The Atmospherians Alex McElroy (i like reading .txt) 📖

didn’t pose any threat—not to the community, if he was honest with himself, and definitely not to him. The Atmosphere, though, had power. He’d been an idiot for thinking he had the skills to take on a project like this. Soon he’d end up like Dyson—dead at the base of a pond—forgotten.

No one would come looking for him. His parents were dead. His closest friend hadn’t texted in months. He’d only had two major girlfriends. Both married shortly after leaving him. His followers might write him angry messages demanding fresh content. But they would never search for him. There was the letter sender. If weeks passed without Blair posting his findings, the sender might alert the police—but by then, it would be too late.

Two Blues stood guard at the foot of his bed. If he could slip past them, he figured, he could escape. He tried connecting with them: “This music must make you nuts.”

“It’s on a loop,” a Blue said. “I always know what’s coming, never surprised.”

“The Inception soundtrack’s almost on,” said the other Blue. “Best time of the day.”

“That soundtrack is so moving,” said the first.

Blair peeled off his covers. “I’d go mad listening to it all day.”

“You can get used to anything if you do it often enough.”

“That’s what Sasha tells us.”

“That doesn’t frighten you?” Blair asked.

“What’s to be scared of?”

Blair set his feet on the ground. The men ran over and bent to help him stand.

“You can’t jump into walking,” said the first Blue.

“I’m just stretching,” Blair said. A sandy sensation ascended his legs.

“You haven’t eaten in hours.”

“Easy does it,” said one.

Blair shoved them away. He ran, wearing only socks, an undershirt, and boxers. His legs gave out and he fell face-first to the floor. He dragged himself onto a nearby bed. A pair of yellow track pants lay folded on the pillow. Blair slipped them on over his boxers.

“Are you okay?” shouted the Blues.

He continued running but was unsure where to go. Beds spread out in every direction, and the walls were mirrored, multiplying the beds into the thousands. But he chose a direction and, eventually, came to where the department store fed into the mall. The mall’s lighting frizzed his brain. Halved black orbs bubbled out from the ceilings, recording his every step. Clusters of men jogged past. The cologne men sprayed their cologne.

At the center stage, the mall split into three different paths. Blair took the one at his right, thinking it would lead back to the receptionists where he’d entered. The path was packed with black cushioned chairs where men were mending tracksuits or applying novelty patches. Some read from a hardbound The Atmospherian Doctrine. Blair picked a copy off an ottoman and slumped in a chair like the others. He flipped through looking for something incriminating, for some reason why outsiders weren’t allowed to read it, but on every page was a photo from Sasha’s former Instagram feed. Inspirational quotes were inscribed beneath each one, all attributed to her.

A Pink sitting beside Blair lowered his copy. “Aren’t you the guest?”

Blair sprinted ahead, in the direction of a thickening scent of grease. A mysterious choking sound intensified. He followed a sign on the ceiling pointing toward the food court, hoping there might be an exit nearby.

There was an exit. But Blair didn’t see it. The scene inside the food court shocked him in place. On the left side of the cafeteria, men lined up across a counter loading plastic trays with prepared plates. Others crowded around small square tables in the center. They chewed sedately. No one spoke. On the right side of the room, a single porcelain trough ran the length of the tables. A cushioned pad, like those in Catholic churches, extended in front of the trough. Men knelt on the pads and dug their fingers into their mouths, backs curved, heaving, their necks stretched over the lip of the trough as vomit fell through their lips.

Men finished their meals. They loaded their trays onto carts. They waited patiently behind men at the trough. Some men beat their chests before kneeling. Others jumped. One man crossed himself. Another slapped both cheeks. There were farts, burps, the occasional scream.

Randy knelt at the end of the trough, close to where Blair stood. The man beside Randy pointed Blair out to him. Randy stood. He dragged his forearm across his face to clear off the mucus. He burped into his elbow. “Blair!” he said. “Glad you woke up.”

Blair ran in the direction from which he had come, his socked feet slipping on the floor.

Randy’s voice echoed through the loudspeaker: “Atmospherians, you may remember our guest, Blair Hastings, from this afternoon’s PIEs session. Well, Blair is not responding to our generosity. He needs help. He is tired and confused, but he is in no way dangerous.”

I am dangerous, Blair thought, When I get out of here I’ll show you how dangerous I am.

“If you see him, please sit him down. Tend to him. Talk to him. Keep him in one place as long as you can, and either I or Sasha will be there shortly to assist you.”

Blair sprinted back to the main stage, passing men shouting, “Stop!” or “Hang on!” He folded a metal chair flat to use as a weapon. He rode up the escalator to the second floor. His windpipe had thinned to a straw. Men funneled at the base of the escalator. Others charged across the main corridors. He took the only path available, ditched the chair.

“Do not hurt our guest. Treat him with care and respect.”

The mob swelled at his back. Their mouths widened with screams. He ducked inside Victoria’s Secret—The Crucible—and skulked down a thin hallway of changing rooms. Light spilled out from beneath silver doors. Someone entered the store. He hid in the closest changing room. He braced himself for obnoxious sexual images, a box of tissues, guidelines for how to suppress the desire to masturbate. Mirrors covered all four walls. A gold plaque on the door