The Tetradome Run

by Spencer Baum

  THE TETRADOME RUN

  By Spencer Baum

  Copyright 2018

  www.spencerbaum.net

  CHAPTER 1

  Turning on the TV was the mistake that killed him.

  He was twenty-one years old. His name was Kyle, and he hadn’t planned on watching TV that afternoon. Or looking at his phone. Or his laptop.

  But it’s just so easy to turn on the screens, isn’t it? So easy to let an afternoon’s ambitions disappear in a wash of pixels.

  “What am I doing?” he muttered.

  Tuning in, like the rest of the world

  Watching The Tetradome Run.

  Waiting for the race to start.

  Preparing to watch his sister run for her life.

  Months had passed since he said goodbye to Jenna in a stale, dusty room at the New Mexico State Pen. Months had passed since he sat in the execution theater, one of six official witnesses who was supposed to watch Jenna get strapped to a lethal injection table.

  Since the warden came into the theater and announced there would be no execution today, that Jenna had chosen to run in the Tetradome instead.

  Months of hiding from the media, moving from one short-term apartment rental to another, waiting all the while for his sister’s death, and dealing with that memoir she left behind for him.

  That memoir had been hanging over his head like the blade of a guillotine, poised for release.

  The street outside his apartment was quiet. The people of the world were indoors, looking at their glowing screens.

  The official pregame came to an end. The host of the show, Chad Holiday, stepped forward and shouted into the camera, Are you with us America? Kyle knew the answer was yes. Yes, he was with them. Yes, he would be right here, in his apartment, television on, watching the race like everyone else. Yes, if his sister died tonight, he would see it happen.

  If you’re with us, then stick around, because the 40th season of The Tetradome Run starts…right now!

  Opening credits, a bright computer animation atop punchy brass music. As the computer-drawn figure ran across the screen, jumping over abstract obstacles, ducking past computerized representations of dragons, griffins, and giant snakes, Kyle felt like he was every bit the contestant that Jenna was. Like he might be lucky to get out of tonight’s show alive.

  The credits ended and Chad Holiday came back on the screen.

  “The nationwide search is over,” Chad said. “Our producers have selected the convicts. Tonight they will compete for their survival.”

  Slim, blonde, and eternally youthful, Chad Holiday’s was a face Kyle had seen regularly on television since he was little.

  Chad Holiday had never looked as menacing as he did now.

  “It’s an incredible tradition, America,” Chad said, “one that allows us all to reflect on the meaning of justice and redemption.”

  Kyle tossed his blanket aside. He went to the window. He spread the blinds with his fingers. He took a mental inventory of the cars parked along the curb. A white pickup, a red Saturn sedan with no hubcaps, a yellow Beetle.

  Taking stock of the cars parked outside was one of many obsessive rituals Kyle had developed in the years since Jenna’s arrest.

  Checking and re-checking that all the doors and windows were locked was another. He performed that ritual now.

  There was one window that couldn’t be locked. It was in the kitchen, over the sink. An old single-pane in this old apartment in this old complex in this old part of town. The building had settled, the window frame had gone crooked, the window wouldn’t close all the way. A tiny gap at the base of it, a little sliver of daylight between window and pane, the kind of security breakdown that could obsess a man with worry. Fortunately, Kyle had discovered a ritual for this window too.

  For this window, and this window only, he ran his finger along the crevice at the base. One stroke along the length of the frame, one tangible reminder that the world was real and imperfect, that he was meat and he lived in meatspace.

  Now his brain craved a dopamine burst so he grabbed his phone, opened DragonSmash and began to play. Five seconds into a round, he knew a game wasn’t what he needed. A game wasn’t enough. He needed to get into the document, and in order to do that, he had to get his laptop.

  This old apartment had a long-dormant fireplace that Kyle had agreed never to use when he signed the lease. The fireplace, with its sliding doors of opaque glass, it’s blackened brick, and its surprisingly deep and dark cavity, was the best place in the apartment to hide things, and hiding things was another of Kyle’s rituals. He pulled open the doors, slid out the cardboard box hidden in the corner, and retrieved his laptop from inside.

  He knew how ridiculous all this was. God did he know. One OCD routine wrapped inside another. In order to satisfy his craving for computer-screen comfort, he first had to dig out his computer from the place where he stashed it, because leaving a computer out on the desk when it wasn’t in use, like a normal person, just didn’t cut it anymore. Not when Russian hackers, the NSA, and ten thousand bloodthirsty reporters wanted a piece of you.

  Chad Holiday’s voice continued to boom from the television. “The men and women you’ll see in the Tetradome tonight have mothers and fathers, just like you. They had childhoods and dreams of what their lives might become, just like you.”

  Kyle opened the laptop, clicked deep into the file structure, stopping at the folder titled Utility Bills.

  His computer prompted him for a password.

  “They had normal lives in so many ways. Normal, that is, until they made a terrible choice that changed everything…”

  He mistyped the password on the first try.

  “…and while there is no coming back from the terrible choices they made, there is still the possibility of redemption for these people…”

  He was losing his mind. He knew this. Losing control of his life to paranoia and OCD, to a never-ending loop of guilty thoughts.

  Once more, he mistyped the ridiculous mix of characters that was his password.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried again. This time the folder opened.

  On the television, a 12-year-old girl with curly black hair stood on the arena floor and began singing the Star-Spangled Banner.

  Oh-oh say can you see…

  Kyle had written the truth. Two months of writing. One epic document on his laptop.

  What so proudly we hail…

  The truth about the crime that put Jenna in jail, who the real perpetrators were, what the real context was, all the things the world didn’t know.

  Whose broad stripes and bright stars…

  It was a story about drugs, sex, chemicals, bombs, conspiracy, and murder. Kyle was the narrator of the story, but he wasn’t the star. The star of the story was a woman named Sunny.

  O’er the ramparts we watched…

  When Kyle started writing his story, he did so with intent to publish it. He began the project with grandiose visions of confessing to the world, setting things right for Jenna as much as he could, and killing himself as soon as the truth was out.

  The bombs bursting in air…

  But somewhere during his attempt to write the truth, and deal with the truth, Kyle lost track of who he was, what he was doing, what the future held.

  Like everything else in his life, Kyle’s attempt to tell the truth had devolved into an obsessive ritual.

  Pull out the laptop, find the document, obsess about the document, add to the document…the document had started out as a tell-all memoir, and had evolved into the daily diary of a young man losing his mind.

  Was he going to add to the document today?

  …and the home of the brave.

  Applause. Outro music. C
had Holiday’s voice. “When we return, the first heat in the Qualifier race of the 40th Tetradome Run!”

  Yes. He would add to the document. This was no longer about writing his story. It was about the ritual.

  He began to type.

  I’m in my apartment. Jenna is about to run in the Tetradome. I didn’t want to watch but I couldn’t help myself.

  On the TV, the view cut to the arena floor, where the co-host of the show, a former Olympic sprinter named Marion Blaze, continued the commentary amidst the noise of an eager crowd.

  “…thank you Chad. As you can see, behind me, the first wave of contestants is gathering at the starting line.”

  Marion Blaze had big, beautiful teeth and a smooth way of speaking.

  “As soon as the starting gun sounds, tonight’s contestants will have ten seconds to cover as much ground as they can before their pursuers are let loose to catch them. Chad, I am told that the first batch of pursuers we’ll see tonight are a brand new creation of Tetradome Labs.”

  “A new creation--that’s exciting news!” said Chad. “What do we know about this new creation?”

  Kyle turned back to his laptop.

  They’re teasing us about the kind of monsters that will come out tonight to kill my sister.

  He needed a drink. He set down the laptop and went to the kitchen. There was a bottle of vodka in the freezer.

  He was in the middle of a swig when the doorbell rang, startling him, and forcing a moment of bodily indecision. Half-swallow-half-inhale, and just like that, there was burning vodka in his windpipe.

  “…and you already know that our first heat tonight will include Jenna Duvall…”

  In a coughing fit, Kyle missed the television chatter about his sister. He craned his head down over the sink, drank straight from the tap, imagined a hiss of steam in his chest as a four-alarm fire of vodka got quenched.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Was someone actually out there?

  He went to the window.

  No one there. No package on the ground either, but sometimes UPS put it right up next to the door where it was hard to see.

  He started to remove the slipchain, then decided he wanted to hide his laptop in the fireplace first.

  It was hell, going insane.

  “…and running in Lane 11 tonight will be Thomas Dorchester, whose string of convenience store robberies ended in a firefight last June…”

  Back to the door, removing the slipchain—Kyle did it quietly. Thoughtlessly. So many times he’d opened this door to bring a cardboard box inside. So many times he’d twisted the deadbolt, turned the handle…

  A crash, a burst of energy on the other side. The door flew open, pressing into Kyle and launching him back.

  An intruder rushed into the apartment. A man, enormous and red, or rather, clad in a red jacket…and now the sleeve of the red jacket was at Kyle’s throat. The man was rolling into him, the two of them backpedaling away from the door.

  It was all happening so fast Kyle didn’t even have a chance to scream.

  Together, Kyle and intruder crashed back-first into the rear wall of the entryway.

  There was a half-second of quiet as they came to a stop.

  Kyle was pinned against the wall with the arm of the intruder’s puffy red jacket pressed against his throat.

  Take whatever you want, Kyle might have said, if the man’s hand wasn’t over his mouth. You can have anything.

  Anything except my laptop.

  Dear God, what if he finds my laptop?

  Something new, something cold and hard pressed against the underside of Kyle’s chin. A gun? Was this really happening?

  Yes, there was an intruder in Kyle’s apartment who was now holding a gun underneath Kyle’s chin. This wasn’t some random break-in, was it? This man wasn’t a junkie looking for cash, was he?

  And now the man said, “Don’t make any noise. Everything will be better for you if you stay quiet. Understand?”

  Kyle shivered in place for a second, then hummed out a Mmm-hmm.

  Someone else, a woman, came through the front door and closed it behind her. She wore a wool trench coat, a hat, a long scarf—her face wasn’t visible to him yet, but Kyle already knew who she was.

  He recognized her smell.

  Then she spoke, and he recognized her voice too.

  “Hello Kyle. I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

  She turned to Red Coat.

  “Take your hand off his face,” she said. “He’s going to be good. Aren’t you Kyle?”

  The man stepped back, and Kyle’s eyes confirmed what his chin had felt. Mr. Red Coat was holding a pistol.

  “Aren’t you going to say hi to me, Kyle? It’s been a long time. I’ve missed you. Have you missed me?”

  Kyle’s mouth was painfully dry. He scrounged together enough saliva for a single swallow. Then, in a raspy voice, he got a few words out.

  They would be the final words he ever said.

  “What are you doing here Sunny?”

  CHAPTER 2

  The starting gun fired.

  The gate flew open.

  A crowd of prisoners sprinted into the Tetradome.

  Jenna was in the middle. In training, she found it to her advantage to get to the middle of the pack and stay there for a few seconds, allowing the people in front to set the pace.

  Of course, in training, there were no monsters about to chase them. No crowd either. The crowd was crazy. Mountains of screaming people stretching to the heavens on all sides. Deafening, bone-vibrating noise pouring down to the arena floor.

  Until the monsters came out. When the monsters came out, there was a half-second of silence.

  And then utter madness.

  They made a clicking sound as they moved. It pierced the wall of noise and spoke to Jenna on a visceral level. It told her body to panic because death incarnate was chasing her.

  She resisted the urge to turn back for a look. She had seen the show before. She knew how the Qualifier worked. The first thirty seconds were a mad dash across an open floor. During the dash, one bad step, one wrong decision (like looking over your shoulder) could be the difference between life and death. At this point in the race, it wasn’t about outrunning the monsters. It was about outrunning the other contestants.

  She made her move from the middle of the pack to the front. This too was something she discovered in training. She was fast, faster than she’d known, and when she wanted to make a move, she could make a move.

  She started passing the other runners. The crowd roared in response. Were they yelling for her? Was she in the front half of the pack now? She started counting people around her—a man to her left, two in front, three more…

  Stop it. Stop counting, stop thinking, just run!

  *****

  When it all went down, Jenna’s attorney encouraged her to plead guilty so she might avoid the death penalty.

  She refused. Why would she plead guilty to a crime she didn’t commit?

  Her trial captivated the world. A jury of her peers found her guilty of murder (one count), conspiracy to commit murder (three counts), accessory to murder (two counts), and unlawful possession of a firearm (one count). Her sentence was death by lethal injection.

  But only if she decided to take the needle. Jenna Duvall, aka The Albuquerque Assassin aka The Killer Next Door aka The Girl With the Gun, was a shoe-in to be accepted for The Tetradome Run. All celebrity criminals were. As a prisoner on death row, she needed only to exercise her rights under the Redemption Act of 1971 (a few simple papers to sign) and she was eligible for the show.

  It took her a long time to make up her mind.

  Until the last minute, as in, the very last minute before her execution was scheduled to happen, Jenna, a former antidomer activist and member of the Hillerman College chapter of the Blue Brigade, was insistent that she wouldn’t run in the Tetradome. As late as a month before her execution date, Jenna was still releasing statements through her
lawyers that said she didn’t believe in the show, she didn’t care about the money the show would pay to her family, she thought it was all blood money anyway, and she would rather die in a quiet execution chamber than inside a giant arena on national television.

  But in those final minutes before her lethal injection was scheduled, minutes Jenna spent alone in a visiting room with her brother Kyle, something changed.

  *****

  People behind her were beginning to die. Slashing sounds. Screaming sounds. Wet, sticky, puncture sounds, followed by gasping, slurping, shrieking.

  The crowd loved it.

  Don’t listen to it. Don’t think about it.

  Four minutes. That’s how long the average heat in the Qualifier lasted from starting gun to final survivor across the finish line. It was a three-stage race that covered the entire expanse of the Tetradome floor. A solid plane of cork-covered ground beneath her feet (stage one) was about to give way to a series of narrow pathways across a gaping gorge (stage two). The gorge cut right into the floor of the arena, cut so deep that, on first glance, it looked bottomless.

  Six stone pathways stretched across the gorge. Jenna chose the one closest to her. A narrow stone bridge, too narrow to cross at a run—she slowed to a walk, locking her eyes on her feet, trying not to look at the darkness beneath her.

  One foot in front of the other. Stay upright, don’t look into the gorge, don’t think about that guy on the pathway next to you.

  The guy on the pathway next to her had tried to cross too quickly. He screamed all the way down. His scream changed in tone as he fell, like the horn of a passing train.

  His scream wasn’t the worst of it. As the man fell down the chasm, a horrible cackling noise rose up. It echoed, bouncing around in the darkness, growing louder and more clear as Jenna moved across the path.

  Aware that speeding up would increase her chances of falling, Jenna sped up anyway.

  *****

  Her lethal injection was scheduled for two o’clock. Per her request, she spent what was supposed to be the final hour of her life in the visiting room with Kyle.

  They reminisced, speaking about happy memories from the past, trying their best not to think about what was coming.