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Germaine lapsed back into consciousness only when the swamp waters advanced up to his neck.

The fields of grapevines were the most susceptible part of the park to revert to their natural state as swampland. While they looked okay from the air, in truth the fields were fallow and flooded over.

The monorail now sat derailed in a bog. Half of it was on fire and the other half was underwater. Only the front car remained halfway recognizable. The sleek midcentury siding was charred, the paint fried off and metal twisted in knots.

Germaine climbed to higher ground, barely registering the fact that his limbs still worked. He stood atop the monorail’s hollow shell.

“Who ain’t dead?”

His question echoed out into the night. For the longest time there was no response.

Germaine walked along the top of the monorail, limping slightly as he massaged his tendons into working order. He’d be sore in the morning, but he’d live.

“Over here!” Soto jumped down from an orange tree.

Dan sat, unconscious, laying horizontally on a string of benches. The bench had been decamped from the tram and were just laying softly in a small layer of water. They woke him up and ensured nothing was broken.

“Where’s the boss lady?”

But Diaz and Vic were nowhere to be found.

The trio gathered what supplies they could. There was no further counterattack. Whether corporate only had one guided missile, or they assumed the crash was not survivable, it was hard to tell.

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The pair continued north, along a raised levee that ran between a wide and shallow floodplain and a deeper, narrower channel meant for boat traffic.

“Any sign of the boss lady or Vic?” Germaine asked.

Soto was a bit behind, limping along. “No.”

“… you sure they’re still alive?”

“Where the hell would the bodies go?” Soto’s speech was punctuated by a sharp surge of pain when he stepped on a rock.

Marching through acidic sludge had burnt Soto’s right boot down to its bare-thread layers, and even worn at the soles of both of Dan’s boots. The left boot had the opposite problem; acid tore the top of the shoe apart, fraying the laces and exposing Soto’s big toe.

“Screw it.” Soto took his right boot off, then hopped about on his remaining somewhat-good shoe.

The trio continued, slower now, until they reached an unpaved but official-looking gravel path. It must have been a service road – one used for buggies and maintenance workers and the like. It appeared to start at the towers and run south-east, closer to the entrance, so they followed it north and west.

A long-disused shed sat to the right of the road. It was smoldering as a fire entered its death throes.

Signs of a shoot-out radiated out from the wreckage. The action was one-sided, with attackers shooting into the building but no counterattack to speak of. Crucifixes and various snakeskins littered the area. The militia had penetrated this far at least. That was well beyond the hotel.

Blowing the monorail would’ve prevented corporate security from reinforcing the hotel in a timely fashion without noticeably slowing down the attackers.

The road from here on out was straightforward. Even so, Germaine and Soto were squeezed between two opposing armies.

Ahead, the towers could be seen in detail now. There were windows and exterior balconies rising all the way to the highest stories.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

The park’s edge was demarcated by a large mound. Maps said they ran a train along the top, mostly as a gimmick. But there was a barbed-wire fence near the top of the hill, and a row of hedges above that.

“Any of this ringing a bell?” Dan asked Germaine.

“Not a thing.” Germaine shook his head.

There was a sliding garage door buried in the mound. The path was blocked only by a simple keypad and sensor, and their wristbands were still working.

“We can get in through here,” Germaine said.

The door opened slowly, and with a rusted-over grinding sound that carried far over the orchards. Beyond the grate was a dark subterranean tunnel complex that stretched on as far as their flashlights could illuminate.

Plumes of dust rose from the road at their backs. It came from vehicles, likely the militia.

“They’ll have a back door right to the park.”

At the speeds the vehicles were traveling, they’d be at the garage in five minutes.

“Let ‘em come. I’m getting my share and skedaddling,” Germaine said.

“Might not be in a state where I can run away,” Dan said, grimacing.

“We’ll all be crucified before we ever leave the park.” Soto brandished his pistol, counting out remaining ammo. “Go, I’ll hold them off.”

The door was only half open.

“What, no!” Germaine said. “That’s a stupid idea.”

Dan was already through the door. Soto pushed Germaine through the waiting door, then slammed the “close” button.

There was a minor delay as the door processed this order. Soto turned to face the oncoming militia.

Rather than leave his companion to his fate, Germaine reached past the threshold and grabbed Soto by the collar. With a yank, he dragged Soto into the bunker, but not before Soto’s head hit the grating with a thunk.

“What was that for?” Soto said, gently cradling a knot on the back of his neck.

“Nobody gets left behind,” Germaine said. “Came too far and had too many razor-thin scrapes at this point.”

Then, after a period of silence, Germaine added:

“Besides, need you two alive. Nobody will believe me when I tell this story. Not without somebody to back me up.”

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Devereaux World’s tunnels were dark, with most lights being long since out of order. A faint scent of stale popcorn lingered in the air.

There had to be a stairwell or something heading up. Most doors led only to storage closets. Germaine looked in one and discovered rows upon rows of security drones, custom made rather than recycled from a mascot. All were sitting on assembly lines, idle.

Four identical storage facilities passed until Germaine and Soto found the stairs. They exited the “underground” and emerged into… a chilly, nighttime vista. Fake snow littered the ground.

Clearly, they weren’t outside. They were in another water-based ride. A Viking longboat waited, idle, as animatronic raiders set a coastal town ablaze.

“Huh. Some kind of theming,” Dan said.

“It’s a bit more involved than your average county fairground.” Germaine nodded.

This ride accounted for preventative maintenance with a series of walkways and paths behind the scenes. The pair walked through the sets, receiving an abridged pop-history of Viking exploration and conquest. The ride spat them out into a service corridor around Greenland.

Rides were connected by a series of rather dry, themeless corridors – the next door brought Germaine, Soto, and Dan into a hall of mirrors.

“At least we haven’t run into anyone yet,” Germaine said.

Running gun battles would ruin what tenuous stealth they had.

The mirrors started out like your typical funhouse: an elongated mirror, a squat and fat mirror, wavy mirror. A central room, however, held something more. It was built like an observation tower above a scale model. There weren’t enough stairwells in the building to elevate them a hundred feet above ground level, and yet from this vantage point they could almost buy the ruse. The illusion gave them a view of the Futureplex to the south, filtered through a dozen lenses.

Germaine looked through one lens and saw the Futureplex. Through the next, he saw instead a spiky globe-like structure, much smaller than the actual Futureplex. Through a third lens, he saw a more traditional series of glass domes, like one big greenhouse.

“Huh, it’s a picture of some sort of casino,” Dan said, peering into one of the smaller lenses. “Maybe they’re alternate versions of plans for the park?”

“Maybe.” Germaine scratched at the stubble that had grown-in on his chin.

Another platform showcased the airport. Again, there was the classic lens, then a lens that instead showed a zoo, then an extra-big water park themed like some northwestern wilderness lounge.

And lastly there was the view of the central towers, which appeared to be due east of this position. From this angle the towers were revealed to be the ramparts of a miniature castle. In fact, there were four lenses showing off four different castles, and four different climates! And another showing a minaret-looking structure, and another showing one big, rather sinister, motte.

Germaine leaned perilously close to the nearest lens, showcasing a peach and blue tower. It seemed the closest to the quad-towers that existed in their reality.

At this razor-close distance, it was almost as if there was no thin lens at all. It was as if Germaine could just squeeze through and suddenly be standing in front of the castle, in a wildly different context, and from a wildly different place and time. Like a window into another world…

“Germaine!” Soto grabbed him by the back of the collar. “You’re going to fall off the railing.”

Germaine snapped out of it. The lens was back to looking like a funhouse mirror now, the blue-tipped castle just a weird mirage of what could be.

“Exit’s this way.” Dan pointed at a set of double doors down a short flight of stairs.

Germaine slapped the stubble on his jowls.

“Jeez. Place is really getting to me.”

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