Maze: The Waking of Grey Grimm

by Tony Bertauski

  “Phillipe is wearing a skin suit,” the Spaniard explained. “It is a supple replication of flesh imbedded with complex electrical relays that act much like a secondary nervous system.”

  Phillipe dropped the robe around his ankles. He was wearing a black suit that formed to every curve and wrinkle. A rank smell wafted out of the disrobing, something like congealed ozone.

  “The shaving,” the Spaniard continued, “is to maximize contact with your skin suit so that all sensory flow is unimpeded. This is first-generation technology, I’m sure some of you are aware, but we find it useful to start your first vertical experience with the skin suit. By the end of your Sessions, many of you will experience more advanced techniques.”

  Rema had told Henk about the oxygenated water when she thought it was the claustrophobic effect of the respirator. The advanced methods involved jumping in nude and breathing water. It took a little practice, but she was sure he could do it.

  He was sure he couldn’t.

  Two assistants came to Phillipe’s side. One of them guided a cable dangling from the ceiling to the small of his back.

  “Are there any questions?”

  “Yes, um.” Henk cleared his throat. “Really, I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

  He swallowed spastically. Heat sweats were breaking out beneath his arms and across his chest. His legs were already quivering. Everyone was glowing with anticipation, the wide-eyed wonder of children in a chocolate factory with endless possibilities. Henk was staving off a panic attack.

  Rema pulled him from the pack. “Dr. Grimm—”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “We’re just observing.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You don’t have to do anything. Trust me, I’ve seen it benefit people greatly to watch.”

  How many times had he failed? Watching someone succeed wasn’t going to make it better. It would only bring more shame. He’d spent all of his money, much of which wasn’t his to spend, and he’d failed.

  “You said there was another way,” he whispered. “Besides this.”

  “We can discuss that later. It’s important you know the process.”

  One of the curtains dropped. A clear cylinder was gurgling with thick bubbles of solution. Henk gagged on sight. The assistants fitted a specialized mask over Phillipe’s head. He bit down on a tube that would slide into his throat, then climbed a rack of steps anchored on the side of the tank. The cable sagged.

  “It will be important to relax,” the Spaniard said, then followed with a large grin, “and breathe.”

  The others found the humor. Henk tightened. He’d sucked enough lungfuls to fill a barrel.

  Phillipe reached the top of the ladder. The cable reeled out the slack and hoisted him above the rim. He dangled like bait.

  “The cable is for support,” the Spaniard added. “Should an emergency arise, it will lift you from the tank within a second. The skin suit monitors your vitals. There is nothing that can’t be addressed should it go wrong.”

  “Puis-je poser une question?” a heavyset gentleman asked.

  “Oui,” the Spaniard answered.

  The gentleman continued in French. The Spaniard listened patiently.

  “Mr. Moreau very astutely asked where Phillipe will be going. In the network, you will experience a different sort of leap. Computers are involved but more as sensory modulation. The new reality in this room will be a collaborative effort, but will hinge primarily on a host.”

  The Spaniard gestured to the large curtain behind him. It appeared to be concealing an eleventh tank, one slightly larger.

  This would be an organic host, a live human being whose dream was the foundation upon which others would leap into. Their input would help shape the new reality in which they existed. They would be like Greek gods, but the host would be the final word.

  Zeus.

  “¿Se requiere ninguna memoria?” a woman in a maroon robe asked.

  The Spaniard conversed fluidly in his native tongue before addressing the group. “Miss Martinez asked if this requires a memory wipe. It does not. Only for participants entering the Maze is a memory alteration applied. We are simply awareness leaping.”

  Phillipe placed his toe into the bubbling goo. The cable gently lowered him inside. The viscous solution surged around his thighs like corn syrup.

  Henk reached out for Rema. She held him with both hands. A sour burp burst in his throat. He swallowed down an acrid tang.

  “Phillipe will remain in the tank for an hour, but he will experience time differently where he goes. Depending on the laws of the universe he helps create, he could experience a lifetime during that period, a phenomenon known as time dilation.”

  Phillipe’s head sank below the surface and lolled in the swirling agitation. His arms drifted from his sides. The cable fell slack.

  “I can’t do this...” Henk slurred.

  Rema supported his weight.

  “Phillipe has already vacated his skin. With practice, you will find it just as effortless.”

  Henk swayed forward. His stomach twisted in a wet coil.

  “And when you complete the Sessions—”

  Henk pushed through the crowd, clawing the colorful robes off their shoulders, pushing them off balance. They were too engrossed to be offended. Rema pulled on his collar. He tripped forward and splashed on the concrete.

  “You will no longer need assistance,” the Spaniard finished.

  The other curtains dropped. A tank behind each of them. The host tank was at the end, wider and taller, the solution vigorously brewing. The man inside looked more like a preserved specimen than a living being. He was nude and mostly hairless. Tendrils drifted in the solution, surrounding his body, massaging it. No respirator. No skin suit.

  A blanched, pickled human being.

  Henk painted the floor with his breakfast. That was the moment he knew something so completely that it would be his reality until death.

  He was never going to tank.

  OBJECTS MAY BE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR

  23

  Sunny

  After the Punch

  THE HOOKAH CAFÉ WAS on the Lower East Side.

  The window was marred with grease pencil advertisements, today’s specials that pretended to end but never did. Inside, the patrons were lumped in a blue haze of hookah smoke.

  Sunny avoided a puddle. Her feet were puckered and sore. She’d ditched her socks at Mrs. Jones’s apartment, but her shoes sloshed as she stepped into an aroma of apples and cinnamon.

  Donny filled the back corner, his shirt untucked, a square name tag stitched above his right breast. He read the newsfeeds from a tablet and pulled white smoke from a tube. A mint infusion jetted from his nostrils.

  There he was, just another day after a late shift, hitting the hookah before heading home. All was normal. All was good. And Grey was still missing.

  She approached like a ghost, an undead victim newly awakened, a stranger in a foreign world. Several patrons looked up. Smoke leaked from Donny’s lips.

  “Holy shit.”

  He grabbed her before she could say anything, pressing her damp shirt that smelled of sweaty plastic. His embrace was the only thing that kept her from falling.

  “Grimm,” he said, “the hell have you been?”

  She was shaking. Breaking down. This mad ride finally hit a stretch of sanity, a hopeful plane of familiarity. A sense of home. Donny, her longtime peer, the closest thing to a friend, the man that watched Grey as she went for help, the man that disappeared doing it. He was there; he was all right.

  Hope lifted its sleepy head. Hello.

  “You all right? You look worn out... like you ain’t slept in a month. Sit down.” Donny pulled out a chair and waved at the counter. He pressed her hands between his palms like warm skillets melting a thin sheet of ice. She was cold through her bones, damp and shriveled.

  “I tried to call,” he said. “I stopped by. Your voicemail isn’t working;
it just keeps ringing. What the hell happened to you?”

  “Where’d you go, Donny?”

  “I’m right here, Grimm. I’m not going anywhere.” Someone dropped off a glass of water. Donny asked if she was hungry and ordered toast before she could answer. “You look like you been put away wet, Grimm. Rode hard, first.”

  She pressed his hands against her cheeks. He smelled manlier than anyone in her life. He put his arm around her, letting her sink against him.

  “Hey, hey, lady. It’s all right. You’re all right.”

  She didn’t make a sound; tears wet his factory-stained shirt. He patted her shoulder and kissed her forehead. Tension fell away in pieces, unraveling around her, her springs overwound. The world was safe again; it made sense. This wasn’t a dream; she wasn’t crazy. He was here. Donny was here.

  She wiped her eyes. “Where have you been?”

  “Picking up your slack. I’ve been working doubles since you bailed. Denice hired your replacement yesterday. He sucks, but not in a good way.”

  “I... I didn’t quit.”

  “It’s been six weeks, Grimm.”

  Six weeks? “It hasn’t been...”

  “It’s all right. Not a big deal.”

  “Donny, you came over to my place.”

  “Yeah. I called, too.”

  “Grey had the... the thing on his head.” She looked around and whispered, “Maze.”

  His brow furrowed.

  Her voice cracked. “You stayed at my apartment while I went for help.”

  “Um...”

  “The other day!” She waved her hands. The days melted together. It could’ve been three days or three months. Tension reclaimed her, resuming an armored suit grip. Donny leaned back. “When your... your friend... your fucking friend, Donny... told me to go... I went to the police and came back and you were... you and Grey were...”

  She lost her breath. The chair was sinking into the floor. Donny reached back for the hookah.

  “Take a hit, Grimm. Loosen up.”

  “Donny, where’d you go?”

  He looked around and chuckled. Everyone was watching, all listening. They heard the Maze thrown into the conversation. All ears were on deck. Blood rushed in her cheeks. She shook convulsively.

  “Is Grey all right?” he said softly.

  All the words, all the happiness, all the relief disappeared like a thick white cloud of smoke blown into the wind. Nothing was safe.

  She gulped for air.

  “Where have you been, Grimm?”

  She shook her head, didn’t know how to answer that, couldn’t really remember where she’d been or for how long.

  “You said my friend told you to go somewhere,” Donny said. “What friend?”

  “The one from the Glass Jar.”

  “I haven’t been there in a lifetime. Who was it?”

  She ran her hand over her head, avoiding pulling her hair. “His name was...”

  There was no need to finish. His expression was caring but empty. She should’ve known better. Was Donny her friend? She’d worked with him for how long? A year? Five? She couldn’t recall. She didn’t have friends, didn’t know what qualified as one.

  This is a mistake.

  She shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t be talking to Donny. She should be looking for Grey, pounding on the right doors, not talking to a man she thought was a friend because he was part of this tragedy, recommending his friend, pretending to stay with her son.

  She was unwinding into a ball of loose threads, a mop of yarn kinked and scrambled.

  “Did you come to my apartment last night?” she said.

  “What?”

  “When did you come to my apartment? Answer the question.”

  “Relax, Grimm. Talk to me. Tell me where you’ve been—”

  “Is that yours?” She nodded at the chair behind him. A black coat was thrown over it, rain still beaded on the shoulders.

  “Grimm.” He looked around the room. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but you need—”

  “Is that your coat, Donny?”

  “Please,” the man behind the counter called. “Watch your language.”

  “Where is he?” Sunny grabbed Donny’s shirt. “Where’s my son?”

  He threw his arms out. His doughy cheeks quivered, blotchy patches glowing beneath his eyes. Hands were suddenly on her, pulling her away. She threw them off, kicking over the chair. Donny was blubbering, begging them to be careful, she was having family problems.

  Sunny wheeled on the café owners.

  “You need to leave,” the man said.

  “Wait.” Donny stood up and grabbed the tan coat on his chair. The black one she’d seen behind him, the one with dripping beads of rain, was gone.

  She ran.

  “Grimm!” Donny gave chase, his arms swinging side to side, his belly hanging out the bottom of his shirt.

  “What the hell is going on?” Her voice squelched. “You came to my apartment, Donny. Grey had gone into the Maze... he used a fucking thing on his head and went into the Maze! Do you understand me? You were there and now he’s gone and you’re acting like everything is okay and it’s not, Donny. It’s not okay!”

  Donny cringed. Bystanders turned toward her.

  “My son is in the Maze, do you hear me? And no one cares. I don’t—”

  He reached for her. Sunny pulled away, stepped off the curb, and nearly tripped into traffic. Blindly, she walked into the street with no idea where she was going, less certain of where she had been, what was happening.

  She ran along the dashed line, traffic swerving. Cursing. The rain came down, blurring streetlights. Rubber skidded on the pavement. Sunny weaved through a sudden traffic jam. She leaped onto the sidewalk with a spike in her side and a fire in her lungs. Pedestrians jumped aside. She didn’t look back, barely looked ahead and ran until her legs vanished and her ankles burned.

  Lost and running, a mouse on a wheel, tirelessly sprinting to nowhere, not looking back, not seeing ahead. The world streaked past, the city smeared in a landscape of grays, and swallowed her.

  She came to rest beneath the awning of a café, her back against the window. Rain seeped from her hair, briny with perspiration, nose leaking onto her upper lip.

  The jagged scar a fresh slash.

  Across the street, a storefront window offered a generous view to an empty showroom. Lights softly lit products along the wall and a number on the glass door.

  How the hell did I get here?

  This was where she started. It all began on this avenue, in front of that vendor. And here she was again, staring at the starting line, no closer to the finish, no closer to her son. This had become a hopeless race through eternity, where nothing made sense, the rungs of the mouse wheel coming around again and again.

  Sunny pushed herself up, walked across the street, and ignored the traffic that braked to avoid her. Transfixed, she climbed the steps and pulled at a locked door. She tried with both hands, braced her foot on the wall, and hammered the door. The glass rattled. She was prepared to break it.

  “Come out!”

  The floor was empty. The stand of cards alone.

  They had something to do with this. Donny didn’t disappear one day and forget what happened. They did something, she could feel it. They were high-end tank dealers, licensed awareness leapers. They had answers and gave her silence.

  She closed her eyes, slammed both fists into the glass, braced for a shatter, cringed for shrapnel. Her blood would run down the steps and stain the concrete, dissolve into the rain. The blood they deserved.

  The blood they wanted.

  “Answer! Goddamnit, answer!”

  Cars slowed and she continued her assault. When no one came to the door, she was sure the police had been called. They would come to haul her away. There would be a restraining order, charges filed. An investigation into her claims of a son that never existed because they would erase him. They took him and erased him from exist
ence, would convince her he never existed, that she was chasing ghosts, she needed real help.

  She searched for a stone or a loose brick. A trash can she could heave through the plate-glass window, bury it on their showroom floor. She wanted attention, someone to talk. She wanted someone to know. Fists clenched, throat raw, she screamed until the words tore at the cords.

  “I want my son!”

  Pedestrians looked; they stared, but didn’t care. They walked around her radioactive behavior, casting their glances away until she collapsed on the steps and clawed at the glass.

  “Where are you?” she muttered.

  Inside, the floor was empty. So was she.

  Sunny laid her head on the unforgiving steps and closed her eyes. Nowhere to go, nothing to find. This was her last stop. They could call the police, have her locked up. Someone was going to hear her. These people were going to see her desperation. Someone would help. They had to.

  Please.

  “They’ll come for you.”

  Rain popped on a sheet of plastic.

  Sunny’s eyelashes refused to unclip.

  Through a crust of sleep, a yellow sun moved on her like a headlight, not warm or promising, just cold and wet. The rays transformed into the petals of a chrysanthemum tucked into the rim of a hat. An old face, like that of an aged apple, smiled behind a pair of sunglasses. An old woman was hiding beneath a sheet of clear plastic. The droplets dribbled from her gnarled knuckles.

  Mrs. Jones.

  “They don’t like you sleeping here.”

  The edge of a concrete step bit into the small of Sunny’s back. She sat up, wondering if she’d fallen asleep. It was still daylight, but the rain had subsided to a drizzle. Mrs. Jones looked older. She was still wearing the same clothes as the last time she’d seen her, only now they were frayed and filthy.

  “Why are you here?” Sunny croaked.

  Mrs. Jones reached into a large bag slung over her shoulder, the fabric torn and wet. The bulk of her treasure was settled at the bottom. She produced a neatly folded square of plastic and placed it in Sunny’s hand.

  “You’ll need this.” The gummy smile widened.