At all.
Rema unpacked her bag of pill bottles and equipment—a respirator, headset, stethoscope and other fancy gear.
“You’re not wiping my memories.” He pointed at the leathery skull cap.
“Of course not, Dr. Grimm.”
“I know what that does.”
“You’re only preparing for a short leap. It will be a temporary disassociation with your body. There is no memory wipe; you will return as yourself. There is nothing to worry about.”
She chuckled, truly entertained.
Her adorable smile and intelligent accent put him at ease. Honestly, he wasn’t opposed to losing his memories and starting over. That was sort of the point of the Sessions. So why was he scared?
Because when it came down to it, memories were a security blanket, his identity, who he was. His memories made him Dr. Grimm, not Mr. Grimm. It wasn’t easy giving up the blankie.
There was no reason to hang onto his identity. He wanted to forget it, to start new. Born again, as the Christians would say. What would it be like to program new memories, fabricate a past that would lead to a new Henk Grimm?
Not a new Henk Grimm. A new me.
He would drop his name because it was already tainted. He would pick something else, forget who he was entirely, believe a new past, whether it was borrowed or fabricated.
I would still be me.
“This is to help you relax,” Rema said. “Your vitals are slightly elevated. I expect you are a little nervous about today. That is natural. Have you been practicing mindful breathing?”
“Yes, of course.” That was a lie. He didn’t see the point in breathing on purpose. The body had that under control. “When can I get some fresh air?”
“You’re here to maximize your time, Dr. Grimm.” Rema adjusted the straps on a respirator. “We are not interested in what’s out there. We explore in here.”
She touched his head. It was the same line, the same gesture Micah had done during the welcoming event just before they were locked in their rooms.
“Take this.” She handed him the respirator. “Breathe deep.”
She urged him to lie back. He was stoned within minutes. Whatever they were pumping through the mask put him on the ceiling.
“What’s in this?”
“We are elevating your oxygen levels. There are some minor additions to help you relax. Are you feeling them?”
He heard her moving behind him and began to fantasize she was getting undressed. If she climbed over the couch and wrapped those brown thighs around his head, he would forget about all the money he’d invested.
I didn’t come for that.
Sex he could get without mortgaging his life. This was a spiritual journey into new realities. The only unanswered question was how far did he want to take it?
He didn’t have to enter the Maze, not if he didn’t want to.
They didn’t pressure him. In fact, they hardly spoke about it. Everything he knew was hearsay. There were rumors of players turning into gods, of never returning to their bodies, of new realities and endless dimensions. He didn’t have to enter the Maze to experience that; he could awareness leap recreationally and call it good.
But very few were satisfied with that.
Junkies start off small and slow. They nurture the high, nurse the needle until they fall in love.
Henk couldn’t afford more than the one month-long Sessions. He would have nothing left after this. He would return to work and hold off the lenders as long as possible. And then it would be over.
I’ll end up in the Maze.
He hadn’t even made his first leap, but he knew it. He would enter the Maze and get rich or go crazy. If he went insane, at least they would wipe his memories. He wouldn’t know any better.
Does it hurt if you don’t know any better?
He was feeling light and porous when Rema took his pulse. Her touch was sweet, but the horniness had left him, replaced by something more spiritual. Not so grabby.
“Are you ready, Dr. Grimm?”
He nodded like a dopey patient coming out of surgery. She unclipped the respirator and led him to one of the doors. It was difficult to know which one it was. The room was perfectly symmetrical. It could be the bathroom.
There was a bubbling tub of semen.
He gagged. The roiling liquid popped like a six-year-old blowing snot bubbles. And the smell stung his eyes, clearing out the euphoria.
“I thought we were doing the—”
“The vertical tank is a bit more advanced.” She sat on the edge of the tub and raked her hand through the liquid. “This is easier for beginners, Dr. Grimm. You will lay horizontal for a very short trip. And trust me, you will get used to the smell.”
The adorable laugh was lost in a haze.
“This is a nutrient-rich solution, non-oxygenated. You will wear a respirator during this trip. Once you master the vertical tank, you will no longer need it.”
“No respirator? How the hell will I breathe?”
“Sit, Dr. Grimm. Think of this as a hot tub. You will find it pleasurable.”
She stepped into it, hands inviting. The bubbling goo burped around her knees, staining the fabric of her dress. He took her hand and stepped in.
It was warm and silky. His legs were being licked with hot tongues from all directions. His revulsion vanished. He wanted that sensation all over his body. Rema guided him into a sitting position and stepped out to fetch the respirator. The liquid clung to her calves.
“Once inside, you will experience a dream, Dr. Grimm. One you cannot distinguish from reality.”
He was melting. If this was an elaborate ruse to melt his flesh and repackage it as bologna, then it was totally worth it.
“For most people, the leap is generated by a memory or a wish. It is often unconscious willing.” She test-fit the respirator before pulling it off for minor adjustments. “Your experience with time will not match the time that passes in this room. I expect you to remain submersed for an hour. Your experience, however, may feel much longer.”
It was hard to say where Henk ended and the world began. His flesh was permeable; he was breathing through his skin. In a few minutes, he would simply pour himself into the tub and mix with the greasy stew of fat that bubbled and farted. He no longer smelled it, no longer cared.
“This is a sensory deprivation respirator.” Rema stood over him with the hooded mask. A corrugated hose extended from the cone that would cover his mouth. “Imbedded probes will hijack your senses and read your mind. You will forget this vehicle you call your body.”
She rubbed his shoulders. Her touch was slimy.
“The real you, Dr. Grimm, your true self, will make the leap. Are you prepared?”
He must’ve nodded.
She covered his head in silence. It was black inside the hooded respirator. The air was stifling at first, and then a blast of cool comfort filled his nostrils. There was no sense of sliding beneath the liquid, but he could feel it on his shoulders, under his chin. Soon, that sensation disappeared.
There was only the humid feel of his breath.
Colors moved.
A rush of excitement shot through the dark. He wanted to fly, to leap off cliffs and swim in the ocean and soar through outer space. He wanted to explore all those dimensions of another reality Micah had promised.
Henk stood on the brink of that doorway.
He would leap into a new universe, explore an inner dimension of consciousness, go somewhere he could do anything. Be anyone. God or angel, demon or animal. Technology would launch him from this flesh, free his mind to explore. It was new. It was exciting.
He waited for it.
His breath was hot again. The air slowly turned thick and began to feel suffocating. There were sounds. Not the gluey burps from the tub but actual sounds of people laughing. Not Rema’s lovely chortle, but more than one person laughing at him.
And there was pressure. A weight on his chest.
He s
truggled to get it off. Rema wasn’t that heavy, but there were others. Two, maybe three people were sitting on him, pressing a pillow over his face, the fabric stuffed into his mouth.
Henk tried to shout, but nothing came out. And then he recognized the voices. Those were his brothers’. They were choking him until he couldn’t take it; sometimes he passed out and woke up bloodied and bruised.
He wasn’t in a tub, he was there. He was little again, and his brothers were back. They would choke him until he blacked out and there was nothing he could do about it. He didn’t want to be little. This wasn’t where he wanted to go. Henk kicked and screamed, but it did no good.
It never did.
A warm gush of liquid filled his nostrils; it rushed into his lungs. An acrid sting set his head on fire. He attempted another breath only to draw a deeper gulp and sink further to the bottom.
Rema pulled him out of the tub.
She laid him over the edge. Greasy vomit slid down the side as help rushed in. He felt her holding him, the world spinning in a painful vortex.
He didn’t remember ripping the respirator off while he was still under, didn’t remember vomiting. He remembered suffocating, though. That was an old reality.
Made new again.
THIS PARTY STARTS
11
Sunny
After the Punch
“HEY,” SOMEONE SHOUTED. “You look lonely.”
A hefty woman leaned into Sunny. Her bicep was clammy. A cloud of perspiration enveloped her. Sunny avoided shrinking. The woman introduced herself as Fran.
“Friends bail on you?” Fran said.
“For now.”
Sunny rocked her head. The wall pulsed with music, tickling her ears. Fran waved two of her friends over. One of them had a striking resemblance to Tinkerbell. They smelled of booze and close quarters and smiled imperfect smiles. A gold necklace stuck to Tinkerbell’s neck.
The conversation rolled around Sunny, carrying on without having to respond. She’d been there most of the night by herself. A waiter that looked barely out of Boy Scouts leaned into the conversation.
“What are you drinking?” Fran shouted.
“Petron.”
Sunny pointed at a little man leaning against the bar with a taller, thinner man half his age. The little man’s high-pitched laughter punched through the music. The waiter nodded. He knew the deal.
“Honey, you’re pitching to the wrong team,” Fran said.
“Paying it forward.”
“Paying what?” Fran asked.
Sunny didn’t answer.
She watched the waiter deliver another shot to the end of the bar. The little man looked around with a sloppy smile, lifting the glass before throwing it back. He didn’t know who was sending them or why, but he drank them nonetheless. Someone was getting him drunk, but that was why you came to the Glass Jar—to take advantage of someone, or the other way around.
Either way.
Sunny had slipped into the club without notice. Her cropped hair was in line with most of the women there. Her starchy work shirt—a penlight still clipped inside the pocket and yellow bandana stained with sweat—was two days on her body and smelled worse than Fran. Sunny looked like someone needing to blow off a tanker full of steam, Glass Jar style.
“Why are you feeding Barry?” Fran asked.
“Barry?”
“That little bear you just sent a drink to.”
A devilish smile turned the corners of Sunny’s mouth. That little asshole’s name is Barry.
She wasn’t sure why she disliked him so much. It was a deep-seated hatred that had nothing to do with sexuality, height or misplaced snobby fashion. Her dislike was primal, instinctual. Like she’d known him all her life.
“What are you drinking?” Fran elbowed her.
“Water.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Not right now, I’m not.” Maybe never.
Tinkerbell and girlfriend raised their drinks and howled. Barry flopped on his seat and raised a tumbler. His glazed eyes roamed the room and, for a second, landed on Sunny. She stepped into Fran and the big woman’s damp armpit wrapped over her shoulder.
The dancing continued. The drinks flowed.
Two more shots went to Barry’s end. He begged to know who was sending them, that he’d suck everything in the place, soft or hard, until he found out.
Tinkerbell was kissing her girlfriend, her tongue deep in her throat, hands crawling through her hair. A tattoo was exposed on her neck, black-inked lines of something she’d seen before, something between Grey’s eyes. Sunny ground her finger and thumb into her eyes until the room stopped turning. When she looked again, the tattoo was a Chinese symbol.
Not the Maze.
Barry fell off the stool. His flimsy partner picked him up in fits of laughter. They staggered through the crowd.
“Want to go back to my place?” Fran’s cigarette breath was in Sunny’s ear. “Or we can go out back.”
Barry made his way toward the restrooms, slamming the door open. Sunny handed her water to Fran.
“Be right back.”
There was no plan. She’d arrived to confront the man that Donny had called over to the apartment, the one who’d passed her the note with Micah’s name on it. Her weak plan had made sense until she saw him at the bar; then it was obvious a conversation about the Maze would go nowhere.
There was no backup plan.
She had hid and watched, had fed him drinks until his knees poured into his shoes. It was now early morning and he was barely coherent. Sunny followed him into the bathroom.
The tang of urinal cakes and piss stains was pungent. There were puddles on the sinks and floor. Sunny tied the bandana over her head. Her feminine features wouldn’t pass in the men’s room, but no one paid attention.
Barry saddled up to one of the urinals, a ship buckling side to side. His partner held him steady with one hand. Sunny stepped next to him and unzipped her pants. The digital watch began beeping.
Barry leaned his forehead against the cool tile and rolled dead fish eyes at her.
It was three in the morning. She couldn’t get it to turn off. Barry sighed as he relieved himself, not seeing the woman with the bandana or hearing her digital watch. He began licking the chrome handle.
Sunny turned away.
What now, Sunny? What now?
What was she going to do, ask if he remembered her? He couldn’t remember his own name. What kind of real information could she get besides slurry phrases?
It’s time was stenciled into the grout followed by a phone number.
“You’re pissing on the floor.” Barry’s partner shook him. “Come on.”
They stumbled out, propping each other up. Unless they injected Viagra directly into their genitals, no one was getting laid. That wouldn’t stop them from trying. They fell against the bar long enough for one last shot.
Sunny called a car and stood on the curb. She held the driver until Barry and his partner dumped themselves into the back of another car. They arrived at his building at four o’clock. Sunny slipped into the building with her arms around them. The doorman didn’t give it a second thought.
Barry didn’t even notice.
“THE HELL?”
Sunny was yanked from a deep hole. She pulled herself out of a chair, kicking the comforter on the floor. Pain crowed in her neck.
Barry flailed.
His hands and feet were bound by nylons she’d found in the closet along with leather straps and toys. Everything but fucking handcuffs.
“Who the hell are you?” His tongue was swollen, eyes puffy.
Sunny shook off the lead of sleep. It was almost noon. Sand filled her head. She went to the kitchen and started a Keurig. Curses continued from the bedroom, followed by violent yanking that only cinched the knots tighter. She couldn’t remember how she’d learned to tie constrictor knots.
She sank into the doughy chair with fat armrests, something stylish, cartoon
ish. The room was chic and smelled like hard sex. She huffed the cinnamon hazelnut coffee, closing her eyes.
This is insane.
It was somewhere between tying his hands and feet, as he laid stone-cold passed out, that she realized there was no going back. Judging by the inventory in the closet, this wasn’t the first time Barry had been tied up. By a desperate woman, maybe, but not the first.
What choice did she have?
Henk thought she was crazy. Most everyone else did. Now she was relaxing in an overstuffed chair with a man tied to his own bed while drinking his coffee. The judge and jury would close the case on her. And she was fine with it. Her old life was days behind her, a closed book. This was a new chapter.
It was starting with a bang.
“Do you remember me?” she asked.
“What?”
“You were at my house a few days ago. Do you remember?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m a little fucking distracted!”
“I mean you no harm.”
“A bit late for that.”
“I just need to ask a few questions and then I’ll leave.”
“Are you kidding me? Where’s Hamlet?” He craned his neck. “What’d you do with Hamlet?”
“He went home.”
She thought he’d start screaming for help about then. It seemed likely and she couldn’t blame him. She’d stuff a sock in his mouth. It would start to feel like a crime at that point. Technically, she’d already crossed the line.
“What do you want?” he grumbled.
“You came to my apartment. My son had something around his head, something with a needle and the icon of—” she gestured to her forehead “—the Maze.”
His head popped off the pillow. Recognition spread from his eyes into his bloated face. He stopped struggling.
“My son is missing,” she said. “So is Donny. You sent me to a place called 511 and told me to speak with Micah.”
Maze: The Waking of Grey Grimm Page 8