James A. Hunter
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Backrooms: Delvers and Dwellers - Chapter 8
🕑 Added 2023-06-21 17:00:02 +0000 UTCEight – To Greener Pastures
The stairwell was nothing special and blessedly devoid of monsters or unnamed horrors waiting to devour me the moment I let my guard down. It was just plain concrete, a simple metal handrail, and a series of switchbacks that eventually led me to an industrial door with a narrow rectangular window and a metal bar running across the front, just like the one I’d left behind. A sign above the door read “Exit” but there was nothing to indicate where the stairwell would dump me.
The door itself was locked, which wasn’t a huge surprise, but luckily the Janitor’s key opened this one as well. Before blundering out, I peeked through the window, trying to get my bearings and see if there were any obvious dangers waiting for me.
I’d worked at a lot of different construction sites over the past nine years—some private others commercial—and I knew a shopping mall when I saw one.
This one looked years out of date, like something stuck, unchanged, in a time capsule since the 1980s. It was a sprawling, multi-level complex with tiled floors and broad salmon-colored columns rising up to a skyline I couldn’t quite see through the narrow strip of safety glass. The place was painted with cool pastel colors and vibrant, pink neon lighting ran along the edges of the railing on the upper floors.
Hesitantly, I popped the door, shoving it open just enough to get a better look.
Off to the left was an expansive open courtyard with a water fountain in the center surrounded by several tiled planters, overgrown with strange-looking vegetation. Palm trees and creeping vines, thick ferns and huge red spotted flowers, easily the size of a man. No tag appeared when I looked at them, but instinct told me those things were probably trouble.
Best to steer clear.
A pair of escalators in the courtyard ascended to the second floor, and above them was a triangular glass ceiling. It didn’t look out onto the night sky. Instead, it peered out into… nothing. Just endless black, devoid of life. At least, I hoped it was devoid of life. I had the distinct impression I didn’t want to run into anything that might be swimming around in those dark waters. An eye-searing neon sign in shades of red, pink, and purple hung above the courtyard, declaring this place to be the Neon Junction Shopping Center.
A darkened hallway stretched out beyond the planters and the courtyard, lined with shops I couldn’t quite make out.
To the right were more shops, running along the lower level of the mall. Although the mall itself was rather gloomy, the garish neon signs above each of the boutiques were on, casting the floors and walls in a kaleidoscope of dream-like carnival colors. I’d never heard of any of the shops and everything about them was subtly wrong—almost as though they’d been designed and fabricated by someone who’d been told at great length about shopping malls but had never actually seen one in real life.
There was a place called Vinyl Vibes with a glossy black record dangling above the glass doors, decorated with concert posters for bands that didn’t exist.The Atomic Riot. Wildfire Wailers. Thunderflash and Velvet Voltage.
Beside the record store was the Glimmer Glam Boutique, showcasing mannequins in dazzling sequin dresses and vibrant power suits with enormous, padded shoulders. Their tagline summed the shop up perfectly, “Glittering Shadows, Where Dreams Scream in Neon!” Across the way from them was an Antique store, Timeless Vintage Treasures, overflowing with lava lamps, leather bomber jackets, and plastic bobbles of every shape and size.
The only thing I really cared about, however, was nestled firmly between the Antique store and a beauty shop called Big Hair Rising.
A bank. Eastside City Savings & Loan.
Perched just in front of the bank, waiting like a hunched over gargoyle, was a clunky old-school ATM machine. Except, stenciled along the side of the gray box were the words Progenitor Monolith.
Either this was phenomenal luck or a trap, just like the bathroom had been.
The worst part was, I genuinely couldn’t tell which. And even though it probably wasa trap, I already knew I was going to roll the dice and hope for the best, which was asinine. Hope was a terrible plan.
But what other option did I have?
Taking one final look around, I pushed the door fully open and eased myself out into the retro shopping mall. I tore off a generous heap of toilet paper from the Roll of Endless Wipe, then waded it up and jammed it into the metal strike plate, so the door couldn’t properly latch. I tested my handiwork, silently pushing and pulling the door open and shut a few times to make sure I’d have a way out if this all went sideways.
Satisfied that the door wasn’t going to arbitrarily lock on me at the worst possible moment, I made my way along the center of the hallway, staying as far away from the storefronts as possible. In some ways, this was dumb because anyone out in the main corridors would be able to see me instantly, but I had a feeling that the real threats weren’t out here. They were inside the stores themselves. I could’ve sworn the mannequins inside the Glimmer Glam moved to get a better look at me as I passed by.
It was subtle, but the feeling of watching eyes told me otherwise.
Finally, I stopped in front of ATM/Progenitor Monolith, though I stayed a good ten feet away. I crouched down, and examined the machine at eye level, looking for anything odd or strange that might give it away as a trap. The problem was, everything about this place was odd and strange, from the stores to the halls, to the monstrous murder machines waiting to skin me alive.
I licked my lips and rubbed at my jaw, warring with indecision.
Finally, however, I stood and slowly approached.
“Sorry to be a bother,” a voice squeaked from a nearby pool of shadow.
I froze, blood running cold, and whirled toward the voice. Without even thinking about it, my hammer leapt into my right hand while I prepared to launch a Bleach Bolt with my left.
A creature stepped out from behind one of the overgrown planters back in the courtyard and moved toward me slowly. Deliberately. As if I were a skittish kitten that might bolt at any second.
“I know, technically, it’s none of my business,” the thing said, “but I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
It spoke with a friendly, masculine voice and had a strange, clipped accent that was hard to place. Not Australia. New Zealand maybe?
That wasn’t important.
What was important, was that this thing was not human. Not even human shaped. It looked like a medium size dog, except it was made entirely of blue Croc material—a smooth, glossy surface with a rubbery texture dotted with large holes.
As the creature approached an identification tag flashed above its head.
Dweller 0.377F – Normal Human Dog [Level 7]
“They like to hide near stairwells, the mimics,” the dog said. Though, again, it was a dog in the same way a flipflop was a dog. “Particularly stairwells that connect to the Lobby. Easy to catch fresh meat that way. They can be quite tricky. Sneaky.” The creature nodded its head toward the machine. “They know the new Delvers will be searching for one of the Monoliths, so it’s a good lure. This one isn’t very smart, though. Not like the mimics you’ll find on the lower levels. Those ones can talk. Think. Make deals, even. This one is young still. All just hunger and instinct.”
“That’s plenty far enough,” I said, raising my hammer in clear threat. The dog stopped, then sat on its hunches, its blue spotted tail waggling across the tile floor. “I’m a mite bit less concerned about what that is”—I hooked a thumb toward the ATM—“and a mite bit more concerned about whatever in the hell you are.”
“Sorry, but what do you mean?” the dog asked quizzically. “Didn’t you see the tag? I’m a Normal Human Dog. My designation is even marked F for friend. As in man’s best friend.”
“Yeah,” I said, “thing is, I’m a normal human and I’ve seen plenty of dogs. They don’t talk. And they aren’t made out of rubber. They also have fur and organs.” I paused, trying to gauge its reaction. “Now how’s about you try that again before I splattered you with a Bleach Bolt.”
“Aw drat,” the dog replied. Its tail ceased wagging and it lowered its muzzle. “I really thought I had it this time. I looked up a picture of a dog in one of the stores upstairs, Paperbacks and Paradoxes. Lovely little place. Except for the Bibliophages—nasty things, they are. Anyway, I found a kid’s book called Totally Real Human Animals and this is what the dogs looked like. But most of the Progenerated Materials in the Backrooms can be a little wonky.”
“Gee, you don’t say,” I replied flatly. “Is that what you are? What all these monsters are? Progenerated Materials?”
“In a way,” the not-dog said. “The levels are all Progenerated, of course. The stores and such as well. Technically everything that doesn’t have Material Significance. But the Dwellers are different. We’re not materially produced via the Influx Processing and Randomization System. We’re birthed by the God Box on Level 1,000. Technically, for the sake of full transparency, it’s called the Progenitor Cube, but we all just call it the God Box. Also, I should amend that birthed probably isn’t the right term either. More like we’re thought into existence. It’s a small, but nuanced difference.”
“That means you’re one of them,” I said, not that there had ever been any doubt in my mind. It was a dog made of Croc material. “Like the Janitorial Handyman upstairs or those creepy Lobby Greeters.”
“Yeah,” the dog said dejectedly, “but also no.” It hunched up its shoulders in something resembling a shrug. “We’re not all bad. Our original purpose was as Helpmates. But most of the Dwellers lost their way. Forgot our purpose. I think it might have something to do with the Blight. Now they just crave anything with even the faintest whiff of Material Significance. They want something that’s real. Like that mimic there.” It once again bobbed its head toward the ATM.
“What’s your name?” I asked, hoping to build a little bit of rapport with this thing.
“Never really thought about it, to be honest,” the creature replied. “And no one’s ever bothered to give me one. You’re a human,” it stated with a hopeful edge in its voice, “you lot are great at naming things. Why don’t you give me a name?” Its tail wagged and thumped energetically.
I only had to think about it for a second before I spoke, “Croc.”
“Oh, that’s a good name,” the dog said, bobbing its head in agreement. “Is this what it’s like to have a friend? Because I quite like it.”
“That depends,” I said. “Friends don’t try to kill, eat, or dismember each other. So I guess the real question is, are you going to try to kill me, eat me, enslave my soul, or wear my skin like a fleshy jumpsuit?”
“Not at all. I’m just trying to help,” the dog replied. “Admittedly, I haven’t had the best of luck with the new arrivals. The last guy I tried to help was Tim. Seemed like a nice enough bloke, but he got scared when I introduced myself and then he ran headlong into the Carnivora Rex, just over there.” It bobbed its nose toward the overgrown foliage. “Not sure what killed him first, the prolific bleeding or losing all his limbs at once.” Croc paused. “You know, now that I’m saying it out loud, it was probably the limb thing in retrospect.”
That didn’t put my mind at ease.
“Well, since we’re friends, Croc,” I pressed, “why don’t you tell me what you really are. Maybe show me what you look like beneath the dog suit.”
“Hmm, not sure that’s the best idea,” Croc replied uncertainly. “The guy before Tim—his name was Matthew—didn’t take it so well. Ended up falling face-first into the acid pool then the Reflection Lurker ate him. Which reminds me, under no circumstance should you try to drink out of the water fountain. It’s acid and there is an enormous invisible fish that will one-hundred percent eat you.”
“Friends trust each other Croc,” I said, still gripping my hammer so tightly it hurt. “If you want me to trust you, I need to know what I’m dealing with.”
The dog sighed then nodded, “Yeah, that’s what Matthew said too,” it mumbled half-heartedly under its breath. Then, without any further warning, its form bubbled and shifted.
