Chapter 24

“Not much further,” shouted Edward from an invisible location in the path ahead. Witticker trailed behind him in quiet resentment. The first hour had been simple, a mild hike through the deteriorating streets outside the Dodgson high-rise with only brief stops to determine which road to take. However, as they journeyed further into the city core the roads became nearly impassable, buried and lost under the pressure of the tremendous overgrowth. Edward and Witticker had spent the last several hours climbing through broken buildings to avoid the treacherous roadways and had only recently come upon a narrow pathway that seemed to have been formed by blasting through the middle of several abandoned buildings.
Not long after they reached the pathway Edward had run ahead, leaving Witticker to follow the path himself. While Witticker initially found this a bit presumptuous of his host he soon realized that it was nearly impossible to get off track as the pathway was fairly straightforward. He found himself walking through old apartment hallways, abandoned office studios, empty hospital corridors; any space that was intact enough to serve as a passage in the right direction. Each section of the route seemed to have one clear entrance and one clear exit leaving very little opportunity to get lost. As Witticker passed between the broken rooms he could see evidence of where someone had forcibly beaten the pathway into existence. All the walls had been hacked through leaving a neat entrance into the next section of the journey.
“The guy who found this place for me built this trail,” shouted Edward from somewhere up ahead, “It only extends part of the way to my place so people won’t trail their way here from the distrip. I like to think of it as my castle hidden by rubble.”
Witticker reached the end of his current room of empty office cubicles and climbed down a ladder into a large lobby of a very extinct business. At one end of the large room he caught sight of Edward standing in a bright rectangular opening waving emphatically.
“Over here,” yelled Edward as Witticker jogged across the room to meet him. Sunlight filled his eyes as Witticker drew closer to his guide. Both of the men emerged from the exit into an open street. After his eyes adjusted to the light Witticker discovered the opening to be a proper doorway complete with a set of steps and a metal rail.
Compared to what they had previously traveled through the condition of the newest area was very well preserved. The street was only mildly disheveled with complete buildings lining the length of a full city block. One end of the street was completely blocked off by a large pile of concrete and brick stacked as high as the second story windows. The other end of the street was cut off by a similar wall of rubble, this one punctuated with a few doorways similar to the one they had just emerged from. All the buildings lining the streets appeared to be neatly boarded up, each covered with various forms of graffiti. Witticker looked up and down the street, cautiously surveying the environment for any signs of life.
“Where are we now?” asked Witticker nervously.
Edward pointed up at the building directly adjacent to where they were standing.
“That,” he said pointing at a window five stories above, “is my place.”

* ~~ *

A short trek up the stairs later found Witticker sitting on a beaten leather couch sipping water out of a dark porcelain mug. The room was a rectangular shape with doors exiting into two different directions. The immediate room was painted white and centered on a large wooden platform that sat a few inches off the hardwood floor by four metal pegs. The room was lit by a large bay window off one of the walls and the couch Witticker sat on had been tucked diagonally in the corner next to the window. A set of wooden shelves had been built into the wall adjacent from Witticker, each shelf strewn with various pieces of equipment including goggles, several coils of rubber tubing, and a stopwatch. The walls were bare which; coupled with the light from the window, gave the room an almost glowing intensity.
As Witticker drew his mug to take another sip of water Edward stepped into the room. He had changed, rather quickly, from his haggard tuxedo into a set of jeans and a beige and blue striped button-up shirt.
“So, what’s your story, Brisby? What are ya doin’ here? Drugs? Delivery? Religion?”
Witticker, disseminating that all of those options were not the reason he had come to the distrip, began to think quickly. His eyes shifted around the room as he tried to formulate a lie fitting somewhere between vague and ambiguous. It wasn’t that Edward was a bad person who didn’t deserve the truth; it was more of a survival instinct. Suddenly his thoughts lit upon an answer that was not only satisfactory, but also not a lie at all.
“I was,” started Witticker softly, “actually…well, I was looking for a man named Girondo.”
Witticker leaned over and began groping around in his briefcase. His hand emerged with a small crumpled piece of paper.
“Yes, Terrence Girondo. I have to talk to him about..er..well, I have to see him. Do you know who I’m talking ab…Agh!”
Before Witticker had finished his sentence Edward had leapt at him, pulled him to the floor, and pinned him there. As Witticker struggled Edward removed a small black object from his side pocket. He whipped the object in the air to reveal a shiny silver blade.
“I knew you’d come back for me,” said Edward as he wiped the blade on his jeans, “once you’d put all the pieces together, but I didn’t think I’d be so naive as to let you through the front door.”
Witticker writhed underneath Edward’s grip, but to no avail. He was defenseless.
“Edward, Edward! What are you doing?”
Edward looked down into Witticker’s face.
“Setting you free.”
Edward raised the blade above his head with both of his hands on the handle. Witticker’s mind raced for a solution to his most recent problem when he realized that the pressure being applied to his body had lightened. Edward, with his arms in the air, had unconsciously lost the upper-hand in the stance. With all the energy inside of him Witticker threw himself up from the ground sending Edward headfirst into the couch. Witticker lunged across the wooden floor towards the next room, only reaching his feet as he crossed the proscenium of the door.
The next room was a dim dining area with a small wooden table and four chairs at odd angles. The table was a mess with porcelain plates, silverware, and bits of uneaten food strewn about haphazardly. As Witticker passed the table his eyes passed over one object that stood out from the rest, something strangely familiar. At the head of the small table lay a small rectangular white box, not much larger than a slice of bread, humming quietly. Witticker wasn’t quite sure how or when Edward had taken it from him, but, in any case, it was his and he planned on leaving with all he came with. Edward passed through the doorway just as Witticker lifted the small white box from its position on the table.
“Hey,” spit Edward nervously, “let’s just put that down.”
Witticker looked at Edward suspiciously.
“No,” said Witticker defiantly, “this is mine and I’m taking it with me.”
“No,” said Edward quietly, “that is mine and if you take it that would be stealing and stealing is wrong.”
“Wrong?” shouted Witticker, “You just tried to stab me! What kind of…I mean…you’re not in a position to talk. And I’m not stealing! This is mine; you stole it from me!”
“Don’t I get any input into this?” spoke a female voice from the small white box.
Witticker jumped back as if trying to remove himself from his own hands which clutched the talking box.
“No,” said Witticker, addressing the box as he held it as far away from himself as he could, “this doesn’t concern you.”
“I must disagree. You see, the conversation thus far has been about me and, consequently…”
“Just stop talking!” shouted Witticker.
“Brisby,” said Edward, “what are you doing here?”
Witticker could feel the sweat beading up on his forehead. He couldn’t think of any logical answers, so he decided to ignore Edward’s question for the time being and ask one of the thousands running through his own head.
“Why did you try to stab me?”
“Because you’re here to kill me.”
“What?”
Suddenly Edward’s voice appeared in the room again, but this time from the white box. The recorded voice spoke in exact reproduction.
“Because you’re here to kill me.”
Witticker glared at the device. It hummed in his hands, almost mockingly.
“Where did you get that idea?” asked Witticker
Edward turned his head slightly to stare at Witticker.
“How do know about Terrence Girondo?” asked Edward.
Witticker pulled the small scrap of paper from his pocket and held it towards Edward.
“I was told to find him if I needed a place to stay. I’m a little new to the area and, well, it’s complicated.”
Edward inched forward and quickly grabbed the piece of paper from Witticker’s hand. He stood quietly for several moments as he alternated between studying the paper and staring at Witticker with a skeptical glare.
“Terrence doesn’t advertise publicly. You have to be someone to get this name. So, if you’re not here to kill me, who are you and why do you have this name?”
Witticker’s mouth ran dry, as it had so many times in the past forty-eight hours, and his heartbeat quickened to a running pace. There was no way out. Any more lies would only further tangle up his conscious.
“My name is Witticker and I don’t know who I am.”
“That,” stated the white box matter-of-factly, “is a contradiction.”