Maze: The Waking of Grey Grimm

by Tony Bertauski

  Beep—beep—beep—beep...

  The room fell silent.

  No snoring, no talking. No restless rustling. The night died at the beeping of her wristwatch.

  She raised the lit face. Every night it went off. Every night she ignored it. Even if she pushed the buttons, it wouldn’t stop. But it wasn’t broken. It was calling.

  What time is it?

  It threw her feet onto the waxed floor. Someone else was in Russian hat’s bed, covers bundled on her shoulder. The blankets didn’t rise and fall with each heavy breath. She was as still as the pillow. Tempted to rouse her, to shake her shoulder, to see if she was breathing, Sunny resisted. She wasn’t breathing.

  No one was.

  Barefoot, Sunny walked between the rows of the lost. Their eyes were closed, their mouths open and expressions frozen. Not a sound rose from the congregation.

  Even the ballerina had stopped.

  The digital heartbeat of the alarm bounced through the room, the numbers stuck in place. Not even the seconds rolled over.

  All those nights waiting for the ballerina, she’d never made it to three o’clock. She would immediately go to the room and stand outside the door, wishing for something different. Sometimes she would squeeze the knob until lines were printed across her palm. She would open the door to another memory, waking in the morning with the faint recollection of the alarm.

  But never had she waited until three o’clock.

  Shadows streaked past the bathrooms. White light outlined the door of her childhood, the brassy doorknob glimmering gold. A ray of light shot from the keyhole, a white laser beaming down the hall. A thousand suns were behind the door.

  Find yourself.

  The knob rattled as she neared. Reaching out, it glowed iridescent orange, a red-hot coal that was about to begin dripping on the floor. There was no radiant heat, but still she hesitated.

  “Please,” she muttered, “don’t be a memory.”

  She closed her eyes and grabbed it. No melting of flesh, no branding of her palm. The rattling stopped and the door popped in the frame. The keyhole laser began to swing across her belly. Light bled from the opening, bathing her in something warm, and a saline smell leaked from the room, a splash of something thick and claustrophobic.

  She threw it open, shielding her eyes.

  There was no kitchen counter or bedroom to see, no awful day at the playground or forgotten birthday party or accident alongside the road. It was light, pure radiant light, warm and inviting. Soft and embracing. Somewhere was the sound of tiny bubbles. It felt good, felt right. Like the sun on her face after a long winter night. A warm blanket on a cold night. A warm bath. Mamma’s embrace.

  It was intimate and knowing, formless and pure. This was the essence of Sunny Grimm. This is me.

  Something tumbled across the floor.

  A tiny white snowflake blew over her bare feet, tickling her toes as it bounced against the wall. The room’s light threw a long sharp shadow behind it. This little white tumbleweed was the first thing that had moved. It came out of nowhere. She bent down to pick it up. It wasn’t delicate, didn’t melt. It was a paper cutout, an odd little shape with arms out.

  And three legs.

  Another one bounced over her feet and came to rest against the wall. More were blowing from beneath a dormitory door, the crinkling limbs forced through the gap, popping free to tumble into the open, some coming to rest on her feet, a papery snowdrift filling the corridor.

  Why am I hesitating? Why?

  The three questions Mrs. Jones told her in the café. She’d answered the first two. She knew who she was. The white light inside the bedroom, she was certain where she was. It was the answer to the third question she was doubting, the answer she felt certain she knew. She was here to find her son.

  But why am I in the Maze? Only the willing enter, so I must have come here looking for him. Why would I escape if I came here to find him?

  She turned away from the bright light and its promise of finding herself and what she assumed was the escape from the Maze. She reached for the door where the paper dolls continued spitting through the gap and collecting against the wall. A vanilla scent escaped the room as she threw it open. A flood of paper dolls spilled out and filled the hallway, piling up to her knees.

  Mrs. Jones stood between the dormitory beds.

  A yellow lamp threw soft shadows around the room, a contrast to the sharp white light. The scarves were around her neck, the kerchief over her head. She was hunched with age, much older than when she’d first met her outside the apartment the day this journey began. Sunny’s reflection looked back from the black saucers of sunglasses; pale yellow light revealed her gaunt figure.

  A large bag was at her feet, the one where she collected items from the street, the sheets of plastic and other detritus. Paper dolls were erupting from it like popcorn, climbing over each other to the floor and blowing around the room, some escaping into the hall—the same paper dolls in her apartment were now piled a foot deep around her.

  When the time comes, don’t run. Open the door.

  She had said that in the café, when she told her about her son having to find his own way to a solution. Was she talking about this door? Of course she was. She guided me to the shelter, left clues in her apartment, the photo on the mirror, the phone number on the refrigerator.

  Mrs. Jones unfolded her hands, fingers curled, skin delicate. The nails retained the faded hint of polish, a curious color. They were turquoise. She held them out as an offering, as if an answer was in her empty palms.

  Sunny looked at her watch. Fifteen seconds before the alarm would stop. Fifteen seconds before the white light would end—the light that promised her an escape from this madness. But would it find her son?

  Don’t run.

  Mrs. Jones—the woman that the residents of the shelter called Marie—reached out. A rogue wind burst from the ducts. The paper dolls swirled and lifted off the floor, a deafening sound of falling leaves engulfing them. Sunny stepped into the calm eye of the strange twister and found the old woman’s hands. She slid her hands into her parched palms and felt the yellow light fill the room.

  Outside, the white light vanished.

  The walls disappeared. The old woman’s voice hummed inside Sunny’s throat. The beeping of the wristwatch was consumed by the swelling tide of rustling paper. The cyclone spun inside Sunny’s head. Mrs. Jones held on tight.

  “Let me show you”—the old woman’s voice rose above the dry storm—“why you are here.”

  The floor vanished like it did every time she had entered her bedroom door at the end of the hall. But this time she did not fall into a memory. This time she fell into the truth, transported back in time to see for herself. Sunny chose to open the door, chose not to run. She knew who she was. She knew where.

  But why am I in the Maze?

  34

  Sunny

  After the Punch

  MILK HAD SOAKED INTO the carpet.

  Sunny was standing inside Grey’s bedroom. She witnessed herself open the door and drop the gallon of milk. Grey was on his bed with his hands folded over his midsection. The punch was strapped around his head.

  This was how it started.

  She had come home from a late shift at work and picked up groceries, saw the mess in the kitchen and was going to raise hell. Instead, she found her son laid out like a funeral visitation. Even now, Sunny felt panic throw a fist into her stomach. She watched herself flutter for several seconds, a thousand thoughts jamming her nervous system.

  “Grey? Honey?” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

  She remembered he felt feverish. His shirt was damp and sour, but he was breathing. Very long, even breaths. This was where she searched the room and eventually called Donny. He would come over and tell her what that thing was around his head, tell her he had a friend. What she didn’t remember was the card.

  It was propped between his fingers.

  Sunny watched her
self search the room but instead of calling Donny, she grabbed the card and turned it over.

  511

  Find a way to please yourself.

  There wasn’t much to go on. She didn’t know if that was a band or a skateboard or a bar. Sunny watched herself search it on her phone. When she found out what it was and what they did, she called. No one answered.

  She left the apartment without calling Donny. A little man named Ax didn’t come over. She went directly to 511.

  Because this is what really happened.

  Traffic was heavy that day.

  Sunny saw herself watching it through a window of 511. She stood next to her own self. Her son’s tragedy lay on her as fresh as a blanket of snow, wet and suffocating, untouched and vivid. This younger version of herself was different than what she was now.

  I was hopeful.

  This was the moment she saw her reflection in the window and had mistaken it for a homeless woman. She was waiting for the South African woman to return and watching the traffic, wringing her hands in hopes that someone could help. There was no Micah at that point, just the desperation that someone could explain the thing around her son’s head.

  Dova. Her name is Dova.

  While she was waiting for her to return, she didn’t call Donny in hopes that a miracle had happened, that her son suddenly sat up and everything was right with the world. Sunny didn’t make the call because he wasn’t there. No one was.

  The door opened.

  It wasn’t Dova that returned with the news they couldn’t help her and suggesting she go to the police. Instead, a slight man with white hair approached. His pants had a sharp crease down each leg. Sunny watched herself turn away from the reflection.

  “Can you help me?” she said. “I... I don’t have anywhere else to go. There was this card—”

  “We’ve been expecting you.”

  She was holding the card out like that would explain her hysteria. The man ignored it. Instead, he gestured to the door.

  “If you would follow me,” he said, “I can explain. And we can help your son.” When she didn’t follow, he said, “Your son is waiting for you.”

  “He’s waiting?” Her voice trembled.

  “Please.”

  He gestured again. Sunny watched him lead her into a hallway, holding the back door open with a delicate hand on her back as he closed it behind them. Sunny did as he said because there was nowhere else to go, no one to help.

  “Third door on the left.”

  There were several doors along a hallway that smelled intensely antiseptic. Her eyes had teared with a mixture of hope and the sharp, strange scent. Sunny watched herself turn into a tiny stark room. There was a table with two glasses of water and two cups of tea.

  “He’s waiting for me?” She looked around. “What have you done to my son?”

  “Please.” He pulled out a chair for her to sit. “Allow me a moment to explain.”

  The white-haired man sampled the tea and crossed his legs, waiting for her to join him. Sunny watched herself reluctantly take the seat at the table, remembering the cold armrests and the quivering flush in her stomach, how the relaxed disposition of the white-haired man disturbed her the most.

  “I understand your pain, Mrs. Grimm. It’s not that these sorts of things don’t happen from time to time. Someone chooses to enter the game and his or her family members are left bewildered by the choice. But you must understand, your son has entered the Maze, Mrs. Grimm. He did so at his own discretion.”

  She flinched in the chair. Sunny remembered that feeling when he laid the facts out, cold and bare. She was familiar with the symbol that was embossed on the punch, but not until he said it did she believe that was what happened. It struck her like the tip of a spear and shivered electric.

  “I don’t care. I want him out, now. He’s a child.”

  “He used a punch outside of a sanctioned facility. It was quite risky of him to attempt an awareness leap through an Ethernet connection. The odds were not in his favor, but I can confirm he transitioned safely. He is alive and well and waiting for you.”

  “Waiting for me... no, no. Get him out, now. I want him to wake up. Whatever you want, whatever it takes, get him out.”

  The white-haired man nodded contemplatively. He took a moment to sample his tea, perhaps so the moment could be filled with something other than words and emotion that filled her legs with a toxic trickle of rage and fear.

  “What do you want?” she said. “Money? Sex? What do you want?”

  His eyes remained compassionate. “He cannot be withdrawn, Mrs. Grimm. His awareness has been reassigned. If you pull the punch from him now, you will leave behind an empty body. It is that simple.”

  “I’ll get the police. I’ll shut this fucking place down, you hear me? He’s just a boy.”

  “You may call the authorities, but I assure you time is a much more valuable asset to you at this moment.” He pulled up his sleeve to glance at his watch. “Your son entered the Maze approximately twelve hours ago. That is flesh time, the base reality in which you and I currently reside. Time, though, is malleable. Comparatively, he is experiencing it much faster. In the hours that have passed, he has lived several years. In the moments since I looked at my watch, perhaps days have gone by. If you choose to go to the police, perhaps lifetimes will pass before we have an opportunity to speak again.”

  “Lifetimes?”

  “Death does not exist in the Maze, Mrs. Grimm. It simply respawns another birth.”

  The snake eating its tail.

  Were those icons clues to escape her entrapment, or a cruel joke at her expense, something for the Maze spectators watching the highlights of their hapless bumbling to chuckle through entitled smiles? Or was it just the hard truth?

  “How could you let him do this?” she said.

  “He was afforded the opportunity. He chose to take it.”

  “Who did this to him?”

  “If it eases your anguish, he is not playing any sort of immortal combat, one in which the player suffers one gruesome death after another. He resides in a psychological thriller, one that caters to a more elite audience, those more interested in the outcome rather than the entertainment. He’s the willing subject of an experiment.”

  “Experiment? There’s a needle in my son’s head!”

  “He’s been completely wiped of memories. His identity reassigned. His core identity—what makes your son who he is—is still intact. He simply does not remember who he is.”

  “What do you want?” This time it was a request, not a demand, not a threat. I’ll do anything.

  He took a long moment to sip the tea. She was about to come over the table and shake him until his delicate neck bones rattled. She slapped the table instead.

  “What do you want?”

  “He’s waiting, Mrs. Grimm.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “For you.”

  It was the first and only time the son of a bitch smiled—a grim little twist in the corner. It wasn’t compassionate, wasn’t smug. It was more of a curiosity.

  “There is a small group of investors that are interested in this experiment. They are not interested in money; they have all they will ever need. They’re interested in human potential. Your human potential, as it turns out. And your son’s. A place has been secured for you, Mrs. Grimm, with no fee for you to enter. You may insert yourself into the Maze in order to find your son.”

  “No. No, no, no... I don’t want him in an experiment. Stop it, now.”

  “It’s too late for that. It has already begun. Unfortunately, your son has committed you to the experiment. Of course, you don’t have to participate, but you won’t find him here.” He spread his arms. “He’s not in the flesh anymore.”

  “Where is he?”

  “As I’ve said, his awareness has been reassigned.”

  “Who did this?” She stood. “Who?”

  “Mrs. Grimm—”

  “Who’s doing
this? Who gets the money when we come out? I know there’s a reward if we go into the Maze.” She gritted her teeth around that word.

  “You will have all the money you will need, of course.”

  “If I come out. If we come out,” she corrected.

  “This is a discussion for another time.” He tapped his watch, an inexpensive digital watch. An exact replica of the one Sunny would find on her son’s desk.

  For mom.

  “In the meantime, your son is lost. The longer he wanders, the further from home he gets. Every minute that passes for us could be a year for him. He is changing as we speak.”

  Sunny kicked the chair, clutched her chest, and struggled to catch her breath. “You manipulative bastard. Is this how you get your thrills, preying on bottom feeders like me? Have you no empathy? My son is eighteen! He’s a boy; he doesn’t know what he’s doing!”

  “Should your son put his hand in fire, he will be burned no matter what age.” His words gained a sharp edge before softening. “These are the rules of our reality, Mrs. Grimm. If you are going to the police, I suggest you go now. Otherwise, let’s continue.”

  This bastard and all the ones like him owned the authorities. Wealth ruled the world; it did so by making others think there was justice, to believe people like him could be stopped. Sunny knew better.

  She paced that tiny room like an animal freshly packed into a zoo. There would be no saving her son if she went to the police. And if the time dilation was true—if her son had already experienced a lifetime or more—then she was already losing him.

  “What do you want from me?” she said.

  “It’s not what I want.”

  “Whoever!” She raked the glasses of water and teacup against the wall. “What do the investors want?”

  “For you to find him.”

  She pounded the table with both fists. The man leaned back with a placid expression. The stink of this building had crawled into her head. It clung inside her. She wanted to put her finger down her throat and vomit this day on the floor, wanted to scream, to rip her hair out, to throttle someone or something until they apologized. It wasn’t fair.