Eight
I peek into the dimly lit elevator, unwilling to enter. The controls seem easy enough: three rows of ivory buttons on a matte silver panel. No emergency stop, no alarm, not even a couple of friendly open/close door-options. Get stuck in this elevator and you’re in a world of hurt. I squint at the tiny buttons and make out the number 9. What was it again, 3 to take me..? 36 is even, so this elevator must be… I step away from it and the doors close, unexpectedly and with enough force to make me fall over backwards, momentarily deafened by the crash.
I stay low and adjust my limbs for easier travel close to a smooth surface. Say what you will about the doctor, that drunken old bastard – at least he didn’t sell me any second rate replacement parts. My ears still ringing, I head to the end of the hall, as far away from the elevators as possible.
This suits me, the subdued light and sound over where the floor meets the ceiling. I curl up, savoring the few specks of dirt and dust I encounter. I almost doze off, but then suddenly remember – I’m expected somewhere. Can I just ignore that and stay here? If I make myself small and inconspicuous, they might never ever notice me again.
Just as I think these thoughts, a section of the wall opens and a hand, tiny and pale, reaches out and beckons me.