Tunnels and Planes

by Christina Rozelle

  I put the blue one to my nose. The defeat is real, and it makes me cry as I click the tiny blue button. I’m ill-prepared for this place, and all its temptations, its demons. Gideon knew that, so why the fuck would he send me here?

  You’re a strong girl, Grace. You’re the strongest girl I’ve ever met.

  But strong enough to defeat this place? My anger seethes. What the fuck was he thinking when he sent me here?

  I inhale the cool, peppermint substance, and there’s the sensation of skiing downhill, the butterflies, and cold air through your hair and nipping at your nose. A sudden hormonal shift brings me to my knees, and to my shock and bewilderment, I feel an orgasm coming on. I rip my pants down so I don’t cum all over them, and the orgasms roll one after the other, until I’m lying on my back on the floor, covering my own mouth . . . staring up at a black bubble on the ceiling.

  “Seriously?” I moan under my breath, but the hunger is so fierce I can’t stop, not until it lets me off this ride.

  When it subsides, I stand and brace myself on the wall. Despite my urge to masturbate for the rest of my life, I yank my pants up, zip them, and take slow, steady, deep breaths, heart thumping in my chest, and in my clitoris.

  Note to self: Don’t take the blue ones.

  Amendment: *at least not while watching children, or doing anything else but lying on the floor.

  Humiliated, I inspect the disgrace in the stainless-steel mirror by the sink, accidentally knocking a toothbrush onto the floor. A strange coincidence, bringing Murray’s story about Hao to mind. What was he trying to tell me with that story? And what does he need with me now? If I concocted him from my mind, wouldn’t I know?

  We could start with what a mess I am, and that the whole new, perverted world is watching my every move, my every pleasure and pain. I try to straighten my hair as best I can, and I apply mascara, but that’s it. It’ll have to work. And maybe putting “surprises” in my nose isn’t the best idea, moving forward.

  I take my second purple device from my pocket and inhale it, already knowing its effects, and feeling even more alert this time around. There’s a euphoria there now, a soft, buzzing blur that accompanies the warmth in my brain, the sudden increase in need for activity. The smile that sprouts from my insides fucking themselves now that the outside has been taken care of.

  Time for some hand games.

  §

  When Gideon told me to go to the Tunnels, when he wrote that letter, he didn’t know I’d have Missy. The realization strikes hot during morning playtime, when my hands and arm muscles are throbbing from hours, it seems, of hand games.

  If he had, would he have still sent us here?

  I wish I had the answers to my many questions. Everyone here knows something; it’s just a matter of fitting all those pieces together. But leaving before it all makes sense might be the only way. I’m worried how soon I’ll find that out.

  None of the girls seem too interested in playing today. They just go through the motions with hardly a murmur, or a giggle. It’s sad, even high as I am. More so, even. But with the ceasing of the racing thoughts, the calm clarity that ensued, I’m betting a trip to Rudy’s for more purple shooters is in my near future. Sleeping is not an option—I have to be on guard twenty-four-seven. No more nights out away from her.

  After lunchtime, it’s my five hours with the babies. Tomorrow, I switch to dorms C and D. The rotation of bodies is so as not to get too attached, Sheryl-Dean had said.

  Halfway through my baby shift, the crying, feeding, playing, spit up, and poop, on top of no more purple shooters, has me questioning the other colors. But there is a sane human in there somewhere, because that’s a risk I’m no longer willing to take. If it weren’t for the language barrier, I might not be in this predicament in the first place.

  I finally get the twins down for a nap, and get the three sitters in their corner with a few toys and blocks. Two more babble away in their cribs and miss redhead sniffles from hers, standing at the railing. She’s exhausted from bawling all day, so I hope she falls asleep soon. But for now, she watches as I melt into the rocking chair, literally wiped the fuck out.

  She reaches a slow, wet hand out and squeezes the air between us.

  “You want me to hold you?” I ask her.

  Her nose and forehead scrunch, and she hops in place, sucking in air for another cry.

  “Okay, okay.” I get up from my resting place and go to her, lifting her from her crib, then return to the rocking chair with her. Within minutes of rocking, she’s fast asleep on my chest, and I have a moment of reprieve, finally. Sleep lures me, a siren’s lull to the place of helplessness, of nightmares. I fight it, on those principles alone, rising from the chair, and tiptoe across the room.

  I lay the little girl in her crib and I check the time on the digital clock on the wall. Thirty minutes to go. That means I have exactly twelve and a half hours to figure out what the fuck is going on in my life, and how to get out of here with Missy, Logan, Syd, and Jade, if she wants to come, too.

  But one look at the sleeping little girl and there’s an ache in my heart. I can’t leave her here. What did they do with her mother? And why did they take her baby away from her and bring her here? There’s no way I can leave them all—any of them.

  But I may have no choice.

  Twenty-Four

  At six on the dot, I grab a change of clothes from my locker and head to the bathroom. I’m nervous while I dress, now aware of the camera there, but I ignore it. Deuce’s words hang in the air, as if they’d been a threat: Good girl.

  Whoever this Vine guy is, “Total compliance or death” is his motto, so that’s what they want from me here, from all of us. And with the way Syd let it all pour out beneath the waterfall, as though she’d been holding it inside for months, complying, just complying every day, I sense what drew her to me. Not only did I survive, relieving her of the burden of one more death, I also reminded her that there’s more than that. All is not lost in the darkness. I brought forth our shared love of music, of escaping the ugliness into a beauty that can’t be seen but felt and heard. Even here.

  Jay from OM Tattoos had reminded me the same thing amidst my panic of being trapped here: that we can love wherever we are, let it “paint our surroundings anew.” Sheryl-Dean did it for the kids with their coloring pages in the dorms, though it seemed like a last-ditch effort; fresh-cut flowers in an execution chamber. But that wasn’t it at all—she was surrounding them with love in the only ways she knew how, because when we’re stripped of all else, that’s the one thing we can hold and take to the end. I’m realizing now that it’s the greatest gift of all.

  Love changes us, ignites us, opens our eyes to new surroundings, new possibilities, and aspirations. It makes sanctuaries from prisons, creates joy and unity where there was none, making our shared lights shine brighter. Love gives us vision in the dark, enabling us to see clearly, while giving us the strength to achieve the impossible. Love gives us power.

  Tonight, I choose a tight black mini and fishnets, with a black bustier and dark makeup. I summon the ghosts of Eve and Ophelia, because together, their love made them stronger than I am now, alone. And I can’t be alone, not now.

  Protect me, Goddess. I kiss my finger and touch the black ink pentacle on my chest before clicking the handle to the bathroom door. I think about Corbin, about how I couldn’t save him . . . and I solidify my resolve. I will save these girls, alone, if I have to. Maybe I’m delusional, but I have to believe—I believe they’ll die if I don’t. I may either way, so what have I got to lose?

  If total compliance is what these assholes want, I have to make them think that’s what they’re getting. I’ve figured out the rules, who’s side I’m on, and what’s at stake. Now, it’s time to play the game.

  §

  When I get to the Lounge, Jade’s electric blue pigtails are the second thing I notice,
bobbing around with the crowd on the dancefloor. The first thing I notice is that Syd isn’t at the tables. It’s the other guy again, spinning some early-evening House music. I leave Jade to dance, and head up the ramp to the bar. It’s fairly empty, but Logan’s there, leaning across the counter to flirt with an attractive brunette.

  There’s an ember of jealousy, but I have more pressing matters to worry about right now. I pass the women in cages, doing my best to ignore my memory of the woman pleading for help. And I ignore Logan, but catch him jerk upright in my peripheral when he sees me.

  “Grace,” he calls.

  “I’ll be back in a few.” And I head into the black-lit stairwell leading up to The Alley. At the top of the stairs, OM’s is open, and Jay waves at me from his current client’s back.

  “We good today, Grace?” he asks.

  “Awesome.”

  “Glad to hear it!”

  But I’m already down the hall, zeroed in on the source of artificial wakefulness. The eerie skull-and-crossbones sign hangs loose from its nail on one side, and I shiver. What a world. And though it has its pros, I sense they’re only to camouflage the multitude of cons, which makes the pros invalid.

  I give Rudy’s door a knock, and the trapdoor slides open. “Password.”

  “Effervescent.”

  “Spell it.”

  Seriously? “Um, E-F-F—”

  The man chuckles. “Nah, I’m just playin’. Come on in, Grace.” And the door opens.

  When I step inside, I recognize the guard from the elevator the night we got here. The one who’d recommended I work in the dorms.

  “Oh, hey, how’s it going?” I ask.

  “Just fine, how are you?” He holds up the scanner and I place my face against it, watching the RPs tick down twenty.

  “I’m great,” I lie. “Thanks for asking.”

  I leave him and head straight to Rudy at his worktable, and when he sees me, he rises to greet me. “Ah, Grace, nice to see you again.”

  “Yeah, uh, hey. Listen—” I dig the remaining colored gadgets from my bustier and set them on the counter. “I need some more purple ones—uppers. Can I trade these? I just need to stay awake. No more surprises.”

  He studies me for a moment, inspects the things, then nods. “Okay, yes. I exchange for you, no problem.” He goes to the other counter, hand-picks three purples from the rainbow of colored “dope surprises,” and returns, setting them onto the counter in front of me. He then opens his other palm with a grin, setting a fourth directly into my hand. “I give you one on house. Sorry for inconvenience.”

  “No problem, thank you.” I collect the three from the counter, tucking them into my bustier.

  I wave to the guard as I leave Rudy’s, and wave again to Jay as I pass OM’s. A woman in tears passes me, and I stop to observe as she disappears beneath the hanging skull-and-crossbones sign. With sadness and rage building in me, I take my “freebie,” eyes on the black bubble above me, and I click the button at my nostril, inhaling its contents.

  It starts as a wave of warmth, not the usual cool rush, but my panic at the unexpected effects vanishes inside of them. The staircase before me narrows, breathes, and—though I want to go back and tell Rudy he gave me the wrong shit—I continue my descent on wobbly legs.

  Total compliance. That means roll with the punches . . . ?

  But somewhere halfway down the stairs, I’m struck with a surge of utter defeat. No matter what I do, it’s not the right thing. I hadn’t wanted to get fucked up; I’d just wanted to stay awake so I could figure this thing out, to be on watch for Missy, but now . . .

  The worst part about it is admitting to myself how fucking good I feel. The bad things want to wash away, and they would, if I’d let them. All it would take is the brush of a mental hand, or a soft breath, and they’d be snuffed from existence forever by whatever glorious poison I was just dosed with. But I fight it. I fight it with everything I have inside of me.

  Fluttering like butterflies in my mind, snapshots of Rudy grabbing three shooters from the bin, then setting a fourth directly in my hand, telling me one was on the house . . . He gave it to me on purpose, whatever it is. I can’t go back there, so I stumble down the rest of the steps and into the bar. I’ll find Logan, and he’ll help me.

  Between the narcotic blur in my vision, and expecting to find him serving someone or cleaning a glass, at first, I don’t see him. But then I make out his blue-black faux hawk behind the brunette he was talking to when I went upstairs. He takes the back of her head and presses her harder against his face, one hand groping her breast, and something explodes inside of me. I race away from it, but it follows me, along with Logan’s voice as I descend the ramp.

  “Grace! Stop!”

  But I don’t, because stopping would start the flow, the break. The fissure is already dripping, and there’s the fracturing of fragile glass inside my bones. I’m hollow, a worthless china rag doll. I want the music to help it, to stop it like it sometimes does, but it can’t tame this dragon, can’t stop this eruption, this shattering. Nothing can stop me now, from crumbling.

  I drift away into the crowd, letting it be my movement, my life. I let the music breathe for me, and try to remember what my plan was . . . Did I have one? I can’t remember now. In fact, I’m having trouble remembering where I was five minutes ago, before Logan—what happened?

  I can’t remember.

  “Hey sexy, it’s you again.”

  I turn to find an unfamiliar face.

  “I grabbed your ass last night? Sorry about that.” And he moves closer, grinds himself against me. Then, there’s someone else behind me, taking my hips, and he brushes my ass with his dick. I can’t breathe, and the music pounds through my ears, killing me softly. I want them to stop touching me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  The one behind me grabs my ass. “Let me fuck that.” And he presses his dick against me.

  Across the room, Murray pushes through the crowd, red in his eyes, and I know he’s about to kill this motherfucker.

  “No!” I tell Murray, but he doesn’t listen.

  The one in front of me yanks at my skirt, revealing my ass, and the one behind me presses his naked penis against my asshole, gripping my hips like he’s just going to take it. “No means yes around here, hot stuff,” he growls in my ear.

  Murray clocks the guy in the temple, then proceeds to smash his face in with his steel-toe. I can’t watch, so I turn away, as hands pull me from the crowd.

  “Holy shit, Grace!” Jade yells. “Why the fuck—?”

  But the room’s spinning black, and I can’t form a sentence. “Murray,” is all I can manage. “Protecting . . . me.”

  Then, there’s nothing but fading music behind a blanket of darkness.

  Twenty-Five

  “Can you hear me, Grace?”

  The words drift through light in my mind, bringing me from the darkness. My head pounds, my eyelids are weak, heavy, and I can’t make out the blurred face in front of me. “Who are you?” I squint into the light. “Where . . . am I?”

  “The Shield. I was told you requested to see me. I’m Doctor Rezner.”

  At the name, I bolt upright on the cushioned, leather table to face the thin, older man. Shaggy black hair frames his dark eyes and round face.

  “Why am I here?” I ask. “And how did I get here?”

  “You don’t remember what happened last night?”

  I retrace my steps, but all I remember is leaving Rudy’s. “No.”

  He moves closer on his stool, one arm across his middle and the other elbow resting on it, knuckles to his chin. “Interesting. Had you been drinking, do you think? Or anything else?”

  “Um, yeah . . . I went to Rudy’s—why? Am I in trouble?” And when I remember Missy in the dorms, panic rises in my chest. “Where’s Missy? Is she safe? How long hav
e I been here?”

  “About four hours. Who’s Missy?”

  “The little girl I came here with. Is she still in dorm B?”

  “As far as I know. I haven’t had any sick ones in the last couple of days.”

  “Why did Gideon Tyler tell me to find you? He said you could help me. Can you get me to him? Me and Missy?”

  He drops his head. “No. I’m sorry. Even if I was aware of his location, I wouldn’t be at liberty to discuss it with a patient. My apologies.”

  “But . . .” I grasp for straws, and my tears build. “Could you at least give him a message for me? If you . . . see him?”

  “I’m sorry, Grace, but I can’t make any pro—”

  “Can you just tell him that I love him, and I forgive him? And just that . . . I’m so, so sorry.” I bawl into my hands.

  “What are you sorry for, Grace?”

  “Everything.”

  He moves closer, lowers his voice. “Grace, I can help you, but not in the way you think. I knew Mr. Tyler . . . before. I helped him through a hard time.”

  And I’m sure I know now, the hard time he speaks of.

  “Then he knew you could help me, too?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. Why don’t you tell me a little about what’s going on?”

  “Um . . .” I mentally flip through the pages of my file from foster care, worn from so many fingers skimming through them over the years. “Well, I have PTSD, among . . . other things.”

  “Like, what kind of ‘other’ things?”

  “I . . .” My face grows warm, and I stare at my hands. “I see people—people who aren’t really there. Well, one person, actually.”

  “Murray?”

  “How did you—?”

  “Your friend, Jade, told us a little about what happened last night. Said someone named Murray was trying to protect you?”