Jungle Chase: The Great Pursuit
I pulled out my pocket watch and checked it. Six hours left. Six hours until we resolved the incident? If it was lunchtime now, six hours from then would be evening, not night. I grabbed S-man's head—he'd been staring blankly ahead—and yanked it up.
"Hey, I've been thinking it's weird since earlier. Lunchtime, and the sky's this dark?"
"Cloudy, maybe?"
"Not clouds. We've been soaking in light that's way dimmer than sunlight."
We faced the heat dome's metal lid that had sealed off the blue sky completely, with a massive lamp blazing in the gap instead of the sun. Only then did S-man catch on to the weirdness and pull out his smartphone to check the time.
"It's 11 p.m."
"You sure?"
"Positive."
We looked back down at the empty low-speed train. When had we lost all sense of time? Hell, when had night operations even started?
"It's a pretty niche theory, but ancient ruins designated as world mysteries—like Machupicchu or the Great Wall—generally give off a labyrinth vibe. They look totally ordinary from outside, but up close, their scale and structure blow your expectations out of the water."
"But that doesn't add up. If it's already night hours, the crowds should've thinned out by now."
Yet even now, fresh waves of guests were pouring in from outside, packing the park to the brim. Food stalls and souvenir shops were screaming with happy chaos from the overflow. Rides kept spinning nonstop, drowned in shrieks of terror and joyous laughter. It was like RollerCoaster Tycoon with the exits deleted—visitors piling up in sedimentary layers.
Those bizarre things that only showed up in empty spots. But right now, the park was bursting at the seams, crammed like a bean sprout steamer. Even as the low-speed train we'd arrived on pulled away with new passengers, another was rolling in from where we'd come.
"...Even a half-assed offering set by some civilian is fair game for ghosts—nothing says a knockoff mystery can't be the real deal."
Of course they wouldn't find shit. The 'first' guests who'd come in were still here—they couldn't leave.
"No other exits when we passed the ticket booth and came through that big tunnel, right?"
"None. Probably, once time's up, they stop admitting new guests and funnel the existing ones back out that way."
One door and tunnel per house or building makes sense. Sure, front door means maybe a back one, back door maybe an attic hatch—no big deal. But what matters is their purpose. This wasn't a home where guests stayed forever; it was a pit stop, a pleasure spot—come and go. Obviously, separate entrance and exit. No exit? In this massive maze, a few getting trapped wouldn't be weird at all.
But even they should know when it's time to head home: by the light around them. Sun high? Still bright day—party on. Sun down, dark creeping in? Time to bounce. But what if the giant glass dome over the whole park 'remote controls' a metal lid shut on schedule? Lights on to banish the dark? Staff never clock out? Guides and rides keep running? And everyone's hell-bent on hitting every stage or it's a waste?
In this massive glass prison, folks forget time, spin in circles, lose their way, wander, can't find the exit—and finally lose themselves.
"Mom! Dad! Zoo next!"
"You really gotta wear that weird mask?"
"The animals'll think you're a friend and love it. Haha!"
I watched a happy family stroll out of the souvenir shop. They'd bought freaky wooden masks and leafy headdresses. It was bedtime for the kid, but they were indulging his bubbly energy anyway.
Another train arrives, another departs. Stinky, unwashed furries in masks pour in; clean, normal humans roll out. Would we end up like that soon? Sinking into this colossal mystery, losing ourselves, turning into furry monsters decked in creepy wooden masks and leaf crowns?
I confirmed the latest low-speed train's passengers swarming off, then approached the engineer taking a breather inside.
"Got a burning question—mind if I ask?"
"Sure thing, sir. What's up?"
"Can this train go fast like a normal one?"
"Oh, yeah. Regs have safety locks and speed limits, so it only does a bit faster than walking. But unlock 'em? Faster than a sprint, easy."
"Get off."
"Pardon?"
"Off. Now. I'm driving."
I snatched his snazzy hat, shoved him out, yanked the lever simple as that, and cranked the speed. S-man, who'd slipped into the seat beside me, eyed the control panel, read off the tech jargon like the engineering whiz he was, and unlocked the safeties in seconds.
"What's the plan from here, boss?"
"Announce to the world that Machupicchu Grand Park—five years in the making—is actually a giant mystery labyrinth from one design fuckup? Nah, that doesn't fix the root. Gotta rewrite everyone's perception here."
"Specifically?"
"Why's it a labyrinth?"
"Hard to escape?"
"Precisely—no one's escaped yet. Daedalus's maze got its rep from the man-eating Minotaur, but Theseus curb-stomped the bull and bounced, turning it into a total joke. Before him: 'No one survives that shit!' After: 'Lmao pussy-ass maze.' Same here. No exits yet amps the labyrinth myth. First one out? Poof—concept shattered."
"So we chase the first guests."
Track down the ones who'd regressed into primitive South American natives first, boot 'em outside—suddenly, no more mystery labyrinth baked into the supernatural backdrop. Can't be a maze if folks come and go free. Just a normal-ass amusement park.
Before more get trapped—and ultimately sacrificed to this blood-and-madness-stained Inca ruin knockoff—we act.
"They only pop up in empty spots 'cause their stench keeps people away. Hunting dogs snuffling through? Nose-dead from the stink, good luck finding jack."
They probably didn't even tell the dogs what to hunt—just sic 'em and pray. Dogs just huff the reek, give their owners pissy side-eye like, Nothing here, let's bail. Why'd they show on staff room cams? Staff slaving nonstop—no empty rooms! Stink soaks the staff areas, they hate going back, slack off, stick to manual—vicious cycle to this mess.
This place is a powder keg.
Riding the rattling mid-speed train, we blasted through stages, hunting spots folks instinctively avoided: reeking, creepy vibes turning feet away. Jungle stage, masked by animal smells. We hit a swamp dead-center, fed by the artificial river splitting from Aquapark: dense trees, squelching mud, rancid rag stench.
"You—drag a hose from the Aquapark water supply. Time to scrub this shit."
"And you, boss?"
"Me? Guide the first guest—who lost reason and civilization—back to heaven (outside)."
Only the love of our Lord Jesus can turn these fake Mapinguari back to human. Amen.