Maze: The Waking of Grey Grimm

by Tony Bertauski

  She looked like a blind cancer victim, but deftly handled the knife and fork to cut the scone. It was the same floral scarf around her head, perhaps even the same clothes as the last time Sunny had seen her in the apartment. A bit more wrinkled.

  She slowly chewed a wedge, dismissing the cook with a nod, and thumbed a page of a hardback book. A queer quiver rode a wave of gooseflesh down Sunny’s back. Perhaps Mrs. Jones was a regular at Coffee Beaned. Sunny was a first-timer. It felt like she was being followed by the old woman.

  Or someone.

  “You should be careful.” Mrs. Jones jabbed the fork at the wall.

  Sunny looked over her shoulder. A hazy mirror hung loosely on a rusty wire, the angle aimed at the laptop and the logo filling the screen. She slammed it closed. A young couple looked in her direction.

  The mirror hadn’t been there when she got there, or had she been too caught up with the bullwhip? Her focus was fuzzy, attention drained by sleep deprivation.

  “A bad idea in public,” Mrs. Jones said.

  “I was just...” Sunny trailed off. Any explanation was too much. And Mrs. Jones wasn’t interested in one, returning to her book. “Have you seen anything?” Sunny said. “At my apartment?”

  Her apartment already felt like someone else’s home. If it’s not my home, where do I belong? Where have I been? She’d lost track of time, unsure how long she’d been away, what day of the week it was. She slid the laptop under her arm. Self-conscious, she preferred to be where no one recognized her.

  “What do you wish to accomplish?”

  Mrs. Jones pointed with the fork, this time at the laptop. Sunny’s twin reflections looked back from the old woman’s large black ovals. A whirlpool swirled in Sunny’s head, the disorientation that followed an extended ride on a merry-go-round, the curse of vertigo. She held the edge of the table, poised to start walking, when the floor settled beneath her feet.

  “Will you watch my apartment,” she said, “while I’m gone.”

  She choked on the words, forcing them through a thicket of emotion. Mrs. Jones couldn’t call her; Sunny didn’t have a phone. She didn’t have anything.

  She teetered for a moment, leaned toward the exit and let her momentum carry her forward.

  “It’s not there,” Mrs. Jones said. “What you’re looking for.”

  Laptop clutched to her chest, Sunny stopped at the table, frowning back at the old woman cutting another dry wedge off the scone.

  “What?”

  The cook returned to the table and leaned over Mrs. Jones’s shoulder. She told him the food was good, that she would like another coffee in five minutes. And to bring Sunny a cup, too. Both black. That was how they liked it.

  Dutifully, he returned.

  The chair opposite Mrs. Jones slid out, the toe of her boot nudging it. Sunny pushed it back under the table.

  “Do you know something?” Sunny said.

  Mrs. Jones dabbed her mouth with a napkin and thoughtfully returned it to her lap before sipping her coffee. When she looked up, Sunny’s twin reflections stared back.

  “I lost my son to the Maze,” Mrs. Jones said.

  She didn’t whisper, didn’t cringe. She threw the word out like she’d said daisy or belt buckle. The laptop made tiny popping noises in Sunny’s tightening grip.

  “What?”

  “It’s true. Curiosity, ignorance, the folly of youth—the things that define an adventurous young man are the reasons why they get caught in trouble they can’t escape. I’m sure you know what I mean, Sunny.”

  She forked another bite.

  “They have to be willing to enter the Maze. My son was tricked. I know it sounds like something a mother tells herself late at night, and I did that often, but this is true. He was manipulated into the Maze. The young are so trusting sometimes. Adults too ruthless. Innocence is a troubling time, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Your son.” Sunny nodded at the book. “He took the punch?”

  Mrs. Jones looked down, having forgotten she had been reading, perhaps. She slid it off the table, placed it in a large bag by her chair, but not before revealing the hardcover.

  Foreverland.

  It appeared to be an investigative work on the incident. She knew about it; the entire world knew about it. It was also the very same event Grey had been researching before he...

  “He was lost,” Mrs. Jones said, “like so many before him. The mind is vast and endless.”

  She adjusted the silk scarf, pulling it over her eyebrows. Did the needle hurt? Was it as painless as anesthesia, instantaneously clipping out a segment of time, transporting him to another place?

  Those were the thoughts Sunny had, the thoughts she imagined Mrs. Jones had entertained night after night as she cupped her coffee in both hands.

  “Did you find him?” Sunny asked.

  “I went looking, of course. A mother can’t help feel sorrow, a certain degree of regret and responsibility. It’s unimaginable, the pain. Of course, you know that.”

  The cook returned with two cups of coffee. Mrs. Jones thanked him. Sunny stared into the steam, the surface as black as the old woman’s glasses.

  “Do you know what I found?” Mrs. Jones said. “The Maze is an unsolvable mystery, what the Buddhists call a koan, a question that can’t be answered. All those silly games people play, the ones where they shoot and kill and rape, are just masturbation. The Maze is truly a swirling riptide of existence, an eternal free fall. It’s illogical, a series of contradictions, one fallacy after another meant to pull apart conceptions. It’s a place where time stretches into a never-ending moment, an immortal cycle of searching. It’s a mouse on a wheel.”

  It sounded a lot like that website. How could there be anything redeeming about all this suffering?

  The old woman chuckled without smiling, the wrinkles along her ashen cheeks deepening. “Mind buggery,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “There are lots of Mazes, I’m sure your search told you so.” She waved dismissively at the laptop. “Much of what happens is simply entertainment, greed—battles that consume simple minds, the carnal thrill of removing the enemy’s head, the sort of thing that fulfills a child. Perhaps if my son had entered one of those sorts, it would’ve been easier to accept.”

  Sunny shook her head. “Where was he?”

  “I couldn’t save him, Sunny.” She adjusted the sunglasses. “He’d entered the Maze of contradictions, a destroyer of concepts and identity, an endless dream that would free his mind or destroy it. Only he could save himself; only he could escape. Even if I found him and led him to freedom, it would do no good. He had to find himself. Only he could do that.”

  For a moment, it appeared she would remove the sunglasses. Perhaps she wanted to, thought better of it, and pushed them up her nose instead.

  “Did you find him?” Sunny asked.

  Mrs. Jones returned to staring into her coffee, turning the cup as if the future swirled in its contents.

  “There are three questions to be answered,” she said without looking up, “before this particular Maze could be resolved. Who am I? Where am I? And why?”

  She said resolved, not escaped.

  Sunny waited for an explanation, a conclusion that continued hiding in mystery. When she prodded the old woman, there was no answer. Perhaps that was the answer, that her son never found his way out; madness ensued. Perhaps she went mad.

  Slightly haggard, an ancient presence that could be mistaken for a homeless soul, Mrs. Jones still had knots in her life. Regrets. Maybe helping Sunny was her penance.

  “When the time comes,” Mrs. Jones said, “don’t run. Open the door.”

  Sunny felt the heat of suspicion fall on her, the intensity of someone watching, someone following. Had their flippant talk of the Maze finally drawn attention? People were still lined up at the counter; dishes clattered in the kitchen. Conversation rambled on the hard floor. She was exposed, standing at the table, laptop cradled to her chest. No one was l
ooking, yet she felt the pressure.

  Then saw the black overcoat.

  It hung on a rack by the front door, rain drizzled on the shoulders. Mrs. Jones was watching her.

  Sunny shuffled back a step. “I...”

  She rushed to the back of the room and found the bathroom, locked the door. The laptop teetered on the sink then crashed on the floor. She grabbed her hair, swallowing a string of curse words. The screen was cracked, the corner shedding shattered fragments.

  “Goddamnit.”

  She took a deep breath, braced on the sink and closed her eyes, humming her childhood song, allowing it to soothe the panic standing on her chest. The scar was throbbing. She cupped a handful of water to her face.

  It was so much. Too much. The world rushed at her with the ferocity and hunger of a predator. She needed space to breathe, to think. But then what? Where do I go? All paths were dead at the end. And the old woman, suspicious or not, seemed to know something.

  She wanted to tell her something.

  They had to leave the café, go somewhere quiet, somewhere private. She needed Mrs. Jones to tell her what to do. Because I lost my son, too. And you know it.

  She exited the bathroom without the laptop and stopped. Stared. The table had been cleared. The remaining scone, the coffee mugs, the book and bag were gone, the chairs pushed in. Table clean.

  The rain continued to fall on the front door. The coat rack next to it was empty.

  The black overcoat, gone.

  13

  Sunny

  After the Punch

  SUNNY STOOD BEHIND a massive pillar. Blisters chafed her heels. Rain fell on the library steps. She peeked out from the shadows. No one was in sight, but she could feel it, could feel their eyes. She was on stage, the spotlight heating up.

  Someone is watching.

  There was a mysterious caller and the man in the black coat outside her apartment, her missing son and Mrs. Jones. Sunny had walked through the rain until her paranoid thoughts caught up with her.

  Then she ran.

  Someone coughed. A little sound escaped Sunny. A homeless woman shifted in a tattered sleeping bag, curled up against the wall. Her lungs were wet gutters. A plastic yellow flower was stuck in her hat, the petals dingy and broken.

  Automatic doors slid open. Sunny entered the austere halls of the public library. She needed to sit and think. She also wanted to hide.

  The main lobby smelled like floor cleaner and old paper. The circulation desk was wide and inviting. A host of librarians were looking down at whatever business was below the counter; quiet mutters passed back and forth.

  Despite the open floor, it felt claustrophobic. Like the sleeves of a shrunken sweater. She headed for the computer cubicles. There was a free one in the corner. She pulled at the monitor, angling it away from the slight man at the help desk.

  “Can’t do that,” the lady next to her said. Her cheeks shook like molds of cherry Jell-O. “They know what you’re doing.”

  Sunny didn’t care about the librarians. She didn’t want the eyes around her sniffing around. Once that Maze icon went up, everyone would be watching.

  And she was tired of that feeling.

  She typed stopthemaze.com. Hit enter.

  There was no icon this time. There was nothing. The website didn’t exist, it said. She checked the spelling and tried variations of the phrase. According to a search, the organization didn’t exist.

  Never did.

  The librarian was helping someone with a pink cast decorated with graffiti on his left arm, a sleeve of Sharpie tattoos. He was staring at Sunny while the librarian was busy with his computer. His hair was matted, blue eyes bleached and vacant and aimed directly at her. His body odor had baked into the shredded edges of the cast, a tangy mix of salt and grime.

  “Excuse me?” Sunny raised her hand.

  The librarian was a thin man of Asian descent. Dandruff spotted his inky hair. He stooped over and whispered, “Is there a problem?”

  “Can I search for, um.” She whispered behind her hand. “Maze queries?”

  Cherry Jell-O stopped typing. Her ears rolled back.

  “You may search,” he said, “but you may not inquire. Maze-related activities, whether it be inquiries or downloads, will suspend your account.”

  “I’m researching.”

  “Be more specific, please.”

  “Historical, how it started, known arrests. Things like that.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Is there another computer?”

  Cherry Jell-O’s head turned like the turret of a tank. Her eyes were the color of algae set deep in the shade.

  “There are some nooks upstairs.” The slender librarian was off to help someone else.

  Sunny clicked out. Pink Cast watched her walk to the stairwell. A video of a drowning woman played on his computer.

  The upstairs wasn’t as modern as the lobby. The shelves were tighter and taller, the books hardbacked and frayed. The smell of dust bunnies and long-dead authors haunted the corners.

  The computers were taken. She was about to return to the first floor and invade Cherry Jell-O territory once again when a nook was being vacated—an elderly woman pulling herself out of a deep chair that faced a wide window. Sunny reached her in time to help her to her feet.

  “I got that next,” a girl said.

  “No, no, you don’t,” the old woman said. “She’s been waiting.”

  “Bullshit.” The girl glared through slits.

  “Watch your language.”

  She patted Sunny’s hand, her fingers knobby and papery. The loopy brown curls of her cheap wig fell over her forehead, the hairstyle made for a woman in her twenties. A chill went through Sunny when she touched her, like the comforting reminder a parent gives her child. It’s all right, Sunny.

  Sunny fell into the seat. It was the most comfortable place in the building, perhaps the most coveted. Slitty-eyes crossed her arms.

  “I’m going to be a while,” Sunny said.

  “I can wait.”

  “Somewhere else, you can.”

  Sunny stared until she huffed off, muttering a trail of cuss words. Any other day, Sunny would’ve dragged her down the steps by the earlobe. Today was not that day.

  A computer to herself, she had a prime seat in a public library that overlooked the city. Puddles were still on the sidewalk, but the sky had cracked—a jagged yellow slice bleeding sunlight onto the buildings. She pulled the keyboard closer.

  Stopthemaze.com.

  The browser spun a moment. The website still didn’t exist. She tried another variation. Maybe it was stoppingthemaze or survivethemaze. Every attempt ended with the same response.

  How can this be? It existed in the café.

  The search engine never heard of the organization, but it didn’t see into the dark web where the Maze operated—an entire world of seediness existed in the virtual universe, none accessible without a password or encrypted link. A world of drugs and crime, out of reach from law enforcement.

  She looked around before typing local maze activity. No one came rushing at her with a red flag, demanding she turn over her library card. The computer didn’t die. But nothing came up.

  The city was clean.

  The police had no evidence of any organization or citizen participating in Maze-related activity. That’s impossible.

  The way those cops listened to her story, she wasn’t surprised. They didn’t care. She was hysterical. Pissed off. She had wanted to rub their smug noses in it when she took them to the apartment. Instead, they thought she was crazy.

  Maybe they’re right.

  She typed another search, this one for awareness leaping.

  Some hits, finally. Awareness leaping was still practiced in the city. The federal government had put an end to casual use of the technology. Nowadays, only the most extreme cases of psychosis received permission despite the growing research that supported the benefits. A list of licensed tanking profe
ssionals was compiled. First line, a boutique vendor was named.

  511.

  Of course. Their wares in the front room lent themselves to something like this. They were probably fronts for the real technology in back.

  Tanks.

  There was no way to schedule an appointment, said one page. It could only be accessed through referrals from a short list of psychiatrists. A brief search of their bios made it seem impossible to schedule an appointment within the next decade. Most clients were court-ordered, said one blogger.

  Bullshit.

  The psychiatrists were shills for the real money, appointments set up with a fake diagnosis. Or sidestepped altogether. How closely were the appointments monitored anyway? Money always found a way to get what it wanted, whether it was government money, corporate or private.

  It all spent the same.

  A few more searches and she accidentally stumbled onto a blog that, by all means, should’ve gotten the librarians’ attention.

  Find your way into the Maze.

  She looked over her shoulder. There were a few computer nooks to her right, an older couple combing the shelves to her left. No one seemed interested.

  She clicked the link.

  It was for aspiring fans of the Maze, should they one day want to get in the game. The odds were good that they would come out insane. But, hey, it’s better to burn out than fade away.

  Death, the blog confessed, was better than the psychological torture they would experience in the Maze, but that didn’t shorten the lines. People wanted in. They wanted the money; they wanted the challenge.

  Sunny wanted her son.

  A list of websites with known Maze connections was listed. It seemed doubtful they were legit given how easily she accessed the list and how little anyone cared. They were probably spammy, virus-infested websites that took advantage of desperate searchers.

  The requirements to enter the Maze, the blog continued, were money, of course, and the ability to tank. The nonrefundable entry fee was slightly less than the average citizen’s retirement account. If they dropped you in a tank and you were one of the few that couldn’t handle it, you didn’t get your money back. Not everyone could tolerate the claustrophobic experience of being pickled in a glass jar.