Chapter 7
The grass is up to our ankles. It’s grown.
The air is dense with the stench of flowers, of dirt, and of something heady. Something sour. Evan sneezes. My eyes itch.
Some guests stagger across the lawn in a daze. Some run toward the path—maybe to take shelter in the cabins or get to the parking lot. Most of them took the shuttle, so they’re stuck here.
“Luke, do you have the keys to the van?” I ask.
“Do I…Do I…What?” He’s not with it.
“Cassie?”
She shakes her head.
I get my key out of my bag and toss it to her. “Take my car. You, Luke, Evan, Wyatt. Just go. Don’t stop for anyone else. Drive.”
“What about you?” Evan asks. “We’re five in a sedan. We’ll fit. Don’t be a hero.”
“I need to do something.” Ravi has caught up with Tanya, and the two of them are sprinting toward the cabins.
“Let him go,” Evan says. “Willa. Let him go.”
“I have! It’s not about that.” I lumber after Ravi and Tanya. “Trust me. Leave. Now. Please.”
“Willa!” Cassie yells. “Willa! Get the fuck back here!”
“Go!” I shout without turning around. Ravi and Tanya are too fast. I scream their names, but they must not hear me. I can’t close the distance between us. They’re almost to the first cabin.
They stop short.
The window boxes. There are window boxes on all the cabins. Full of flowers.
Yellow goo covers the porch. The sprites dance on the banister.
Ravi and Tanya backtrack, and I intercept them.
“Tanya! Does it matter when I go through? Should I look for it now? In the woods? Will it stop all this?”
“I…I…” Her gorgeous face is covered in scratches. Her eyes are practically swollen shut. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to think.”
“When you went back, what happened? Did it undo everything that had already gone down that day?”
“Willa, what are you talking about?” Ravi asks, stepping between us. “The police are on their way. All we need to do is find somewhere to take shelter.”
“Yeah? And what are the police going to do? Shoot the flowers?” The sprites on the nearest cabin take notice. They go quiet for a moment, staring at us with their bulging, repugnant bug eyes.
“Let’s move,” Ravi says, dropping his voice low. “We need to keep moving.”
The sprites whisper in one another’s pointy little ears. They hiss and go airborne. Fly in our direction. A dozen violent sprites coming for our heads.
“Tanya, is there anything else I need to know? Please. Think!”
“Retrace your steps from the first day,” she says. “Find the wormhole and go back through. Get through.”
“Move. Now,” Ravi says through a clenched jaw.
The sprites are too close. There’s no getting out of this one. Can I accept this fate, this pain, this death, suffering now in hopes of saving my future? Is there any other choice? “You two run. All right? Fucking run. Don’t turn around. Go.”
Ravi looks at me. “Willa, don’t—”
“It’s fine. Let me. Please. Goodbye, Ravi. Goodbye.” I push him. “Go.”
“But—” Tanya starts.
“If today ends with me, then let it end. Go!”
And they do. They go. They run.
I’m far from athletic, but I try my best fast pitch, chuck my bag at the sprites. “Hey, you little shits!”
They’re staggeringly quick, and I realize I didn’t think this through. Sacrificing myself seemed like the right thing a second ago, and death is all but guaranteed in the loop, but not death by these pocket-sized fairy-tale nightmare hooligans.
Taking my shoes off was smart for running, but I can’t run because my shin is fucked, and I tossed my bag, so now I have no weapons, nothing to defend myself with.
I cover my face with my arms, and they’re shredding them.
Slicing me up with their razor nails, gnawing on me with their thorn teeth.
They’ve got my legs, too. Feet. Ankles. They’re digging into my calves.
This might literally be death by a thousand cuts.
At least my other deaths were relatively quick.
They’re all so loud. Hissing and jabbering and fluttering around. They’re gathering on my shoulders, clawing at my neck and my ears, ranting and raving in their brat tones.
“Stop!” I can’t take it. I can’t listen to it anymore. I hate it so much. It’s making me crazy. The noise, and the tiny bursts of warm, wet breath.
I reach back to bat one away, exposing my face for an instant. That’s all they need.
A poke in the eye with nails sharp as a tack.
I scream, and one’s in my mouth, pinching my tongue. Without any other defenses, I do the thing my body tells me to. I bite down.
There’s an awful crunch, and my mouth floods with piping hot rancid goo.
I spit, but it’s too late. Some of it is already down my throat. Now it’s coming back up. There’s half a sprite stuck to my chin, and the other is twitching in a shallow pool of pink vomit at my feet.
The sprites go feral.
They’re ripping out my lashes, stabbing at my eyes. I throw myself to the ground, hunch over, attempt to protect my face. There are too many of them. I’ve fallen into a wasp’s nest. They’re tearing my hair out in clumps. They’re burrowing into my cuts, pulling them wider, peeling off my skin.
“Just fucking kill me already!” My teeth wobble against my tongue, my tattered eyelids won’t shut, and then there’s the weight of them on my back pushing me down into the dirt. My arms give. I taste bile, and blood, and earth.
There must be hundreds of them now, judging by the noise.
The outrageous sound of them that in another world might be borderline adorable, if only they were animated instead of real and ferocious.
If only they weren’t dragging me by the ankles through the tall grass down the hill.
The spots of me missing skin burn as they rub against the terrain.
My face hits every divot in the landscape, my nose and teeth colliding with rocks.
I’m waiting for something to knock me out.
Waiting for everything to go black. For the pain to stop.
It’s so much pain. How is it possible to experience all this pain? How am I still alive, surviving this hope-shattering agony?
It’s not strength of spirit, because I’d tap out if I could. I’m so fucking tired. And I’m going to wake up tomorrow and have to do this all over again.
But maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find my way out. Maybe tomorrow.
Or maybe I’ll be trapped in this loop for another week, or month. Year. Years. A lifetime of waking up knowing something terrible is about to happen, anticipating the worst. A lifetime of trying and failing to keep the fear and the anxiety and the sadness at bay. A lifetime of waiting to die.
Is this my whole future? Is this it?
There’s water up my nose, something slimy slapping my face.
I’m in the lake.
They’ve dragged me to the lake. My head is in the water. I try lifting my neck, turning my face, but I can’t. They’re holding me. They’re holding my head underwater.
They’re going to drown me.
Fuck.
No.
I can’t breathe.
I exhale.
I didn’t think to take a final inhale. I didn’t know. I couldn’t see.
Not this. Not this. Not this. Not this. Not this.
But…the water is warm, and it soothes my wounds. It smells of rain, and pine. It smells fresh. Clean. And it muffles the sound of the sprites. It muffles all my thoughts. Except for one.
The only way out is through.