9: The Device; Part Two

“What is the meaning of this?”
“I caught these men conspiring! I believe they are spies of Tuesday’s” shouted Steve.
“What!” how could he betray me! How could he betray Chef?
Chef placed his cleaver on the desk and took my knife and made it a pile. I looked back and forth between Steve and Chef completely bewildered. What is going on, weren’t we just trading theories about the Commodore? How did this happen so fast? Am I going back to the cell?
All of a sudden I felt a gun on my back. Steve was standing behind it. “What is going on here!”
“The goings on here is that Steve is one of our best watch dogs.” The assistant walked up to Chef. They were nose to nose. “Did you really think…”
WHAM!
That is the only way I can describe it. Chef head butted him so hard I’m pretty sure the word was floating in space for even the slightest of seconds before the man hit the ground.

Chef picked up his knife and handed me mine. Steve walked over to the bookshelf, scanned a few books with his hand and tilted The Secret Garden. Seriously? Yes.

We left the Assistant to the Commodore on the floor and made our way down a narrow staircase. We ended up opposite the freight elevator, using the door that the assistant had used earlier. “Why didn’t we just use the freight elevator?”
Chef replied, “because I wanted to stop off and pick up Steve for point.” Steve stayed up the stairs listening to the back of the bookcase.
“I see.” I hustled into the room and scanned the crates for the tall thin mirror shaped box. “Where is it!?” It wasn’t there!
Chef looked up, “Is that it?” I followed his gaze and saw it. It was hanging from chains in the center of the room. “It must be so nobody comes snooping for it.”
“How do we get it down?” I followed the pulley system to the wall and then the floor. It was secured with combination and key padlocks. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Are there any bolt cutters around?”
“I’ll look.” Chef found a cabinet in the corner and began rifling through it. I began assessing the height of the mirror and the boxes around me. I was thinking about stacking them high enough to get to the mirror, but that seemed absurd. Most of the boxes had to weigh at least a hundred pounds just in crate materials. “Hey Chef, how much can you lift?”
“I know where your mind is and it ain’t happening. Most of my strength is in speed and weight, not muscle.”
“Worth asking.” I started to look for some cutters, a crowbar, anything.
Suddenly the boat started to rock. “The storm must be getting good,” yelled the Chef over some loud clanging. “Found the cutters!”
“Sweet!” we both walked over to the padlocks, he began to cut the first one. I walked back to the center of the room and looked almost directly up at the crate, swinging about fifteen feet above my head. “Don’t let it fall.” It jolted down a few inches as he got the first lock off. I didn’t flinch. “Don’t let it fall!” I repeated. Eyes fixed on the crate.
Chef took his apron and wrapped it around his forearm, then the excess chain and wrapped that around his apron. “You should back up. I’m not sure if I’ll drop it… You know you could help me.”
I didn’t. A box to my right fell as the boat swayed. The mirror began to sway more erratically. I stood motionless, only my eyes following my target. I felt like a child in a room with a candy dish, unable to take my eyes off it. I began to sweat. I could hear the mirror knocking as it rocked against its container, as if to ask if I could come out and play. We were old friends about to embrace after a long time apart.
It dropped a few feet suddenly. I could hear Chef struggling, but didn’t look away. I felt as if I could jump and get it the rest of the way myself. Chef gained control of the chains and slowly lowered it.
As soon as I could reach the clamps, before it was even to the ground, I began to open it. “Careful!” Chef cried. He lowered it the last foot. There was a thud as the mirror rested gently against the door. Chef jogged over and stood behind it, he yelled up at Steve, “How’s the front door?”
“Good,” was the sailor’s reply.
I reached in and pushed the device to stand upright of it’s own accord and pulled the door open.

I stood looking at myself. It must have been for too long because Chef asked for an update. “Oh, sorry. I look normal.” I said, “but I looked normal the first time. It took a minute or two last time.” I got within a few inches. “Last time my pupils were huge. They look normal now.”
“Is it the same mirror?”
I looked at the frame. “Same handles, it’s the same size too.” I looked back at my eyes. “Ah!”
“What?!” came from behind the glass.
“My eyes. They’re black.” I was breathing heavy; red began to streak down my face. I looked closer, just as before. “It’s the same. Blood and everything…” I backed away slightly and saw a cut developing on my cheek. After a few seconds my face was filled with gruesome cuts, blood dripping. I looked down my arm was soaked. “My arm is bloody… I mean my arm is actually, in real life b…” CRASH!
A crate had fallen from a pile behind Chef pushing him into the device in turn pushing the device into me. I braced the mirror with my arm, the bloody one, as the glass shattered all around me.
Steve must have come down to the sound of the clatter, because I recall him lifting the crate off of me. I couldn’t see him but he assured me with his voice that he would take care of me. He called to Chef, who called back from under the crate. It sounded like he might have dislocated his shoulder.
As my vision went from black to blurry I saw blood and broken glass everywhere and two men, looking vaguely like Chef and Steve staring at me. Then I passed out.