Please note: this story was provided by the author and published as is.
Chapter 1. CIRCUS
Six, Six, Six.
Wesley stared at the score, dumb-struck. For a moment, he thought the counter might be busted (most of these Circus games usually were). But even the grease-faced clerk who coveted his erroneous persistence, paused. His mouth hung like an open clam; His gum (a shining pearl) fell to the grass.
Six, Six, Six.
Six times Wesley played the ball-game; A game that served six balls over three rounds; A game with six buckets (six ways to score) AND placed between six painted stars on both sides.
Six times Wesley played the ball-game; And six times he scored his score without really trying; And six times the score read out: 666.
Desperate to break his streak, Wesley pleaded with the clerk ‘one more game!’ But fearing some sort of trick, the conman shook his head. In a twist, his eyes refused Wesley’s money, pretending, with a sudden and vehement desire, a need to polish his dirt-flavored gum.
When it was clear that this man was intent on calling security, Wesley pressed no more and dragged away with his six stuffed prizes…
Six animal balloons were tied to a nearby cart. Six children gathered around them. The price for one was $6.
The Ferris wheel had Six blue carts. Six were red. Six were green.
Six spinning teacups went swirling in circles. Each screaming saucer held six people. A set of six more waited in line.
Six, Six, Six.
The frequency bias was off the charts.
Wesley wasn’t much for superstition – he barely believed in luck. He thought that “fate” went against the odds, and that the statistical chance of “chance” was nearer next to none; There were no “coincidences”, only common factors; And everything we see is only what we see.
But now He was seeing it everywhere: 666 – The Devil’s Mark.
It set him on edge. At some point he tossed his toy menagerie into the trash (the bin of which was a perfect hexagon). Just then, he checked his watch – each of the hands (right down to the second) pointed at the hour: 6-6-6.
Time to leave…
Chapter 2. BUNKER
Paranoia perpetuates imperfect perceptions.
Just relax, Wesley thought, you’re blowing this number out of proportion.
So, he put his life on pause – A little staycation to stay off the stress; A moment to recalculate his state of mind.
Locked in his mancave, the digits of his surroundings were meticulously managed. The six-stool bar was limited to five (until he noted six legs and forewent all seating). The drippy faucet and its six-beat code was forcefully gagged with duct tape and rag. And all the clocks that froze at 6-6-6 were instantly demoted (the crackdown on their satanic cult left none to tell the time).
By the end of his Spasmodic-Spring-Cleaning most of the room looked cleared by grenade. There was hardly a couch to sit upon (the pillow pattern was made of six squares) and the set of six posters (now removed) left only six nail-holes, six feet high.
Hopeful to forget, Wesley turned to his 66” flat screen TV. His home screen showed his top 6 apps. He opened each one, going down his watchlist and morning all the shows he had saved:
Star Wars: Episode VI. Game of Thrones Season Six. The Sixth Sense.
He turned it off and sighed – surrendered to his phone.
He derailed his thoughts through social media, scrolling past ads for an instant six-pack, skipping on the post for his aunt’s birthday (she was turning 66), but stopping to study the 6th or so image there in his feed.
Aside from the six hundred and sixty-six likes, the picture itself was not numerically incitive. The clear and open air, the multitude of trees, the singularly whole and green forest scene shone in contrast to his pale self-imposed prison of a cube.
He went online and searched for the nearest camping site.
It was only 66.6 miles away.
Chapter 3. CAMPFIRE
Wesley wasn’t sure what started it.
Maybe Aunt Sheryl was feeling spiteful with her birthday wish. Or maybe Capital-G GOD was informing him he was due to renew his tithe.
He listened to the fire which gave no answer.
The wood was burning out, and the flames divided their real-estate into six heaps of charcoal. From them there came a dying hiccup:
Crack-Crack–Pop—Snap–Pop–Snap.
Pause…
He threw water on the fire.
Finally, it was time for bed, time to close his eyes so he didn’t have to see that cursed digit everywhere he looked. Even his bed – his tent – was nailed with six stakes, propped with six poles. And it was only when he unpacked the thing that he recalled its shape. If it wasn’t so cold, if there weren’t so many bugs, he might have slept outside the six-sided pyramid.
He closed his eyes, trying to squeeze that satanic sequence out of his mind.
But in sixty-six seconds he wouldn’t have to try…
Wesley wasn’t much for superstition – he barely believed in luck. And phrases like “Gone too soon,” or “at the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time,” forced him to check his watch.
Was someone running late? What made a ‘time’ right or wrong? Where was this forbidden place? Was there an exit sign he missed?
Yes. For all signs pointed Here.
66.6 miles from home; A 6-minute hike from Trail Marker 6.
From when he first scored that Circus game, to Six hours later…
Six yards away, a shadow stood debating. Six inches long, his knife held waiting.
Here was the answer to Wesley’s riddle. For Wesley was no one but an easy target.
Here and Now was the Time and Place.
What made them “Wrong,” he would soon find out.