Free X's for Eyes by Laird Barron Page B

the moment.
    “It won’t stay open long,” Mac called over his shoulder as he staggered for the arch. At least color filled his cheeks again and his eyes were human, although a trifle crazed. Dred caught him and took some of his weight onto his own shoulder. “Jeezum crow, I’m not a wilting violet,” Mac said. He smiled, though. The brothers crossed over without hesitation. Dad often said, once committed, damn half measures and strike straight for the jugular.
    Crabbe hesitated at the threshold. “I’m not keen on this, fellows. When that curtain reactivates, we’re trapped. No food, no water . . . ”
    “Your choice, pal,” Dred said. “Welcome to the horns of a dilemma. Unknown dangers versus known devils. Who knows what awaits us inside? Ustinov’s pack will tear ya apart.”
    “Aye. The hell we waitin’ for?”
    The trio moved into the low-ceilinged passage that stretched before them, all gentle angles and worn surfaces scored by cuneiform characters. Yellow light seeped from everywhere, although it coalesced always before them, just beyond reach. Traces of sand gritted underfoot. The air tasted of a dead volcano. Shirtsleeve warm as well, and so the boys removed their outer garments.
    “There goes the seal.” Dred glanced back every few seconds and he saw the veil drop like the curtain at the AMC. Pure darkness penned the boys in.
    “The dimensions are wrong.” Dred traced a wall as he walked. The cuneiform seemed ominous in its repetition of monstrous figures and jagged symbols. “Should be stairs or a ramp down.”
    “You’re right,” Mac said.
    They reached an intersection. The north tunnel continued in an unbroken line while the others appeared to dead-end within a few yards. Several paces down the east and west passages lay articles of clothing that Mac and Dred recognized. The discarded items perfectly matched their own.
    “Those are my britches. My hat . . . ” Crabbe started to the left.
    Mac caught his arm. “Hold on a second. This has occurred before.” He muttered to himself, “Causality . . . Paradox?”
    “Fellas, we’re in Dutch.” Dred pointed back toward the distant entrance. The curtain silently advanced upon them like water filling a pipe.
    “These aren’t dead ends. The tunnels make right angle turns,” Mac said in a numb tone. “Our corpses will lie around the corner. We died here.”
    Crabbe frowned in bewilderment. “I don’t take your meaning.”
    “Causality,” Dred said. “Sorry, Telly. Now you’re in the soup too.” Blackness crept steadily nearer. “Mac, we have to decide.”
    “Straight on. Has to be straight on.”
    “Fine. Forward march.”
    As they proceeded, Crabbe said, “The curtain might be a defense mechanism. An antipersonnel device.”
    “It’s alien, which means it could be incomprehensible to our intellect,” Mac said.
    “Well, the aliens have opposable thumbs,” Dred said, tapping the cuneiform. “So we’ve something in common.”
    “Sure, that would be nice. Except they could have used indigenous types for slave labor. Plenty of opposable thumbs among those lads, eh?”
    Eventually the passage made a ninety degree turn. Ten more paces and it turned again. Ten paces again in a different direction. Crabbe defaced ancient, likely priceless cuneiform with chalk arrows. The echoes of their movement floated around them, strangely distorted and lagging as if emanating from much farther off.
    “It’s a maze,” Crabbe said.
    Dred licked his lips. Chapped already. “Dr. Bole says time is a ring. Sifu Kung Fan says it’s a maze.”
    “Time is a contradiction of our senses,” Mac said. “They’re both correct.”
    “Don’t let Sifu hear you babble heresy.”
    The yellow light dimmed. Shadows fluttered. Bony hands emerged and clutched the edge of another blind corner—inhumanly large hands, pallid and veined with black, black nails grinding into plaster as if dragging a massive weight.
    “And here’s the Minotaur.” Dred