You wake up and find that you are not in your bed, where you remember falling asleep. You are now in the middle of a town. It is still night time, the streetlights glow orange above You. You have no idea what time it actually is, or where exactly you are. You begin to wander down the sidewalk, gazing at houses and gas stations and businesses as you walk, trying to find anything that will tell you where you are.
As you pass by the buildings and under the rings of inexplicably familiar streetlights, you try to find a reason for why you find yourself in this situation. You can't remember having woken up any time between falling asleep and now, you are certain you went to sleep in your bed, in your apartment. Your own room. You know you don't sleepwalking.
As you continue to walk, you try to refocus on your surroundings. A gas station catches your eye. It is generic beyond generic. Blue and white simplistic colors line the shelter hood above the pumps and the tiny service building. From where you are you can see the rows of chips and drinks inside. The station is well lit, although the lot is deserted. You decide to cross and see if the attendant can give you and idea of where you are. You approach the door, your hand grasping the cold metal handle. It's shiny and flawless, as is everything else about the outer shell of the station. In passing, you figure it must be new. You find it odd that theres no recognizable name, on one banner theres something that vaguely resembles words but it feels so unimportant to you, for whatever reason, that its registering as a blurry image. As you enter the station, you are immediately met by the perfectly stocked and ordered shelves and coolers you expect to see in a gas station. Not a single item out of stock or place, everything is ordered as neatly and perfectly as if there's never been a customer. You look over towards the register, and find the counter empty. You walk over, assuming the attendant may just be in the bathroom or in a back room elsewhere. From the front of the counter, you can see a gray door marked "employees only" a few feet behind the counter. Everything is neat and orderly, spotless even. You decide to call out to whoever should be there.
"Hello? Can someone help me?" You call, your voice echoing ever so slightly off the perfectly painted walls. The silence that follows feels like it carries on forever. Minutes pass. You feel a knot beginning to tighten in your stomach. You make your way behind the counter, and approach the employee room. You find the door unlocked, and enter to find another spotless and perfectly ordered room. Magazines stacked evenly on the table, a fully stocked and functional snack/drink machine. A small kitchenette area, with a sink, fridge and microwave. There is a single bathroom, the door is propped open and the light inside is turned off. There's nobody here.
You try not to let the ever-growing anxiety get to you. You decide that someone just forgot to lock up at closing, surely. You make your way out of the station, and back towards the sidewalk. Across the street you see houses.
Each one has a perfectly painted white picket fence, almost as if each one was installed just the day before. The yards are all perfectly cut from what you can see under the glow of the streetlights. Each house looks almost identical, sans a very small range of different pale paint colors. The door plates should have numbers, but once again they're all blurry. Each driveway looks new as well. All the windows are dark. You decide not to attempt to bother anyone asleep in their home, but the perfection of every single house is not lost on you. It makes them all seem staged, fake somehow. Almost like a movie set.
You try to shake this idea. You keep walking. You can see more lights up ahead, and try to quicken your pace to see if there's anyone or anything that can help you there. As you approach the lights, on one side of the street you see a grocery store, and on the other what seems to be an electronics store. You once again can't make out names or words or even letters on the signs for either, but both are lit and appear open. And just like the houses, and the gas station, they look brand new. Perfectly paved parking lots, brand new paint and lights and signs, and through the windows you can see brand new items and products. You decide to try the grocery store first.
As you approach the glass door, you once again find yourself grabbing a seemingly brand new metal handle. You walk in, stepping onto perfectly polished tile floor, and see the fully stocked shelves. You begin to wander through, attempting to find a worker or customer or anything that can help you. You gaze at the products as you go, all lining the shelves with unceasing order and perfection. As you wander, you realize you can't make out the names of the products. It's all blurry, and none of it looks like it would be English if it weren't. You feel the panic rising in your throat now. Something is wrong.
Where are all the people? Surely this store isn't also a closed business that someone forgot to lock at closing time. You quicken your pace. The blurry labels melt together as you rush around the large and seemingly endless building. The blood is rushing in your ears. You reach the registers. All are unattended. You're unable to stifle the sinking feeling in your chest now. You move even faster back towards the exit.
You decide not to bother with any more stores. You keep walking down the street, past brand new looking houses with dark windows and unreadable door plates. You move faster. You pass a park. The fence is shiny, new just like everything else. The pavement and paint lining the basketball court looks new too. So do the nets. And the swings, and the picnic tables. You move faster. You pass more identical houses, the same building over and over.
You can't take the panic anymore. You push through one of the perfectly painted fence gates and skip a porch step, and begin knocking on the perfect oak door. You can't read the door plate, it's blurry and it doesn't look like anything to you. You knock again. And again, and again, your knocking becomes frantic.
"Will someone please just fucking answer!? I need fucking help!!" You yell, the panic and frustration getting the better of you. You know something is deeply wrong right now. You try the doorknob in an attempt to cease the deafening silence.
No crickets or bugs or birds or cars or people have filled the background this whole time, you realize. The sinking feeling grows worse. Only the hum of orange streetlights, and yourself.
The door is unlocked, just like everything else around here. You enter. It's an empty house. Perfectly polished wood floors, you can see from the faint orange light entering the room from the doorway you stand in. No furniture, no people, nothing. It's empty rooms. But there's a car in the driveway, there's a car in EVERY driveway. Where is everyone? The panic is unbearable, it's almost painful by now.
You stumble out of the empty house, the blood rushing in your ears is deafening now, your whole body feels detached and unreal. You stumble back towards the sidewalk, and look to your right. Far down the sidewalk, under the glow of another identical orange streetlight, you see the shadow of a person. Too far away to make out features, but you know that's a person.
You call out, trying to get their attention. The figure is motionless. You wave and shout, you start quickly towards the figure. They do not move. You cannot make out any features. You move faster. They do not move. You cannot make out any features. You get closer, moving faster. They do not move. You cannot make out any features. You get closer. They are still a dark, unmoving shadow. You cannot make out any features. You slow down and approach with caution.
You walk into the circle of orange light, now face to face with the featureless shadow. You can't summon your voice. But now, face to face with the figure, you realize they are a flat surface. You walk up, reaching out with a shaking hand, and touch the figure. It falls over onto the sidewalk. A cardboard cut out. You feel the blood draining from your face. You look up, staring down the sidewalk again. You see another featureless dark figure at the next light. You walk slowly, unable to speak or think, and approach. You touch the figure. It falls over. Cardboard. You see one at the next light. You continue to approach a perfect replica of the first cutout under each light, over and over until you reach a light without one. And you realize to your left there is white light pouring from a parking lot again.
A hospital. The name is blurry. You approach the brand new flawless door, grabbing the brand new handle and enter. You see a flawless and orderly lobby and reception center, all empty. You wander to an elevator. The numbers inside are blurry. You press one at random. It takes you to a floor full of perfectly neat and tidy rooms with hospital beds, all empty. All of the reception counters are empty too. You wander aimlessly for a while, no longer expecting to find anyone. You repeat this process for a few more floors, before pressing what to believe will take you back to the lobby. There is no point in staying. You exit the elevator and head slowly back towards the doors.
As you come within a few feet, you hear the first noise you did not create all night: a clunky click. You freeze. You have the first sinking feeling in what feels like a lifetime since you first pushed over the original cardboard figure. You quickly close the gap between yourself and the doors. Grabbing the handle, you pull. But it doesn't move. You pull harder, but it won't give. The panic all rushes back to you again. You turn around and rush towards the stairs next to the elevator to attempt to find another way out. There's a fire exit, but that's locked too. You skip more steps running up floor after floor, trying exit after exit. You scream aimlessly now and then between failed exit attempts.
The man monitoring a wall of cameras watches you scream and rush from door to door in a bright white lab. He scribbles notes on a clipboard. The screens around him show the gas station, the grocery store, rows of houses, sidewalks with fallen cardboard cutouts on them. He furrows his brow as your screams continue to pierce through the monitor. Before him is a board of lights and buttons, knobs, letters and sliders. He quickly scribbles something new, before pushing a slider down, lowering the lights in the hallway you are in to a dim, flickering intensity. He presses a few buttons, and through the monitor he hears what becomes of you. He writes one final note. It is done.
