Armageddon House

by Michael Griffin

  An Interlude

  Guessing Game

  On the stairs, Polly wants to play a game.

  “We’re already playing one,” Mark says. “Every day, the game of up and down stairs.”

  “Every time Jenna suggests a game, we always play,” Polly complains. “But when I make up a game, nobody wants to play.”

  What Polly is saying is true. Between obligations, Jenna often suggests games she’s invented to make the time pass more quickly. Mark once considered it an added benefit that the games helped them learn more about one another, but he no longer considers familiarity to be a good thing. Almost everyone treats strangers with more respect than the people they know best.

  The problem is that Polly’s games aren’t really games, just excuses to make everyone think about Polly and talk about her. Mark hesitates to say so, but Greyson gladly does.

  “Polly, you always suggest stupid games.”

  “Won’t somebody?” Polly whines.

  “Not unless you say what it is first,” Jenna says, apparently thinking along the same lines as Mark and Greyson.

  “Somebody else, please?” Polly’s voice reaches still higher into shrillness.

  Mark’s the only one who hasn’t refused yet. “It doesn’t seem like a great idea right now,” he says. “We’re trying to stay calm, and not fight for a second or two. Maybe later.”

  “Maybe later doesn’t mean you actually might play,” Polly complains. “It means, shut up, Polly. It means, your ideas are terrible, Polly. It means, you’re a stupid bitch, Polly.”

  “It doesn’t mean that,” Mark says.

  Polly rallies, starting over with fresh enthusiasm, as if suggesting the game for the first time. “Come on, you guys! If we all play, it won’t take as long. Everybody, three guesses each. Or five.”

  At the next landing, Greyson surprises everyone by agreeing. “Okay, Polly. What kind of guesses?”

  “You know, you know.” Polly claps her hands rapidly and squeaks in a way that means she’s happy. “The game of guess what Polly’s thinking of. Who goes first? Mark, you go first!”

  “Okay,” Mark concedes, because he seems not to have any choice. He concentrates on receiving a clear mental vision of whatever Polly’s thinking of.

  “I’ll guess,” Jenna says. “You’re thinking of that time detectives found Greyson’s cut-up body stashed under Mark’s bed.”

  Greyson gives Polly a look, which Mark interprets to mean, Did you notice what Jenna just said? Not ‘our bed,’ but ‘Mark’s bed.’ But if that’s what they’re thinking, neither says anything. Maybe they already know, and only wonder why Mark and Jenna keep pretending.

  “I never think negative things,” Polly says. “Mark, you first. It’s your turn.”

  Mark tries to recall her story. “You’re thinking of the time when you were thirteen, a salesman knocked on your front door, and you answered, and the man forced his way in and kissed you.”

  “No,” Polly says. “That’s close, but no.”

  “You’re thinking of animal cookies sprinkled with blue sugar, with hot cinnamon candies for eyes,” Greyson says.

  “Yes, yes, good guess!” Polly claps her hands. “Godzilla cookies, like our mom made.”

  “Whose mom?” Mark asks.

  “Ours, dummy,” Greyson says. “Polly’s and mine. Duh.”

  “Wait, what?” Mark asks, disbelieving. “Both of you, the same mom?”

  “Same mom, same dad,” Polly says flatly.

  Mark turns to Jenna. “Did you know about this?”

  Jenna shakes her head, confused. “You two… are brother and sister?”

  “We’ve only mentioned it like a thousand times,” Greyson says. “We’re twins, obviously. I mean, we’re both artists. Also, did you not notice we look exactly alike?”

  Mark can’t believe he’s missed something so important. Jenna too is surprised, but there’s no way Greyson or Polly has ever mentioned this before. What’s more, Mark’s absolutely certain he’s seen them being physically demonstrative, not just affectionate in a brother-sister way, but intimate. They’ve talked at times about each other’s relatives, not a single shared family. He’s about to press for clarification when Polly stops walking and falls behind.

  When the others notice and turn back, Polly begins acting strangely. She bends forward at the waist and straightens, bends and straightens again and again, like some strange, repetitive exercise. Her mouth hangs open and her eyes widen, evoking innocent surprise, rather than fear.

  It’s not only her movements, but her features and color. Her hair hangs straight, no longer kinky. Skin smooth, unmarked by any hint of the freckles she hates. Eyes clear and steady, as if she’s shed her usual worry.

  Greyson turns away and resumes walking. Jenna follows, then before Mark can approach to check on her, Polly shrugs off the grossest of involuntary movements. She straightens and follows the others, still looking changed, not quite the same Polly who began the day.

  “This can’t continue,” Mark mutters. What most worries him is the possibility that it might.

  Eight

  Marble Museum with Blast Door

  Time proceeds, seconds spinning, days piling up to become a teetering monument of years. Spaces accumulate vertically, levels stacked like layer cake. If some day there arrives a cutoff point after which all time ceases, at least finally there will be a stop to the endless seeking, climbing and descending.

  Mark worries that after being so distracted by internal wishes and hopes, he might miss external signs when they come.

  And now, there’s something new, a sign of change. A sound.

  “Shh, shh.” Mark stops, holds himself critically still, listening for something he may have heard. There is no clue to help clarify what may have happened, yet he’s certain. “Something’s different. Something opened.”

  Polly’s eyes widen, more excited by Mark’s reaction than anything she’s noticed herself. “Maybe you’re right this time!”

  Jenna’s brow furrows, more in fear than excitement. “I feel something too.”

  Greyson nods, as dreadful possibilities seems to dawn. “What is it? Someone coming?”

  “Did you hear that sound?” Polly whispers with nervous intensity. Both hands fly to her face, eyes wide. “What does it mean? What’s going to happen, Mark?”

  “Don’t be scared,” Greyson assures her. “It’ll be okay.”

  “What is it?” Jenna asks. “Where should we go? Where haven’t we looked yet?”

  Mark tries to remember. “We never finished searching Bottom Cavern.”

  “We looked there for Polly,” Greyson says. “But she’s here now, we found her. There’s no reason to go down again.”

  Mark remains convinced exploration is in order. The only place they’ve visited less frequently than Bottom Cavern is the opposite extreme, the uppermost entry chamber they call the Marble Museum. Why have they stopped going there? Probably because the blast door clarifies the reality of being sealed in. Confinement is hard enough without facing the constant reminder of lacking control over whether or not they’ll ever be able to leave.

  “I don’t know what we’re looking for,” Mark says cautiously, “but I’ve always felt that we’ll discover whatever we need to know.”

  “Something really has opened up,” Jenna says. “Hasn’t it?”

  “Maybe it’s the end.” Polly trembles visibly. “We should go up. I mean, we’re already climbing. Let’s keep going, all the way.”

  “Maybe it’s open,” Jenna says, breathless. “The door, could it be open?”

  “It could.” Greyson’s expression mingles wonder and fright. “Maybe it unlatched and swung open, and we could walk up and out into the world any time we want.”

  “Oh my god,” Jenna says. “Oh, wow.”

  Mark surges ahead and leads the way. He climbs fast, energized, mindless of his fatigue, unaware how hard he’s breathing. Every landing and doorway passes in a blur until
the top.

  “This one is strange,” Jenna says, and steps into the top level. “So strange.”

  Each level has a purpose, but Marble Museum offers unusual contradictions. The exit wall is dominated by a steel blast door supported by massive hydraulic arms, while most of the room is a gleaming white stone gallery full of sumptuous paintings and classical sculptures. Stairs curve up along the outer wall to a broad circular catwalk that overlooks the chamber. At the room’s center, the trunk of a giant ash tree emerges from the marble floor and rises to penetrate the ceiling, roots hidden somewhere below, branches and leaves presumably above. No other signs of this tree or any other can be seen in any level other than this one, and Bottom Cavern.

  Mark has always liked to imagine the tree has somehow found the surface, penetrating earth and stone to reach open air and sunlight. How else could it continue to grow and thrive? If it were dead, it would soften and rot.

  One thing he remembers from this room is the way his ears popped when the massive hinges pulled shut the drive-over blast door. It tilted up to vertical and settled into machined grooves, sealing out the world. That sense of pressure is all he recalls of what must have been the time of his arrival. He remembers none of the others being present.

  As they reach a point far enough into the room to see past the stone pillars and statues, they all stop at once. No one breathes.

  Despite everyone’s hopes, the door remains shut.

  “Oh, no,” Jenna moans.

  “Damn it, just…” Polly sputters, breaking the silence. “God damn it!”

  “It felt like something was different,” Mark says, wondering if that’s really the way it felt, or if he only ever experienced wishful thinking. “I guess it isn’t time.”

  “As if there’s ever going to be any right time,” Jenna says, with uncharacteristic frustration. “Or any purpose to any part of this.”

  “There’s always purpose,” Polly says, trying to seem like she really means it.

  “We ignore time passing,” Jenna says, “so it carries us faster, faster. Dangerously fast.”

  “What do you suppose the weather’s like outside?” Polly asks, looking up.

  It’s treacherous up there, Mark wants to say. It always has been.

  Jenna places a hand against the blast door and pushes, as if this small added pressure might cause the solidly anchored metal to flatten and open inward. She turns to face the others. “We can’t feel it, or see it, but the world’s still moving. The winds, the tides.”

  Mark thinks of the wind, and realizes the air is definitely still moving. He felt it before, and still feels it, even though they’ve ruled out that it’s coming from this level.

  “This,” Mark begins slowly, cautiously, “is what I think.”

  “Yes, tell.” Polly seems eager to hear.

  “The test is to prove being hidden from sun, from rain, from fresh air, from radiation, from media and human interaction, won’t protect us from changing.”

  “Changing?” Greyson asks.

  “Yes,” Mark says. “I don’t remember what it’s called, the big event, that one that has a long name. An important word, one that’s on the tip of my tongue. You know what I mean, you remember before. The end of things. Broken memories, shifted consciousness, misplaced emotions. Inappropriate love and desire. Our lives feel like they’re moving too fast, and it’s because they’re constantly on the verge of ending at any moment.”

  Greyson scowls. “Come on, you’re just making shit up.”

  “You talk about it like it’s a story we’re all supposed to know,” Polly says.

  “Yes, we should. From all the times it’s happened before.” Mark wants to project more confidence than he feels.

  Greyson approaches, grips Mark firmly by the shoulders and starts pushing him backward. This time he’s not trying to shove him down, only to move him back a few steps until he stops against a statue of a slim, naked youth holding a spear.

  “You can’t tell us now, after all this time, you’ve always known what this is.” Greyson’s usual hostility has shifted to an angular terseness born of fear. “Why do we keep waking up here, keep going through these motions, unless that’s what life is supposed to be?”

  “Stop it, both of you!” Polly shrieks. Her face reddens and tears well in her eyes.

  Mark removes Greyson’s hands from his shoulders, and Greyson doesn’t resist. This restraint is somehow more disconcerting than his usual aggression. Mark doesn’t know what to say. Admit he doesn’t know, that he only said those things because he wants to feel there’s some point to this? If he pretends he knows, the others might listen. Everybody wants to believe what they’re doing has some kind of meaning.

  Mark could stop talking, go back to his room, but instead he elaborates. “The impasse is this: Humankind’s innate nature is destructive to the very human project.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jenna asks. “Just the usual bickering?”

  “No, more than that,” Mark says. “Our real stories are all murder, incest, betrayal—”

  “Stop throwing around words,” Greyson says.

  “You hate hearing those words because you’re the cause,” Mark says.

  “He’s right,” Jenna agrees. “Polly’s afraid to tell. You make her afraid.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Stop it!” Polly cries, a jagged shriek.

  The ground rumbles, the walls shake.

  Jenna looks around. “This might be it.”

  The air moves, a rushing wind.

  “So what do you think, why is there a museum here?” Greyson asks, gesturing.

  “He asked, trying to change the subject,” Jenna says.

  “What are they trying to tell us?” Greyson continues.

  “This door may not be open,” Mark says, indicating the blast door, “but another is, somewhere. Air from outside’s getting in.”

  Jenna steps closer to Mark. “Where?”

  Greyson staggers away from the others, fingers splayed wide.

  Mark ignores him. “It has to be all the way down.”

  Greyson’s mouth contorts as if stifling a scream, and his head shakes and bobs, with the occasional hard snap to the left.

  “What’s he trying to say?” Polly approaches Greyson, but stays out of reach.

  Greyson’s mouth opens in a silent scream. His bulging eyes redden and watery tears fall. His skin whitens, becomes wrinkled; his face and neck splits and tears like crepe paper, but without bleeding.

  “I don’t need this,” Jenna says, backing away. “I don’t. I’m a married woman with two beautiful girls. I don’t want any more drama. I only want to get through this and get back to my family.”

  Jenna’s words steal Mark’s attention from whatever’s happening to Greyson. What did she say?

  Married.

  What does that mean? Himself and Jenna, was that only an affair, was she only ever pretending she wanted him, loved him? If this has always been her situation, how can he never have seen? He used to lie beside her, watch her so closely, listen as she slept. Her skin, her breathing beneath his gentle touch. He’s never really known Jenna.

  “Married.” He tries to laugh. “You’re not married. You don’t have kids.”

  He looks to Greyson, who can’t even hold himself together, let alone help Mark understand. Greyson falls to the floor, body crumpling in on itself, bones folding into inhuman angles. It’s like when Polly transformed earlier, but more profound. Now Polly stands over him, but doesn’t dare touch.

  What words can Mark say to Jenna? Nothing. It’s too late to pretend this hasn’t destroyed him. He turns, leaving the others behind, and walks for the stairs. After a few steps, he can’t stop himself from running.

  An Interlude

  Wedding Dress and Hidden Gun

  In his room, Mark obsesses on the ticking of his watch. The passing of time is impossible to prevent, but Mark wishes he could disassemble and reassemble the parts so the days
would pass the way they’re supposed to. He lacks the tools. In this place, he’s made do with only this one watch, and no means to keep it working the way he wants.

  The ticking sounds correct, steady and clear. The interval of time between every tick is exactly the same length. The problem is, the gaps are the wrong size. He laments that he can’t fix things any more. It’s sad, the way life has become a hurried, meaningless rush, without satisfaction.

  There’s a knock on the door. Before he can think who it might be, let alone stand and answer, the door opens. It’s Jenna.

  “Sorry,” Mark says. “Had to gather myself.”

  “I know,” Jenna says. “I feel the same. We keep breaking and transforming, one at a time. I’m next, then you.”

  “I always think the problem is just Greyson,” Mark says, fussing with the watch to no effect. “Maybe it’s all of us.”

  Jenna turns and kneels by the clothing box at the foot of the bed.

  She touches the lid, and glances at Mark. “Polly’s staying with Greyson, until he’s back to normal. They’ll wait for us. You’re right, we need to keep looking. See where the wind’s getting in.” She opens the lid and Mark panics, certain she’ll find the hidden gun and bullets. He can’t think what he could say to stop her, or how to explain, should she find them.

  “Wait,” he whispers.

  Jenna reaches past Mark’s clothes toward the bottom, as if she knows what’s hidden.

  There’s nothing he can say, no way to stop her. Not without admitting what he’s hidden, and having to explain what he wants to happen.

  Jenna glances at him, smiling without concern, feeling around beneath his stacked clothing as if certain she’ll find what she seeks. “There’s no avoiding that it’s four of us, beginning to end. That’s how it’s got to be, love it or hate it. Four, or none. We separate and come back together, over and over again.”