Chapter Two
Lola doesn't drift back into awareness so much as drop abruptly out of unconsciousness. Her mouth is dry, cottony, and tastes like her mom's attempts at Indian food: a little like curry and a lot like death. There's a niggling sensation in the back of her mind like she's slept through first period again, as if when she turns over the clock will say 'quarter after you-fucked-up o'clock.'
Her first hint that this is not her bedroom is the god awful crick in her neck.
The second is the smell.
She peels her face off of the toilet seat.
Oh, right, she thinks. And then:
"SWEET LORD." There is no amount of soap that can wash away the knowledge that she passed out on a toilet that is not even hers. (Although, she has to admit, whoever cleans this bathroom keeps a tight ship. It smells more like bleach instead of anything… regrettable. Two thumbs up, would vomit here again.)
Her right arm bumps the wall as she lurches for the light switch and yep, still broken. She grits her teeth against the pain as the fluorescent bulb buzzes to life and frantically pumps soap into her good hand. Just because she can't wash it away doesn't mean she won't try.
She scrubs violently for a moment, rinses and repeats. And then it hits her:
I'm still in the museum. I'm still in the museum and it's… what time is it? She pulls her phone out of her pocket, face dripping.
It's dead. Of course it is.
It can't be past six. They'd been in the museum since, what, 1:30? Two at the latest. She'd spent a couple hours in the upstairs lavatory, ended up down here, then passed out for a few minutes…
Her group should still be upstairs. She can hail a cab as planned, no need for alarm.
She peeks out of the door. An analog clock stares balefully at her from the opposite wall.
7:15, it says. Where's your God now?
The locker room is dark and quiet, the clock ticking in laughter above. Lola flips it off as she passes, ignoring thoughts about shooting messengers. The door to the hallway is ajar, and through it Lola can see that the museum's lights are turned down. She hadn't noticed the white noise of human interaction previously, but without the hum of it in the background the museum seems ominously hollow.
I can just slip through the front doors, she thinks. This place is dead.
But at that moment the living decide to make their presence known.
"…locked up tight." A male voice approaches from just around the corner.
"He tried to pull one over on me last night. I may be old, but I'm not senile." Another voice picks up the conversation.
"Yet!" Cripes, there are three of them.
You're not in the wrong. If you just step out now they'll probably take pity on you and call your teacher.
But on the other hand, they could…
Oh, come on! They sound like Grandpa Joe. What's the worst they can do?
But Lola's read the papers. She knows the statistics. Three men, one young woman? Who's to say if they're more likely to help her into a cab or lock her in a dark room somewhere?
No one would know where to start looking.
In another universe, perhaps, Lola would be more trusting. But in this universe, Lola is dizzy and tired and not in the mood for sketchy old men tonight, thanks very much.
She takes off for the gift shop sign and doesn't look back.
Grandpa Joe fought in 'Nam for five years, but by his telling it was at least twice that. Lola understands—war is awful and gruesome—but Grandpa Joe has been reliving it since being honorably discharged for medical reasons in '72 and everyone is really tired of it.
Grandma copes by turning her program louder or by plying him with food.
"—and then I said to him, 'Bill, we're gonna have to sprint it,' and he says—"
"Here, tell me if this sauce is too sweet." And then she shoves a wooden spoon in his mouth and story time is effectively over.
No one else has found an off switch.
"Grandpa, I have to—"
"—we're this close to the enemy line, we can smell 'em—"
"Uh, the stove is on fire?"
"Yeah, then I say, 'FIRE!' and the whole lot of 'em unload into the shanty."
She'd be more alarmed, but she thinks ninety percent of his tales are embellishment. In any other family, this would be called "lying," but the McGivers are more flexible in their quest for truth.
Grandpa Joe, in addition to his endless war stories, has vivid hallucinations. No one is quite sure if it's some kind of mental illness or if it's another result of his active imagination. (And damned if he'll let anyone with a degree near enough to diagnose him.)
Lola is pretty sure Grandpa's sickness is hereditary, because that statue should not be moving.
The sign says this room is 'Northwest Coast Indians.' The totems on either side of the doorway say otherwise.
"I mean, in this day and age you'd think the moniker 'Indian' would have faded into disuse," one face says sagely. The totem heads are some cross between human and animal.
"Unless you're talking about people from India," another chimes in.
"Don't speak if you're going to point out the obvious, Wahatehwe."
"Don't insult me in front of the lady, Seme!" To her, the second face says, "Sorry about that, he doesn't know how to speak to women." The face grins, wooden teeth bared in what is probably meant to be camaraderie, but comes off as frightening and stiff because a) it's made of wood, and b) it should be inanimate.
"…oh God."
"I know, he's very impolite. Can I interest you in—hey! Don't run in the exhibit, there are priceless artifacts in…! She's not listening. Why do they never listen, Seme?"
If Seme answers, Lola is indeed not listening. She is busy fighting a rising panic attack near a case of chattering masks. She can vaguely make out their voices through the glass, but their words—if they're in English—are muffled.
You are very sick and dehydrated. You are probably not crazy. Admittedly, you are talking to yourself. There are signs along this hallucination highway and you are ignoring them.
Lola can feel her stomach churning for reasons that have very little to do with food poisoning.
Just walk through this room. There has to be an exit nearby.
She nearly puts a Lola-shaped hole through the wall when she sees the woman.
If I ignore the lady behind the glass, is she really there? She can be Schrödinger's lady.
The woman is obviously Native American; her enclosure is between the 'Northwest Coast Indians' room and the 'Plains Indians.' There is something startlingly familiar about the woman—who she is definitely not looking at—and Lola wonders if she's a museum employee. A museum employee in costume? After hours?
On second thought, m'not gonna question the fashion choices of the authority figures who can get me in heaps of trouble. If I look pathetic and cry will she rethink calling the police?
But the woman is peering confusedly through the glass, not making any move towards Lola for either good or ill. The sign above the exhibit says 'Lewis and Clark Expedition.'
Oh. Well that means—
It means that Lola is sprinting toward the opposite doorway because there is something seriously wrong going on here.
A banner announcing the newly renovated Egyptian exhibit flutters faintly as she dashes under it.
The designers of the Spitzer Hall of Human Origins are probably very nice people. They created a visually pleasing educational exhibit and never once said to themselves, "Hey, wouldn't it be swell if these dioramas came to life and tried to kill people?"
At least, Lola assumes this wasn't their intention.
"No. Nuh-uh. I am not getting murdered by skeletons today."
The place is crawling with dead—undead?—things and some bipedal beings that don't look quite homo sapien. There are cavemen to her left, loudly trying to create fire and thankfully ignoring everything else. Directly in front of her are the recruitment officers for the skeleton war (she assumes.)
"Look, I know I look like a prime candidate, but I have the coordination of a drunken mongoose and I doubt that would improve after death." Empty eye sockets stare at her blankly. "Also, I find war morally objectionable."
Yes, I'm sure they'll take your personal opinions into consideration, Lola.
Her spine is pressed flush against a glass case—a case containing clacking Neolithic skulls, which isn't eerie at all—and the skeletons are hemming her in at all sides. "In fact, there are three dudes somewhere over that-a-way," she flaps a hand toward the doorway she'd just come through, "who are much closer to death than lil' old me."
Admittedly a bit harsh, but she's having a rough night. She'll feel guilty about her ageist remarks after the more immediate 'impending death by animate bones' issue. She's PC like that.
"I should also warn you that I've been training for the zombie apocalypse and I will play your ribs like a xylophone before I kick your collective asses. Pelvic bones. Sitty-bits." Which is kind of overstating things, because the only "training" she's done involves a small collection of fiction novels and a night of zombie themed hide-and-seek with friends.
Which she'd lost, come to think of it.
A couple of the skeletons press carpals and metacarpals over their ribs. She imagines if they had the capability of expression, they'd look alarmed.
They could just be wondering if she'll stick to their ribs if they eat her.
Their little death pow-wow is interrupted by a loud whistling noise, like a large rock is flying over their heads. Actually, Lola can attest to the fact that that is exactly what it sounds like because as she watches in dawning horror a giant meteor-thing zooms over them, spiraling over the room.
I have died and ended up in some surrealist artist's idea of hell.
If there are melting clocks she knows who to blame.
Another rock joins the first and Lola looks at the other side of the exhibit, reading the 'Ross Hall of Meteorites' sign with amusement bordering on hysteria.
The pioneers used to ride those babies for miles.
She wants to cry. Or vomit. Either is likely at this point.
"Well, this interview has been fun. Thanks for your consideration." She shoves past a few the skeletons—and why didn't she try that before, it's not like they have any muscle definition—before one of them latches on to her unbroken wrist.
What she said about no muscle? Yeah, doesn't seem to matter.
"I swear to God, Buddah, or whatever deity your souls should be in the presence of—" Equal opportunity blasphemy! "—I am not in the mood for this." She thrusts her hand toward the grabby skeleton and grips it by a rib. She'd guess that it wasn't expecting her to reach towards it, but it's difficult to judge, what with the no skin and all. It doesn't let go.
But that's not a problem because whatever freaky voodoo magic is animating it and giving it strength? Well, it hasn't exactly given it weight.
"C'mon, bonehead." She bodily lifts the flailing bones and books it toward the door. Not the meteor room door because puh-lease, she's not going to play Indiana Jones to this museum's boulder. She likes not being a grease spot on the floor.
This entrance leads to an open atrium and—aha!—an exit. A giant canoe dominates the room, suspended from the ceiling with chains. The thing is huge. Other notable details include three night guards and Teddy Roosevelt on a horse.
Bonehead taps her shoulder.
"Ouch, watch the meta carpals!" Lola hisses. "Do you sharpen those things?"
Bonehead makes an aborted gesture toward his abandoned comrades. They haven't moved from their huddle, and they seem to be communicating in aggravated hand waves and teeth clacks.
Creepy.
"If I let you go are you gonna mob me?"
Bonehead shakes his… skull.
"If you're lying, I will personally bury every piece of you in a different city." Big talk from a small girl, but she hopes he'll take her threat seriously. She sets him down.
He straightens like a puppet on an invisible string and brushes himself off. His bones click against each other with each movement. They stare at each other, green eyes to empty sockets, and then he turns and walks away.
Of course, he walks toward the night guards because Lola was apparently a serial killer (or a theater whisperer) in her last life and is now paying the price.
"Judas!" She hopes he hears her.
The little hallway she's in has three options: the skeleton room, the atrium, or a stairwell. During operating hours a fourth option would be available in the form of a café, but the room is dark and a gate is pulled over the entrance. Bonehead is motioning toward her spot in the shadows. Thankfully he can't talk, and the night guards look bemused and a bit impatient at his gestures.
First rule of a horror movie: never go up or down stairs. Ground floor is love, ground floor is life. She doesn't want to face the alternative, though, and Teddy Roosevelt seems much keener on Bonehead's wordless plea. Don't investigate, don't investigate, don't investiga—
Hooves echo across the tile as the twenty-sixth president approaches.
Damn it.
Cold sweat breaks out along her neck and palms. The whole situation doesn't look good, no matter how she spins it. She could plead confusion, but there is obviously some conspiracy of monumental magical proportions going on here, and one glance at the security cameras will tell them exactly how much she's seen.
She thuds her head against the wall (quietly).
I can't believe I'm doing this.
And then Lola breaks the cardinal rule of horror movies.
I hope there's an abandoned hospital in here somewhere so I can just die messily and get it over with.