by a
predator. I wondered if perhaps the deer had tripped or fallen in its rush to
flee from me. If so, and it was disabled or injured, then it was my duty to put
the poor thing out of its misery. I couldn’t stand the thought of an animal
suffering, unless perhaps it was a snake. I’ve always loathed snakes, even non–poisonous
ones, and usually killed them on sight.

The deer squealed again. Forgetting about cleaning my shirt, I
tied it around my waist. Then I grabbed my walking stick and rushed down the
trail. After a few dozen yards, I emerged into a wide clearing that was free of
trees or overhead growth. Sunlight filled the area, illuminating a bizarre and
horrific scene. Large swaths of green grass grew on both sides of the trail.
The deer lay on its side in the middle of the grass, bleeding profusely from
dozens of cuts and gashes. Something had slashed it from head to tail. When I
saw what it was, I gasped.

The injured animal thrashed, trying to escape, and the grass
swayed, slicing at the deer. Each individual blade of grass was like a razor
blade, and they moved in tandem, cutting through fur and flesh. Blood gushed
out over the blades and into the dirt, vanishing as quickly as it spilled,
slurped up by a thirsty network of roots beneath the soil. The deer shuddered
and screamed as the grass rustled and writhed, slashing its abdomen open with a
frightening, savage precision and delivering a mortal wound. The animal’s eyes
rolled up white in its head. Warm innards splashed out onto the ground. Despite
the temperature of the day, steam rose from the pile of offal. The blades of
grass began dicing the organs into smaller bits, while more blood was sucked
into the dirt.

My heart went out to the deer, but there was nothing I could do
for it. There was no way for me to reach it without stepping onto the grass
myself, not even with my staff. And besides, the poor animal was already dying.
Its movements had slowed to spasmodic twitches. Taking a deep breath, I ran
down the trail, making sure I avoided stepping into the grass on either side.
Somehow, the grass knew I was there. The blades moved, slashing at my ankles,
but they weren’t long enough to reach me. I shuddered at the thought of what
they could do to me should I make one misstep.

Clearing the patch, I plunged back into the jungle again,
following the footpath. For a while, I viewed all of the vegetation around me
with fear and suspicion. Every tree, every leaf, every vine, branch, twig, and
flower became a cause for alarm. I recognized some of the plants. Others were
utterly alien to me. I passed through a wet, marshy area covered in yellow
mushrooms that quivered and swayed at my approach—so I went around them. In
another area, I heard leaves whisper overhead. When I glanced up at the tree
branches directly above me, I noticed the limbs moving despite the lack of a
breeze. I hurried past, expecting a claw–like branch to descend and snag my arm
at any moment. The leaves grew silent as I moved on.

Eventually, the ground began to rise again, and the foliage grew
less thick. Jungle vegetation gave way to sparsely forested hillsides and
boulders. The game trail ended at a narrow, shallow gorge. I stood at the edge,
peering down. The bottom of the gorge was strewn with rocks, and the bones of
an animal skeleton lay scattered and broken among them. The bones belonged to
something I couldn’t identify. The body was like that of a large cat, perhaps a
panther or a tiger, but the skull was similar to a wooly mammoth’s, and it had
three eye sockets instead of two. One glance at the skeleton’s tusks and claws
convinced me that I didn’t want to meet a living specimen out here while I was
unprotected and defenseless, so I continued on my way, going around the gorge
and hiking up into the hills. My staff thudded dully against the rocks.

As I walked, I wondered what new terror awaited me next. In a
world where even something as seemingly innocuous as a blade of grass could
kill you, what hope did I have?

I DON’T KNOW
HOW LONG
I walked, but eventually, I found the Jeep.

I was scaling up a treacherous outcropping of rock and having
second thoughts about it. When I’d started the climb, I hadn’t thought the
going would be so difficult. My original intent had been to reach a high
vantage point and survey the land around me. I was especially interested in any
signs of intelligent life—smoke from a campfire, or perhaps huts or a village
or maybe even a city. Instead, all I saw were more trees. The forest and jungle
(because they seemed to grow amongst each other at points) ran all the way to
each horizon. When I finally spotted a thin, curling line of white smoke, I
wasn’t sure what it was at first. I thought perhaps it was a cloud or fog. It
was drifting up from the trees. When I realized that it was indeed smoke, I
decided to climb higher in the hopes of seeing the source.

My progress became even more grueling. Unlike the jungle below,
there was no footpath cutting through the boulders and ridges, and the rocks
grew steeper and sharper the higher I went. Reluctantly, I had to give up my
walking stick, since I needed both hands to climb. I cast it aside with some
regret. That simple stick had given me courage and focus and a sense of
protection. I watched the staff clatter off a boulder far below, snapping in
half as it plunged from sight. Then, I returned to my arduous climb. I looked
carefully before each handhold or footstep, mindful of snakes. Given what I’d
seen from the mosquitoes and grass of this world, I could only imagine what the
serpents might be like. The very idea terrified me.

Although it looked barren, this region was just as alive as the
jungle had been. Birds circled overhead, their shadows painting the rocks.
Spiders, ants, centipedes, and other insects skittered in the crevices. Some of
them looked normal. Others were strangely colored. A tiny brown lizard, the
size of my thumb, poked its head out at me from a crack in the rocks and then
vanished. A bird squawked overhead. It sounded like a crow, but was much
smaller.

Occasionally, the slight breeze turned into a quick gust of wind
that whistled through the ravines and peaks. The sun remained where it was,
seemingly frozen at high noon. Sweat dripped from my hair, nose, and upper lip,
and ran down my back and shoulders.

I glanced below again, but the smoke I’d spotted earlier was now
gone. Sighing with frustration, I decided to keep climbing anyway, in the hopes
of spying it again and ascertaining its source. Smoke most likely meant one of
two things—either a wildfire or a campfire. Judging by the shape of the column
I’d seen, I judged it had been the latter, and that was a good thing. A
campfire meant some other form of intelligent life. So, I continued my climb.

I was about fifty feet from the peak, clinging to a jagged,
triangular outcropping of grey, lichen–covered stone which teetered above a
steep, almost vertical drop to more rocks far below, when I spotted the Jeep.
It was painted red, with big, fat tires, a roll cage, and a black canvas top
attached to the roll bars. The front half of the vehicle was sticking out of a
cliff face to my right. The rear of the Jeep wasn’t visible. Indeed, it was
fused with the rock, as if the vehicle had materialized on the hillside, half
in and half out of the cliff.

Overcoming my initial surprise, I edged my way over to the
precariously suspended vehicle and managed to get the driver’s side door open.
The hinges squeaked and flakes of rust drifted down into the gorge below. I
clambered inside and sat down. Sure enough, the bucket seats gave way to sheer
cliff face. It felt like I was sitting inside some bizarre sculpture, as if
someone had carved an incredibly realistic vehicle out of granite. But when I
reached out and touched the Jeep, I felt steel and vinyl, rather than rock. I
was nervous at first, half–expecting the cab to snap off and plummet into the ravine,
but it didn’t. It didn’t even wobble as I moved around. It was truly fused with
the stone behind it, becoming just another outcropping in the cliff face.

I sat there for a moment, wondering how this was possible and
what it meant. That was my first inkling that I was in the fabled Lost Level
that I’d read about—that dimension from which there is no exit, where cosmic
castaways wash up and are abandoned. Several occult tomes had suggested that
doorways to this dimension could sometimes open at random, without magical
means. It had been proposed that this was the secret behind everything from the
Bermuda Triangle to some of the thousands of missing persons cases each year.
Could that have been what happened here? Maybe a temporary doorway had opened up
back home (or in a reality similar to my home) and this Jeep had driven through
it, materializing here, high above the jungle. And then the doorway had closed
just as abruptly, leaving the vehicle half–embedded in solid rock. But if so,
where was the driver?

My hands were scraped and chafed from crawling up the rocks, and
my jeans were torn and dirty. I’d lost my shirt somewhere along the way, too. I’d
had it tied around my waist when I started climbing, but now it was gone.
Despite the heat, I started shivering.

“Shock,” I muttered. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. “You’re
going into shock. You need to focus, Aaron. You’ve had a very stressful day, so
focus on the tasks at hand.”

I did just that, starting with a thorough search of the Jeep’s
interior. It had obviously been there a while. In addition to the rusty door
hinges, time and exposure to the elements had faded the seat covers and left
the vinyl dashboard cracked and dirty. The windshield was covered with a thick
coat of dirt and dead bugs. Most of the insects appeared normal, except for one
that was as big as my fist and looked like a cross between a bumblebee and a
caterpillar. A key–ring filled with keys dangled from the ignition. The floor
was filthy, and the scattered remains of a bird’s nest poked out of the cup
holder. I tried the glove compartment. It was unlocked. Inside was a green
plastic folder containing the vehicle registration and insurance information.
The Jeep belonged to a John LeMay of Statesboro, Georgia, and the vehicle registration
card had expired in October of 2001. I wondered if somewhere back in
Statesboro, Mr. John LeMay was listed as a missing person. I put the folder
aside and continued rooting through the glove compartment. There was a pile of
faded, crinkled paperwork, half a pack of chewing gum which had long since
hardened, and a tube of lip balm. I pulled the cap off the lip balm and smelled
it. There was a hint of cherries. I rubbed some on my lips and found that it
was okay. I stuck the tube in my jeans pocket and kept searching. The cherry
flavor made my mouth water. Worse, it made me strangely homesick.

My fingers brushed against something hard and metallic hidden
beneath the papers. I grabbed the object, pulled it out, and whistled with
appreciation. It was a .45 handgun, weathered and in desperate need of a
cleaning, but still perfectly functional. I released the magazine and checked
it. There were a total of eight bullets in the magazine, plus one more inside
the chamber of the gun. I ejected that one into my palm and studied it. Mr.
John LeMay had apparently reloaded his own ammunition, judging by the flattened
lead flush with the edge of the brass casing. I chambered the round again and
engaged the safety.

“Thank you, John LeMay, wherever you are.”

Encouraged by this find, my trembling subsided, and I felt a
burst of renewed energy. I was in a bad spot, certainly, but I would persevere.
I sat the gun next to me on the seat and kept searching.

There was an empty plastic bag on the floor. I grabbed the paperwork
from the glove compartment and stuffed the pile inside the bag, thinking it
might come in handy later if I needed to start a fire. Unfortunately, the Jeep’s
owner hadn’t been a smoker. There were no matches or lighters to be found. In
the center console compartment, I discovered several compact discs. I added
them to the bag. I could snap the plastic and fashion it into arrowheads or
spear tips, and the discs’ reflective backsides might prove useful if I needed
a mirror. Also in the console compartment were a cell phone charger and
adapter, a small pair of collapsible binoculars, a ballpoint pen, and broken
pair of sunglasses. The binoculars were a great find, and I grabbed them right
away. I added the charger and adapter to my bag, thinking I could use the cords
for something—as makeshift fishing line perhaps. I also took the pen. Beneath
the driver’s seat was a dirty travel mug. Something rust–colored had dried
inside of it, but I dropped it into the bag, as well. I assumed the stain was
just coffee or tea, rather than blood.

On a whim, I reached for the key ring. There were about a half–dozen
keys on it. They jangled as my hand brushed against them. I pumped the gas
pedal and then turned the key, but the Jeep didn’t start. It wasn’t until I’d
tried it a third time that I realized the gas tank was located in the part of
the vehicle that had been fused with the rock. Did that half of the Jeep even
exist anymore? Had its atoms joined with the cliff face? Or was the rear half
of John LeMay’s Jeep still back in Georgia? I turned the key back to the
accessory position, wondering if the Jeep’s battery still worked. I tried the
headlights, but they were dead. Experimenting with the stereo produced similar
results. Sighing, I pulled the key from the ignition and put the key ring in my
pocket, thinking I might be able to fashion the keys into tools or weapons at
some point.