by M. C. Atwood
For a minute, time stops and I can feel everything. I stop screaming.
There is an honest to god ocean wind in here. It rustles my hair and I can smell fish and seagulls and saltwater and deep, decaying things I do not want to smell. Seagulls are swarming around us and I hear their screeches and a caw. For some reason, I notice my purse by this thing’s feet along with the glass that burst out from the case he was trapped in and I say, “Hey. There’s my Gucci purse.”
And then I am whipped backward. Hard.
Time starts up again, this time on fast-forward. I land on a model boat in one of the blown-out cases. Wood slices into my back. My head bounces off the wall. In front of me, Paul is wrestling with the thing in the suit on the ramp floor and Violet is biting its hand. Out of nowhere, Gretchen appears and punt-kicks the thing’s head. It stops laughing and its eyes close. I notice, for whatever reason, she’s lost her monster bag. Gretchen stands there—girl is pale—hair sticking straight up, looking more than a little wild. Her chest is heaving and her eyes are on fire. Despite everything, my heart races, and for once in this House it’s not from fear.
I stand up fast. Too fast. I almost go back down again. My head throbs and I feel a huge bump on the back of my skull. I pick a splinter of wood out of my arm. In front of me, glass litters the ramp. But there’s no time to be picky because we’re losing ramp real estate to a flood. And that scuba-diver-thing has opened its eyes again.
“Let’s go!” I scream and step right on glass as I get out of the case. I gasp as sharp, stabbing pain shoots through both feet. I take a step on one foot and almost pass out. Another step. Must move toward exit. Ow, ow, ow. Fuck. Ow.
Gretchen turns to me. “We can’t leave Dylan!” she yells.
I hesitate.
The whale is splashing around and I can’t see Dylan anywhere. The ramp shifts under my feet in the sort of scary way that says shit’s going down.
“Screw this,” I say out loud to no one, and hobble as fast as I can up the ramp on the sides of my feet, the pain ebbing while my panic’s flowing.
I am not dying for some tweaker ass. Or even for whatever the fuck Gretchen is to me. Or for any of these losers. They’re losers! I tell myself. Losers.
That demon guy’s words echo in my ear as I limp up the ramp, not looking back on purpose.
Survival of the fittest.
I’M the fittest. I am getting out. I AM GETTING OUT OF HERE.
But something else wrestles with my head space. They did save me from whatever that scuba guy was. They could have run. They could have let him/it kill me. A tiny voice adds: Maybe you would have even deserved it. I tell that tiny voice to “fuck off”—out loud. In spite of the pain, I climb the ramp faster. I’m almost to the top. This isn’t socialism. The demon guy laid it out: Eat or be eaten. There’s no such thing as an even playing field and if you need help you’re clearly weak and maybe you should die and sucks to be you, stupid assholes, why should I help—
And then I hear Gretchen again: “Dylan, hold on!”
Despite myself, I stop and turn around.
That scuba-guy thing is being pinned down by what used to be statues of sea captains. They’d been standing on top of the glass cases but since those broke, they must have fallen off. They are small and dignified looking, and holy balls, they are huffing and puffing as they work to keep him/it down.
Hope shoots through me. Are they . . . helping us? Then the scuba guy starts laughing again. Even over the roar of the sea, the laugh gives me chills.
But of greater importance is Dylan dangling from a rope held by Paul, Gretchen, and Violet. I can see he’s slipping. He’s going to fall right into the mouth of the whale. And if not that, then straight into the water where he’ll most likely be crushed.
If one of them lets go of the rope to grab him, I’m guessing the whole effort would fall apart. Dylan can’t be that heavy, but the thrashing and the wind and the wobbly ramp won’t let them move.
I sigh.
Fucking moochers. Gretchen better thank me for this.
I run back as fast as I can on the sides of my feet and reach the group just as Dylan reaches up a hand to grab the slick railing. He hits it but his hand slips off and he’s going to fall.
I leap toward him and jackknife my body on the railing. My breath whooshes out of me and the world spins upside down. I’m staring into the mouth of a giant whale.
But I get his hand and hold on tight.
His hand is wet and is sllliiippping down and I almost lose him but he shoots his other arm toward me and I get a look at his face for an instant. His eyes are bright and wide and scared as fuck and there is eyeliner trailing down his face.
His other hand grabs on to me and we now have a four-hand locked grip, so I’ve got him. But then, oh shit, I feel my body flipping over the railing.
You better eat me fast, Whaley. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Someone grabs my belt; someone else grabs my feet; Gretchen grabs onto my arms, and Dylan and I are pulled back slowly over the railing. All five of us collapse in a heap. A sweaty, panting, not-so-wonderful smelling heap. Alive, though.
We stand up, and at that exact moment, the whale’s tail slams down again and knocks the ramp out right below us. I fall on my butt, hard, and someone half lands on me. But my eyes are on Gretchen who is half in the water and hanging on to the ramp.
Out of nowhere, Dylan sprints to her and pulls her out fast like a goddamn suburban mom lifting a car off her baby. The whole room is splinters and whale and squid and the scuba guy and the sea captains seem to be somewhere in the water. The whale has started thrashing in earnest now and squid tentacles smash into the walls above us and rumble below us. Glass breaks from what seems like a million different cases. We have maybe 15 feet of ramp to run up to get to the next door. Violet is in the lead up above. She’s lost the bloody rag on her head, the one that made her look like the hero of a revolution. But her eyes are full panic and she yells for the millionth time, “Run!”
So I do.
VIOLET
We make it up the ramp. Somehow, some way, we make it up. Once Ashley limps through—her feet are so bloody—I slam the door shut and lock it.
My lungs hurt. My ear hurts. My face hurts. I have scrapes everywhere, a large rash down one of my sides from who knows what. Saltwater stings my eyes, makes my ear scream.
I don’t even want to look in this room. I don’t even want to know what’s in here.
I put my head on my knees and wrap my arms around my legs.
I can’t deal with this. We’re not even close to being through this House. Whatever is in here can just kill me now.
A big, gasping sob shakes through me.
I feel wet arms wrap around me and I know it’s Paul. I’m too tired to tell him to leave me. As soon as I can talk I’ll tell him.
But I feel something else. More arms around me.
Someone is murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” The air around me is close and filled with people breathing in my space, my air. I think everyone has their arms around me. I stop crying with the surprise of it. And the fact that it feels good.
“Well, isn’t this touching,” a voice says above us. It has an English accent.
We break apart and I snap my head up. I look around but there’s no one there.
The room we’re in is almost completely empty except for mounted deer heads, ram heads, antelope heads on the wall. There are coats of arms leaning on wainscoting all around the perimeter of the room, one a lion and a unicorn. An old-fashioned life-sized ornate carriage with closed curtains stands in the corner. A white ram directly above me is talking. I scramble up and look at him.
Little laughs titter around the room.
The ram speaks. “Good lord, you people smell. Did you bathe in fish?”
Ashley huffs out. Her blonde hair is stri
ngy down her back. She has trickles of blood trailing with streams of water down her arms and even her face. Her feet are a mess of red. They look so bad I have to look away again.
I glance at each one of us. We are all the same—a mess of blood and water. The gash in Dylan’s forearm is bad. I can’t look at it without feeling sick. Paul has a long wound on his forehead that I know was from that subhuman thing in the scuba suit. I look at my hands. They are covered in scratches. A piece of glass sticks up between my forefinger and thumb. I pull it out with a hiss. And then I put my hand on my ear and inhale sharply. Salt water and wounds. Awesome.
That’s when I notice that Paul is looking at the bottom of the door. Everyone is. Water is leaking through.
Gretchen suddenly turns to Ashley, eyes flashing. “You left us!”
Ashley shifts on her feet, her face creased in pain. “I came back,” she says. “Which you should be thanking me for, by the way.” There isn’t any fire in her voice, though. None at all.
I think Ashley is having a feeling—which would be a banner day any other day. But this type of feeling I think she’s having is revolutionary. I think she feels bad.
Dylan says softly, “Gretch, she saved my life.”
Gretchen flips around, “We all did. We all helped each other. Except her.” Her voice is shaky and hard. I can see she is close to tears, something I never thought I’d see. Ever. And I realize she’s not actually mad at Ashley. She’s doing something my psychology professor mom used to accuse me of all the time—she’s transferring. She’s transferring her scared feeling to something she understands.
Anger. Hurt. Betrayal.
Ashley and Gretchen start going at it again. Both have pale faces, wide eyes. Both are visibly shaking. Their words are gibberish. I can’t help but think of alpha monkeys fighting for land.
Something shifts inside of me.
“Stop fighting, you guys,” I say quietly.
Ashley and Gretchen keep at it. And, before I can stop myself I yell it. “STOP FIGHTING.”
Everyone looks at me.
Shoot. Now I actually have to say something.
So, I say the first thing that comes to mind. And, surprisingly, it’s true. “We did save each other’s lives. But I think—no, I KNOW—that this House or demon or whatever wants us to think we’re alone in this, and that we have to fight with each other to get out alive. But . . .” I swallow. I’m in new territory here, not at all sure what I’m saying. But it feels right. “I kind of believe that in order for any of us to get out, we all have to get out. Like, together . . .”
Everyone has gone quiet. They stare at me, so I keep going.
“Look, we’re not even halfway done with this House,” I continue. “Every room is going to be something else we have to face. So I say we make a pact here and now that it’s all for one. Understand? We always come back for each other. Always. We are all getting out of this alive—I think it’s the only way.” I stand up straighter. The pain in my ear stops throbbing for just a second. “We do this together.”
Paul starts nodding. Ashley half-shrugs. Dylan and Gretchen nod along with Paul. All four move in closer.
Then the ram laughs.
He turns his head to his fellow wall mounts and says in a mocking voice, “‘We do this together.’”
One of the antelopes laughs, too, and says, “Hey, how many of these stupid kids does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
The unicorn on the coat of arms snicker-neighs. “I bet it’s 0. Because they’re all going to die!”
Ashley turns around tiredly. “Yeah, yeah. We’re all going to die here. We’ve heard it already. Really, the unicorn can’t think of something original?”
The unicorn tries to disengage itself from the coat of arms, saying, “How dare you, girl!” and the lion on the other side says, “Hey. You’re going to knock us off.”
I snort. Ha. Haaaaaa!!!
This is, quite possibly, the funniest thing I’ve ever seen or heard.
Gretchen has started to laugh a little and she shakes off Dylan’s arm and stands next to Ashley. “Hey Ash, how many unicorns does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
Ashley turns to Gretchen in stage-like interest, “I don’t know, Gretch, how many?”
“They can’t. Because they’re too stupid to get off a coat of arms!”
This actually isn’t that funny. And a person in the outside world would wonder what made a group of people laugh so hard about mocking a unicorn. Even a mean one. Or maybe they’d wonder about a talking unicorn. But we have completely lost it. Completely. Every one of us starts laughing. I feel the laugh start from my toes and it is so hard and hysterical that I double over.
The rams and antelopes and deer start making indignant noises, “Well, I never,” and, “You are insulting a UNICORN, Madame,” and all of it just makes me laugh harder.
And I start to feel something else, too, coming from the bottom of my feet, moving up my entire body like light and good and water after a desert walk.
Hope.
PAUL
Though this be madness, yet there is method in it.
Violet. Darling Violet. You beautiful creature, you. Yes. Let’s stick together.
I am going to marry that girl. High school sweethearts still exist, right? Hell. There was a talking, asshole unicorn trying to attack us—surely our love would last. If she loved me back. I can feel the ghost of her hand in mine and I flex it to try to keep the feeling.
I take a step back and feel water on my ankles. A quick look back and I see that water is now pouring under the door, like someone has stuck a hose right under it and is watering this room. With ocean.
I put my hand on Violet’s soft arm and she wipes her eyes and looks at me. She is so pretty I almost forget what I’m going to say. I want to kiss her so bad it hurts. Instead, I point to the door. A sigh goes through her whole body and I feel her slump.
A voice from the other side of the room by the carriage near the door says, “Baptism time!” It comes from a small statue in a bishop-like hat, the figure holding a cross. She points the cross at the door near her. “It seems you’ve been baptized already, young Crusaders. You may want to go that way, though I know not what adventures lie there.” She smiles. “Ah, to be able to martyr myself again.”
Gretchen looks back at the door, too, and sighs. She picks up her feet and then looks at Ashley’s feet. “We need to bandage up. Anyone know what’s next?”
Violet, who is smoothing her hair down, says, “I’m pretty sure we’re coming up to a café.” She crinkles her nose. “And Benjamin Franklin? Why is that sticking in my head?”
Dylan says, “I think there are cars and shit and then a statue of Bennie right before the café.”
Gretchen looks at him sharply but then something drains from her face. “We are going to have to talk, you know.”
Dylan just nods and looks away. Blood drips off his arm and he holds it with his other hand. The guy is hurt bad. I feel a sting on my forehead and I remember being cut by the glass from the cases. Ashley’s feet look like raw meat. We are all in really bad shape.
“Well. Let’s go.” Gretchen moves over to Ashley and has her throw her arm around her. Dylan gets on her other side. They start walking, Ashley taking sharp breaths with each step. Violet follows and I bring up the rear. When Violet reaches the carriage, the curtain suddenly slides open and a huge doll looks at us. She has a tattered Victorian dress on and is holding another doll that has no arms. The no-armed doll says “Mama” in a mechanical voice, its mouth not moving, its face fixed. The doll holding it takes it by a leg and smacks it against the carriage wall. The no-armed doll goes quiet and the Victorian doll slides the curtain shut.
Ashley mutters through clenched teeth, “Jesus Christ,” and the statue says, “YES! Jesus! I’m coming!”
Gretchen says, �
�Dear God, save me from your followers,” and I swear I see Dylan flinch.
But we are through the door and I’m the last one out, so I close the pocket door.
And find myself in a huge open area at the top of yet another ramp. Big cardboard star shapes populate the air space near us and a half-moon with a wizard on it sits high up and across the enormous room. Fake houses are at the bottom of the room, and I can see the café behind a large wall of glass and the fake houses. No Benjamin Franklin yet. Already I can hear little feet pattering. More dolls. More goddamn dolls.
On our left are more glass cases, and I can already hear chattering in some of them. I flinch and I feel Violet in front of me tense up.
Please no walking guys in old-timey jumpsuits that attack us and try to throw Ashley at a whale. Please. The gash in my forehead hurts just thinking it.
A voice across the way says, “Hi-ho! Welcome to our homes!” It’s the wizard and it’s waving at us. “I say, could somebody help me down? I’m afraid I don’t remember how I got up here. Old age, you see.” He chuckles. He mutters something to himself and looks all around the moon he’s on, putting a foot down gingerly into air and then bringing it back up. I glance at Violet and throw her a quick smile. She smiles back at me, but it’s sad.
None of us answers him. We keep walking, Ashley still breathing in sharply every step. We are accident victims moving toward another accident.
The first glass case we pass has puppets in it, just hanging. When we pass by, they go crazy, bouncing up and down on their strings, chattering their wooden mouths up and down. Some of them get enough momentum to kick the glass. It’s totally creepy. One of them laughs and then the rest of them do, too. The Gretchen-Ashley-Dylan triad speeds up and Ashley’s pain noises come faster. There is a trail of blood behind them that makes it look like they’re dragging a carcass. The drops of blood here and there are probably from Dylan’s arm. I watch Violet wince with all three for every step.
