Just another Friday night.
A small bowl of popcorn waited in the kitchen—his mother’s nightly gift, just in case he was hungry. Grey ate while he whittled the hours away on his phone, watching tank drops. Not everyone could drop into a sensory tank without blowing a circuit. His dad was one of them. The respirator in the bathroom was just a guess. The look on his face confirmed it.
He can’t do it.
Sensory tanks started out as horizontal deprivation tanks. Black walls, buoyant saline solution, and the complete absence of the five senses created hallucinations. The brain didn’t evolve to be ignored. When deprived of input, it made up its own reality.
Even if it was a dream.
The shift to vertical tanks began when manufactured sensory input was substituted for the absence of reality. Instead of letting the brain wander through a miasma of fragmented dreams, computer-aided realities were created by hijacking the latent five senses.
The subject could be monitored through the glass. Weightless in a viscous solution, a nervous system hijacking was achieved through a skinsuit. The brain was fooled into believing its environment when nerve endings were stimulated. The user would see, hear, smell, feel and taste what it was being told to see, hear, smell, feel and taste. The experience was no different than the real world. Their thoughts and awareness were integrated into a computer-animated reality with an auto feedback loop.
Awareness leaping.
The technology was used to correct brain deficiencies as well as mental illnesses—PTSD, traumatic childhoods, etc. It worked well for decades, for those who could afford it.
And then came reality confusion.
People were coming out messed up. They couldn’t trust their senses, didn’t know if they were in a dream or the real world. Even the word real was becoming subjective. If reality is determined by our five senses, then what was real? But assholes were jumping off buildings. In the tank, they could fly. In the skin, they were water balloons. That’s real.
These reality-confused users assaulted others, raped and robbed and looted because in the tank none of that mattered. You could treat people like meat puppets when you were in the tank.
Rach texted. Sleeping?
Yes, he typed.
It was past midnight. She wouldn’t fall asleep until after two o’clock and get out of bed at noon. That was Grey’s schedule, too. There had to be a way they could sleep together without sex. Friends without benefits.
Can’t stop thinking about it, she texted.
She had more questions than he did. She was fuel to his obsession. Whenever he forgot about his dad or the people at the gate, she was in his ear, on his phone, wondering how far his dad got, if it really was the Maze.
Nothing we can do about it, he texted back.
Except go back.
Go back?
To the house.
In a way, it was a relief to have it over with, to be done with his dad. It was like a death in the family, without the guilt. And inheritance. But it was clean and final. His dad was an asshole. So was Grey. It ran in the family. Whose fault was that?
He wants you to go back, she wrote.
He rolled his eyes. It was like she didn’t witness the rage-a-thon.
He left the clues in the open, she texted.
Because he’s an idiot.
Or he wanted you to find out. He’s not stupid.
Grey hesitated. Why would he want that?
He wants help?
If he wanted help, why would he excommunicate Grey from the apartment. Why didn’t he just ask for help instead of leaving out clues? Besides, they weren’t obvious. Grey did some major snooping to put it all together. Maybe he underestimated me, Grey thought.
Let’s go back, Rach texted.
That guy clearly wants us to.
We don’t go in the front door.
Parachute into the backyard?
Head sunk in his pillow, he waited for a reply. His arm got tired. He dropped the phone and turned the music up, head thumping. Sometimes she fell asleep before finishing a thought. It was best just to forget the whole thing. Go back to school, study hard, get a job, pay some bills and then die. There was a song that went like that—birth, school, work, death.
Exactly, he thought.
The phone vibrated. He tipped it up. Pick you up in the morning.
She wasn’t giving up.
THE SUN WAS SETTING. A warm glow was cast upon the parking lot litter. Styrofoam cups and paper bags and empty cans were flattened on the asphalt. Similar trash floated near a boat ramp.
A shirtless man was steering a two-person Sun Dolphin toward shore, his shoulders bright red. One hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around a beer, he shouted at the truck backing down the ramp.
“Rach—”
“Shhh. We’re doing this,” she said. “You want to. I want to. Stop crying.”
She had picked him up that afternoon. Half an hour later, they arrived at her grandparents’ farm. An hour after that, they pulled off with a johnboat. Now they were watching the driver attempt to back the trailer down the ramp for the third time. He didn’t look old enough to have a license. His dad kept the boat steady, waving him down.
Rach’s grandfather’s johnboat was about the same size as the Sun Dolphin. It was big enough for two people and a cooler. It was also older than both of them. Many holes had been patched over its lifetime.
It was a very big lake.
Somehow she’d determined the house beyond the gate was on a piece of property that stretched along twenty miles of shoreline. That explained the lack of houses in the area. They could take the boat to shore, she explained.
“Then what?” he had said.
She shrugged. “See what we can see.”
If they saw something interesting, whatever that meant, they could hike toward the house, say they ran out of gas, got lost, or something. Of course they would recognize them, they had photos of them pulling up just a few weeks earlier. They had called his dad within minutes. They could call him again if they wanted. What was he going to do, disown him again?
“Aren’t you the one that said we can’t just ring the doorbell?” he said.
“We’re not ringing the doorbell.”
“This is worse.”
“They don’t own the water.”
“They own the land, Rach.”
She stared blankly. “Look, you started this. You want to quit now?”
If he was honest, this was why he’d asked her to drive him out the first time. If his nerve wavered—and it was doing a major dance right now—she would be there to set him right. He wanted to quit, to turn around and go home. Driving to the house was crazy, but this was suicidal.
“Don’t give up.” She took his arm. “We just take a look, see what we see. It’s just a ride across the lake, that’s all. It’s not like you had plans to do something else tonight. We’re just a couple of friends enjoying the great outdoors.”
It wasn’t the best speech, not the most convincing, but he heard what she was saying. She had been there when his dad called it quits. She never liked him, but her father wasn’t winning parenting awards, either. Maybe that was it.
It’s just a boat ride.
The boy finally backed the trailer down the ramp. When they were tied down and out of the water, Rach swung around. Her grandfather’s army green johnboat teetered in the water.
“Is that going to make it?”
“Hamburger Hill?” She pointed at the boat. “She has never leaked.”
“Always a first.”
“It’s just water, Grey. There aren’t sharks out there and you can swim.”
“Not across a lake.”
“We got life vests. You get the orange one.”
“How about gas?”
“How about a pacifier?”
She left the truck running and didn’t ask for help, released the boat into the water by herself and backed away from the ramp. A cloud of blue smoke puffed
from the engine. Grey parked the truck and waited on the dock. The sun had dropped behind the trees.
“We get there at dusk,” she said. “Look around, that’s all.”
The water was calm. Grey imagined he could see the other shore, imagined maybe it was closer than it really was. He climbed aboard, sitting on the life vest. The engine roared and the boat leaned. Rach steered with a smile and the hair off her face.
It was just a boat ride.
GASOLINE.
The ridged hull rocked like the belly of an aluminum whale, bloated and still. The prop slapped the water.
Grey couldn’t feel his fingers.
“Rach!” He wiped his face, a warm sting on his lip. “Rach!”
He kicked the black water. His jeans were heavy. A sock wagged off his foot. He was missing both shoes.
They were full throttle when the cliff came into view, a rock wall of iron-laced stone that plunged into the water. Points of light dotted the top. Grey was pressing the binoculars to his eyes—a three-story mansion coming into focus—when the boat lurched.
Rach didn’t see the old post lapping just below the surface, a remnant of a forested town when the manmade lake was flooded. There were markers they didn’t see in the dark.
The water hit them like concrete.
“Rach!”
The boat rocked on the waves, catching his chin. The blow opened a gash and slammed his teeth together. A bell rang between his ears, a high tenor that refused to fade. He drifted from the humpbacked boat, legs numb. Water filled his mouth, nipping his chin where the flesh hung open. The sound of the slapping hull faded as he went under, the green wash flushing his eyes.
Fingers clamped his wrist.
He was yanked up. The hard edge of the boat was in his hand.
“Hang on.” Rach put his other hand on the hull. “Don’t let go. You got it?”
He pushed his hair away. Her eyes were big and white, hair slicked back. She swam away before he could say anything, returned with a cushion and shoved it between his legs.
“You all right?” she asked.
He rubbed his face. His nose was slick. He felt the slash beneath his chin, raw and wet. “I think I’m bleeding.”
“Don’t touch it.”
“Are you...” He swallowed. “Are you okay?”
Her chin was quivering. She didn’t look scared, but the lake was sucking the warmth from them. They clung to the boat, huffing, shivering. There would be no turning it over in the deep. The shore was far off. If they took their time and traded off the cushion, they might get there before hypothermia set in.
“What happened?” he said.
“We hit something.”
Grey knew what had happened, knew boats hit posts and trees all the time, usually inebriated captains or distracted teenagers that had to be pulled from the water and wrapped in towels. Sometimes they were arrested for drunk driving, but they were saved. Always saved.
That was during daylight.
“Just hang on.” Her teeth chattered. “Someone will pass by.”
The only lights were perched high on the cliff, too far away to see a couple of bodies on the water.
“No one’s coming,” he chattered. “We should start swimming.”
Rach ducked below the surface. Grey panicked for a second, thinking she was giving up or leaving him behind. She popped up several yards away. He heard splashing and saw her retrieve more debris. Where was she finding the strength to swim that far? He didn’t like floating in black water, let alone swimming in it.
This is all too stupid. All of it. Starting with Dad, the email, the white cards. The Maze. I never should’ve got her involved. It was selfish, should’ve gone alone on this.
The stars were out and a pleasant numbness had begun creeping inside him, warming him to the thought of sinking to the bottom. Perhaps it was just as well.
She returned with two orange vests, stuffed one under his arms, and put the other between her legs. She rose above the surface, a blonde buoy scanning the water.
“Rach.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Shhh. No. Don’t say that.” She squeezed back. “Someone will come.”
“We should swim or something. Before it’s too late.”
“Hang on, just a little longer.”
He grabbed her, leaned into her, their foreheads touching. It wasn’t fear or sadness. Selfishly, he was glad she was there. An unceremonious ending shouldn’t come alone.
“It’ll be all right.” She swam around the boat again.
He considered following her. The high-pitched ringing in his head dulled the outside world. He was already disoriented, the moon hiding behind a cloud cluster. He cursed his cowardice, hated that he couldn’t let go of the boat, convinced himself that staying put was a good idea while she retrieved another floatation.
“Hang on.” She hugged him from behind, their chattering bodies in sync, her chin on his shoulder, wet and warm. “Someone’s coming.”
It sounded like lost hope, what destined victims tell themselves to stave off panic, clinging to optimism as the branch was breaking. He was too cold to care. It would be so much easier to do this if she wasn’t there.
He closed his eyes and bumped his head against the boat.
The ringing droned louder. He turned sluggishly, stupidly, toward a cluster of lights. Perhaps he had already left his body, had floated above the lake, was staring into the mansion that overlooked them, dreaming he could fly onto one of the cantilevered porticos and sip wine or whatever rich people did.
The light grew brighter.
It sliced over the water, illuminating the lapping waves. For a moment, it blinded them. Then the sound of a motor cut through the ringing.
It was coming from the cliff.
21
Grey
Before the Punch
HIS CHEST HURT WITH the dull ache of a large boot standing on him, holding him down, pushing the air out of his lungs. Burning and crushing—Grey thrashed awake.
He lunged to escape black water. He inhaled long and loud. Pain spread across his ribs. Blood surged between his eyes.
A rhythmic headache settled into harmless ripples. Shipwrecked memories rose to the surface. They bobbed just out of reach, chaotic and nonsensical, faded photos, snapshots distorted with a vintage filter.
There was the lake. And then what?
The room was odd, futuristic. He lay back in a lounger that reminded him of a dental chair. There was an empty hard-backed chair on a shiny hardwood floor. Sheets of water trickled down slate walls to his left and right, disappearing into narrow troughs at the bottom. A white wall was behind him.
He faced a glass wall that reminded him of his dad’s apartment. Instead of a view of the city, an orange glow highlighted a large body of water. It was early morning, the sun peeking above the horizon.
Memories began falling in line, an unwinding of chaotic thoughts snapping into their rightful places. The lake. The boat.
The house.
He was wearing a white robe, the sleeves wide, the belt long. The white terrycloth was soft and clean. The flesh over his ribs was raw and tender. He explored a numb spot on his chin. Some sort of glue had been used to patch the open wound.
“Hello?”
His voice echoed off the floor and in his head. Water clogged his ears. He thumped the side of his head. His forehead screamed. It took a few minutes to settle.
Where am I?
He and Rach had been stuck in the water, cold and alone. And then the boat, a bright light. And now he was in a strange room.
The house. I’m in the house.
The glass wall was spotless. He reached out to touch it before coming closer, his swirling fingerprints fading. A swimming pool was a few stories below. Vertigo clutched his belly. He remembered a time he bungee-jumped from a tower, how the cord yanked him upside down, blood surging into his head like it was now. He hung like a dying yo-yo, his friends hollering from the tower.
Wait. I’ve never bungee-jumped.
The door opened. He jerked around too quickly. Nausea turned his stomach in circles. He braced against the glass wall, forgetting about the drop below, his attention consumed by a barefoot woman. Her hair was short; her dark skin contrasted with the ivory white summer dress. One of the narrow straps fell off her shoulder.
“Good morning,” she said with an accent.
“Where’s Rachel?”
“Your friend is well and rested, as are you, I hope.” She placed a breakfast tray on the hard-backed chair. “You are hungry?”
A bagel with cream cheese and a glass of orange juice. The coincidence escaped him, that he ate this every morning for breakfast and there it was in this strange room. She stepped away, surrendering, afraid to frighten him—a trapper not wanting to scare the bunny.
“Where am I?” he said.
“Where were you going?”
He eyed her with suspicion. His stomach overpowered his sense of wariness. Base instincts compelled him to reach for the tray. She crossed her arms, fingernails polished red, watching him keep the lounger between them.
He snatched the plate like a runaway child. His head filled with chewing noises as he attacked the bagel. A pleasant grin rose on the horizon of her eyes.
“This is my favorite room in the morning, when the sun is just about to rise. You know it’s there, promising another day, a harbinger of hope.”
Her toes wiggled against the hardwood. A thin orange slice peeked above the sharp horizon, setting fire to the water. It glittered in her eyes.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
He wiped his mouth and considered lying about why they were on a course for the house on top of the cliff, how they were just looking for a place to fish off shore. But he knew nothing about fishing to even make it sound feasible. It seemed a lie wouldn’t work if he did.
“My dad was out here.”
She was looking at him in the window’s reflection like a parent who already knew the answers and was just giving him a chance to confess. Or lie.
“Why are you here?”
Maze: The Waking of Grey Grimm Page 16