The Maze: Three tales of the future by Charity Tahmaseb Page A

mattress and empty footlocker, Hank bent his head forward and ran with all his strength, grateful for the crash at the end.
    But today, day twelve, he walked the corridors, keeping his pace steady. When he stood still, the walls closed in. If he extended his arms, certainly he’d be able to touch both sides at once. Every time he tried? The walls exhaled. There was no other word for it. And they left him standing in the center of the hall, fingertips straining for the cold surface on either side of him.
    An illusion. A trick. Something someone was recording. Would the cadre play it back, at the end of the exercise, so everyone could laugh at him? He shook his head, banishing that notion—and the thought that there was no end to this. That was why they punched the walls. That was why they kicked. Didn’t the cadre understand that? Or maybe they did, and that was the point.
    Hank inched closer to one wall, letting his fingers trail along its surface. So smooth. So cold. An ache bloomed beneath his fingertips. He moved closer still, resting his forehead against the wall. The shock of cold almost made him jerk back. But as unrelenting as the wall was, it soothed his brow, made his throat feel less parched. Hank inhaled, held the recycled air in his lungs, then blew out a long breath and pitched forward.
    There, on the wall—like the indentation on a pillow—was the impression of his forehead. With hands and fingers, he probed the dent. Nothing. In frustration, he leaned his head in the same spot, and the wall gave way again.
    This time, Hank stood still. The corridor remained quiet. The lights blared down, like they always had. A dry, stale taste had invaded his mouth a few hours back. But this? This was new. This held hope. He rolled his head from side to side, the motion so gentle, his eyelids grew heavy. It was like an icy lullaby, and after six hours of running the maze, a relief.
    The going was slow, but the wall yielded beneath his head. He forgot about running, about screaming, about kicking. He forgot about feeling foolish. Who cared? At last he was getting somewhere.
    The giggle stopped all his progress. Hank felt his eyes grow wide. Certainly his mouth hung open. A giggle. A girl’s giggle. He stepped back and surveyed the wall.
    “Hello?” His voice sounded rough, so he coughed to clear it.
    Nothing. Right. Walls didn’t giggle. That didn’t stop him from trying again. “Hello?”
    “Is someone there?” The voice sounded light, but steady, and even better, real. Not some computer-simulated thing—and Hank knew all about those. This was a real girl.
    Or, at least, Hank hoped she was. Instead of jumping back, he surged forward and cracked his head against the wall.
    “Ow.” His voice sank into the walls around him, and it was almost like he hadn’t spoken at all.
    “Are you okay?”
    “I head-butted the wall.”
    “You can’t do that,” the girl said. “You’ve got to go slow.”
    “I know that.”
    “And use body parts that haven’t hit the wall, either.”
    “I know that too.” Or, at least, he did now.
    “Does your head still work?”
    What kind of question was that? Hank stared at the wall so hard, the surface blurred red.
    “I mean,” she said, “since you hit the wall with it.”
    Oh. Of course. He was an idiot. “Let me try.” He eased forward, resting his head against the wall. From one side to the other, he rolled his head, the cold dulling the pain from the bruise.
    His feet remained in the same spot, but the wall felt pliant under his forehead. He brought up a hand, testing the surface not with fingertips that had scratched, but with the heel of his hand. The sensation didn’t register at first, but a small circle beneath his palm radiated warmth.
    “Do you feel that?” he asked. “The heat?”
    “I do.”
    “What do you think it is?”
    A moment passed, a single heartbeat of hesitation. “Us?”
    Was it? The reflex to jerk away nearly had him on the opposite side of