The Maze The Lost Labyrinth - By Jason Brannon Page 0,68

awake on my couch, newly roused from a strange dream about the maze. But I wasn’t in a hospital, and I knew that the maze had been so much more than a lucid dream. I had escaped from the labyrinth and had a second chance. The only question was: where was I?

My eyes were open, but I couldn’t see anything. The darkness surrounding me was complete and untouched by the light. I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face. I was in a fetal position, and I struggled to stretch out. The movement made me painfully aware of an ache in my head that resonated through my jaw and traveled all the way down to my stomach where an acute bout of nausea coiled there like a snake. It felt like my skull had been used for batting practice.

I remembered now- I was shot. I automatically reached to touch my injury. My forehead was sticky with dried blood; I felt a deep gouge in the flesh where the bullet struck, but no hole. I was just grazed. I hadn’t died after all.

I felt a little shaky and was pretty sure that I had been injected with something to keep me knocked out. My head felt like it was encased with wet cement, and my tongue was a dry, withered thing inside my mouth. Despite feeling like I could just go back to sleep and not wake up again for a couple of decades, I peered into the darkness, hoping to see something to let me know where I was.

I tried to remain calm and not let the claustrophobia have its way with me. I wasn’t tied up; I could move around freely. I felt a rough indoor/outdoor carpet underneath my cheek. I smelled a strong odor of rubber and a faint trace of motor oil, but I still couldn’t figure out where I was.

Something gouged me in the back, and I reached over my shoulder to feel what it was. I felt a wheel that rotated a full three hundred and sixty degrees, and I quickly discovered that there were three others to match. It was Peter’s stroller. The one we kept in my trunk.

I froze as I realized what happened. Angel Face-or should I say Darrell Gene Rankin-had locked me in the trunk of my own car. I felt around in my pockets for my keys, hoping that he had been stupid enough to leave them with me. They weren’t there-he had either taken them with him or used them to move the car.

I struggled to think for a moment, fighting against whatever he had drugged me with. It still impaired my senses, and I couldn’t use logic or reason for a few seconds. Then, I remembered that he was in my house, holding my family at knifepoint; that was motivation to get out when all I wanted to do was pass out again.

I forced myself to take a couple of deep breaths and relax. I needed to think, and I couldn’t do that if I was freaking out. I knew that most modern cars were engineered to make getting locked inside the trunk a non-issue. I found it strange that we lived in a world where such designs were necessary, but I was grateful that someone had possessed the foresight to anticipate such a problem.

I tried to remember how to pop the latch. There was supposed to be a handle of some kind. I fumbled in the darkness until I found it and yanked on it as hard as I could. The trunk lid popped open, and cool, crisp air rushed in. I squinted against the sudden brightness and gasped for breath. I got out carefully. My legs were as shaky as a newborn giraffe, but I was able to stand without collapsing.

I looked back and saw a maroon stain where I had bled all over the floor of the trunk. The old scrap of parchment I had carried with me throughout my journey lay there in scarlet. I picked it up, convinced now more than ever that the labyrinth and everything in it had been real. I looked at the note, and the message scrawled there filled me with a sense of urgency that I desperately needed:

“Your family awaits. Go reclaim your life.”

The message made me realize just how lucky I was to be standing here now, safe and free from the maze. It also made me realize that my family wasn’t out of