by Brian Wood
“Oh, God.” Gregory veiled his nose with a hand. He watched as an attendant carried an invalid out of his wheelchair and up the steps of the box. “They’re going to let him ride?”
The old man’s eyes seemed to hide deeper in his skull in the dark of the warehouse. Gregory could not tell if the old man was looking at him. “He signed the waiver. Joytime doesn’t make any distinction. So long as you sign and pay.” The old man pointed toward the gleaming box. “Don’t turn away yet,” he said. “You shouldn’t miss this part.”
On the far wall of the box the attendant strapped the man’s locked body into the chair. His ankles were bound to the front legs; his torso fastened around the dowels of the backrest. The attendant exited and secured the door. The man was alone on the stage. His head slumped on his shoulder and his arms pulled tight against his chest. His face distorted into a cavernous frown and he began to cry.
Gregory’s chest surged. “Are they electrocuting him? It looks like it’s shocking him.”
The little girl turned to Gregory. “Serious?”
“He’s in agony. This wasn’t in the waiver.”
“You have no idea how this works.”
“Not all react the same,” the old man said. He chewed at his cheeks. “This isn’t unheard of though. This is the part that’s never reported. Screams, the occasional incontinence. Only a rider knows this.”
“The light’s not even on yet,” the girl said. “That’s when the real fun begins. This guy’s going to totally pop. I’ll put money on it. You watch.”
Gregory’s lungs shrunk. His heart flexed tight and he felt himself grow sick. He looked for an exit.
“You can tell he’s a noob,” the girl said.
“Me?”
“That guy. Look at him. He’s trying to wiggle out of the chair. I don’t know why he’s yelling to get out.” She made a falsetto voice. “Help me. Oh, God. Help me. Like that’s going to work.”
“They won’t let you exit,” the old man said. “Once you’re in you must ride. Never an exception.”
“Get ready.” The girl rocked to her toes. Her nose pointed up toward the Killbox. “Here she comes.”
Gregory grabbed his shirt collar. The old man handed him a handkerchief from his breast pocket. “I’m alright,” Gregory said.
“You know the best part of a wedding, my favorite part?”
“No,” Gregory said.
“When the bride is revealed.”
“Of course,” Gregory said. His eyes focused on the black box. The wires began to pulse to life.
“Most look back—of course they do. She’s beautiful and they want to see the dress.”
“The box. It’s shaking. Is that supposed to happen?”
“Completely normal.” The old man put a hand on Gregory’s back. He extended his other arm toward the rider. “When everyone rises to watch the bride I like to turn the other way. I watch the groom. The way a man looks when he sees his bride for the very first time. What it does to him. All that emotion on display. You rarely see that in a man. The way he fights to hold it together as his eyes well over. That’s the best part.”
The tile slid up and there was a momentary quiet that stilled the line.
“It’s moving. Look,” Gregory said.
The girl jumped and stretched her neck. “Yes. Here we go.”
Gregory held his breath. The pulse in his neck pounded his head forward. His heart quickened as he watched the box give birth to a sleek rod. From the darkness the barrel of a shotgun glinted inside the Killbox. The gun slipped into the room until it settled just short of the man’s chin. The man’s cheeks puffed and he snorted from his nose. He jerked his head violently to the side in an effort to avoid the barrel, but the restraints held. His chest tugged and he began to pant in quick, sharp cries. His eyes and nose ran. Horror gargled from his throat.
“My God,” Gregory said. He grabbed the old man’s sleeve. “I don’t think I can watch.”
“That’ll be you soon enough,” the girl said. She cupped her hands against her mouth. “Come on, man,” she said. “Ride hard or go home.”
The old man took a gentle hold of Gregory’s wrist. “You shouldn’t miss this. Look, there. It’s just now starting.” He guided Gregory’s view to the Killbox.
The warehouse lights dimmed and the Killbox gleamed like a precious stone in a store window. A hush settled the room. The little girl held out her hand and began to count on her fingers. As she got to five a buzzer chirped and a timer lit up above the Killbox. A red light triggered and the Killbox was bathed in an ominous glow.
A roar crashed through the warehouse. In unison the riders counted down the numbers of the timer. “Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.”
“Now it’s live,” the old man said. “No safety with the light on.”
Although he had barely entered the warehouse, the pedestal in the center of the room offered him an unobstructed view of the rider. Gregory winced. He did not want to witness this. He was not ready for the lifelong burden of carrying around something he could not unsee. A man shot. His blood slapped against the glass. But he could not turn away.
The invalid shook. His screams carried over the crowd with the fervor possessed only by a man condemned. He stretched his neck, exposing a map of sinew and veins. But his fits held no reward. The barrel stared him down the same. Gregory veiled his eyes. “Oh, God. Please, no,” he said. He removed his hand and watched the timer cross into single digits. The crowd raised their fists. As the timer drew closer to its end their chants grew louder. “Look at him,” the girl said. “Man, he’s really going now.” The invalid shook faster. His body rocked with an increasing intensity as if it were building to one great crescendo before remaining forever still. Gregory’s heart thudded. His throat cinched tight and his tongue dried in his mouth. He grabbed at his chest. Please let him make it. Not here. Not sobbing in a box like this. Gregory closed his eyes. He could not bear the final seconds. The crowd pumped their arms to the beat of the timer. As it struck zero a buzzer rang out and the red light turned off. The crowd screamed and the house lights came on. With the commotion it was hard to be certain, but Gregory did not think he heard a gun blast. He was hesitant. But it could not be avoided. He opened his eyes. The invalid was alive, panting and exhausted in the box. Gregory chuckled. He began to clap with the crowd and a laughter overtook him. As it did he put his hands on his head in disbelief. He felt as if he might weep from the excitement of seeing the rider alive in there.
Two attendants carried the man back down from the Killbox. His head bobbed loosely as they installed him in his wheelchair. His clothes had been steeped in sweat. As he sat, his shoulders collapsed and it looked as if he had come from the back half of beyond. They pushed him toward the exit and the crowd cheered. If he had a hat, Gregory might have removed it as he wheeled past him. The man looked up at Gregory. He wanted to speak to him but did not. He wanted to know why. The man scratched his head and smiled. “That was it.” His eyes fogged over. “Greatest day of my life right there.”
Before the next rider, they sprinkled the floor with sawdust and swept it clean. They spritzed the chair, the buckles, the straps, and toweled them dry. Gregory was impressed with the keen urgency of the attendants’ work. It reminded him of a grounds crew primping an infield between innings.
“So who fires it?” Gregory said to the old man.
“Nobody,” the girl said. She thumbed at her phone before nodding her head to the music.
“Guns don’t just go off. Somebody has to fire them.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “That’d be murder. You can’t kill people.”
“It’s an algorithm,” the old man said.
“You should learn some manners,” Gregory said.
“From you? Please, that’s unlikely.”
“You could at least have the respect to put away your phone.”
She shook her head before turning her back to him.
Gregory threw his h
ands up. “I don’t get it.”
“They’re just mathematical rules for a problem.”
“These kids. I’d burn my hair to rip that phone from her head.”
“Best not to feed in.” The old man shifted his stance. “It encourages them.”
Gregory watched them load another rider. This time, a young mother. She had with her a pair of children in matching overalls. They waited for her outside the Killbox, gleefully pounding on the glass with their palms, jumping and shouting for their mother.
“This can’t be,” Gregory said.
“What?” the old man said.
“That woman. What is she thinking?”
“I know. Those kids lack guidance, smudging the glass like that.”
“She’s going to let them watch? It’s disgusting.”
“What?” the old man said. “Would you have her leave them in the car? It’s not like it was in our day. Do that and they’ll call CPS.”
“But if it happens. Their noses are on the glass. They’ll witness their … I don’t even want to picture it.” “Answer me this.”
Gregory watched them strap her in. As they fastened her ankles the mother waved to her children. “Look at Mommy,” she said. Her hand fluttered and she blew them kisses. “Mommy’s in the box. Look at your Mimi in the box.”
“Would you give a second thought, say, if she were flying on business and her children watched with the same delight you see here, as her plane soared in the air?”
“That’s rhetorical,” Gregory said.
“Of course you wouldn’t.” The old man stuck the tip of his tongue from his mouth. He pinched it with his fingers. “When in truth, her children carry a higher probability of seeing their mother’s untimely end there than here.” “This is different.”
“Is it?”
The light came on and the crowd gave a less than enthusiastic cheer. “This is a spectacle. We’re talking about a violent, awful end.”
“Versus a fiery crash.”
“It’s a barrel to the chin. And they’re right there.” The children jumped for their mother. They banged their palms on the glass. “It’s a load right to the face.”
The little girl snickered. “Load.”
“You know, for someone so cool, you take an interest in our conversation.”
“I’m not.” The girl turned to them. “It’s a boring ride.” Gregory and the old man watched the woman in the box. She paid little attention to the gun in her face, but instead waved to the crowd, her lips growing proud. The little girl pointed her thumb over her shoulder. “I’ve seen her around. First couple times she was a dumpster fire. It was friggin’ awesome. Now she acts like it’s open mic night or something. Totally dumb.”
“Doesn’t she care about her kids?”
“There’s a welfare waiver thing,” the girl said. “It’s like, five bucks or something, and pays out the face.”
“It’s a sick type of show for her. How is she not afraid?”
“Understanding the odds. The algorithm,” the old man said.
“I heard some of the youngsters at the office talk about it. Like getting struck by lighting on a clear day.”
“Thereabouts.”
“But it’s still a loaded gun.”
The attendants removed the mother. They cleaned the box and loaded another rider. The old man counted on his fingers for Gregory. “It’s simple, really. The gun can go off only when the light is on.”
“Certainly.”
“A couple hundred thousand riders a year. That’s about four million seconds with the light on.”
“You’re saying I have a one in four million chance of dying today?”
“Not quite,” the old man said.
The girl held up her fingers, mocking Gregory. “Four, eight, twelve, sixteen.”
“The algorithm is set for a four-year cycle,” he said. “So once a cycle starts it will randomly pull a trigger once in that period.”
“So there’s a one in sixteen million chance it goes off on me.”
“Nope,” the girl said.
“Yes and no,” the man said.
Gregory pressed his fingers into his eyes. “Just forget I asked.”
Another rider entered the Killbox, a fetching young man. He wore sunglasses and stared into the barrel with a pitiless gaze, his mouth held fast in a pursed scowl. But when the light came on urine rilled down his leg. The crowd moaned.
“Look out,” the girl said. She pressed toward the glass. “We got a leaker.”
The old man stayed with Gregory. “All that matters is this. Whatever the odds may be, the algorithm will make the gun go off. The math demands it. And the rider must face it.”
The young man’s knees quivered and his hands began to shake. His face struggled to hold its expression. “The poor man,” Gregory said. “I hope I’m not like that.”
“One more and I’m up,” the girl said. She nodded her head to a song they couldn’t hear. “You watch. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
As the man left the box he staggered past the line. The old man held out his hands and applauded. “Now here’s a man who knows. Well done, young man.”
Gregory watched the girl take her place on deck. An atavistic fear took his stomach. In a rush he felt himself unsettle.
“That one,” Gregory said. He flicked his chin toward the soiled youth. “That impressed you? Even I could’ve lost myself like that.”
The old man leaned in. He took care to ensure his words slipped from his teeth to Gregory’s ear. “There’s never been a better chance than today.”
The girl unsaddled her book bag and dug toward the bottom. She forced two pieces of bubblegum into her mouth. Gregory watched her scan the crowd as she chewed. She looked lost and alone and more than ever it occurred to Gregory that she was just a kid. She was here alone. This sad creature without peers, trying to impress some strangers she’d never see again. His fingers trembled and he hid them in his pockets.
“Why?” he whispered. He could hardly move his mouth to speak. “Just, why?”
“That man knows what I know. Something a nice man like you ought to know before you go through with it.” The old man’s head tilted back. He looked down his nose at the rider in the box. “Never gone this long before,” he said. “Only a couple days left in this cycle. Tomorrow, perhaps today, someone has to die.” The light came on, casting its bloody glow on the old man’s face. And the grooves of his face deepened with black. Gregory turned away. His heart struck and he felt the thump in his ears. He watched the old man’s face. There was a sharp hope in the way he watched the rider. Still and expectant. Like watching a bare horizon, waiting for news. He held this expressionless gaze. Black hollowed beneath his brow. The ridge of his nose reflected a stripe of red light. And when the timer broke to single digits the old man set his jaw and Gregory couldn’t tell whether he wanted the man to live. The buzzer clanged through the warehouse.
Over the kick of the crowd Gregory could hear the girl’s voice. Thick and wet with gum she said, “Zero. That’s right, move him out. I’m up.” She had a confidence Gregory could not understand. The folly of Catholic girls. The youthful revolt in a staid uniform. He did not know why. But he knew he must protect her. He would not let her ride.
Gregory moved forward but the old man stopped him. He clicked his tongue as he shook his head. “That’s not for you to decide.” Gregory wanted to call out. He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to ride. But it occurred to him that he did not even know her name, so he stood there silent. The attendant took the book bag from the girl and set it next to the stairs. His hand circled her arm and he helped her onto the platform. She made her way toward the door but before passing the threshold of the box she turned. Her hair bounced as it brushed past her shoulder. She tugged one of her socks, evening them on her skinny legs. She let her arms dangle loose against her skirt. Above the crowd she looked even smaller, more frail. She was a child. Up there all alone. About to do something
she couldn’t possibly comprehend. Gregory saw the fear building in her eyes. A single touch, a simple act of sympathy, and she would have unraveled. Her eyes looked down at Gregory. She bent her arm and gave him a slight wave. Gregory looked to the floor. He did not want to see her there waving at him, asking for help in her way.
“She’s never ridden it,” Gregory said. The attendant turned her and herded her through the door of the Killbox. “Wait,” said Gregory. “She can’t ride.” But the attendant was already inside securing her to the chair. Gregory pressed forward but was stopped by another man. “Stop,” Gregory said and he flailed his arms toward the platform. “It’s going to go off. You can’t let her ride.”
“No cutting,” a man yelled. “Wait your turn,” another said. And the crowd began to stir near the platform.
“Listen.” The attendant shook Gregory by the shoulders. “I have the authority to open that back door with the front of your head. You take your place in line.” The attendant’s nose jabbed at him. Gregory shrank. “You’re up third. He’s on deck.” He pointed to the old man. Then he held up his arm and gave a thumbs up. The other attendant raised his hand and extended his thumb and the wires began to shake into the ceiling. The Killbox came alive. The old man stood tall and soundless. He folded his hands in front of him. He held a distinguished stance and kept a keen eye on the girl, his lips slightly puckering as the gun stopped short of her head. Gregory pressed his back against the platform and slid to the floor. He buried his eyes into his palms, pressing them so tight sparks spidered out in the darkness. He heard the crowd bellow. The child’s shrill scream. He wanted to pray, call out to some sympathetic god, but did not know how. “Please, Jesus. Oh, God,” spilled from his mouth. Over and again he offered his manic plea, his spine waiting for the rough blast of the barrel to wake him. The crowd bellowed. They chanted down the numbers. Gregory cried into his hands. He readied himself for the sacrifice. But the amen of fire did not come. The girl finished her ride with the long blare of the buzzer. The relief brought more tears. His chest heaved and his palms slid wet against his cheeks. Gregory uncovered his eyes to find a crowd staring at him. He dried his hands on his thighs as he stood.
