The Hunt for Dark Infinity

Paul yawned and stretched. “Man, I can’t just sit here. Let’s get moving.”

“Where to?” Tick asked, looking down one length of the endless road, then the other. The heavy clouds had sunk to the ground, as if seeking warmth and companionship. The only things Tick could see were the countless heaps and angles of dark metal, covered in a mist that grew thicker by the minute. Tick shivered again.

“I don’t know, dude,” Paul said. “That way.” He pointed to his left, then changed his mind, pointing the other direction. “Nah, that way.”

Sofia stood, shaking her head; she seemed as frustrated as Tick about the riddle. “Sounds good to me. Let’s go.” Without waiting for a response, she started walking down the cracked and pitted road.

Thirty minutes later, nothing had changed except for the air around them, which continued to grow thicker with wet, heavy mist. The world of metal was almost lost in darkness. Obscure, creepy shapes appeared and disappeared, all sharp angles and looming curves. The burnt smells intensified, as if the kids were approaching a huge factory or garbage dump.

Tick officially hated the place, his panic growing at the thought that maybe they’d be stuck here, that they’d have to sleep here. If the stupid riddle was their only way out . . .

He kept running through it in his mind, trying to recall the methods he’d used to solve the original Twelve Clues. Those had seemed so easy in comparison, almost childish. Magic words, thumping the ground with your foot, figuring out a day and a time. Compared to that, this new one seemed like advanced calculus.

For some reason, the lines “All this you must ignore and hate, for you to find the wanted fate” kept returning to his mind. Something told him that was the key to figuring everything out.

They approached a wide, thick span of metal arching across the road—rusty, linked chains of varying lengths hanging down every couple of feet. The chains swayed slightly despite the lack of wind. That gave Tick the creeps more than anything else, and he quickened his pace until the odd structure was way behind them.

“Spooked?” Paul asked. His voice was muffled, swallowed up in the mist.

“Yeah,” Tick answered. “You’re not?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, please,” Sofia said. “If it weren’t for me being here, you two would be running around bawling your eyes out. Just keep moving.”

“Miss Italy, you’re probably right, but do you have to be so annoying?”

They walked for another couple of hours, but nothing changed. The path only led to more of the same—mounds of dark metal and looming, odd shapes. Tick finally couldn’t take it anymore; his feet hurt and his stomach rumbled with hunger.

“We need to eat,” he said. “And sleep.”

“Amen,” Paul agreed.

Sofia didn’t say anything, but she almost collapsed to the ground, sighing as she leaned back against a black wall and pulled out a granola bar and a bottle of water from her backpack. Tick sat across the road from her, diving into his own food.

“How can I possibly sleep here?” Paul asked as he bit into an energy bar. “I don’t have my feather pillow.”

Tick half-laughed, but he already felt his eyes drooping, despite sitting up. Feeling like he’d been drugged, he leaned over and lay on his side, pulling his backpack under his head for a pillow. He fell asleep instantly.

Two days passed, though the only way Tick knew for sure was by looking at his watch and noticing the subtle changes in the darkness of the sky. Tick’s anxiety and panic faded into a dull indifference as they trudged along the endless path, finding nothing. For all he knew, they were walking in circles because everything looked so similar.

They grew quiet as they walked, discouragement acting as a gag in their throats.

On the morning of their third day in the miserable place, Tick finished off his measly breakfast of a candy bar, half a bottle of water, and a stale piece of bread—he was almost out of food. As he stood and put on his backpack, Paul gave him an ugly look.

“Dude, where are you going?” he said through a yawn. “I’m barely awake—what’s the rush?”

“There has to be something we’re missing,” Tick replied. “I think we need to get off this stupid road and climb up one of these structures. Try to get inside one of them.”

“Tick’s right,” Sofia said, getting to her feet as well. “This road isn’t leading us anywhere except in a big circle—everything looks familiar.”

“It all looks the same to me.” Paul stretched, then stood up. “Fine, whatever. It’s not like I wanna retire and live on this road someday. Maybe we could try to climb—”

A loud, crashing sound to their right cut him off. All three of them froze, waiting, listening.

A metallic clang rang out from behind a jutting rectangle of metal, followed by a scrape, then the grunt of a man. Tick heard the shuffling of feet, then a cough. Although he knew someone was approaching the road, about to appear at any second, he couldn’t move. After almost three days of complete boredom, hearing the presence of another human being was like finding an alien in his backyard.

A man of medium height and enormous build stepped around the corner of the metal obstacle, limping slightly. He had tangled, red hair and a scruffy beard; he wore a plaid red flannel shirt, dirty denim overalls, and heavy work boots. Tick was half-surprised the guy didn’t have a huge axe slung over his shoulder.

When the man noticed Tick and the others, he stopped and stared at them with wide eyes. After a long, awkward pause, he spoke, his voice as scratchy as his beard.

“Well, butter my grits,” he said with a heavy Southern accent. “What you chirrun doin’ up in here?”

Tick didn’t say anything, not sure why he felt so odd. Maybe it was the absurdity of seeing a lumberjack in a world made of metal. Sofia saved the situation.

“We’re, uh, kind of lost,” she said.

“Lost?” the man repeated, leaning back and putting his large hands in the pockets of his overalls. “How you reckon on gettin’ lost up here on da roofens?”

Tick blinked, unsure if the guy was still speaking English.

“Um, pardon me?” Paul said, clearing his throat. “Didn’t quite catch what you just said.”

The man squinted, looking at each of them in turn, as if doing some deep thinking and analysis. Finally he said, “Ya’ll look as twittered as a hound dawg at a tea party. Whatcha lookin’ fer?”