by Gwynn White
“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 struggled 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.
Part II
THIS PARTY STARTS
10
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 h
im 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, cartoonish. 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.”
“I didn’t tell you shit.”
“You wrote it on a piece of paper.” She dug through her pocket. “You said he could help my son.”
“No. No, no.” He shook his head. “I didn’t do that.”
“Where are they?”
“Look, I don’t know you. I barely know Donny. How would I know where your kid is?”
She placed the coffee on the dresser, picked up a studded belt and lashed him across the stomach until he cried an apology.
“I thought you and Donny were friends.”
“We met at the Glass, hooked up a few times. I must’ve kissed and talked about what I do, I don’t remember. He called me about your boy. I never should’ve answered.”
“What do you do?”
“I know people.”
“Like Micah.”
“Like Micah, sure.”
“Where are they, Barry?”
“How do you know my name?”
“Where’s my son?”
“Listen, I’m sorry. I truly am. Your son was young and confused. Shit, I’m old and confused, but I know better than to… than to shove a fucking needle in my head. Especially one labeled with the Maze.”
He whispered the last part.
“You afraid they can hear us?” Sunny sat down. “Maze! You think they’ll hear that, they’ll come running? Is that what you think? Maze! Maze!”
“Shh-shh… goddamnit. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing.”
“Then tell me. Where do I go next, Barry? I want to find my son. Who do I talk to? I went to 511; I asked for Micah. I went to the police. Where do I go, Barry? Where?”
He collapsed like a punctured balloon. Sunny bounced her foot. His cheeks were flush. He was moaning about a headache and a dry throat while twisting his wrists in search of a way out of the nylons. She wasn’t much of a knot-tier aside from her shoes, but she’d fashioned those knots better than a crusty sailor could make.
She went to the kitchen and returned with a couple of white pills and a glass of water. He gladly swallowed them.
“I got to piss.”
“Not yet,” Sunny said.
“Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m nobody. I party with important people; I know a few names. All those people connected with the… the Maze…” Again, he whispered. “They’re crazy. Certified. Your son probably thought it was a game. It happens all the time. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“What happens all the time?”
“Kids, they think it’s a game.”
“What is it?”
He picked up his head. An artery throbbed on his forehead. “Are you serious?”
She knew the Maze was dangerous, knew it was a felony, but it was clear she knew less about it than everyone in the world.
“Do the research. Find out what your son got you into and then run, that’s my suggestion. Now can you untie me? I’m the least of your problems.”
“Who is Micah?”
Again, he collapsed, this time with laughter, rocking his head into the pillow. She was almost done with the coffee and was prepared to make another cup.
“He’s someone,” Barry blurted. “I met him at a party. He was a little weird, even for me. Someone said he was god, that’s all I know, I swear on my dead dog’s grave.”
“You sent me to him.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t thinking straight. Don’t go back.” He yawned, smacking his lips. “I can’t help you, really. Even if I could, I don’t want
to. It’s your son’s fault, tie him to a bed and make him piss himself.”
The sheets around his midsection were soaked. He’d relieved himself and didn’t care. The smell of urine mixed with various lotions and past sexcapades.
She decided to make that second cup.
When she returned with a vanilla espresso and the laptop she found in the next room—the logo brightly lit—he was singing a dance tune, rolling his head and hands, tipping his feet. She sat back and listened. He was oblivious, laughing through a jumble of words, his lips fattening with each syllable.
The roofies were starting to kick in.
There was a bottle of them in the bathroom. He thought she’d given him aspirin. How many times did he use them on someone else? Her guilt for tying him up had vanished the moment she found them.
He went silent when she started tapping the keys. “What’re you doing?”
“Learning about Micah. And the Maze.”
“No, no, no, nooooo… no, no. Not on my… don’t do that. Don’t, don’t. I swear, please don’t type that search. There’s a… look, I have a jump drive of… of Mazes you can take. Just… untie me and I’ll—”
“Where?”
He threw his head back into the pillow and growled.
“Where is it, Barry?” She tapped the keys randomly. “Where?”
“Desk drawer. Red drive.”
She could drag him to the desk before he passed out and let him sleep it off. Sunny sipped the coffee while he sang another song; this one she didn’t recognize. Drool seeped from the corner of his mouth.
She went to the office and searched the desk drawers. There were several jump drives, but only one red one. She took them all.
He was still singing when she returned with a kitchen knife, the words blurred into one long slur, and untied one of his hands. He was completely unaware she’d put the serrated blade on his chest, but he’d find it when he woke and cut himself free.
“If you want to find me,” he sang, “I’ll see you at three, but not a minute before, you walk through the door. You won’t find me, so you can’t be free…”