Echo Tracks

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

Does hearing hundreds of versions of yourself scream count? Because I was about to die again for the last time.

And I didn’t give a chuck.

Maybe I should start at the beginning. Well, maybe not the very beginning. Who wants to read about my mother screaming her flocking head off as gooey, fun size me pops out of her birth canal? I don’t remember my mother’s name. My sponsor said that my long-term memory would return faster if I wrote about my…adventure. That’s what he calls it, an adventure. More like my worst mother ducking nightmare got its hands on a whip and fedora.

You’re probably wondering why every other sentence is infested with these dumb brass substitutes for curse words. I’m writing them, but I’m not writing them, if that makes any sense. I want to write lamb, skit, and huck. Oh, I so want to write TUCK in all caps all over this BUCKING journal, but my fingers fail me. It’s like some tight grass schoolmarm possesses my mind and hands to keep this recounting PG-13. I wish Ms. Stick-Up-Her-Gas (yeah, I named this omnipotent, anonymous censor) would have the decency for consistency. The muck ton of random replacements is an insult to my magnificent command of the complete spectrum of my native tongue.

I’m half a page into this sucking story, and I haven’t even given readers a rucking clue what I’m ranting about. Let me start somewhere in the middle, specifically the moment when my fuzzy memory snaps-to with horror flick dolly zoom focus.

1 Life Remaining

Taste led the charge as my other senses timidly surmounted the trenches of unconsciousness. It was a strangely familiar, oddly pleasant, brunchy mix of waffles and asparagus. My boyfriend called asparagus “gout-sticks”. I don’t remember why. Dell, I can’t recall what he looks like, let alone his name. I bet he’s hot, though, with love for me as pure as his perfectly sculpted, gout-free physique my modesty tends to attract.

Right. Focus. Sorry. Sound and sight soon caught up with my taste buds. I had long since memorized what I would hear and see next: a relentless yet soothing clickety-clack, punctuated by a piercing steam whistle. I lounged in the same antique seat in the same ornately first-class compartment on the same Satan Bros. circus train I’ve been riding for the last 9,998 hours, relatively speaking. More on that relatively stuff later.

The fogged pane glass window on my left cast a dull gray hue throughout the compartment, washing out my violet and ivory lace dress as if Humility herself dimmed anything that defiled the warm, earthy tones of the train’s interior. Alas, no time to dwell on décor. I exactly 60 minutes from the moment I awoke, and only synchronized perfection would save me from this looping tragedy.

My first step was to kick off my ivory heels. I learned the hard way on at least a dozen runs they would only slow me down. The lack of originality was made painfully obvious as I bent over to grab my right heel with my left hand. Sure, I’d done this very movement thousands of times before I ever awoke on Choo Choo McChoo-Choo Face (yes, I named the train, too). Such simple actions become complicated when your arm, ankle, and foot are accompanied by dozens of ghostly appendages mimicking every. Shuckling. Move.

“Jam Ghostmes,” I muttered.

That’s right, Ghostmes®. If you have a better name, keep it to your clucking self. I’m too far into this…adventure…to change it now. How else should I describe the ephemeral, electric blue versions of myself? My first encounter happened exactly 998 attempts earlier. Hm, maybe I should have started there.

998 Lives Remaining

“Holy fish! Who the duck are you?” I screamed, jumping out of my seat.

She looked wide-eyed at – almost through – me. Our eyes locked.

The mutual stare only lasted a second.. The ghost looked familiar. So familiar, in fact, that I thought I was looking at a mirror that only reflected blue light.

“Son of a ditch, it’s me,” I silently concluded.

Ghostme’s head tilted upward just above my head, then higher still at the ceiling. It then looked down at my chest, then down further at my feet.

“Am I checking myself out?” I thought.

Ghostme’s head stayed on a swivel as it slowly stood up. It strode toward the window and gazed outside.

My voice squeaked.

“Can’t see anything out there,” I murmured.

Ghostme didn’t reply. Instead, she pressed her left cheek against the window for a few seconds, then repeated the motion with her right cheek. Something about that struck me as oddly familiar.

The urge to talk to myself offered comfort to my frayed state of mind.

“Can you see through the fog?”

Ghostme just ignored me. No one ignores me, not even me.

I reached for her arm.

“Are you deaf? Answer me!"

My hand passed through Ghostme’s arm. She rippled for a second, like a pond disturbed by a pebble. She continued straining to see out the window as if nothing happened.

“You’re a ghost!” I exclaimed (no wit, Sherlock). “Can you talk? Can you use gestures? How about we start with less staring and more—"

Ghostme bolted toward the compartment’s sliding door. Her arms mimed the motion of pulling the door to open. Then, Ghostme stepped out of the compartment.

But the door remained closed.

I opened the door and chased after her.

“Hey, where the shell are you going?

Ghostme spun around and gave me that thousand-yard stare again. She opened her mouth and shouted, “Hello?”

No sound came out of her mouth. I registered that she shouted, “hello,” but only a quick burst of the steam whistle and rhythmic clickity-clack filled the car.

Ghostme silently shouted, “hello,” again, then walked toward me.

And right through me.

It didn’t hurt, though I felt oddly violated. She shimmered again as she strolled toward the door to the next car. Alarmed, I ran after her, then through her.

Gross.

I spun to face the translucent mute, pressing my back against the door that led to the next car.

“You don’t want to go in there. Just tell me—what the yuck?”

Something caught my eye.

“One?”

Why was the number “1” floating above Ghostme’s head?

Ghostme stopped.

“Can anyone hear me?” Ghostme wordlessly cried.

Her hand passed through my body and grabbed the door. Again, the door didn’t budge, but she stepped through it – and me – as if neither existed.

That’s when it hit me. Ghostme’s familiar movements, my uncanny ability to read her lips, our mutual expressions of fear and confusion.

“She’s not a ghost,” I muttered.

Ghostme is a reflection. No, more like a recording.

I opened the door and chased after myself.

Seconds later, I saw Ghostme #1 reenact her death.

Then I died a second time.

1 Life Remaining

I closed my eyes and reached for the door. By now, I could literally exit my compartment and run through the first-class passenger car blindfolded. Good thing, too. Despite their silence, it was incredibly distracting to watch 998 Ghostmes simultaneously reenacting their respective existences. Some looked about the cabin, frantically searching for clues. Others remained seated and wept, their faces buried in shaking palms. A few prayed, while others pounded on the window. A couple slapped themselves in hopes of waking up. The majority promptly exited the cabin. Of those, the smart ones turned right toward the back of the train. The others … we’ll get to them later.

I burst through the door to the rearmost car and opened my eyes. Before me lay hundreds of bags, boxes, and suitcases of every size and description strewn about the luggage car. Without hesitation, I ran to my bag.

979 Lives Remaining

Why didn’t you think of this sooner, chips for brains?

Rather than taking a left toward certain death, I turned right, away from the engine and, mercifully, away from Ghostmes 1 through 20. I took a few minutes to gather the courage to open the door. I couldn’t linger. In about 99minutes, this train would perform “The Drop.”

995 Lives Remaining

Shuck it.

I’ll just sit here and wait for the cavalry arrive. Better yet, I’ll go back to sleep and wake up with my hot boyfriend assuring me it was all a nightmare.

I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I watched Ghostmes 1 through 4 silently act out their respective roles before disappearing into the walkway. It was horrifying and humorous. I laughed. I cried. Then I laughed again before crying some more. I looked out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the outside world. At some point I must have drifted into semi-consciousness.

That’s when the steam whistle blew long and hard. Breaks squealed, glass shattered, sparks danced.

Then I flew as the entire car lurched forward and upward.

I wonder if this is how my Scrabble pieces felt when I flipped the table after my brother obviously cheated. Honestly, who spells Oxyphenbutazone for 1,778 points?

My pondering was cut short as my face slammed into the seat in front of me. I heard—then felt—my back and skull crack as I crashed into the ceiling. I’m assuming a fiery explosion followed. Mercifully, I passed out before the flames and debris disintegrated my flesh and burned away my dress.

I tucking love that dress.

979 Lives Remaining

Relief washed over me. Luggage I could handle. Surely, one of these suitcases has a phone or radio. I’ll just open the one nearest me and—

A hose pointed at me and splashed acid on my face, melting it.

955 Lives Remaining

A crocodile leather travel case literally turned into crocodile and swallowed me whole.

948 Lives Remaining

A hard plastic suitcase with adorable cartoon characters unveiled an animatronic rabbit armed with a double-barreled shotgun. It shoved the barrel up my nose and squeezed the trigger.

947 Lives Remaining

“Seriously, a rucking rabbit?”

936 Lives Remaining

“Why didn’t I notice this earlier?”

A vintage “I WANT YOU FOR U.S. ARMY” poster adorned the ceiling of the luggage car. I stared up at it.

“What are you trying to tell me, Sam?”

A flash of memory.

“It’s not a backpack, it’s an assault pack, private!”

That was my drill sergeant.

Staff Sgt. Stone’s red face and rancid breath vaporized as I snap back to this warped reality.

Then I saw it: a camouflage back—an assault pack.

A name is stenciled on the bag.

O. Lupe.

I had no clue if that was me, but I liked it.

"Lupe it is."

1 Life Remaining

No need to sift through the pack's contents. I knew what was in there and when to whip them out.

I slipped my arms through and tightened the straps as I made my way to the rear door.

I opened the door. The clickety-clack grew from a pleasant three to a roaring twenty. Fog blanketed the sky and obscured my field of vision to mere feet. Fortunately, I could see the ladder that led to the roof. I started my ascent just as Ghostme 69 took a running leap off the train.

930 Lives Remaining

“Well, that didn’t work.”

1 Life Remaining

I reached the roof of the luggage car and started running. I stopped just above my first-class compartment. Looking at the next car, I took a deep breath.

I stepped onto the next car.

It began to spin.

I weaved, maintaining my balance while ignoring dozens of Ghostmes losing theirs.

This balancing act was plucking hard, but nowhere near as bad as the horrors that awaited those who entered the car.

996 Lives Remaining

Huge spiders.

995 Lives Remaining

Chainsaws.

994 Lives Remaining

Huge spiders with chainsaws.

1 Life Remaining

The car’s wheels were almost pointing at the sky when I jumped. Ghostmes in the low 100s fell to their deaths.

I landed feet first then somersaulted to absorb the shock. A few Ghostmes followed my lead but far more collapsed and cried in silent pain, their ankles sprained or legs broken.

I stood, brushing the dust off my beautiful dress.

Maybe there's a dry cleaner at my destination?

I pinched my nose and took one, long step.

The roof liquified and dropped me back inside the train.

Specifically, a car filled to the brim with seawater.

Dozens of panicked Ghostmes pounded the ceiling, screaming for help that would never come.

I dove and found metal bars bolted to the floor. It took a few visits to this point to realize they were frames to tables and chairs that didn’t exist on this car.

I swam to a hatch with that wheely thing in the middle.

Hey, I’m a Soldier, not a sailor. Go chunk yourself, Navy.

I turned the wheel. The hatch creaked open. A few Ghostmes swam through.

Patience, Lupe.

My eyes stung, but I kept them open to find one particular bar.

An uneven bar.

669 Lives Remaining

Another flashback.

I'm in the air, my feet pointed at the ceiling.

I twist, flip and land knees bent on a blue mat.

I raise my arms and smile. The crowd roars.

Cool. I'm a Soldier and a gymnast.

Wish I remembered that 239 sporking lives ago!

1 Life Remaining

I grabbed hold of the bar and let gravity do the rest.

The car turned 180 degrees. What was once the floor was now the ceiling.

I hung onto the makeshift monkey bars, mentally patting myself on the back for remembering to wear the flight gloves conveniently stored in my assault pack. The water receded as it rushed to fill the next car. Fortunately, there wasn’t enough liquid to fill both cars, literally leaving me – and a number of my Ghostmes – high and dry.

The roaring gush subsided. Choo-Choo Mchoo-Choo Face’s clickity-clack became audible again.

Then I heard a splash.

645 Lives Remaining

There was something in the water.

644 Lives Remaining

Something big …

643 Lives Remaining

… And hungry

642 Lives Remaining

It was a Great White.

641 Lives Remaining

“Who puts a mother funking shark on a mother chugging train?”

1 Life Remaining

Ripley (cool name for a shark on Satan’s Choo-Choo, huh?) swam into the car I currently occupied. With my legs dangling mere feet above the surface, I carefully used one arm to open my assault pack and pull out an MRE marked “Chum”.

614 Lives Remaining

I ate some chum thinking it would give me superpowers.

Nope.

1 Life Remaining

I drop the chum in the water. As usual, Ripley gunned for the chum. I monkey-barred my way across this comically long car, willing myself not to look down.

I came to the last bar and started swinging my legs.

I let go.

And landed in a rowboat.

Which was sinking.

589 Lives Remaining

Mother Sunk Her!

1 Life Remaining

The boat contained a paddle and scoped rifle.

I started rowing fast and hard.

Ripley’s fin circled slowly, stopped, then started slicing through the water toward me.

I stopped rowing and picked up the rifle.

549 Lives Remaining

I fired at Ripley once, twice, three times.

Click.

She kept coming.

Luck.

1 Life Remaining

I turned my back to Ripley and fired once.

Clang.

Twice.

Clang.

Three Times.

Boom.

The emergency oxygen tanks mounted to the wall exploded.

515 Lives Remaining

Flames engulfed me.

511 Lives Remaining

Debris dismembered me.

1 Life Remaining

I dove just as flames and debris tore into the boat.

I swam toward the gaping hole.

A siren blared.

A glass panel slowly descended to cover the hole and stop the other car from flooding.

I saw Ripley's reflection. She was close.

499 Lives Remaining

Too close.

1 Life Remaining

I swam through the hole moments before a glass panel dropped between us and Ripley’s jaws snapped shut.

I fell.

And landed face first on top of a pile of canvas bags filled with coins.

Yes, there were dollar signs embroidered on every bag.

I heard spurs.

Black cowboy boots entered my view.

“Well, what do we have here?”

A leather-faced man sporting a black bowler cap and chewing a lit cigar glared down at me.

456 Lives Remaining

Definitely a bad guy.

1 Life Remaining

"Hello little girl," Bowler Hat drawled. “Where’d you come—”

I jabbed him square in the nuts.

No one calls me a girl except my man.

The bandit doubled over, giving me precious seconds to dip into my assault pack.

He quickly recovered and pulled out his pistol.

I freed my compact.

“You’re dead, little girl!”

He aimed at my forehead as I opened my compact, reflecting firelight off the glass and into his eyes.

The bandit yelped and pulled the trigger. Pre compact-trick Ghostmes fell to the ground, a soft glow pooling around their chests, heads and backs.

A hole appeared in the glass panel separating the shark tank and the cash car. The barrier spiderwebbed, then shattered.

Ripley spilled out.

386 Lives Remaining

She was still hungry.

1 Life Remaining

I sprinted past the partially blinded bandit and dove headfirst into a huge safe that previously held the money bags.

Bowler Hat Wilhelm-screamed as seawater-and Ripley's maw-engulfed him.

I pulled the door closed just as a black hat and cigar floated inside. The door slammed and darkness fell save for the lit cigar. It still amazed me that the cigar burned bright, and the hat always ended up in the safe after every successful gunfight at the Great White Corral.

348 Lives Remaining

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then suddenly ran out of air.

347 Lives Remaining

Spam airtight safe.

1 Life Remaining

I took a deep breath and held it. I quickly crawled to the rear side of the empty safe.

I kicked, then kicked again.

The rear panel gave way, revealing the entrance to the next car.

“Thanks Ripley,” I said, donning the hat and sticking the cigar in my mouth. Ghostmes from the 700-somethings joined me.

Turning again to face the next-to-last car, we took a puff and stepped inside.

324 Lives Remaining

I was in a sleeper car. Soft snoring emanated from three blacked-out compartments on either side, complementing the rhythmic clickity-clack of the train’s universal lullaby.

Flickering lamps feebly illuminated the walkway, winking shoeprints in and out of existence.

I knelt and felt one of the prints.

It was wet. Though too dark to make out, I knew it was blood, but I was inclined to lick my finger.

Why the puck did I do that?

“Blood,” I said.

Why the ruck did I say that?

My mind ordered, “Don’t follow the prints! It’s a tucking trap.” My body disobeyed.

The prints stopped just short of the door to the next car. Helpless, I watched my hand reach for the latch.

Don’t open it, Lupe. This is the part where the creepy clown comes out.

No clown appeared.

But a woman’s scream provided the perfect jump scare.

I spun to see the lights in all six sleeper cabins flicker to life. A man in an engineer’s uniform sprawled facedown on the floor in a growing puddle of blood.

Six pairs of passengers stumbled out of the cabins. All of them wore pajamas, but from multiple bygone eras.

I suddenly felt like someone abruptly returned control of my voice and movements. Before I could assess what the spell happened, an elderly man ripped out of a Charles Dickens novel hobbled toward me and pointed an accusatory finger.

“Who did this, detective?”

Detective?

“Wait. Where's your hat and cigar?” asked a young woman wearing red, ‘60s Chinese-style pajamas cried out.

A muscular man wearing only white boxers with pink hearts stepped out of the crowd. He held the cigar and black bowler worn by the bandit Ripley devoured just a minute before.

“No need to answer that, detective,” he sneered, smothering the last word in sarcasm. “I found them near the engine.”

The engine, I thought. I must be near the engine.

More angry voices bellowed.

“There’s blood on your hat!”

“Likely our dear engineer’s blood.”

"Why did you kill him, detective?”

I ignored their allegations. I had one question, then I could kiss this mystery car goodbye.

“How do I get to the en—”

The woman wearing red pajamas brandished a revolver and shot me in the head.

149 Lives Remaining

The hot guy wearing heart boxers plunged a dagger through my heart.

144 Lives Remaining

The elderly man shoved a candlestick … in a place that defied physics.

1 Life Remaining

“It’s elementary, my dear pajama party,” I said to the dozen suspects gathered around the body.

Actually, it was shucking convoluted. I added 25 Ghostmes before I figured out that I had to interrogate the occupants of each berth. It took another 37 to determine who killed Mr. Conrad Ductor (that lame name wasn’t one of mine), then another 13 to find the motive.

“None of you killed him.”

I puffed my cigar, waiting for the commotion to die down.

“Because he killed all of you first.”

And maybe me too, I thought, stifling a shudder.

More shouting. I waved my cigar, urging the suspects to settle down.

“Conrad was a great engineer. So great, in fact, that he built this very train he so proudly drove.”

Nods and murmurs of agreement.

“And he tricked you. No, he abducted you.”

A collective gasp.

“And took you on a ride of your lives.”

More gasps.

“Make that twelve thousand lives.”

Go on, their eyes pleaded.

“And this is how far you got. This far, no farther.”

I took off my hat and began pacing around Conrad's body.

“And now, you play out this murder scene every day for eternity…”

Silence.

“… or until some smart-lash sleuth solves the case within her thousand-life limit.”

I flicked my cigar on the lifeless body, tossed the hat, picked up my assault pack, and turned to face the next–and final–car.

The spell broken, the twelve suspects–twelve fellow contestants–fell to their knees.

Shouts of joy filled the car.

“I’m free!”

“How’d you know?”

“How many lives did it take?”

I didn’t look at their tear-streaked faces. My back still turned, Boxer Boy wrapped his hulking arms around my waist, pinning my arms.

“You did great, babe. How ‘bout we make like a train and—”

A hiss cut his pickup line short. A swampy green gas began seeping from the sleeper cars’ floor and ceiling.

I donkey kicked him in the stalls. He promptly let go, freeing me to reach into my assault pack and pull out my Promask. I donned and cleared the mask as I ran to Conrad’s twitching corpse. A slip of paper now jutted from his back pocket. I grabbed it and beelined to the door. By now the gas had all but shrouded the car.

The sounds of 12 coughing contestants gave way to 12 gurgling contestants, then 12 groaning contestants.

86 Lives Remaining

Zombies…

85 Lives Remaining

Of course they turned into clucking zombies.

1 Life Remaining

I grabbed the latch.

76 Lives Remaining

Boxer Boy lunged, glaring with his bloodshot eyes and snapping his foaming mouth.

69 Lives Remaining

I caught him by the throat with my right hand and reached down his boxers with my left. I felt around.

62 Lives Remaining

Then I pulled the dagger he tucked close to his junk …

58 Lives Remaining

… and thrusted it through his chiseled chin.

Boxer boy dropped.

My dress was ruined.

I opened the door, dove, and performed a perfect combat roll that brought me to my feet.

I stood in a cramped coach car. The stench of burnt coffee, stale cigarette butts, and stinky feet filled my nostrils. A lone figure stood at the opposite side of the car.

“Ihre Fahrscheine, bitte.”

51 Lives Remaining

I ran up to Herr Punchline, a steampunk automaton complete with metal monocle and mustache, and pulled out Conrad’s ticket…

44 Lives Remaining

… and waited …

36 Lives Remaining

Waited for the other twelve zombies—even the limping form of Conrad Ductor—to enter the car.

“Tickets, please.”

29 Lives Remaining

Punchline’s mechanical eyes glowed just as the woman in the red pajamas grabbed my mask.

1 Life Remaining

I ripped off my mask and threw it at Red just as Punchline's mechanical eyes lit up. I inserted the ticket in the automaton’s mouth, grabbed its shoulders and vaulted.

My landing was a 3 at best, but it was good enough to get behind Punchline just as he dutifully pulled the ejection handle, opening the roof and ignited the spring loaded floor, sending twelve angry undead skyward.

Herr Punchline spun its head 180 degrees. It winked.

“Danke.”

Punchy wobbled toward the sleeper car, its tinny voice demanding variations of “Tickets, please,” in German.

That was when I noticed he dropped a gold pocket watch. I picked it up.

A whistle blared.

I was close.

28 Lives Remaining

I entered the engine without incident.

Then I triggered the lasers that cut me in half.

19 Lives Remaining

I finally noticed a nine digit keypad to my right. The letters, TOD, appeared over it.

“Who’s Tod?”

A whistle blared. Breaks squealed. Sparks danced.

“The Drop” had come.

15 Lives Remaining

I typed 111 on the keypad.

Drop.

14 Lives Remaining

I only have one chance input right code? That's full Chip!

9 Lives Remaining

999

Drop.

7 Lives Remaining

007

Drop.

6 Lives Remaining

I got it! Ticket of Death. The last three digits on Conrad’s ticket number were

666

Drop.

5 Lives Remaining

TOD. Time of Death. After interviewing the suspects, I concluded Conrad’s time of death to be 1:23 a.m.

123

Drop.

4 Lives Remaining

I examined Herr Punchline’s pocket watch. I could barely make out the time frozen through the cracked glass.

3:10.

The Time of my Death is 3:10.

I punched 310.

I stepped inside and stared at a control panel so complicated it made the Space Shuttle cockpit look quaint.

A whistle screeched.

I dared a glimpse out the front window. No tracks.

I had reached the “The Drop”

“Truck.”

3 Lives Remaining

I pressed buttons. Pulled levers. Turned dials.

I went vertical.

2 Lives Remaining

That’s when I saw it.

A big red button on the ceiling. Above it one word in all caps, “RESTART.”

1 Life Remaining

I leapt hard. Stretched my arms. Tapped the button.

A portal opened. I dashed through moments before the engine hit bottom.

Only to find myself back in my original seat.

Breaks squeal. Sparks fly.

I die.

0 Lives Remaining

I was about to die again for the last time.

And I didn’t give a stuck.

So I focused my rage on the nearest thing that hadn’t tried to kill me on this train: my overstuffed seat.

“Your!” Rip. “Train!” Tear. “Duckling!” Shred. “Socks!”

Clang.

I stopped pounding the seat as I spotted a small, metallic panel protruding from Ghostme pelvises and the tattered remains of my seat cushion.

A sign stenciled above the panel read, “OPEN IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.”

I no longer cared if fire-breathing unicorns, vampire flamingos or flesh-eating kumquats popped out. If this was how it all ended, so be it.

I opened the box.

And laughed.

A large red button read “PRESS TO RESET.”

“Why gazelle not?”

I pushed.

A glowing orb engulfed me.

The train froze.

The Ghostmes froze.

All sound ceased.

Time stood still.

I stood speechless (for once).

Then the Ghostmes moved again, slowly at first. Something was different.

"I can’t read their lips anymore."

I looked down at Ghostme 11’s feet and understood why.

“They’re moving backwards.”

The train lurched then started to reverse course. As it picked up speed, so did the Ghostmes. They reached a normal reverse speed. Then they moved faster.

And faster.

Soon, the Ghostmes were blurs streaking back into my shattered seat.

My mesmerized condition subsided as my brain went into overdrive.

What if I start moving backwards? What if I don’t? What if I’m stuck in this bubble for days? Will I die of hunger? Thirst? What if I had to pee?

I really had to pee.

But not on this dress.

I cautiously stuck my finger through the orb enveloping me, and my arm immediately reeled back, like some unseen force shoved it away.

I kicked out, and my leg whipped back.

I dove out and was immediately yanked back.

Frustrated, I threw my heel only to have it fly right back and hit my face.

That’s when I got it.

Time moves backwards outside the bubble. As soon as anyone or anything leaves, it simply retraces its path and returns to its point of origin.

So what’s the point of staying here?

I yelled at the only being I thought was listening.

“Hey, Gamemaster! I quit! You hear me, you clucking maniac? I. Chugging. Quit!”

“You don’t have to shout.”

I spun. There stood Conrad Ductor, sporting a uniform free of blood, dust, and wrinkles. A grit eating grin spread across his unblemished face.

“Come closer smash hole so I can kick your Thomas the Engine trash through the series finale.”

Conrad snapped his fingers, and everything blipped out of existence except the two of us and a field of stars.

I looked around, then down.

Phew, I was still wearing my sexy dress.

“Come now, is that any way to start your acceptance speech.”

“Acceptance speech?”

Conrad sighed and shook his head.

“For clearing Level 1.”

“Wait, Level 1? You call that plucked up obstacle course Level 1?

“Even when the battle is clearly won, our champion remains lost.”

“Skunk you Sun Tzu!”

Conrad laughed.

“Don’t worry, my champion, you’ll understand everything in time. But first, we have a train to catch.