Daffy laughed, a little breathlessly and without much humor. “Tho you jutht dethided to turn up here and thtab me?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” Woody said, as if that was a normal conversation opener. “I intervened to save you before. I’m…interested in what happens to you.”
“Yeth, well, thankth for the thour perththimmonth, couthin,” Daffy grumbled. His hand hurt like hell, and he wasn’t actually sure if there was a first aid kit anywhere in the Archives. “And you thtill haven’t told me why you bothered in the firtht plathe.”
Woody tilted his head to one side, but not in a way that looked comfortable, or particularly as if he had neck bones. “I’m normally neutral, sure, but the loss of this place would have unbalanced the struggle too early. I’d like to see how it progresses.”
Daffy had never heard Woody Woodpecker use words like that, which lent credence to the possibility that this was just something using his form to get Daffy’s trust, which made him trust it less. “You make it thound like there’th thome kind of…war going on.”
“Then I won’t say anything else for now.” Woody gave an eerily soft version of his usual laugh. “I wouldn’t want to spoil your ig-NO-rance prematurely. Goodbye, Archivist.”
He turned around and touched the door, which suddenly didn’t look right, and went to open it. Daffy realized he was leaving, and that he was leaving him with way more questions than answers. “Wait—“ he shouted, then yelped in pain as the sudden reach for the door strained his hand. He clutched it to his chest again and looked up. The door was starting to close.
“Woody—Woody!” he shouted, but it was too late. The door creaked closed, leaving only the mocking echo of Woody’s staccato laughter in his ears.
Daffy screwed up his face in pain and hissed through his teeth. “End recording,” he snapped, slapping at the reel to reel recorder with his free hand.
This was going to be a problem.
———
The Road Runner raised his eyebrows at Daffy in pointed question. “Meep meep?”
“I think that might be for the betht,” Daffy said. He was a little apprehensive about this, but he didn’t see any reason to deny him. “Thtatement of Beep Beep Road Runner, regarding hith further rethearcheth into…” He trailed off.
“Meep meep!”
“Right. Recorded direct from thubject, February thirteenth, two thouthand theventeen.” Daffy nodded. “Thtatement beginth.”
The Road Runner nodded. “Meep meep! Meep meep!” He shook his head sadly. “Meep meep! Meep meep!”
Daffy was kind of accustomed, at this point, to the way the statements unfolded over the statement givers’ shoulders, like a flashback in a cartoon. They’d been getting slightly more washed out lately, but he attributed to the fact that most of the ones he had taken lately were from humans. As the Road Runner told Daffy, complete with gestures, about his difficulties with investigating what had happened at the Cambridge Military Hospital, he expected it to be in full color and detailed animation, but no, it was just as washed out as the rest of them. Still, it was enough for him to get a full picture of what was being described. He’d always been more of a visual learner.
“Meep meep! Meep meep!”
“I underthtand the feeling,” Daffy muttered.
The Road Runner raised an eyebrow again. “Meep meep! Meep meep! Meep meep! Meep meep!”
“Blood.”
“Meep meep! Meep meep!”
“Yeth, I know what a meme ith!” Daffy narrowed his eyes at the Road Runner. “You were thaying…?”
The Road Runner shrugged apologetically, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge it. “Meep meep! Meep meep!”
“But…?”
“Meep meep! Meep meep!”
“I thee.”
“Meep! Meep!”
“Theriouthly?” Daffy frowned. “Our library ith pretty exthtenthive, but it’th hardly focuthed on the Thecond World War.”
The Road Runner smirked. “Meep meep! Meep meep! Meep—“
“—became a noted occultitht,” Daffy said, feeling the light dawn, “whothe memoirth and rethearcheth were only ever publithhed in an exthtremely edited verthion. And we have unexthpurgated copieth.”
“Meep!”
“Did you find anything?”
“Meep meep! Meep meep!” The Road Runner pushed a piece of paper towards Daffy.
He picked the page up and scanned it. “Let’th thee…‘On the thubject of thavagery, I have mythelf theen the long term effectth upon the pthyche of witneththing the violenthe Toonth may inflict upon one another. A dulling of the thentheth ith merely the firtht thtep, though one that few progrethth beyond. In more acute catheth, there cometh a thtrange mania, a fathcination with the mechanithmth of thith violenthe, the tactility of injury and the thenthationth that accompany it. My theory ith that, ath everyone knowth Toonth cannot feel pain, they become fixthated on itth effectth on men. When thith mania paththeth to men, however, the outcometh are far more theriouth and dire. The thmell of blood ethpecially appearth to inthite in a thertain thort of mind, not confined to one rathe or the other, numbed by the horrorth of war, the urge to commit unthpeakable actth of violenthe. I thaw it onthe on the fathe of a Toon called Private Doom, whothe actionth were tho thevere even for hith kind that he wath thent home with a dithhonorable dithcharge, and it thtill maketh me worry for the thafety of thothe, human or Toon, he may encounter there. Worthe thtill wath what I thaw in the eyeth of a young medic near Merey, a thing tho grotethque that I have thome thympathy with thothe who dethided to crash rather than rithk hith rampage, in thuch a way that even the Toonth aboard the car were thcarred for life if they were fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to thurvive. But even that paleth to inthignificanthe compared to what I thaw in the infirmary at Amritthar. Two dothen Ghurkath tearing each other to pietheth, conthumed by the terrible butchery they had inflicted. Thuch thingth are not to be dwelt on, but therve to illuthtrate my propothition that violenthe, inflicted, retheived, or even jutht witneththed, can not only deal injury to the body or the mind, but to the thoul itthelf.’”
He lowered the paper slowly and peered over his glasses—when had he put those on?—at the Road Runner. “I thee. Tho doeth thith mean…?”
“Meep! Meep!”
“Even after your exthperienthe with the hothpital train? It thoundth like thith could be even more dangerouth.”
The Road Runner snorted and shook his head. “Meep meep! Meep meep!”
“In cathe you get murdered by ghothtth,” Daffy completed. The Road Runner nodded. “I thee. Thank you, Road Runner.”
The Road Runner nodded again. “Meep meep?”
Daffy frowned. “Well, how the heck should I know?”
The Road Runner blinked. “Meep meep?”
“No? He’th never worked here.” Daffy blinked as well. “Ralph thhould be out there, though.”
“Gadzooks! I don’t quite understand
Why you think I worry about that.
I’m more concerned with my old costar
Than wolf or pussycat,” the Road Runner said. There was a frown on his face, but also a slightly worried expression in his eyes.
“What are you talking about?” Daffy asked, exasperated. “Wile E. Coyote wath in, like, five cartoonth, topth, other than Thpathe Jam and Back in Action, and he barely interacted with you.”
“I think there’s some confusion here,
At least I hope that’s so—
Because if you’re trying to gaslight me,
I’ll headbutt you to Soho,” the Road Runner said angrily.
“What? No! I’m not gathlighting you.” Daffy sincerely hoped his head hadn’t shifted to a gas lamp while he was talking, but he still felt like himself—and anyway, that sort of thing didn’t happen here, no matter who he was talking to. “You’re thitting here trying to thay you were in cartoonth with Wile E? He wath a minor villain that went after Bugth. You alwayth thtarred with Ralph Wolf, before you…retired.” He was vague on that point—why had the Road Runner stepped away from cartoons?—but pressed on. “After that’th when he thwitched to sheep. For goodnethth’ thaketh, he chathed you through here the firtht day we were all in the Archiveth!”
“I know what comics and cartoons
I starred in better than you.
I won’t continue with this talk—
Goodbye, you lying Toon.” The Road Runner pushed to his feet fast enough that he rocked the chair back, nearly toppling it, and sped out of the office, slamming the door behind him.
Daffy stared at the rapidly dissipating cloud of dust, an uneasy swirl of dread beginning to form in his stomach. Unsure what else to say, he reached for the tape recorder. “End recording,” he managed.
———
“It’th remarkably eathy to buy an axthe in Thentral London,” Daffy whispered into his 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 Wilhelm scream, only to be replaced by Ralph Wolf. Or something resembling him, 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 thure 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.