The dreaded click. Bob opened his eyes excepting to see his doom, proof that he had chosen wrong, that he was down to his final guess, that the noose had drawn a little tighter. So he was mighty surprised to find something else. The door had... not opened. Instead three more white-on-black dials had appeared. It isn't over yet? God have mercy on us all. The combination now read:
> 8 4 8 5 7 2 0 0 0
And worst of all, the height of unfairness, even though he got the combination right, the number of guesses had spiraled down from two to one. Bob felt a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead in the cold room. He’d been very close there, at the very edge. Bob hadn’t known it but he’d already been at death’s door. If he’d chosen wrong, he would have run out of guesses before he'd had a chance to attempt the nine-digit combination. This challenge is impossible, he muttered to himself.
3 more digits, Bob repeated the words to himself like they were some bitter oath against every deity across the cosmos, 3 more digits. But there weren’t 3 more candles were there? He gestured around the room as though his protest might be observed and noted, and someone might take remedial action.
How long was this thing going to go on for? He wanted to go home. He wanted to sink down into his sofa, get himself a cold drink, switch on the telly and just forget himself for two or three long hours. What a happy thought.
Nine, what were there nine of, that wasn’t so hard. Maybe this one will be easier. The only thing that had anything to do with the number nine was the box of crayons. That had to be the clue. He gave the crayons an optimistic measure with the ruler. The four remaining were all precisely 3.7 inches high. Was he supposed to round? Challenge be damned, if he was going to bet his life on a combination derived from rounding coloring crayon heights.
He wasn’t thinking straight. All that time up in a tree. It did things to a man. Bob was tired. How many hours had gone by, he wondered. He sat down in his chair. Coloring crayons, if it wasn’t the height, maybe it had something to do with the color. From left to right, white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet and black (he could tell the colors of the missing crayons from the picture on the front of the tin). So it was basically the rainbow with white and black sandwiched on either side. That spelled out: WROYGBIVB or in other words, unpronounceable gibberish. Converting to numbers, 23, 18, 15, 25, 7, 2, 9, 22, 9. Were you supposed to add them all up, maybe stir them together and make a soup or something. A pretty obvious dead end.
No, Bob’s experience with the candles had convinced him. Once he found the right answer, it should be obvious. And yet they were color crayons, it had to have something to do with the colors. He refueled the fire with his last few pieces of book shelf. He’d have to tear out the frame next, that or start burning books.
He picked up a blue volume from a stack at his thigh and flicked through the pages. He knew it was empty. He just wanted something to fiddle with. He put the book down again and picked up another. This one green and with text. He caught himself at this. He’d noticed the color of the books before, but he’d never really thought of it since. He did a quick survey. There were exactly 9 different colors, each corresponding to one of the crayons. Bingo.
Empty Text Total W 8 5 13 R 4 3 7 O 8 1 9 Y 5 3 8 G 7 1 8 B 2 2 4 I 37 0 37 V 53 0 53 B 211 0 211
Bob had done it. It had taken him a long time. Far too long, but he’d done it. He glanced down the row of empty totals: 8 4 8 5 7 2. That looked mighty familiar. It was exactly the same sequence that had solved the six digit combination. Now we are talking. Here’s a puzzle worth solving. The second combination was build up on the first. Bob couldn’t ask for a clearer sign than that.
No point messing around. Moment of truth. He adjusted the three zeros to the last digit of the empty totals: 7 3 1. The challenge had really pushed him to the ends of his wits and he’d almost given up at several points. But he’d won through at the end and that’s all that mattered. He pushed enter.
The familiar click. But he knew this game. He’s seen it before. The 1 shifted to 0, but the top dials all started spinning. Then from left to right, they started to stop one at a time, each face baring a letter: G, A, M, E, space, and then came the four black dials with white, emblazoned letters, O, V, E, R. GAME OVER.
Bob panicked. He hammered on the case with the full extend of his feeble strength. He tried forcing the dials back up. He spam clicked the enter button again and again. He took a step back and kicked at the door. Nothing happened.
It didn’t make any sense. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The numbers had lined up so neatly. He crumbled up in his chair, defeated, defeated at last. Was this going to be end of everything? Had he missed something? Had he, Bob, Bob the wise, Bob the maker of clothes, had he, could he have missed something? No, impossible, unconceivable, beyond the fabric of reality.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Bob granted himself permission to review his figures and double check the counts. But his addition, as always, was stellar. He reexamined the crayons to make sure he hadn’t mistaken the order. But it was just as he had expected. There were the five blank spaces, white, red, orange, yellow and green, followed by the four crayons, blue, indigo, violet and black.
Something caught on Bob’s mind. The first five slots were empty. He went back to the lock. He hadn’t really placed much importance in the fact (who would), but now that he looked more closely, the first five dials were all black letters on a white back, while the last four inverted the pattern. Just like the crayons… That seemed a curious coincidence, no?
He pulled up his figures again. Bob scrunched up his eyes and raised his head to the ceiling, grimacing to himself. The sixth row (blue): two empty and two with text. The first five used the empty count and the last four must have needed the text count. So the right combination was 8 4 8 7 5 2 0 0 0. D'argh, the system was laughing at him, he spat out through clenched teeth. Three zeros! It was inconceivable.
If he’d only he’d had one more guess. Just one more guess. How close could a man come? Why, oh, why did he have to go and press enter again that first time. He raised his hands to the stone ceiling. “I know the answer now. Give me a chance. Give me one more chance.” Heaven was merciless.
He retreated back to his chair to ruminate endlessly on his failings. It was so obvious now. So brutally obvious. But now, but now, everything was over. He started throwing books into the fire. What difference did it make? Bob was going to die here. Maybe he’d last a day. He had some apples left. But it wasn’t starvation that he was afraid of. It was the darkness. The darkness that would sweep down over him. He couldn’t bear to die like that in a black, invisible world, drowning in a whirlpool of regret. Maybe there was another way out, some last secret.
He stared at his diagrams and calculations. He burned them into his mind. But the book shelf had already given up all its secrets. He threw more and more books into the fireplace like he was trying to frighten away the darkness that crept nearer every moment. The room grew hot and red, angry shadows dancing across the walls.
Bob gathered up his possessions. He stacked the apples on the side table. He piled up the system primer, the jamphlet, his exercise book, knife, pencil case. Everything of value. And then he sat in the chair and stared into the fire.
Had it been a good life? Bob asked himself. What was a good life after all? It had been a life hadn’t it? He'd read philosophy at uni, but quickly grown discouraged. Nobody cared. The good life, the bad life, the life of pleasure, people had stopped thinking about these things. Bob had followed suit, investing his university years in deepening his familiarity with the local pub scene. Unfortunately, in our current economic climate, that investment had failed to pay dividends.
And then what? He’d circled through a few career options, sales, HR, most of them variations on the same core tasks: type words into a computer, sit in on meetings, debate trivial things and listen aimlessly to clients drone on about their needs. He’d finally ended up as a QA engineer. The role minimized meetings and client interactions, while letting him play to his natural strengths: finding small things to complain about.
It was dull work, sure. Replaying the same flows over and over with tiny variations, just to search out some crack in the developer’s imagination. But it paid the bills didn’t it? Bob wondered what the demand for QA engineers would be like post-system-initiation. Pretty low no doubt, pretty low.
No, now that he thought about it, it hadn’t been a great life. He might’ve made more of himself, he reckoned. Though he couldn’t quite say where he’d gone wrong or really what success was supposed to look like. He wanted to say he’d work harder if he got out of his place. But he didn’t quite know if that was true. What’s the point of trying harder in some ends-meet jobs? Now, maybe, if he could find himself something a little more interesting. Then maybe we’d talk. Then he might just make a name for himself.
A shame, almost, that he was going to die here. Just when life had begun to take a more interesting turn. Did he regret anything? He'd wanted to survive. Sure, in the way everybody does. But had he really wanted to live? What did he have to live for? He slumped there in the chair and played back his life to himself. He wasn’t close to his family; his parents lived far away and his little sister had her own family now. He had two good friends, Nate and Joey, well they’d do just fine without him. Nobody really needed him after all. For the best I guess. Wouldn't want to leave a friend in a bind by dying here would we? And then it hit him. His only true regret, the one that sat with him now in this darkening room. George.
The others, they didn't need him. But George, George was a different story. George lying on bathroom threshold. Good, old George. Bob wished he'd taken that dog for a walk today. At least today. Their last day together. Bob felt like he'd never quite realized it, but how he loved that dog and Bob smiled to himself in spite of everything. How he loved that dog, though, heaven knows, that dog had to be the stupidest, most helpless creature on the face of the planet. Who’d look after him when Bob was gone? Why I bet he’ll just lie there on the bathroom floor waiting for me like some idiot, was there a crack in Bob’s voice, never doubting for a moment that I'll come back.
That was hard. Bob didn’t want that. George could make such a sad face sometimes. When Bob left for work, George would sit by the door and whine, and Bob would have to tell himself that he had to go, that he couldn’t help it. He’d be back, back as quick as he could and he’d bring something for old George. But this time, this time he wouldn’t be back. This time George would wait and wait and Bob wouldn’t come. That was hard. Too hard.
Bob got up. He had to give it a last try. For George. For good, old George. Bob had stood up but he didn’t really have any idea of what to do. He puttered over to the doorway and gave the thing a few trial pushes, but no it had not been magically unlocked by the power of friendship. Wasn’t that how these things were supposed to work in stories?
"I’m sorry George." What was there left to try? He started slowly dismantling the shelf framing and adding it to the fire. It came down all too quickly and left him staring at more blank wall. No luck. No luck at all. It had been fun while it lasted. He reckoned it was about time for a little nap. He was bone tired. He threw all the wood and most of the books into the grate, sat down in the uncomfortable chair and closed his eyes.