Chapter Three
The second floor doesn't have an abandoned hospital. It does, however, have penguins.
"Hey, little fella. You don't breathe fire or anything, right? My heart can't take any more surprises tonight." The penguin doesn't answer, which is honestly for the best.
She's on the second floor landing, deliberating between the 'Hall of Asian Peoples' and 'Birds of the World.' It's not much of a decision.
"You're super cute, dude, but I've seen that Hitchcock movie. With the way my night is going, I'm pretty sure your flying kin in there will kill me." She skirts around the penguin. There's no sign of glowing eyes or smoking nostrils, but she remains skeptical.
The Hall of Asian Peoples is blessedly calm. It's a winding hall of display cases, and if she doesn't stare too closely she can pretend that some of the artwork isn't moving. A reconstructed head of a Peking man grunts at her. She grunts back. She turns a corner.
Oh.
I found the abandoned hospital.
It's not an actual hospital, of course, but she's quite sure that she's going to die messily all the same.
At the other end of the hall—and yet way too close—is a small group of very rugged-looking Asian men. Lola has the misfortune of recognizing the figure at the front of their group from an in-stall flyer during her stay in the museum bathrooms.
"Meet Attila the Hun, Scourge of the West! See an interactive map of Attila's progress across the Roman Empire…" It'd probably had the floor number of the exhibit on the ad, but Lola had other things on her mind. Like vomiting up her spleen.
She seriously regrets her oversight.
The Huns stare at Lola.
Lola stares at the Huns.
Hun rhymes with run. Coincidence? I think not.
Lola runs.
Huns must be like bears, because the second Lola makes a move, they shout a war cry and follow suit.
If I play dead, will they leave me alone?
She doesn't risk it.
The bird room isn't so bad. In fact, there are hardly any birds in the Hall of Birds at all.
Bit of a misnomer, guys.
There are a couple more penguins—still decidedly fire-free—but the room mostly contains murals and information plaques. Yawn.
The Huns gain ground as she leaps a bench.
Un-yawn.
There are two options: run straight or turn right. Lola is exercising all of her poor judgment tonight, so she turns swerves to the right. One of her flats makes a bid for freedom as she skids over the marble floor.
I never loved you anyway, left shoe. I hope you find no happiness in your new life with the Huns.
The new room is an obstacle course of displays. Lola immediately throws herself into the connecting room to her left. She twists around a corner, flattening herself against a wall and listens for the pounding footsteps to pass by.
Please, please work. Death by dismemberment would really complicate my college plans.
The Huns thunder past.
Lola sinks to the floor, breathing hard. She's so done. Her adrenaline is spent, and her last fucks-to-give are wafting down the corridor after the angry warriors.
Freaking Huns, man.
It's a great failing, Lola thinks, that her classes have mostly focused on Western histories. Although she's scared shitless as it is, and that's knowing just the bare facts about Attila and his men.
They rape. They pillage. They drink women's blood.
She's starting to think she should've bit the bullet and rushed the old guys. At least she'd have had a fighting chance against geriatrics. She can take out kneecaps.
There's a muffled sound coming from somewhere nearby, and Lola tilts her head from where she's buried it in her arms. It sounds like a voice, like someone's yelling behind a closed door.
Honestly, if anyone should be yelling, it's her.
She glances at the room for the first time. Her first impression is lots of bling.
Her second impression is fuck my life.
There are two very large spears leveled at her puddled body, and the voice she's hearing is a muffled scream coming from a sarcophagus. Because this is her life now.
It couldn't be a friendly historical figure or something?
Not that she doubts that the person—thing? she's seen pictures of mummies and yikes—making all that racket is a historical figure.
The only historical figure I want to see right now is Abraham Lincoln, vampire hunter. Is he here? Does he do mercenary work?
The stone guards edge closer.
"Guys, this isn't even original anymore," she sighs. "And if a young Brendan Fraser isn't involved, I want nothing to do with this." The spears jab near her head warningly.
I'd make a comment about compensating for something, but they're giant stone Anubis'—what would they be compensating for?
Running footsteps interrupt her contemplation of the Anubis' loincloths.
Kill me now.
Attila rounds the corner.
I lied, don't kill me now.
He shouts something behind him, and she hears the dreaded sound of the rest of Attila's men charging down the hall.
"Ladies, you just became my number two priority," she informs the guard dogs. She tucks and rolls under their weapons, her lame arm making it difficult to get good momentum.
I know how the clunky grocery cart wheel feels now.
She ends up behind the two statues, crouching to assess her situation.
Only way out is blocked by a supernatural stalemate. Option two?
She looks around. Some of the weapons on display are a possibility, but she fears a sharp object in her hands would be more of a hindrance than a help in a fight. She needs someone who can actually use said weapons. Or a distraction.
She looks back at the rattling sarcophagus.
Oh yes, you know what this situation needs? More danger. Do you have any lighter fluid and matches? Let's just Viking funeral pyre this bitch.
She bites the inside of her cheek.
Mom is right, I am a drama queen.
She steps closer to the tomb.
"I am going to regret this so hard."