Maze: The Waking of Grey Grimm

by Tony Bertauski

  Grey was right about the needles and the lake, he was sure of it. All of that happened. They’d crossed the water and crashed near the shore, woke up with tiny holes in their foreheads and different memories. They’d done something to Rach.

  What they did to him was different.

  “What’s your dad going to do?” Rach had answered.

  “I don’t know. I just need to see him.”

  That was the truth. He wanted to see him, talk to him. He was compelled to find him; it was all he thought about since the imaginary conversation. He dreamed of him, talked to him, hoped he would call him Minnow and play a goddamn video game with him or something. Anything. But there were no answers to his texts, no messages from his dad.

  An itch he couldn’t scratch.

  He paced the room faster, couldn’t see any other way out of this trap, no one else to talk to. Not his mom. She was singing the other day. First time in a long time, she was shaking popcorn and humming along. His dad was the one who would help him. He knew the people at the house; he would know what they did to him and why. He was the only one who could get him out of this.

  So he and Rach locked fingers.

  “I’m heading out.” His mother looked in the bedroom with her factory ID strung around her neck. “Make sure you clean up after yourself. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She glanced at their hands. She had always thought they were girlfriend-boyfriend, before and after they tried it. Her eyes lingered on him longer than usual. Maybe she was considering telling Rach to go home. Leaving them in the apartment all alone seemed a little risqué. She was a single parent and he wasn’t a child. He wasn’t going to stay in his room that night.

  And he wouldn’t see her in the morning.

  THE FUN-HOUSE ENGINES were warming up.

  Grey was attached to the elevator, banging his head on the back panel. The hallway was stretching, his dad’s door getting farther away. If he didn’t tear away from the wall, he would never reach it.

  “Grey?” Rachel’s knuckles were grinding between his fingers. “Hey, we don’t have to do this.”

  Sweat broke on his lip and matted his hair to his forehead. His determination drained away. All roads led to his dad; this was where it started. He had emptied the college fund, went neck deep in the Maze, and Grey followed right along. Only Grey was in over his head.

  I have to do this.

  He shoved out of the elevator. He stared at the carpet, boots floating over the floor, the steady bum-bum of his heels beating down the hall. When he looked up, they were in front of his dad’s door.

  His breath was raspy.

  He reached up and rapped lightly. The sound echoed and his arm tingled. He knocked a second time. She stopped him after the third.

  “Do you have a key?”

  Grey stared at the spyhole. His dad always took a peek before opening. The light never changed. He wasn’t in there, but the door moved. A slight crack appeared.

  Rach opened it. “It’s unlocked.”

  Grey was drawn inside. Rach turned the deadbolt behind them. They stopped and listened. The kitchen faucet dripped. There was a box on the table, one of the flaps open.

  “Dad?”

  Rach peeled his hand from hers one finger at a time. His joints ached. His teeth hurt. She walked with him to the bathroom. The towels were folded, the drawers open. The scuba gear gone.

  Sheets were wadded on the bed. Clothes were hanging in the closet, DVDs scattered on the floor. The giant red suitcase was gone. So was the pistol. Rach pulled open the chest of drawers, each one empty.

  “He’s gone,” he said.

  He’d packed the suitcase and enough belongings to get far away. He was scared. Something happened and he ran. He was good at that. He’d packed up and bailed, leaving his problems behind. Including Grey.

  Not the first time.

  Rach went to the bathroom. Grey’s thoughts began to cycle. Is he standing right in front of me? Is that Rach in the bathroom? His senses were all he had to determine the here and now, what was around him. He had thought his dad had come to his bedroom, had even talked to him. Maybe his dad was in the room right now and he didn’t see him. But Rach would see him. Unless they screwed her head up too and she just didn’t know it yet.

  Do you trust your senses?

  He went to the kitchen for a glass of water, sat at the table—wide-eyed and tense. His mouth was dry, ears popping. Sooner or later, Rach would have to go home. She couldn’t hold his hand forever. She would let go and leave him alone with his thoughts. What would he do if he couldn’t trust himself? What if there was no way out?

  He spilled the water.

  It spread across the table and soaked the corner of the box. The address label had been peeled off. Grey pulled the flap open and reached inside. It was a velvet bag. He untied the drawstring. Chills trickled through him, settling like wet sand until he was heavy and full. What he pulled out had a strap and a knob. This time, the symbol wasn’t disguised on a card.

  It was right out in the open.

  Grey had seen this thing used in video torrents. It was for those that couldn’t stomach the tank. This was another way. And his dad was too chickenshit to use it. Maybe it was too real, or the thought of putting that thing on his forehead and imagining the silver tongue darting out was just too much. He’d packed up and never looked back.

  “You ready?” Rach asked.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been staring inside the box or how long Rach was waiting or if she’d actually said anything. She’d gone to the bathroom; now she was next to him.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready.” He extended his hand. “I’m all right.”

  “Sure?”

  He stood without a problem. The floor didn’t sway this time; the walls didn’t buckle as they started down the hallway. Grey looked back at the apartment. He’d left the door open. There was nothing back there he needed.

  “What’s in the box?” Rach asked.

  “Souvenir.”

  “What if he comes back?”

  They stopped inside the elevator. Grey pushed the button, no longer shaking. The storm of thoughts had cleared away and the sky was blue. He closed the flaps on the box.

  “He’s not going to use it.”

  THE SYMBOL WAS CHILLING.

  Grey sat at his desk and ran his finger over the embossed grooves. He’d seen that symbol flash a thousand times over grisly scenes of competition, seen it stenciled on the sides of tanks or photos of the wild-eyed players who emerged from them.

  He’d never touched one.

  The strap was wide and elastic. The knob was a smaller version of a hockey puck but heavier and glossy. The inner surface was slick and flexible. Somewhere there was a microscopic hole where a hair-thin needle would emerge when pressed against his forehead.

  Did the Foreverland boys wear one of these?

  The needle was thicker when they punched in. It required a surgically installed stent. He laid the heavy knob on his desk. A list of Foreverland survivors was mixed into his report. They had been rescued before the needle had permanently sucked their identities from their bodies, but some of them never really made it back to what they were like before the island. Their memories had been scrambled by a mental eggbeater.

  The punch he was holding contained a needle that was barely visible to the naked eye. It might not hurt going in, but it could do just as much damage. Maybe more.

  How many times did he wish he was one of those Foreverland boys? Didn’t he want to be one of those people dropping in a tank to make a run at fame and fortune? Enlightenment? Grey was afraid he would waste away his life in his mother’s bedroom.

  If I’m going to end up like that, at least take a shot.

  There was a time he went to an Olympic-sized pool with diving boards and concrete platforms. The big kids would leap off the high dive all summer long while Grey clung to the edge of the pool and watched them drop
cannonballs into the deep end. The water would resonant with a deep ka-thunk and water would splash on the deck.

  At the end of that summer, he was allowed to go up.

  He climbed the ladder while his mom watched from the sidelines. The metal rail was cool and wet; the rungs bit into the soft soles of his bare feet. It was so much higher from up there. He wondered if he had climbed a different diving board.

  His mom clapped.

  Grey’s toes gripped the end of the diving board as it wavered beneath his weight. His legs almost dripped over the sides. He had envisioned doing a slow walk and a double-bounce like the big kids would do, springing high above the trees with his fingers pointed and his toes curled as he executed a cannonball so perfect he would get his mom wet. He turned around instead. All the kids waiting on the ladder had to climb down.

  “You were eight years old.” His dad’s voice was behind him. It sounded gruff and sandy, like those mornings after a long night out. “You came down that ladder and I made you go back up. You remember? I wouldn’t let you quit because I knew you wanted to do it.”

  There was no shadow over his shoulder, but Grey could feel the weighty presence of his dad’s voice.

  “You went back there like a champ and walked off the end of that board with your arms glued to your sides. You fell like a stick in the water and came up with a smile. And what did you do after that? You went back up ten more times, didn’t you? That first step is the hard one. The rest was easy.”

  Grey closed his eyes. “You weren’t there.”

  His dad’s voice was right. He’d faced the wrath of all the big kids and went back up the ladder and walked off the end of the board. But it was his mom who made him do it. She’d made him try again while she treaded water in the deep end even though the lifeguard told her not to.

  Grey walked the plank once more. She was in the deep water, waving her arms. The lifeguard was blowing her whistle when Grey stepped off the end and dropped just like his dad said—a terrified stick. Chlorinated water shot up his nose and burned his eyes. His mom was there before he came up for air. His dad never saw it.

  Because he wasn’t at the pool.

  “You’re not here, either.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Henk said. “You did it, Minnow. And you didn’t regret it. All it took was that first step.”

  “You’re not real.”

  “Can you hear me? See me?” He gently squeezed Grey’s shoulders. “Feel me?”

  Grey could feel him, and he was certain if he spun around, he would see him and smell him; if he shoved him, he would hear him fall, feel his weight beneath his hands. But he’s not here. This isn’t real.

  “I’m not letting you climb back down the ladder, Minnow. I want you to fly.”

  That first step off the diving board was a gut-launching thrill—the wind in his ears and the sudden impact on his feet. He did it ten more times that day with a smile that grew wider with each attempt.

  “You want this.” His dad’s voice turned cool. “You’ve always wanted this. You do this and you’ll wake up in the morning before your mom is even home, I promise. You’re ready for this, Minnow. You’ve prepared for this your whole life.”

  The bed squeaked. Grey slowly spun around and saw his dad patting the pillow. He was wearing the white lab coat and looked happy and relaxed. But he wasn’t at the pool. He couldn’t have known all the details of that first drop off the diving board, but he did because he was inside Grey’s head. He knew everything. Or Grey didn’t remember it right.

  Maybe he was there.

  “You won’t feel a thing,” his dad said. “Just like last time.”

  Grey slid his phone under the desk. He wound up his earbuds and placed them in a tin box.

  A box with no stickers.

  “You’ll be right back, Minnow—”

  “Stop talking.” Grey refused to look at him. “I’m not doing it unless you shut up.”

  He wanted him to be real. This was the dad in his head, the one he wished he had. The one that listened to him, recognized him and saw him.

  “But you’re not real,” Grey said. “No matter how much I want you to be, you don’t exist. So go away and I’ll do it. I’ll do it by myself.”

  When he turned around, the room was empty. What was worse, a dad that wasn’t real or the dad he really had? Grey was going to do it. His dad knew he would. Of course he did.

  He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Somewhere a television was playing loudly. The tenants above him walked around. His heart was punching his chest as he pulled the strap over his head. The knob stood on his forehead. The inner surface undulated. Soon the front of his head was numb. Next, there were magnetic waves. He might not wake from this.

  But that wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.

  “Sorry,” he whispered just before the spike came.

  32

  The Sessions

  SYCOPHANTS.

  The group sat in a circle. The chairs were generously spaced apart. They sat with backs straight, hands folded. The similar clothing, the postures, the patience all implied implicit serenity.

  Henk had none of that.

  He took a seat on the outer ring and slouched in an inherent sense of unworthiness. He had failed. A week left and he had nothing to show for it. A week left and he was broke.

  Rema sat next to him.

  None of the others had servants with them. He had come to think of them as such, personal servants that guided them into the tank, human training wheels that kept everyone upright.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” the sycophants responded.

  The Spaniard entered the room, a slender tan man with chest hair perfectly displayed in an open collar. The lights dimmed. He approached the darkened center, touching their shoulders along the way.

  Henk fidgeted.

  Rema watched him. She didn’t move to stop him, but would if he became disruptive. An outburst would bring escorts into the room. Henk would find himself in his room alone, staring at sunrises on monitors. He needed to behave this time.

  “Sleep well?” the Spaniard asked.

  There was agreement. Of course there was fucking agreement. They shared knowing glances. They had mastered tanking. Some were off the respirators, diving in super-oxygenated gel solution that allowed them to breathe liquid with wireless transponders leaping their senses. And the participants that weren’t in the room, they had moved onto more challenging leaps. Perhaps the game itself.

  “Your dreams,” the Spaniard said, “have changed, have they not?”

  He walked the spacious circle, hearing from his sycophants, bouncing his fingers. He wasn’t speaking of dreams that come during sleep. He spoke of the lands that appeared in the tanks, the worlds where they leaped. Nightmares were waiting for Henk.

  A silver cylinder about the size of a thermos sat in the middle of the circle. The Spaniard stepped over it.

  “If you choose to indulge in your dreams and leave it at that,” he said, “then you may do so. You may leave the Sessions and take with you the ability to entertain yourself with lucid dreams, a respite from your earthly toil. With time dilation, you may essentially live more life than someone who does not indulge in the dream world.” He paused and smiled that wide, salesy smile. “There is nothing wrong with masturbation.”

  Laughter rippled through the room.

  “There is just more to life than self-gratification. I believe you didn’t come here to mentally masturbate. You came to the Sessions to find the true meaning of life. The purpose of human existence.”

  They were all in agreement. They wanted more than to jerk off with their minds.

  “You are here for the next phase in human evolution, yes?”

  Henk thought they had all come for the same reason, that dirty little word no one ever said out loud. The Maze. That was his sole reason for being there, the only reason he listened to these pretentious lectures. Why else would they spend a
fortune? The Spaniard was right about awareness leaping for self-pleasure. Henk was no stranger to indulgence, but why would they go through the trouble of drowning themselves for lucid dreams?

  “Does the dreamer create the dream? Or does the dream make the dreamer?”

  A dramatic pause. He let that sink in with a lap around the silver object. If the dream creates the dreamer, then what is the dream?

  “How did all of this begin? This world, this reality? Astrophysicists tell us it began with the Big Bang, but what existed before that?”

  They were plunged into darkness. A few of the sycophants yelped with surprise. Henk stiffened in panic. He couldn’t see Rema next to him or see his own hand as he lifted it to his face. The Spaniard’s footsteps continued to gently pace in the center.

  A sliver of white light ignited a slit where the silver object was located. It hovered in the pitch black—a sharp line of light. The slit became a white laser that beamed into the dark.

  The sycophants rustled in their chairs to see what it was illuminating.

  Shapes were in motion, strewn on the dark floor—planets, clouds, buildings, trees, people—but only those that fell in the laser’s path. None of that was there before the Spaniard entered. Their smoke and mirror routines were impressive, but Henk was growing tired of them. He was in the minority.

  “The world around us, what we call the physical world, cannot be manipulated.” The Spaniard’s voice floated around them. “It has rules that a physicist understands. There is gravity; there is space. There are those boundaries that we cannot cross if we are to exist in this reality. I think we can all agree with that.

  “But I think you understand, at some level, there is an illusion we cannot see through. Our human limits do not allow us to see the truth easily, that there is no separation between the dream and dreamer. A dream that begins and ends... with you.”

  Henk wasn’t an idiot. He knew they were selling bullshit, claiming that the dream worlds in the tank were alternate realities, as in actual realities, earth and stone, that sort of thing. The dreams they were creating were the alternate realities they created with thought, a manifestation of creativity. These dreams were places they leaped their awareness, but not dreams like we’d come to understand as children. Dreams were just another place to exist, another room to enter. They were as real as the chair beneath Henk’s clenched buttocks.