“Are you cold?” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“We should go back.”
“Not yet,” she said. She laid her head on his shoulder. “It’s so cliché, right? To sit by the ocean and ruminate. With or without a loved one. It’s a completely unsurprising thing to do.”
“You think too hard,” he said. He inhaled deeply, smelled a clean, wet wind.
“But it’s a cliché because it’s so lovely,” she said. “People want to do lovely things. That’s why they become popular. We need more loveliness.”
“This has been a great trip,” he said, leaning into her, kissing her forehead. “The greatest I’ve ever had.”
She sighed, burrowed her head into the crook of his arm. “I think we should stay for another five minutes.”
“Okay,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “Five minutes.”
The wind burned his temples, the damp pierced his bones, and around him, the world darkened, the voices of tourists braving the weather retreating elsewhere, the lights of the seaside houses blinking, then dimming, then blackening, and soon, though the elements still raged around him, he felt cocooned in a deep, buzzing satisfaction, and five minutes turned to ten, which turned to fifteen, which turned to twenty. By the time they got up, in fact, the restaurants behind them had shuttered their windows and their clothes were soaked, their hair matted, their hands wrinkled and white. Mary looked at him and let out a chuckle, as if just realizing that they’d sat by the sea in a minor storm. She threaded her arm through his, bit her lip, and walked.
At the Claymont Hotel, Leonard felt an enormous weight in his stomach. Over the last week, he’d tried drink, he’d tried sleep, he’d tried overworking himself, but the image of Mary remained always, even in his dreams, and often these dreams were violent, horrific, and he’d wake covered in sweat and wonder, for a small moment, if the warmth on his sheets was blood.
So he called John. He said, “Okay.” He said, “I’ll go.” He said, “A break from everything will be good. Just tell me what to do.”
And John did.
Part II
The House
Cell One
They walk in single file—Jaidee, Jane, Victor, Bryan—and spill into a room that’s red and inflamed. A scoreboard illuminates one wall. It reads:
# Envelopes Total: 8
# Envelopes Needed to Proceed: 5
CONTESTANTS WHO ATTACK WILL BE DISQUALIFIED
FIRST-AID KIT BEHIND CLOCK
On the scoreboard is a time clock. It counts down from fifteen minutes.
Bryan’s eyes adjust. He looks around.
Spaced evenly in two rows are eight cages, each containing an angry, roving humanoid. Some monsters growl, throw themselves against the bars; some scream, gush black; some brandish weapons—axes, knives, torches, saws, swords; some wield sticks crackling blue electricity. From somewhere impossibly above, dusty tubes of pale strawberry light crash into the prisons. The light slinks across the cement floor like a slow-spreading disease.
Holy shit, Victor says.
Bryan walks, surveys the cages. They’re tall, wide, rusty, with interiors large enough to comfortably fit two people. At the top of each, twisted rods unite to form a small metal doughnut; at the bottom there’s a name plaque, black and gold. His name is attached to three cages: one containing a squat man whose face—disorganized, squashed, bulging in odd places—erupts blood from a mouth attached to the bottom of his chin, one containing a giant man in a diaper, and one containing two actors: an ax-wielding executioner and a witch bearing a shock wand.
Fucking Christ, Bryan says.
Sheets of plastic surround each cage, holding back two feet of blood-spattered confetti. On the south side of each one sits a small door—three feet tall, two feet wide.
We only need five envelopes, Jaidee says, standing next to him.
Bryan stares at the blood-spewing man. The man zigzags his arms, claws upward. The envelopes, he says. They’re under all that shit they’re walking through. He turns, looks at his group, thinks: We’re dead. Victor and Jane look destined for L.L.Bean-model stardom, the type of people who endorse lake life and soy milk, and Jaidee, well.
So we pick the calmest monsters, right? Jane says, running a hand through her hair. This one doesn’t look so bad.
Look down, Bryan says. You’ve been assigned.
Oh, she says.
The group huddles. We agreed to follow the rules, Bryan says. Everyone nods. Bryan blinks hard. Jane shivers. Just dig. Ignore what the actors do. Remember: they’re just people, okay? Remember that.
They separate. They unlock and enter the cages of a seven-foot wolfman, an eyeless woman, the man erupting blood, and a tiny, skittering insect-girl. Bryan wades through the confetti, sweat prickling his back. He doesn’t look behind him.
Dig! Bryan shouts, plowing through the confetti. Everyone shouts back. It becomes incantatory. Dig! Dig! Dig!
Machinery squawks above. Ignore it! Bryan says. From somewhere distant, Jaidee yells. Hey! Hey! The machinery grows louder. Soon, three cages—everyone’s but Bryan’s—shake; the shaking cages rise into the air. Jane, Victor, and Jaidee scream. Shit! they say. Fuck, fuck, fuck! They suspend twenty feet above; the cages become unsteady, precarious. The airborne three dig, but they also fall; still: the eyeless woman, the wolfman, and the skittering girl balance perfectly, pouncing, scratching, and punching before withdrawing, cackling, pouncing again.
Bryan’s cage stays on the ground. He continues digging, doesn’t look up at his teammates. From behind him, he hears grunts, moans, groans, then suddenly, forcefully, he’s doused in hot, syrupy blood. Fuck! he says. The bloody freak laughs, waddles around the cage, says, Dum-de-dum-dum-dum.
Bryan digs, tries to focus. This isn’t bad, he thinks. I can do this. The blood is sticky, heavy, but it’s not too terrible. He’s endured worse. He digs, bent over, feels for floor, pats around for something pointy and square. From above, he hears his teammates shout. He thinks: Don’t say it. Don’t any of you dare say it.
He wonders, as he digs, why he cares. The money? Maybe. 15k would be nice. Like Kendra said, he could take Simone somewhere, on vacation. She’d like that. She talked about Hawaii, said she’d never seen palm trees.
You don’t have to go all the way to Hawaii to see palm trees, he’d said.
But that’s where they’re the best, she’d replied, smiling.
He’d said okay, vowed to take her one day. Simone liked travel, seeing new places, eating new foods. Him? Not so much.
The short man waddles up behind him again, chuckles—Huh-huh-huh—retches, heaves, and Bryan’s covered again, head to toe. The goo slides down his cheeks, his neck, his arms. Bryan moves away, tries another part of the cage, but the man follows him, vomits up another fresh batch.
Go the fuck away! Bryan says. This time the liquid seems hotter, like candle wax. It burns and dries all over him, making his movements crackly. He digs.
Yes, he thinks, ignoring the guttural chortles behind him, tossing confetti, fifteen grand would be impressive. Simone hadn’t liked that he was doing this, especially that he was doing this with his ass of a roommate Jaidee, but when he’d told her he was going to win, that it was almost guaranteed, her eyes had changed, become glossier.
How can it be guaranteed? she’d said.
There are ways, he’d replied.
And though she’d never fully supported him—neither encouraged nor discouraged—after this conversation, he’d known she was okay with it. She was thinking of the money too. She was thinking of palm trees and big waves and coconut rum and seaside breezes. They’d fuck five times a day, he thought. At least.
Above, Jaidee, Victor, and Jane try to balance and dig. Bryan looks up at them. Mistake. Blood-vomit man gets him right in the face. You fuck! he says, rubbing at his eyes. It burns.
From above, he hears Jane’s needling voice: Got mine! she shouts, triumphant, waving a red envelope. The
eyeless woman engulfs her with screams. Now what?
Keep digging! Bryan says. There might be more than one in a cage!
Jane grabs the bars, shakes them. The eyeless woman grabs her shoulders, shrieks in her ear.
Jaidee, next to her, is being thrown around the cage. Well, maybe not thrown. But it seems that way. The wolfman grabs him, lifts him up, shakes him, sets him down in a different corner. The wolfman has claws; Bryan imagines he’s leaving marks.
Who’d have thought? Bryan thinks.
He’d approached Jaidee in their dorm room, told him about his alternate status. My cousin, she practically begged, he’d said. At first, Jaidee had been repulsed. You? he’d said, his face a mess of wiggling lines. But then—strangely, magically—Jaidee’s face had softened, his attitude abruptly changed.
I’m sorry about what I said, Jaidee had said. I really don’t think those things. We must do Quigley House. We must.
Above, Victor is struggling to keep his balance. The skittering girl—her legs impossibly thin, eyes impossibly large—keeps rushing him, and while small, she’s fast, and each rush throws him into the bloody confetti. Stop! he shouts at her. She giggles, skitters away, rushes again, giggles. How do you not fall down? he says. She giggles, continues on.
Focus! Bryan shouts from below. Victor, focus!
On the ground, Bryan has found his envelope. He stuffs it in his pocket. His legs ache. The blood makes movement slow. He scrambles out of the cage. Fuck you, he calls back to the deformed man. He looks up at the swaying cages. Only Jane? he shouts. Either of you—
I got mine! Jaidee shouts. He waves his envelope in the air just as the wolfman picks him up, snarls in his face.
Bryan looks at the clock. Seven minutes left. They’ve only acquired three envelopes. They need two more. He rushes to the next cage bearing his name, grabs the key, crawls inside. This one holds a man-sized baby, his eyes gleaming and anticipatory. He’s wearing a diaper, his belly smooth, pink, and protruding. On first glance he appears harmless—some weirdo in a bad Halloween costume. Bryan ignores him and starts digging.
The man reveals a knife, a ten-inch blade, and Bryan’s heart drops. Instead of attacking Bryan, however, the man slices himself. Blood trickles from his wounds, drips onto the confetti. He dances around the cage, trickling—plip, plip, plip—and some of it trickles onto Bryan and Bryan smells and tastes real blood. The man slices again, this time his left forearm, and the trickle comes again, and Bryan can’t look away.
Bryan! Jaidee screams from above. Hurry up!
Bryan looks away from the man-baby and continues to dig. The baby slices again and again and again. His smile is ludicrous. He hums something happy. A lullaby? He dances and dances, staining the confetti slowly. Plip, plip, plip. Bryan breathes. He finds the envelope—easier this time. He rushes out of the cage, the baby’s lullaby ringing in his ears.
So we have four? he shouts to the dangling cages.
Yeah! Jaidee says. Victor hasn’t gotten his yet.
Okay, Bryan says.
Machinery grinds.
Bryan runs to his next cage, unlocks the door, crawls in. There are two monsters. One: an executioner—not too inventive, a muscular man in black carrying an ax. Two: a witch, a slender woman with long, stringy dark hair, a powdered face deeply wrinkled, a beak nose, an impossibly long chin, warts. She holds a glowing stick, presumably electric. The cage is bigger than the others, fits three comfortably, and as soon as Bryan enters, the executioner waves his ax and chases the witch. The witch dodges the blows, scurries away, shocks the executioner in the back. The executioner jerks, regains composure, swings. Bryan thinks it’s mesmerizing, almost balletic, their movements, and if he didn’t have to find the envelope, he’d sit and watch for a while, putting dibs on the witch—her grace would surely outmatch the lumbering muscleman. Though maybe, with just brute force, the executioner—
But no. He doesn’t have time to waste. He breathes in, scampers around them, tries to dig where they’re not, but they take up space, and he feels the whoosh of the ax near his body, the crackling of the wand near his face. He digs while the executioner hulks and the witch scuttles. Twice, the witch’s wand strikes Bryan, and Bryan feels white heat scatter up his body, paralyzing him. He can’t breathe. He remains still. Eventually, he composes. His blood-drenched body weighs him down, fatigues him. He scratches at it. A few hard, waxy flecks fall to the floor. No time, he thinks. He digs. She jabs him again, and he’s stunned.
He stands, enervated. Is this for love? he thinks. Simone had been insistent on categorizing them as buddies (she was too proper to insert the word “fuck”), and at first, he’d been okay with that. They’d tried the relationship thing, and he’d fucked up, sort of. But she still liked him. She still wanted to sleep with him, she still wanted to be his friend, no matter how big of an ass he was, so they’d be buddies—no commitment, all casual.
Seems complicated, he’d said.
Casual is the opposite of that, she’d replied.
So they were casual. But not? He stayed over at her place more often than not. She did his laundry; he cooked her breakfast. They held each other at night, and when he went down on her, she squirmed just like she’d squirmed when they hadn’t been complicated.
But I can fuck whoever, he’d said.
Whomever, she’d replied.
And do I tell you? he’d said.
Why would you do that? she’d replied.
He digs. There’s nothing. He’s so intent on avoiding the wand that he digs in the same place multiple times. He looks at the clock. Three minutes, twelve seconds. He thinks of Simone’s face. How embarrassing would it be if they didn’t make it past Cell One?
He senses another person with him, cramping the cage. He whips around. An arm wraps around his waist, dragging him. He struggles, punches the air.
Jesus, calm down, Victor says. I’m getting you out.
The arm lets go, and Bryan stands straight, sees his dimpled teammate.
What? Bryan says, heaving.
Come on, Victor says.
They rush to the cage door, exit. Outside, his three fellow contestants, secure on the ground, look at him, grinning. Bryan wipes his brow. What, he says.
We made it through! Jane says.
What? Bryan says.
The cages lowered after you left the last one, Jane says. We got the other envelope. I mean, Victor got it. Victor looks stunned. He’s been shocked by a wand, Bryan can tell. His hands are still trembling. Those things are no joke.
Victor points to a cage holding a red, spiky minotaur bearing a red, spiky saw. The minotaur throws the saw to the floor, bellows, rushes the bars.
Shit, Bryan says.
Look. Jane points to a door at the edge of the room. It’s open, spilling white light. Bryan looks at the time screen. The clock is still counting down: 2 minutes, 33 seconds.
We still have two and a half minutes left, Jaidee says. We could get all eight. Our chances . . .
Forget it, Bryan said. Let’s just keep going.
But—
Come on.
Below the clock these words flash: YOU MAY PROCEED.
Kendra
“So you said this was temporary,” Kendra said, looking out the car window as her mother drove into Lincoln’s city limits. “Right?”
It was early summer, sticky. Outside, gas stations flanked by fast-food joints flanked by dilapidated motels whizzed past. The sky was gray, coating each building in dense, hazy film. The few people on the streets looked puffy and fatigued and alarmingly white, walking without purpose, wearing clothing that hung from their bodies like bedsheets.
“I know what I said,” Lynette said, her face drawn and severe.
“Just making sure,” Kendra said.
“Well.”
Lynette drove around the downtown area toward an enormous phallus-shaped building. She pulled over, squinted up at it. “Now, why the hell,” she said.
“That’s the penis of the
prairie,” Kendra said. “I looked it up.”
Lynette shook her head, muttered, “It’s just a building.” She put her car into drive, drove.
They passed more gas stations, a record store, an adult video store, some restaurants. On the corner of Twelfth and O, a young white couple stood waiting for the light to change. The boy wore khaki cargo shorts and a blue Oasis T-shirt. The girl wore pink shorts and a button-down flamingo-print blouse. Kendra shook her head. They looked extremely Nebraskan; she repressed an urge to yell obscenities out her window.
“You know,” Lynette said, “the university here is top-rate.”
“Maybe in farming,” Kendra said, staring at the couple.
“Bryan’s going in the fall,” she said.
“I know. Good for him.”
“Kendra,” Lynette said.
“What?”
“We need this to work.”
Kendra opened her mouth, closed it again. She was tired of arguing with her mother. It was all they’d done the last month. She pulled her knees to her chest, made herself small.
“There are worse places,” Lynette said.
“There are better places,” Kendra said.
Her mother didn’t answer, just drove toward Kendra’s new home.
Rae and Bryan greeted them with overindulgent grins. Rae commented on Kendra’s height, which, to her credit, had changed quite a bit since the funeral—Kendra was still short, but less so, five-foot-two now, a late growth spurt—and Bryan wrapped his cousin up in a big bear hug, said, “Good to see you.” Kendra lingered in his embrace.
“I’m so glad you’re both here,” Rae said, cupping her hands by her chest. “This feels right.”
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