“Phony, exaggerated masculinity,” Jenna says. “Compensation for your shortcomings.”
“Ooh!” Polly’s eyes widen. She seems first delighted by the remark, then worried how Greyson might interpret her reaction. She looks down and away, now evasive.
Greyson glares at Jenna, then gives Mark the same hostile look. His face reddens and a vein in his forehead bulges. “Anybody who has any problem with my poems, anything I do, or anything I say, can fuck right off and stay the hell out of my face.”
With a gasp, Polly drops her glass on the counter and begins flexing both hands in and out of fists, her usual mechanism for trying to calm runaway anxiety. “Greyson, we’ve talked, we’ve talked about this. We need to… we all need to…” She trails off and takes several rapid in-out breaths through pursed lips.
Knowing what’s coming, Mark turns away. Polly is more apt to tilt from minor upset into full breakdown when she feels herself being watched. He fills a glass with ice and adds cold brewed coffee from a jar in the refrigerator.
Jenna too knows to look away. She dumps ice and two scoops of protein powder into a stainless-steel thermal cup, adds some of the cold coffee, screws on the lid and shakes it.
Even Greyson turns to focus on his food, drizzling syrup over ham and hash browns. He puts his plate into a microwave and pushes buttons.
In the background, Polly is hyperventilating. “It might be easier for me to cope,” she gasps, “if you all let me in on the program.”
Greyson groans. “The program again.”
“Polly…” Jenna begins, obviously frustrated. “There’s nothing we know that you don’t.”
“Yes.” Polly nods vigorously, her face more that of a child than a woman in her thirties. “Yes, you do so.”
“Your program,” Greyson says, shrill and mocking. “You guys, your top-secret program!”
“Come on,” Mark implores Greyson. “Don’t make it worse.”
Polly’s cheeks go bright pink. She emits a cough-like sputter and bursts into full-on tears.
“Aww,” Greyson baby-talks. “What’s eating you, Polly-wolly?”
Polly shakes her head, emitting puffs of breath through pursed lips, trying to regain control.
Jenna approaches and wraps an arm around Polly. “Come on, girl.”
Mark exhales, trying to dampen his own irritation. “Please.” He wants to tell Polly they’re all equally stressed. It doesn’t help when somebody keeps breaking down emotionally every single day, constantly accusing the others of gaslighting her. “Greyson, you’re making things worse.”
Greyson takes his breakfast from the microwave. “It can’t get fucking worse.”
“God, I already need a drink.” Jenna looks forlornly into her metal cup, then across the lounge toward the moody dimness of the corner they call Lonely Tavern, because there’s no bartender on duty. It’s the place they gather alternate evenings, each taking a turn serving the other three, who sit in the tall chairs, speaking to that night’s bartender as if he or she were a stranger, a new arrival here.
Triggered by Jenna’s suggestion and eager to soothe Polly, Mark almost suggests an impromptu bar session. Not only is it too early, but also the wrong day. Mark hates alcohol before a workout. Maybe they could skip exercise? He wishes Polly would get herself under control so they could return to their routine.
“You don’t think we’re against you,” Greyson says to Polly, leaning in close, eye to eye. “You don’t. You just pretend you do, because you want to draw attention to yourself.”
Polly’s hyperventilating and hand-wringing give way, and she spins, flinging both arms outward in anger, fluttering her hands, and bursts into another fit of sobs. “I’ll do what I’m told, I’ll be an asset to the project, I just … let me in on it, just let me in! Let me know secrets.”
Her outbursts have been happening more often, and no longer only after they’ve all been drinking. Jenna has suggested to Mark, away from the others, that Polly only wants to gain attention, and doesn’t really believe what she says, almost exactly as Greyson had suggested. Despite escalating tantrums, Polly otherwise remains friendly. Even after lashing out at Greyson, and despite his mockery at such times, they seem closer than ever, once her flare-ups subside.
Still, Mark questions how much he and Jenna really know about Polly and Greyson. He once suggested to Jenna that if the two of them were keeping secrets about their own relationship, maybe Polly and Greyson were, too. At that, Jenna lifted an eyebrow and stared as if she couldn’t guess what he was talking about.
“The secrets,” Polly whines, as if drawing out the words might unlock what they conceal.
“There aren’t secrets,” Jenna insists. “You know everything we do.”
This may not be true, but Mark believes it best Polly continues to believe so.
Greyson is devouring his breakfast. “Nobody here knows shit,” he says between bites large enough to choke a German Shepherd. Mark drinks his coffee first, then blends a protein shake, while Jenna mixes the two together. They all eat and drink, standing in a row at the counter, Polly being pointedly ignored by the others, until the backdrop of her sobs and muttering gradually quiets, then stops.
Finally after a brief silence, Polly speaks. “Maybe I need new medicine.” Blank-eyed, face slack with fatigue, she seems cried out. She bites into a dry onion bagel, and gazes down into her apple juice, but doesn’t drink any more of it.
Sometimes out of nowhere, Mark finds a pull of attraction to Polly. Red-haired and freckled, with a build more strong than graceful, she differs from his usual preferred type. Physically, Polly’s a better match to Greyson, and usually, Mark remains focused on Jenna. Still, he guesses it must be normal for a man locked away with two women, if he’s no longer intimate with the one, to start wondering about the other.
“Speaking of meds, time for the daily doses,” Greyson says, now done with breakfast. “Ready or not.”
“I didn’t mean our usual medicine.” Polly sets the juice glass on the counter forcefully, making such a loud crack they all flinch, though the glass doesn’t break. “I need something stronger. For my moods.”
“Maybe you need a solitary pursuit,” Mark says, and immediately regrets it. Jenna elbows him in the ribs. “We’ll sift through those old supply rooms on four, Polly.”
Jenna alone refers to levels by number, the highest being one, the lowest nine. “We haven’t searched there in a while. Maybe we’ll find medicine different from what’s in the med lab.”
“We can?” Polly asks in a baby voice. “You guys promise?”
Greyson sighs. “We can look, but we’re not going to find anything.”
“We’ll all help,” Mark agrees.
“Okay.” Polly nods. “Everybody helps, you promised. Good. That’s good.”
An Interlude
Four Descending Stairs
Mark becomes lost in a swirl of footsteps echoing in a concrete stairwell. How can so many people make walking sounds all at once, in such a narrow space? Only four people exist, but they sound like many.
“We will,” Greyson says. His words repeat and circle back. “We will, we will, but later, later.”
At first Mark’s unsure what’s being discussed, until he returns to now, and here. He remembers some of what the other have been saying while his mind has been elsewhere. Polly keeps insisting over and over that the others renew their promises to help her look for new medicine. Every time, the others offer reassurance that they fully intend to help as soon as other obligations are finished, and Polly is only briefly appeased before she asks again.
“It’s just, what I’m taking isn’t enough,” Polly says. “Obviously, I mean, just listen to me. All crazy over here. Totally crazy, this girl. It’s so stupid. It’s really dumb.”
“We have to take our regular meds first,” Mark says. “That, we can’t skip.”
“Not only that,” Jenna adds. “We have to exercise after. And you’re not dumb or stupid, Po
lly.”
On the next landing, the residential level, they pass the steel door which has been propped open forever. They continue past and down.
“No, exercise later,” Polly insists. “You guys promised. Exercise later.”
Mark wants to repeat his insistence on handling obligations first. Med center, then Gymnasium, then only after that’s resolved, they can help Polly dig through disorganized boxes in long-forgotten storerooms. The burden of routine weighs upon him, yet he feels no escape is possible.
“Fine,” Greyson concedes, deciding for all. “We’ll take our regulation meds, then go find whatever else you need.”
“Okay,” Jenna agrees. “We can work out later.”
At first, such an unexpected change in plans feels like a disruption, but now that others have given permission to break from routine, Mark experiences the lightness of relief.
Three
Medicine Center, Vibrating Machines
The tile walls and floor of the Medicine Center are brilliant, reflective white. Hot glare burns down from powerful halogen lamps recessed in the ceiling. Just like the tavern lacks a bartender, no doctor is present to dispense required daily medications. Each of the four has always known, without remembering ever having been told, which bottles they need, and in what dosages. They self-administer shots, or count pills to be swallowed with water. Each sits in their own elegant white leather reclining chair, Bauhaus-inspired works of functional art, all in a row.
Beside each, a stainless-steel tray organizes the day’s medicines. Their remaining supply, sufficient to last years, is kept within glass-fronted coolers along one wall. Further back, a massive freezer stores deep overstock for the longer term, though Mark imagines none of them want or expect to remain here long enough to deplete the refrigerated supply. He takes this as given, that they will never need to delve into the deep-freeze, though nobody ever talks about how soon they might be able to depart.
Beyond the coolers, nearer the freezer, stand a dozen coffin-sized stainless-steel cylinders, which resemble vertical tanks of pressurized liquid gas, but bear no markings to indicate what they might contain. An intense hum emits from these, causing uncomfortable vibrations in the gut of anyone who approaches within arm’s reach. Mark once briefly rested a palm on the first cylinder, which churned as if it contained some terrible, wobbling engine about to break loose and crack the metal shell like a hatchling emerging from an egg. A violent buzz threatened to shatter his bones and disintegrate soft tissues. Teeth chattered wildly and vision blurred until finally, on the verge of irrevocably losing all sense of himself, he stepped back.
Now everyone steers clear of that part of the room. Nobody mentions the cylinders, which never stop humming.
Each of the four focuses on their own medicines, pretending to ignore what the others are giving themselves, and in what dosages. Mark can’t recall being told not to share these details, yet another matter they never discuss. The others seem to agree, discretion helps avoid trouble.
“Wait a minute, just wait. Say what?” Greyson directs these remarks toward Jenna, in response to some comment Mark must have failed to hear or register. “Exactly what do you think is happening here? God, you’re as bad as Polly with this loony shit.”
Jenna glances half-lidded at Mark, then back at Greyson. “All I said was tests, Greyson. God, you’re such a hopped-up asshole when you’re dosing.”
Mark assumes all he missed was Jenna’s vague theorizing about all of them being test subjects. It’s a notion all of them have asserted at various times, even recently.
“No, no. Just no.” Greyson sits upright, turns and straightens so his pink, hairy feet are on the floor. He’s breathing fast, and seems tense and angry. A drop of sweat arcs down his forehead to his temple. “We’re not at home, we’re not going to work at jobs, living lives, coming home to families. What we’re doing here is… No, I want you to say it, Jenn-Jenn. Tell me what you think this is.”
Jenna inhales slowly, and as she exhales, relaxes her shoulders. “We’re in a test facility, we’re far underground. Can we agree on that much, or do you need to fight over every detail?”
“No, no.” Greyson shakes his head in sputtering, unreasonable anger. “Just fucking no.”
Jenna remains focused on her breathing, practicing an approach to calm mindfulness she once tried to explain to Mark. “Yes. And can we further agree that we all know perfectly well that we’re far removed from the world?” She phrases this as a polite question, but in a tone that suggests nobody should bother disagreeing.
“Very far,” Polly agrees, eyes still closed.
“Wait, just one fucking second. What does that mean, far from the world?” Greyson’s voice is unusually high, as if he feels more threatened than angry, and wants to distract himself from that fear. He’s rigid from neck to shoulders, grinding his jaw like a speed freak. “So you’re saying, not only far below the surface, that’s not far enough removed from humanity, right? They’ve also got to bury us, where? In such a remote fucking nowhere spot on the map that even if we did ever climb out, we’d die before we could walk to help?”
Polly opens her eyes and looks around. “Climb out, Greyson?” “Nobody’s climbing out.” Mark restrains an urge to elaborate.
“Nobody’s walking anywhere, until it’s over. Have you seen that outer door?”
Jenna continues smiling in a way that seems designed to show Greyson he’s not getting to her. “Mark’s right. We’re locked in.”
“You know, actually, I think we aren’t the real test, ourselves,” Polly interjects. “We’re like a simulation of the big test they’ll do later, somewhere farther away. Isn’t that right? Like, a test for a test. I mean, humanity is just a trial run anyway. Preliminary, that’s the word. Preliminary test. Each test is practice for another test, and that’s practice for the next one. Only, how many? Like, which one is this?”
Still reclining, Jenna extends her right arm toward Polly in a gesture of solidarity or connection, even though they’re too far apart to touch. Her eyes remain dreamy, as if she’s submerged in warm bliss, not in the middle of yet another tiresome argument. Maybe her medications boost her ability to detach from conflict.
“Somewhere farther away, like where?” Greyson insists. He settles back, trying to recline again. “Siberia? Venus? Jesus, you fucking people. All three of you think this is something completely different, but somehow you’re all in agreement that I’m the only one here who’s wrong about things.”
“Questions to be answered include,” Polly says, as if reciting from memory, “what are the effects of spacial confinement, of social constraint, of aesthetic limitation, of restricted air and sunlight, of adherence to shifted chronological cycles, after one month’s duration?”
“A month, is it?” Greyson snaps, whipping back and forth to glare at each of the others in turn. “Who said a month, who said any specific amount of time? When did anyone ever say that?”
“Don’t be so defensive about forgetting,” Polly says. “We all forget things, more and more every day.”
“It’s a designed, utopian environment, like a pleasure vacation,” Jenna says with a little shrug, seemingly still untouched by Greyson’s game of escalating anger and belittlement. “With a bit of work and routine obligation mixed in, to make life feel normal, so we remain balanced.”
“Utopian, what the fuck?” Greyson says in disgust. “This resembles utopia in absolutely no way at all. I can’t believe you even use that word here, buried down in this fucking shit-basement. Pleasure vacation. Psssh.” In disgust, he reclines so abruptly and with such force, he strikes the back of his head on the chair’s metal frame.
Mark feels an urge to stand, to rise from his chair and take some physical action against Greyson’s bullying. Usually Jenna speaks up quickly to smack Greyson down, but she’s peaceful now, eyes closed, apparently focused on Zen-like detachment. Mark finds it easier to let these aggressions pass when Jenna immediately puts Greyson
in his place. But this quiet aloofness of Jenna’s, while it might work for her, leaves Mark wishing someone would knock Greyson down a notch or two. He should be the one to do it. Jenna has never needed defending. No, he should calm down. He wants so badly to lash out, to do something, anything. At least words.
“You guys, things are getting worse,” Polly says. “We’re basically hostile all the time.”
“Hostility destroys any possibility of settling into stable life,” Jenna says, eyes still closed. “When every minute there’s a new fight, adrenaline pumps nonstop. The atmosphere we breathe becomes poison.”
“Not everyone here is confrontational,” Mark says. “Only one of us.”
“Whatever makes you feel superior, kiddos.” Greyson exhales noisily, and crosses forearms over his eyes as if the light bothers him. “The human animal is nasty, especially in captivity. Sorry if I’m not willing to submit myself to the fake, phony bullshit like you all.”
“Jenna was right before, Greyson,” Polly sing-songs. “You’re just compensating for shortcomings. Pathetic shortfalls in key areas.”
Mark laughs, but wishes he could let it go. It may be satisfying, seeing childish shots landed on Greyson, but they all know it’ll only lead to escalation and payback. He swallows his last pill, closes his eyes, and tries to remember what Jenna always tells him about relaxing through meditation. Anything to calm his nerves, stop the trembling. Only a few minutes rest remain before it’s time to get out the blades.
An Interlude
Lost Blood and Discarded Flesh
Today is Mark’s turn in the rotation for biological disposal.
The others leave without cleaning up after themselves. After they’re gone, Mark uses tweezers to gather organic detritus from each work stand into the larger stainless-steel tray atop the roll cart. Tiny snips of detached skin, unwanted eyelids, lobes and appendages, discarded trimmed nails, hairs and eyelashes pulled out by roots, all the flesh scattered amidst blood smears and spatters. Every day, the shedding of these parts leaves behind more waste than all the days before. This avalanche of decay, a kind of incremental death, is necessary for the renewal it brings. Each morning’s birth, nearer and nearer to something new, and possibly final.
Armageddon House Page 2
