Tesseracts Fourteen: Strange Canadian Stories

by John Robert Colombo

  I wrapped my arms around my knees, and looked, and checked against the data from his file, some of which (not all) I had committed to memory. Might he have lost weight over time? It didn’t seem so. He was if anything a little chubby. His dark hair seemed long for the style he’d cut it in, but it was hard to say whether that was a result of inattentive incarceration. His clothing seemed fresh, though. And he was clean-shaven.

  He leaned forward in his chair — looking straight at me, frowning, as if deciding whether to say anything; whether after all these years, this time, he had any answers for me. Whether he’d thought of any questions, for that matter.

  Then, both hands on his knees, he stood. His head came near the 200-watt bulb that dangled over his chair, and he shifted from the hot brilliance, of a kind that had not come to light the night at Sandhurst in decades.

  And he looked down — down at me — and yanked his briefs from the crack in his behind, adjusted the waist-band so it cradled his gut. Fattened on stillness.

  Head still bent under the low beams of Larchmount, he eyed me once more.

  No. No questions worth asking, of one such as I.

  And with that, Mr. Nu made his way to the narrow wooden stairway and climbed, to the kitchen at Larchmount. To the world, which he now inhabited; which he had, in his agreeable solitude there, spared. Which I had abandoned.

  Mr. Nu reached the top. He stopped there an instant, as though considering one more time, then flipped a switch, and so. The bright yellow light vanished. Larchmount, forever gone.

  In its place, nothing.

  Random Access Memory

  Michael Lorenson

  Max smiled his way past the first sasquatch posing as security at the door and submitted himself to a frisking and subsequent weapon and coat check. All he had under his long coat tonight was the black knife. He wouldn’t need it here, but he hated giving it away, even temporarily. “Take care of my baby,” he said to the girl behind the counter. “Just last week the other girl thought she lost it and I had to kill her. True story.”

  The girl rolled her eyes as she took the blade. “The other girl was me, Max. I dyed my hair, and I don’t feel very dead.”

  “Bonnie?” Max examined her face more closely. “Why blue?”

  “Why not blue?” She shrugged her shoulders, then kissed her fingertips and brushed Max’s cheek. “Go play, your stuff is safe. Rocco’s inside already.”

  He eyed the small arena and silently ordered his hardware to give him a basic readout. There were six participants seated around a round table at the center of the lowered floor, with one referee walking a circle around them. Nine bookies stood idle in the aisles between the three-hundred-and-eighty-one spectators filling the seats. The hardware also pinpointed Rocco, thin as the leg of a spider, sitting in the third row with an empty seat to his left.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Max as he occupied the seat beside Rocco. “Did I miss much?”

  “Round two. Just added a drowning. No losers yet.”

  “Icy. Do you think our boy will pay up tonight?”

  Rocco pursed his thin lips, sighed through his nose, and paused for a long moment. “One way ’r’nother,” he said.

  Max shook his head and turned his attention to the game being played at the table. “Well thank you. That was very inspiring.”

  Chad trembled in his seat as the referee pushed the gun along the tabletop and left it in front of him beside the shot glass full of vodka. “Hurry up, let’s move,” the ref said. “Ten seconds until forfeit. Ten…”

  Chad stared at the gun and was surprised to see his own quivering right hand reach out, unbidden, to wrap around the weapon’s rubberized grip. His left hand found the vodka.

  “Eight…”

  Only a one-in-three chance of biting it, he thought. You made it through one round, how bad could it possibly be?

  “Six…”

  God help me.

  Chad downed the vodka and grimaced as its oily bitterness hit the back of his throat. Sweat beaded his forehead and his clothing adhered to his damp body. He chose to blame the perspiration on second-rate alcohol.

  It won’t be that bad, and you can’t leave here without the money.

  “Four…”

  He closed his eyes, lifted the gun and pressed the flat barrel up to his right temple. It felt cool against his wet skin, but the subdermal implants there came alive with a pleasant warmth.

  Chad heard some voices from the assembled crowd begin chanting.

  “Die, die, die!” The words washed over him like a tsunami and threatened to wash away his resolve.

  “Two…”

  God help me!

  “One…”

  Chad pulled the trigger.

  “He’s still in,” said Max. “Who started this round anyways?”

  “Chad’s third. Three shots left.”

  The referee gave the gun’s cylinder a spin. It whirred for a bit before settling into position with a click, and the sealed casing made it impossible to tell whether the chamber was loaded or not. He placed the gun in front of player four and started a ten-count. This one must have been braver than Chad, because he downed his drink and fired the gun into his temple before the ref could finish saying the number eight.

  The gun hissed as the mem-slug discharged. The player convulsed and slumped forward in his chair, his face slamming onto the tabletop. His arm fell limp at his side though his hand still clutched the gun, and blood slowly pooled from beneath his face.

  “Damn,” said Max as the crowd around him cheered. “He’s going to feel that in the morning.”

  “Bullet,” said Rocco. “Best way. Fast, painless.”

  Max snorted. “Painless, my ass. His nose is broken, and if he’s poor enough to be here, then he’s too poor to pay a doc to fix it. Plus he’s the first one out, so he doesn’t even get paid.”

  Rocco grunted his accord. “Still the best way.”

  The referee pried the unconscious man’s fingers away from the gun and motioned with his free hand. Two large men appeared and dragged the player out of the arena, each gripping one of the man’s arms. The ref reached into his pocket and pulled out a box, from which he selected another slug.

  “Animal mauling added!” The referee’s voice echoed off the walls, filling the small arena. “Round three!” He pulled a six-sided die out of a pocket and rolled it onto the tabletop. “Player three starts, place your bets!”

  The crowd around Max and Rocco surged to its feet; individuals shouted bets to the bookies who struggled to keep up with them.

  “Betting?” Rocco asked. Max’s hardware enhanced the sound of Rocco’s voice, bringing it out amidst the noise of the crowd.

  “Not yet,” he replied. “I like to wait until at least two people are out. There’s less of a payout but it gives me a chance to get into the game.”

  “One minute remaining!” The referee shouted, pacing around the table as a pair of naked women wiped the blood away and refilled the players’ glasses. He turned the gun over in his hands and spun the cylinder before placing it on the table in front of Chad.

  Chad dropped the gun down on the table with a clatter, as though it might still discharge and affect him if he held it for too long.

  Fucking mauled by fucking animals! These fucking people are fucking crazy. Where do they even get these fucking memories?

  He had survived the third round unscathed, and he stared at the empty glass on the table, willing it to be full again. The referee came over and randomized the slugs before sliding the gun past the now-empty seat and over to the next player on Chad’s left. Player Five waited until the count reached two and fired empty as well.

  The referee randomized the slugs again and passed the gun along.

  Player Six’s eyes were closed and
he groped for both the gun and the glass, the latter of which was filled with a dark amber liquid. It looked to Chad like whiskey with a splash of tar. The man drank it and grimaced. He snapped the barrel of the gun to his temple and squeezed the trigger as the ref counted four.

  The gun hissed and the player collapsed, thrashing to the floor. His screams echoed off the metal walls as he writhed and were lost as some people in the crowd rose cheering to their feet, pumping their fists in the air. One of the man’s legs lashed out and sent his abandoned chair tumbling across the ground and into the first row of spectators.

  The referee picked up the gun and set it on the table. His brow furrowed as the man on the floor stopped screaming for a second, and then launched into another thrashing fit. Player Six clawed at his own skin, his legs and arms struck out against invisible attackers.

  The assembled crowd grew silent as it became evident that something was wrong. The thrashing slowed as the man ran out of energy, but his terrified eyes remained open and staring. The referee’s expression slipped from puzzled to disgusted, and he spat as he signaled for the clean-up crew to come take the man away.

  Chad forced his lungs to take in air, willed himself to shift in his seat to prove to himself that he wasn’t nailed to his chair. He was relieved when Player Five asked the question that he was too numb to say. “What the fuck is that?”

  “That,” the ref replied, “is what happens when we post our minimum system requirements and people don’t pay attention. Obviously his substandard gear can’t handle the memory properly. It looks like it’s looped.” He prodded the body on the floor with his boot and snorted in disgust.

  Five stared for a few moments as the ref reloaded the gun. “Looped? You mean the scene didn’t end? So he’s—”

  “Being eaten alive,” interrupted the ref. “Yes. Over, and over, without the cut-scene. I think that one was alligators.”

  “You’re just going to leave him like that? How long is he going to be looped for?”

  “What do you care? If he’s lucky, the hardware will hang and reboot on its own, usually within an hour. A cy-med can reset him if someone takes him there. Otherwise, who knows?”

  Five stood up. “That’s bullshit, I’m out.” He left the arena under a hail of boos and thrown garbage.

  The ref shrugged and placed the gun on the table, then rolled his dice.

  “Fire added! Round four! Player two starts, place your bets!”

  Max stood from his seat. The crowd of spectators parted before the shadow of his physical presence and cleared a path to the nearest bookie. He smiled at those with the courage to look him in the eyes.

  “One thou on three to die in round four,” he said to the bookie.

  “That’ll double your money. Wager on the method?”

  “No.”

  The bookie entered Max’s bet and moved on to the next bettor.

  Rocco waited until Max took his seat to ask, “Why bet against? Don’t we want him to win?”

  “We do,” said Max. “If he loses, then I double my money and my wife doesn’t kill me for gambling because no money’s been lost. If he wins, then he gets money, which means we get money, which means my wife doesn’t kill me for gambling because no money’s been lost.”

  “Wife’s not scary,” Rocco monotoned. “Met her.”

  Max chuckled. “You wouldn’t understand. She’s nice to other people. Wives are different than regular girls, Rocco. Whores treat you good as long as the money’s good; marks … well, marks are supposed to complain. But a wife? She’ll stab you to death in your sleep, and for nothing more than you tracked mud or blood in the house, or you gambled away a couple of bucks.”

  The ref closed the bidding for the round, and slid the gun over in front of the second player.

  “Hey, Rocco. If you had a choice, would you pick fire or water?”

  “Neither.”

  Max punched Rocco in the arm. “You can’t pick ‘neither,’ you have to pick one. Would you rather burn or drown to death?”

  Rocco sat in silence, appearing to contemplate the question. “Neither,” he said. “Always got m’gun.”

  Max sighed. “Fuck you, Rocco. You’re no fun at all.”

  Player Two didn’t appear to Max to care about what had happened the previous round. That, or he had more confidence in his gear. He fired the gun into his temple without touching his drink. When nothing happened, the ref spun the barrel of the gun and placed it in front of Chad.

  Chad shook as he picked up the gun. He scanned the faces in the arena as the referee counted down. His eyes stopped and fixed on Max and Rocco.

  Max couldn’t help himself. He smiled and gave Chad an encouraging nod, pointing two fingers of his right hand at his own temple for emphasis. The ref counted four.

  “Don’t tell me he’s going to forfeit now,” said Max. “He’s made it to the final three, that’s a guaranteed payout if he pulls the trigger. What does he have to lose?”

  Rocco faced Max and arched a single eyebrow.

  “Well, besides that, I mean.”

  Chad downed his vodka as the ref counted one, and he pulled the trigger. A second of silence followed the trigger pull and relief quickly washed away the grimace on his face.

  Then the gun hissed.

  Chad opened his eyes at the sound of the gun firing and saw the faces of the reacting crowd. Some of them looked jubilant, some looked crushed, many looked indifferent. All of them seemed to be in slow-motion. He opened his mouth to scream when the roar of the crowd gave way to the roar of water.

  He was standing on a surfboard, flying down the face of a wave which was at least sixty feet high. A cramp in one leg made him compensate forward and to the left, but the movement overbalanced him and the surfboard shot out from under his feet. He gasped as he belly-flopped into the water and lost most of his air.

  Countless tons of water crashed over him. The thunder of the wave was instantly muffled as he was borne under the surface, and the force of the water drove him down into the depths. His chest compressed under the pressure of the water above, but he had been spun around several times and no longer knew which way was up.

  He was disoriented, sore, and terrified. He curled into a ball, felt a force pulling at him and went with it, trusting buoyancy to tell him which way the surface was. His ribs and lungs hurt from the pressure, his cramped leg hindered his swim towards the surface, and every molecule in his body screamed for air. A slight exhalation sent bubbles streaming to the surface, and his mouth filled with water. The taste of saltwater was revolting.

  God help me. Chad heard the thought echo from two places at once. One voice was his own, the other a stranger’s.

  The pressure of the water intensified, each pulse of his heart resonated through his body. The pain in his muscles flared and his eyes felt as though they would burst from their sockets even as his vision faded and the light diminished. Chad’s hardware fed oblivion into his synapses, and his brain mercifully obeyed.

  Chad awoke to the sensation of a floor being dragged across his face, and when he opened his eyes he saw only concrete. He vomited and the resulting splash coated his face, neck, and shoulders. His vomit smelled like failure and cheap vodka.

  Pressure, darkness, spiraling.

  Hands released Chad’s legs and the leaden extremities thudded to the floor.

  “Goddamn fucking asshole drownings!” The voice came from above him. Chad started to turn his head towards the sound but the sudden motion made him dizzy and forced him to close his eyes.

  “Drowners always puke. Why can’t they stick with bullets an’ shit? Cleaner that way. Now I got some on my leg!”

  “Because they pay us good money and they figure we may as well keep busy mopping up puke?”

  Chad counted two voices. He waited for his head to s
top spinning, then wished it hadn’t because the vertigo was replaced by a pounding, as though his head were being used as a kettle drum. He rolled over onto his back to see a pair of blurry faces. Wet vomit seeped into his hair from the floor below. “W’d’fg,” he said.

  The act of speaking dislodged something in Chad’s throat, which tickled his esophagus, which made him roll over to heave again. He lay sideways with his cheek in a pool of his own warm vomit. The kettle drum beat fortissimo now.

  The crest of a wave washed through his vision, obscuring the two faces which came back into focus as the wave receded. One of the faces was moving its lips. Chad’s ears heard the sound through the phantom rush of water, but it took a few moments before his brain parsed it into something he could understand. “You drowned.”

  The face waited a few seconds before continuing. “You lost. Now stop puking on my floor and get out!”

  “Lost,” Chad whispered. Vivid flashes of images from someone else’s memory crowded his vision.

  Azure sky and cotton ball clouds. Aquamarine and shaving foam waves. Indigo-black.

  Pressure.

  Black.

  “I made it to the final three.” Chad heard the voice, and afterwards realized that it had been he who had spoken. “I get something for that.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said the second face. A hand appeared in Chad’s vision, and it held a credit chip. “Here’s your two-fifty.” The body attached to the first face opened a door which led into an alley, and motioned for Chad to leave.

  Chad stared at the chip in his hand. “I need more than that. There was supposed to be ten thousand.”

  “You want ten grand?” Face One called to him from where he continued to hold the door open. “Make it to the end next time.”

  “You don’t understand,” Chad pleaded. Face Two slipped his hands into yellow rubber gloves. “I need more. You have to help me, I’m in serious trouble.”