“It’th remarkably eathy to buy an axthe in Thentral London,” Daffy whispered into his handheld tape recorder as he tiptoed across the floor of the room. His free hand was wrapped around the handle of the incredibly solid and incredibly real axe. “Harder to thneak it into Artifact Thtorage, but not impoththible.”
He stopped in front of his destination and stared at it—a wooden table, with a spiral, no, a fractal pattern carved into its surface, surrounding a square hole in the center. The table Rosie had signed for the day two indescribable, generic deliverymen had turned up with the lighter engraved with a spiderweb that was currently in his desk drawer, the one from Amy Patel’s statement, the one from Raymond Fielding’s house. The one Wile E. Coyote had been contemplating when something had crept up on him and he had vanished with a genuine Wilhelm scream, only to be replaced by Ralph Wolf. Or something resembling Ralph, anyway.
“I don’t know if dethtroying thith ith going to kill that thing,” he said, letting a bit of steel into his voice, “but I am durn sure it’th going to hurt.”
He raised the axe over his shoulder, held it for a moment, and then swung it as hard as he could. It slammed into the surface of the table, sending splinters flying everywhere and nearly splitting the table in half with a single blow. For a moment, he thought he’d done something impressive…but then he took a second look at it.
“Hollow,” he said, not sure if he was disappointed or not. “Jutht cobwebth and dutht.”
There was a laugh from behind him—five tones repeated twice and then a staccato trill—and then Woody spoke.”That was stupid. Even for a Toon.”
Daffy turned angrily on Woody. “What do you want?” he snapped.
Woody simply grinned at him. His eyes sparked with a kaleidoscope of colors, like he was drunk. “There’s no other way out of this room, you know.”
“What’th that thuppothed to mean?” Daffy demanded.
“You don’t have time to escape before they get here,” Woody said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.
“Th—no, wait, the, the Not Ralph? Not Wile E—whatever it ith?” The unease that Daffy had been feeling since he’d taken the Road Runner’s statement, never really fully gone, returned in force. “Wait, but—the table—”
“Was binding it very effectively,” Woody completed.
Daffy gulped hard. “Oh. Oh, no.”
Woody’s grin broadened. “Even with all the protections you have on, I doubt you can survive them now.”
“What?” Daffy squeaked out.
“Daaaaaaaaaffyyyyyy…” Ralph’s voice, or Not Ralph’s voice, or whatever—it sounded even more unusual than usual, and Friz help him, how had he ever thought that was the voice of his assistant—echoed from somewhere outside Artifact Storage. It was still distant, but not distant enough.
Daffy’s heart was racing, and his eyes darted around. There was only one way out, Woody was right about that, and the Not Ralph was right behind him…
“Hey mister.” Woody’s grin was bigger than his entire face. There was an ostentatious creak as a yellow door appeared on a new wall. “You need a door to go with those Archives.”
“It’th ‘you need a houthe to go with thith doorknob,’” Daffy corrected automatically. If nothing else, he knew his lines. “No, I—I need—”
“Daaaaaaffyyyyyyy…” The Not Ralph was getting closer.
Daffy vibrated for a moment, wavering back and forth, then leaped into the air with a full-body scream of fear and ran for the door, Woody’s distorted laugh echoing in his ears.
He bolted through the door, expecting to be in the twisting, distorted corridors Max had described in his statement. Instead, he smashed through fifteen doors in quick succession, until the final one opened into an empty space and he careened across the hallway, slamming shoulder first into a stone wall.
The tape recorder was in his hand. He thought he’d turned it off, but he could hear the whirring, so, panting heavily, he picked it up to speak into it. It was a comfort in a way he wasn’t up to examining right then.
“I took Woody’th door,” he gasped out. “It wath that or fathe Ra—the thing that wath pretending to be the Road Runner’th cothtar. It opened into the tunnelth. The tunnelth. Not exthactly the ethcape I wath hoping for, but I’m hardly thurprithed. Mutht be it’th idea of a joke. Thtill, it’th a head thtart, and goodnethth knowth I need one, goodnethth knowth. I have no idea where in the tunnelth I am. Or how far down.” He sighed. “At leatht it didn’t leave me trapped in thome thtupid corridor hell mathe…a different thtupid corridor hell mathe, anyway.”
He wedged himself into a niche. “Tho I thuppothe I jutht…wait for now. I don’t think it’th going to give up, and I can’t rithk attracting itth attention. Thith ithn’t a thituation I can bait it with Bugth…not that that ever workth out for me particularly well anyway. It might already be down here with me. Jutht…thtay quiet. Thtay hidden.”
Staring at the recorder, he felt his emotions bubbling up. Anger. Guilt. Fear. Self recrimination. Daffy usually didn’t bother examining his own mistakes, brushing them off and confidently declaring that next time would work out for sure, but this time…this time there was no hiding it. There was no one else to blame.
“Frith, I’m an idiot,” he muttered. “Thmash the table, kill the monthter—thtupid! Lathy, thloppy aththumption. Of courthe the table wath binding it. Thpiderth and webth…the table ith thpiderth and webth. Thpiderth are thomething elthe. They don’t help each other, they oppothe, they…weaken. It wath caught in a web, and I…” His hand tightened around the recorder. “All the pietheth were there, and I wath thuch an overconfident idiot that I jutht…went for the nuclear option. Thith ithn’t a cartoon, you thtupid duck.”
He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “I don’t know how much tape ith left. I’m going to thtop recording. To contherve it. If—”
“Daffy!” The voice of the thing that was neither Ralph Wolf nor Wile E Coyote called from down the hallway—still far away, but way too close.
“Mother,” Daffy whimpered. He shut off the recorder and ran, as silently as possible.