Mindless; Chapter One (Draft Two)

Horace stumbled into the huge, aristocratic building, dripping streams of water onto the oriental carpet. Hair--his hair-- was plastered to his gleaming forehead, and his tattered suit (which was all his mother could afford) resembled a sewer, both in color and in present quality. As soon as the automatic doorway slid shut behind him, Horace snatched the glasses off his nose and cleaned them up. No use going before wizards blind, he decided.

Reaching into a sodden pocket, Horace rummaged for his map. The rain had ruined it as well, turning it into a pile of mush, and he couldn’t ask for directions. To his surprise, the place was utterly empty.

    Horace anxiously checked his watch. Good, he still had ten minutes to sort out this mess. He was to report down to room WT-234, which, he remembered, was on the lowest level.

Well, he thought, not sure which direction to go in, no use dawdling!

He chose directly forward.

The hall was bleak in every way except one; colorful depictions of every battle fought

by the British lined the wall.    They were excellent paintings, probably done by...he had no idea who, but whoever it was had real talent. He gawped at the paintings until he came to the cement stairs. So surprised was he by the appearance of the dirty steps, he almost toppled head over heels into it. He stopped himself by grabbing onto the stainless steel railing. No use going before wizards with a cracked head, that much was obvious.
    The lighting grew dismal as Horace descended. Shadowy lines became more defined, spiders skittered over the cracked plaster, lights occasionally flickered out. Whenever they did go out on the long trip downstairs, Horace clutched the railing, breathing hard. They always came back on though.
    The trip ended with a white door. Unlike everything else surrounding Horace’s small figure, the white door was perfect. The paint looked fresh and appealing, the doorknob gleamed gold in the leaky light, and there wasn’t a crack to be seen. Maybe it just contrasted with the filth around it, but Horace was sure this was the most perfect door he had ever seen. He felt guilty even touching the doorknob, much less opening the door.
    Horace checked the watch again. He was three minutes late already, and wizards didn’t like waiting. That much he’d gathered from the series of phone calls they’d given him. Always, they were snotty. Always, they were rude. Nevertheless, Horace was here to become one of them, and that thought filled him with dread.
    Horace quickly wrung out his tie. Water seeped down, and the tie looked even more scrunched up but a little less wet. At least the bloodstains were no longer visible. Finally, Horace turned the doorknob and entered the vast, black room.