Armageddon House

by Michael Griffin

  Usually the mess doesn’t bother him, when it’s his turn. Today he averts his eyes as much as possible. Imagining a smell, he holds his breath.

  After he’s gathered the many, variant traces of human matter, he wipes down chairs and work surfaces with disinfectant solution, which evaporates into eye-burning fumes. He mops the surrounding floor tiles with ammonia. After the vapors subside, a sense of clarity begins to emerge. Vision sharpens.

  The wall-mounted incinerator opens like a windowless oven. Inside is yesterday’s tray, now cool, bearing only a trace of sterile ash, easily rinsed away. He removes the clean pan and replaces it with today’s, which bears the last, unwanted remnants of who they were until this morning, and never will be again. He closes the incinerator door. The latch clicks.

  The black button must be held for five seconds to start the flames. Mark continues counting, six, seven, even after he hears the whoosh and feels the fire within roar to life. The metal door, now vibrating, begins to warm.

  Despite the airtight seal, Mark is certain he smells life burning away.

  Four

  Supply Room, Gas Masks and Salt Rations

  By the time he’s finished, the others have already begun exploring the supply level. Items stored in the various rooms would seem to be organized by age, rather than category or function, as if new rooms were added one at a time, and old stores ignored and abandoned as replacement items arrived at each time of expansion.

  Mark hears voices from a room a few doors down from the stairs. Just inside lie dozens of green foil bricks of vacuum-packed coffee spilling from a decades-old cardboard case. Other torn and broken boxes dump varied contents across the floor. All the rooms are the same, this combination of unwanted mess with a sort of organization superimposed upon it.

  “Boys and girls,” Mark says, announcing his arrival.

  Jenna turns and offers Mark one of two boxes she’s holding. “Thirty-two ounces iodized salt,” she says.

  “Why do you suppose it’s arranged like this, with so many small storage rooms?” Mark asks. “It’s almost like residents gets their own room for sleeping, and their own storage closet up here.” He holds onto the salt until Jenna drops her box, and only then discards his own.

  “Maybe they were smart enough to realize nobody’d trust anybody else,” Greyson says. “Best to keep everything separate.”

  “They?” Polly kicks through fallen boxes along the far wall. “Who’s they?”

  “Whoever built this place,” Greyson answers. “At least, whoever planned it. But why should we need to guess? What’s the point of making us figure out every detail on our own? We should’ve been told.” He gestures widely, seeming to indicate all levels, above and below.

  “Some of us were told,” Jenna says. “One of us.”

  Mark assumes she’s referring to him, and makes a point of nonchalant non-reaction, pretending he hasn’t heard, or that this suggestion of his greater knowledge is something he too takes for granted. Though he’s always considered himself insightful as to reasons, explanations and rules, nonetheless he’s also often confused, especially lately. At times when he feels the least certainty, and the most disorientation, he tries to overrule the tug of rootless fear by asserting greater confidence. When feeling lost or afraid, he tells himself he knows every room on every level well enough to draw a map from memory. When he’s terrified of the unknown future, he reassures himself that all anybody ever needs to do, all any of them ever can do, is see and hear what’s right before them. Nothing important exists beyond what their senses describe of their immediate surroundings.

  This isn’t because he wants to lie to the others, or pretend he’s something he’s not. All he wants is to avoid letting dangerous ideas take hold and run wild. Uncertainty is like that. Fear is corrosive.

  They search, kicking through disgorged contents of broken containers. Odd survival goods, obsolete rations fallen from broken-down shelves. Dozens of black rubber gas masks tossed in a heap. A jumble of giant syringes in sheaths that resemble transparent cigars. Thousands of boxes of bullets in obscure, non-standard calibers, mounded into pyramids. The mess seems orderly, not random, as if the larger boxes and the smaller packages they contain have been gone through, evaluated, pillaged for anything of value, then sorted before being discarded into heaps against walls or in the center of the floor. Any organizing principle that might exist seems difficult to guess. Mark doesn’t believe anyone now present was involved in this sorting, but who else could it have been? The only explanation is that someone else was here before. Every item in this room appears far older than any of the four now present. Mark thinks he’s oldest, at thirty-nine, but then he wonders if he’s actually thirty-nine, or possibly older. Shouldn’t a person remember turning forty? For a long time he’s been thinking of that milestone as something just ahead, but now he wonders if maybe it’s behind him.

  “It’s so damned fucking weird, this place,” Greyson says. “I don’t need every question answered, like Polly-wog here, but one thing I do know is that we’re all four of us victims of some bad, unfair shit.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Polly says. “You suck sometimes, you know.”

  “That reminds me, Greyson, you were going to let us in on your big theory.” Mark hopes to prod him into saying something outlandish enough that the others can make Greyson feel foolish and ridiculous.

  “Since the rest of us are so wrong,” Jenna says.

  “So then, we’re victims of bad, unfair shit, you say?” Mark continues. “Such as what, exactly?”

  Greyson sniffs, kicking through the mess on the floor, but only pretending to look. “Tests, mostly psychological. But physical too, all that exercising. What possible need is there, hooking us to treadmills like fucking rats?”

  Polly kneels before a pile of adhesive gauze bandages so old they’ve turned dark brown. She coughs, waving away dust. “I thought the drugs were meant to help them deal with isolation. I mean, help us deal with it.”

  “I don’t believe the meds are even supposed to help,” Jenna says. “Mostly they make me want to kill myself.”

  Polly grins and winks theatrically at Jenna. “Imagine how fucked up we’d be without ‘em, though.”

  “I never wanted to kill myself.” Greyson says, his grin demented. “I want to kill all of you.”

  “We each decided to be part of this,” Mark says, “but you’re the only one taking it out on others.” He speaks without facing Greyson directly.

  “I never decided anything,” Greyson says. “We’re torture subjects, worse than prisoners. You’re just brainwashed.”

  Polly drops a faded carton of Chesterfield cigarettes and whirls to face the others, as if remembering something. “Hey, what ever happened to remote viewing, wasn’t that a thing we were doing? Or did I dream it?”

  Mark looks to Jenna, wondering if maybe Polly’s joking to lighten the mood.

  Jenna lifts an eyebrow. “Okay, my remote view is, this is boring. Can we go now?”

  “You guys, no!” Polly whines. “You said you’d help me get some special medicine. There’s a million more rooms to search. So many.”

  Greyson offers her an enormous box of hardtack crackers and a glass jar containing 1,000 tiny aspirin. “Try these,” he deadpans. “And don’t forget your solitary pursuits. But not the kind of solitary pursuits like Marky-boy pursues.”

  “Here!” Polly exclaims, as she bends to retrieve a brown glass eye-dropper bottle. “Yeah, this! This is it.”

  Mark squints at the dusty bottle, which bears no label and looks like it came from an old-time apothecary’s medicine bag. “Polly, you sure? What even is this stuff?”

  Polly nods, giddy with excitement. “This is the perfect thing, exactly what I need. I’ll take some drops, then let’s everybody go lie in the sun, okay?”

  The others assent without argument. Mark agrees it’s safest to return as soon as possible to the disrupted routine of breakfast followed by Medicine Center
followed by Sun Room followed by Gymnasium. Not for the first time, he finds himself thankful that whoever set their schedule knew better what they really needed than any of them could possibly know for themselves.

  An Interlude

  Secret Bullets

  Just before they reach the stairs, Mark stops. “Forgot something I wanted. I’m going to run back, only take a second.”

  He jogs back toward the supply room, not knowing whether the others will continue without him. Assuming they’ll wait, he needs to conceal what he’s returned to claim. He tears open a packet of hardtack crackers and dumps a few onto the floor. Nearby, he finds a particular box of bullets, the measurement 7.5mm the only comprehensible text among other inscrutable printing on the box. He drops four bullets into the open space in the packet and folds shut the end.

  The others are still waiting, and turn to look as he jogs back.

  “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Mark says, holding up the faded package of stale crackers.

  Greyson makes a face. “Nasty.” He heads into the stairs.

  “Those can’t be safe to eat,” Polly says.

  “Everything here is safe,” Mark says. “My crackers and your Laudanum, both as fresh now as on creation day.”

  “I should’ve taken those accounting books,” Greyson says.

  “Absolutely,” Jenna says. “Never too late to pass your CPA exam, big guy.”

  When they reach the residential level, Mark stops. “You go ahead. I’ll stow this in my room and see you at the pool.”

  Though the others proceed without him this time, once in his room, Mark remains cautious, making sure the door is shut and latched before he kneels to open his trunk. In the bottom rear corner, beneath folded clothes in tidy piles, he conceals the bullets next to the old 7.5mm revolver already hidden.

  Five

  Sun Room, Swimming Pool

  By the time Mark arrives, Greyson has already changed into his tiny, lemon-yellow racing swimsuit. It’s far too small for any grown man, certainly for Greyson’s broad torso and stout, hairy thighs. Mark looks away as Greyson jogs to his favorite chaise at the far end of the poolside row, as if someone else might steal his spot if he doesn’t hurry.

  Jenna and Polly remain before their open lockers, both still halfway through changing. Jenna wears only a black bikini top, having pulled down her gray workout tights and panties but not yet stepped into her bikini bottom. Leaning close to the mirror mounted inside the locker door, she scrutinizes her left eye, as if some detail there bothers her. The stark contrast of her tan lines is accentuated by her thinness. A hipbone crest shows like a blade beneath her flesh. It feels wrong, scrutinizing her so closely, though she makes no effort to hide herself.

  Polly stands topless, adjusting bright orange boy-shorts so they’re hiked up high enough, but not too high. Her freckles stand out in striking contrast against her pale breasts, though obsessive daily tanning has helped the freckles blend into the darker skin of most of her body.

  Mark thinks it’s strange, the way their rules of interaction shift here. There’s no other place they casually expose themselves, not the Medicine Center, nor the Gymnasium. How is it they’ve fallen into distinct routines, which vary according to setting? Beside the pool, under glaring light, they disrobe without hesitation. Here, being revealed is nothing to worry about, while in every other place, they guard their privacy.

  Is he the only one who thinks about this, or even notices? Mark feels awkward suddenly, as if the others might perceive him focusing on their nakedness. He commands himself to stop dwelling on it, and strips off shirt, pants and underwear. His green swim trunks aren’t too large, but they seem oversized, being so much more concealing than what the others wear.

  The Sun Room pool is a uniform five feet in depth. Along the near side, four dozen white lounge chairs stand in three rows of sixteen. Opposite, a back-lit glass wall slopes upward, curving at the top to merge with the ceiling. Behind the glass, an array of tiny, brilliant sun lamps automatically switch on whenever motion is detected. Thousands of pinpoints, made of some light-emitting material which radiates heat, as well as broad-spectrum light. When Mark closes his eyes, he can’t distinguish the experience of lounging beside an underground pool from that of sunning on the surface, beneath a real sky. He tries to remember what it’s like, looking up at the sun, a discrete circle overhead. These lamps never burn out, apparently never need replacing, and emit a wavelength that minimizes sunburn while offering the same vitamin D benefits as sunlight. Mark doesn’t recall where he learned this, whether he arrived with the information, or someone mentioned it.

  They all visit the Sun Room daily, not always all four together, as with so many other activities and settings, but sometimes in pairs or even alone. Just as Jenna often does an extra round of exercise on her own, Polly often revisits at odd hours. Today, they lie grouped together, wire mesh lounges almost touching.

  After a few minutes, dizzy from the heat, someone moans.

  “Mmmm, it’s so hot.”

  For long seconds, nobody moves or speaks. Mark’s eyes remain closed, but he can hear.

  Polly shifts slightly. “Sometimes I wish we could turn it down a few notches, maybe half as much sun. It’s nice, feeling warm, but I can only take ten minutes before I want to swoon.”

  Nobody responds, but Mark continues thinking about heat.

  “Black became the sun’s light…” a voice says.

  Mark sits up, blinking, trying to see clearly enough to discern who was speaking. “Who said that?”

  “Said what?” Polly asks.

  Mark looks at the other three, trying to read them. “Something about, black becoming… the sunlight?”

  Jenna sits up, removes her sunglasses. “Black became the sun’s light, until in summer, all the world is storms.”

  “Was it you who said it before?” Mark asks.

  “No.” Jenna turns face down and unties her bikini top so the straps won’t make tan lines on her back. “It’s an old poem, from when the world ended. Don’t you ever read?”

  Sweat trickles down Mark’s sides. He lifts himself, skin sticking to the mesh of the lounge, and gently turns over. “Does anyone hear that?” he asks without looking up.

  Another gap of time passes.

  “Hear what?” Jenna asks.

  Mark realizes he asked about hearing a sound without having first decided it was a good idea to admit he was hearing something. But he’s certain he still hears it, so there’s nothing wrong with having mentioned it. “That trickling,” he says. “A trickling sound.”

  “We’re beside a pool,” Greyson says. “It’s full of water.”

  “The pool is motionless,” Mark says. “Nobody’s been in the water for days. The pool isn’t the sound. I still hear it, just… Somewhere else.”

  “Somewhere else,” Polly intones with solemnity.

  “From above, like a leaking pipe, or maybe a crack in the wall. Or from below.” He closes his eyes again.

  “There are no cracks,” someone says.

  He thinks he knows everyone’s voice, but sometimes when people say things when he’s not looking, he can’t picture which of them is talking.

  A breeze sweeps past, a chill causing Mark’s arms to tense. Skin on his flank constricts like gooseflesh. The sharp wind fades, surges, then disappears. Despite the heat of the lamps, Mark feels uncomfortable, skin exposed this way. And that smell again, the smell from his room of unexpected dampness. It seems like outdoors, like a place and time he remembers. He wants to ask the others. Why hasn’t he asked before now? But he just mentioned the trickling sound, and nobody else heard it. That’s why he doesn’t say what he smells, what he remembers, what he sees or hears or anything else. There’s no reason to reveal himself. Sometimes it’s as if he’s here alone, like all four of them are dwelling in their own separate worlds.

  “This is the first time I’ve felt right in a while, in a pretty long time,” Polly says. “I think it’s t
he first I’ve been able to relax since the attack.”

  “Wait, what?” Jenna asks. “Attack? Did you say the attack?”

  Mark sits up. “Attack?” he demands. “What? Who did…”

  Jenna leans close to Polly, and touches her forearm. “Polly, we don’t know what you’re saying. If something bad happened, you never told us. We never knew.”

  “Obviously it was him.” Mark glares at Greyson. “What did you do to her?”

  Polly sighs, shaking her head, but doesn’t begin to cry.

  “Say it,” Mark insists. “Stand up to him, say it out loud. We’ll protect you.”

  Greyson jumps up so forcefully, his lounge tips into the water and sinks to the bottom. He glares, hair wild, ridiculous in his tiny yellow brief. He flies at Mark in a rush, a movement too sudden to make sense. Greyson’s on top of Mark then beneath him, grappling, Mark’s neck gripped under one arm.

  “Greyson!” Polly shrieks.

  Mark feels himself being turned, lifted, thrown. He tries to adjust, to regain control of his body, but can only spin helpless in mid-air, wondering if he might land in the water. He strikes hard ground with a crack, and slides across the polished concrete. The back of his head slams into something and he comes to a stop.

  Jenna screams.

  Mark feels disoriented, not exactly hurt but surprised and confused. He looks around, trying to orient himself. Where are they, what just happened? He’s lying askew, sprawled against the top of the ladder that emerges from the water in the pool’s corner.

  Polly’s shaking her head in shock and upset, muttering, “No, no, no.” She hurries from the room, taking rapid, tiptoeing steps, without looking back.

  “Polly!” Greyson shouts.

  “God damn it, what’s wrong with you?” Jenna demands, hyperventilating and upset almost to tears.