The insect flies off, I watch as it disappears into the dark ceiling. Turing returns to his finger search of the stone wall. I clench my jaw.
The light in the distance at first twinkles and is stationary enough for me to think it’s a bulb above us.
A breeze picks up, and I smell the end of the barrel. The light moves, grows stronger, I shield my eyes. Then the heavy chop sound of a helicopter reaches my ears.
“Turing, can you figure out this wall?” I say as the dark form of a small helicopter and men hanging out the sides with rifles comes into view.
The metal on stone scratching turns frantic.
A spotlight hits us. I turn to Turing.
“Freeze!” A voice over a loudspeaker says.
I hear the moving of rock.
“Go,” says Turing.
There’s a hole in the wall, barely enough for me. I dive through it, and I hear the ping of bullets as they hit the rock and metal—Turing?
I slide through the wall, seeing nothing in front of me. Knowing better than to stop, even though my body screams for some rest, I grip soft rock and pull myself through the tunnel. The sound of boots and the helicopter rises up behind me. More shots. An explosion rattles my chest. I pull faster.
And like that the sound and the screams, and Turing’s voice, I think, all fall dead. All that’s left is the sound of me drawing air and my hear pushing blood past my ears.
I crawl and crawl until my hands reach forward and reach an opening. I fall into a tunnel. It seems familiar, with a light in the distance. Resting on my haunches, I hold my breath and listen for signs of life. There is only the dripping of water. There is only my heart, the specific saliva of fear and exertion in my mouth. Periodically, I look over my shoulder, at the tunnel I came through, but I hear nothing. Would they have Turing? The robot. The one with a hint of hostility. My heart sinks. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m tired or something else. I think I miss Turing. The only thing I had to a friend in these mazes, and perhaps the only way out of the mazes.
I look back at the light. I realize that my feet are cold, too cold, here on this hard tiled ground. They ache, the arches of my feet. And though I know I should move, keep moving, my body protests at any movement, and I sit there, almost lie, my back curved, hurting, and I think on my wife. I think about how she kissed my neck, put up with my silly jokes, loved me, and touched me in just the right ways. And here I am, a man who’s as helpless as a child.
I pound my fist on the wall. It shakes my bones to the core. Shivering now, I rub my arms with my hands. Was this what I had envisioned for my future as a child? I’m not sure, but I don’t think it was. I tickle the roof of my mouth, trying to get something going. I could use a fire.
This wasn’t what I envisioned for my lifetime. I had always hoped for more. Gritting my teeth, I rock then stand up. My knees, protest with pain, my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten in ages, and my throat shrinks, stings with dryness. I feel a lot older than I am, or perhaps its my future reaching back in time, letting me know that it only gets worse, that gravity does indeed win and skin loosens and joints pop and death knocks. Christ, there I go again.
I take a step towards the light. My feet find a round stone, and I press my arches on them. The massage sends relief through my body. My worries fade slightly.
My mind, however, has different ideas. It lingers on the book I saw. Surely that was merely a conjurers trick? Again I dismiss it, remembering that knowledge of the past, no matter what those who claim about not knowing history and its mistakes, is no panacea for the future. And though a part of me disagrees—after all I was sent to a dusty country based on the un-knowledge of a boy king—I’d rather be comforted right now, so I accept the flawed theory. But even that’s not enough to still my mind.
It wonders about the words that Turing spoke. Surely it wasn’t without wisdom? I had mocked the robot with the one-zero comment and yet felt immediately saddened by it. I had looked down on it, him, because he was a robot and yet for what? He was a smarter entity than me. And he was right. If something, a program of any sort, knew all of a man’s life and all of the literary canon, then what could a simpleton like myself do? This thought sends my heart plummeting through to my guts. All my life’s work is for naught? That piece that I read, the fiction piece was damn near perfect. It almost changed the base of my brain. What chance did I have? And if the forces I was up against were so powerful in a field that I was strong in, what hope did I have in this game of cat and mouse?
There I go again. I press my arches against the stone, hoping for some relief from my thoughts.
I unzip my pants and start to piss. The stream glitters in the weak light and I move my feet as the urine makes its way downhill. The aroma of ammonia hits my nostrils. I find a small rock and press each foot down as hard as I can. The pain helps immensely. Relieved a second time, I feel lighter on my feet. But water would be nice.
I zip up and move to make it to the light. A figure blocks it, moves out, then lumbers back to block the light. I freeze. Slowly, I take a few deep breaths, trying to think. I step back, avoiding where I think my piss was, and look for doors. Nothing. Even the tunnel is lost to me.
The man is closer and I stop to observe him. He’s larger, and perhaps even familiar. I can hear his soft shoes squeaking against the stone. He half slips, an arm shooting up. That humanity relaxes me. And his gait is much too familiar for him to be a foe.
But trepidation comes over me. Why am I meeting all these friends here in this maze? I know that none of them live or would dare to visit New York, so what are they doing here, in what I assume is the underground of New York?
The previous friend was one who was in trouble with the law as well. I hope, as foolish as it may sound, that this one isn’t that. I suppose even as a kid, when the teacher left the class with instructions to be quiet and work, I always hated the one who talked or broke the rule, and hated it even more because I couldn’t tattle-tale on him (usually him) and loved it, with relish, when the teacher would sneak in and get the offender in trouble. And here I am, in the worst kind of trouble, and I couldn’t help but hope that someone on the right side of the law would come to my rescue. Perhaps I always did like authoritarianism? Perhaps I was enthralled with it. Perhaps the seeds to my destruction were inside me, sown, waiting for the right fuel to grow, waiting for me to live on my knees.
As if in an answer, all the cells in my body decide to turn away from the possible friend. But he halts in front of me. I recognize him immediately. He’s an old friend from my first unit in the military. He was the one who always helped me, especially when I had been growing too angry with the world as I bucked trying to readjust to the civilian life in front of me.
“Hey, hey man,” he says, smiling, raising his hand.
I feel better immediately. There’s something about the camaraderie of the military that I always missed. I clasp his hand and it morphs into a bear hug. He’s about my size, and he’s wearing hiking clothes and smelling like campfire smoke.
“What’s up,” I say, though I feel sheepish. Should I even tell him that I’m being hunted. He would know, wouldn’t he? He’s not one to be too stuck in his own world.
“Not much. Imagine seeing you here. Been a while, hasn’t it?”
“Too long,” I say. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m going on a hike.”
I move my head closer, trying to see if he’s serious. It appears that he is. “Are you joking? Where’s the hiking at here?”
“You know, up and about.” He points down the hallway behind me.
I’m still not sure what he’s talking about, but perhaps a hike is what I need. I eye his backpack hungrily.
“You hungry man?” he asks.
I nod my head. “Been a crazy ass day.”
“I imagine.”
Does he know? I’m too embarrassed to ask. “Water too.”
“Here,” he says, offering the tube of his
camel bak. I sip it, the refreshing liquid’s amazing and cools my entire body.
“Thanks,” I say.
He hands me a bar. “All I have.”
It’s protein, but it’s something. My stomach rumbles as I chew the chocolate and the grains. I chew a little longer so that I can relish being hungry and just about to be satiated for a second longer before I swallow. In a second I’ve eaten the entire bar.
“More?” he says.
“Not if you have to hike long.”
“I’ve got reserves,” he says and hands me another.
I eat it too before deciding that I need some level of talk. As real as the food is, this whole day has been too crazy for my tastes. “So you know where you are?” I say.
“Of course,” he says, raising an eyebrow at me. “Do you?”
“I thought I was under New York City.”
Again he scrunches his face, worried. “Uh huh.”
“So we’re not?”
“You do know they’re after you, right?”
Dammit, so he knows. “Yes. I do,” I say. “How did you know?”
“Everyone knows.”
“What are they saying about me?”
“Some crazy shit,” he says, squinting one eye now. He’s got a day’s stubble on, so he rubs it as if I’m a real problem now. “Is it true?”
“I’m not sure. What are they saying?”
“But you know they were after you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t know what to say. Suppose this is the best place to hide,” he says and looks around.
I sense that he doesn’t want me around him. That he doesn’t want to be tainted by whatever it is I’ve done. Because no matter the situation, there is always the truth that people instinctively side with society. Friends usually come later. But I’d hoped that a former brother in arms would be better than that. Perhaps that was only when we were young and dumb.
“I guess,” I say. “Do you know a way out?” I ask, though I want to ask if I can just hang out with him. If we can chill for a bit.
“Shit man, not sure I know a way out of anything.”
Silence, or rather the dripping of water. Scurrying too, though I’m not sure what.
“How’s your work?” I ask. It’s been years since he had a job. Much like me, he was floating, flirting, really with returning to the Army full time. Life’s hard when the entire populace wants to forget the wars it clamored for, so it tries to forget by pushing the wounds, the veterans, away.
“Shit. Looking for a job again,” he says, letting out air. There’s bourbon underneath his breath somewhere.
My friend kicks a pebble.
“Well, looks like you have to get going,” I say, offering him an out.
“Yeah... You take care of yourself.”
I shrug, too tired to put up a front.
“Maybe don’t run. Turn yourself in. The truth will come out.”
“You believe that?”
“Fuck no,” he says.
“Not if you don’t have money,” I say.
He nods.
“Love you man.”
“Me too.”
We embrace and I watch as he disappears into the distance. I listen as his footsteps dissipate and the dripping sound picks up. I’m alone again, and even though I got some food, the pain in my heart is too strong for me to keep running. I slide down a wall and sit. The wet stone I’ve picked to sit on, soaks my pants, and soon I’m chilly. I’d like take off my clothes, have a shower. But I imagine that’s not possible. Might not be possible for a long time. Shifting in my dirty clothes, I grow comfortable, my eyes close. I drift off.
I awake, startled, but looking around I realize that I’m in the same place as before. Nothing has changed. I was hoping that things would change on their own account. They haven’t. They won’t. I know this. But still there’s the hope that the world will change to what I want it to be, rather than the other way around. Perhaps it is too late for me.
But these are the thoughts of a weakling. And I know I’m not that. I stumble to my feet, energy returning to my flesh. I will find a way out. My wife is out there. I will save her.
I break into a trot. All the aches and pains of earlier are gone. And like that it all comes crashing by. I hear the helicopter, and I hear the sound of boots tramping on the stone. Ahead—there must be a side door somewhere—I see the flash and a door flies into the hallway, splinters and smoke envelop it.
I look around, I haven’t much time. If they think me a threat I’m dead. I might be dead anyways, if the right orders have been given. It seems to have been the modus operand of our side recently.
I half expect a bullet to push through my skull any second now. Dropping to my knees, I throw my hands in the air. I have but limited choices. There’s no where to hide. There’s no thing to fight with. I could grab one, but as I see men peering and making their way through the smoke, at least twenty yards in front of me, with rifles raised, I know that there’s no hope for me.
They’re yelling something. I can’t hear them, so I lie on the ground, my hands on my heads.
Their boots are closer now. What else could I have done? A flash bang bounces by me. Surely this is pointless. My world goes black, a piercing whine hits my ears.
Bastards. I was no risk. But I know the attitude of the hunter. His is one side that knows the law will allow for such things. I deserve all that comes my way. After all, it’s better than a bullet in the head.
My arms are almost jerked off. I still can’t hear anything, but I can feel the men punching and kicking me. Hard. They must have been told some odd things about me.
I feel the zip bands around my wrist. Too tight I say, but I receive another punch for my troubles. I try to peer into any of their eyes to see if I know any of them.
This is the last offense, I imagine, as they pull a hood over my head and soon I’m being dragged by my armpits, my feet, those aching feet, sliding, then grinding on the floor. Luckily I’m facing up, but my heels still grind. Each time I try to walk I’m kicked so that I am dragged. By the time I’m hoisted to the helicopter I can feel the torn skin and the blood leaking out.
When the chopper’s mid flight, I can hear some of the men chuckling. I try to right myself, but I’m kicked down again. That’s to be expected. The most docile one is the one who doesn’t get kicked. I comply. But the hood’s making it hard for me to breathe. I try twisting so that I can get some air, but all that’s happening is that the air is blowing back into my mouth and I’m sucking in this exhalations, moist, wet, and soon I realize I’m not getting air, and still not getting air, and so I gasp, but now my head’s spinning, and it could be the helicopter turning fast, but no it’s definitely my head spinning. I spit, but it’s too late, I turn and vomit. On one of their shoes, I hope.
All the men groan. One scolds the others and pulls the hood from my face. He also loosens my zip ties and pushes a water bottle to my mouth. I drink it. I’m better, but I keep my eyes closed. Don’t really want to see these men. But an ‘ooing’ sound forces my eyes open. We’re flying by the Manhattan skyline, the perfect peaks jut up and above us. I’m not sure who these men work for then. The men I know don’t work on domestic terrorism. So perhaps I know none of these men. Then again, how’s one to know anything these days.
My throat wetted with the water, I dare to speak: “It’s always a beautiful view, isn’t it?”
The man kneeling next to me, he has a water bottle in hand, so I assume he’s the one who’s been kind. He stares at me, blue eyes flickering in the city’s lights. I don’t see hostility, nor do I see kindness.
“You live in the city, don’t you?” another man asks. I turn and see an Arab, or at least partially Arab looking man with a beard addressing me.
“I do,” I say.
There are four other men. They all stare at the skyline until it all goes black. I wonder where they’re taking me. Somewhere to be silenced, I imagine.
“S
orry, but orders are orders,” says the man with blue eyes. He pulls the hood back over my head.
I feel the helicopter lurch downwards.
“My wife,” I ask, hoping they will throw me a bone. “Where is she? Is she al right.”
“Come on man. You know better. We’re only soldiers. They don’t tell us anything, do they?”
I nod. “I’m not what they say.”
“I’m sure bud. But you know the rules.”
I do.
I’m hustled out of the helicopter and through some hallways. This time they’re nicer and let me walk. Stroll even. When I’m pushed into a cell, they remove my hood and zip ties. I stare at a small cell. It smells strongly of bleach. Enough to make me dizzy. Again footsteps echo away from me and I’m alone in a cell no bigger than the spread of a king sized bed. The cot is a foot off the floor and when I sit on it, it creaks. Alone again, then? There’re no bars on this door. It’s a glass/plastic door with a box hole for the food and other transactions, I imagine. I peer across and see blank walls, though it could be, in the end, the result of the reflection on the glass. I have a window, with bars, but even when I stand on the bed or the toilet, or very carefully on the sink, I can’t see through it. It’s an angle so I see an amorphous sky, or movement like a sky, but it stays an odd purple green hue for too long, so I dismiss it as a trick. I wouldn’t put it past these people to try and trick me.
For what must be hours I stare at the morphing piece outside my window. An odd thing, really. But it’s like a fire, and I’m not sure how long I stare because soon my stomach rumbles. I’m hungry again. I haven’t eaten since I saw my friend; my mind wanders and thinks on whether he ever got to his hike. Did he end up realizing that he was below New York? Possibly, though I wouldn’t put it past him to work his way through it and find himself hiking in Colorado. What am I thinking?
Now my throat’s parched. Burning. I push my ear against the glass door. I can’t see anything. When I pound it, all the lights outside my room turn off and my room’s now only lit with a red light. I stare at my reflection in the door. I’ve bags under my eyes. The grip of death is upon me. I’m finally old. What was once a well structured skull is now a skull, deathly looking, haggard. This is what being hunted does to a man, I think. And I have all sorts of renewed respect for those who would dare be hunted by me. Us. Men who watched friends and family get torn up by missiles. Some things require you to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes, I suppose. I should be enlightened by this newest of revelations in my life, but now I can only feel silly. Supremely silly. There was a time in my life when lessons were fully accepted. But no longer. They really do seem like wasted time these days, don’t they?
The Labyrinth of Souls Page 6