by Gwynn White
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 looking, 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.
12
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 forehe
ad, 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 professionals 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.
It was a gamble. No secret there.
Now, you could see if tanking was part of your skill set at venues like 511 and their extended training sessions, which brought her back to the psychiatrist problem. You couldn’t see if it was in your skill set or schedule a training session unless you were referred. Or knew someone.
But there is another way to enter the Maze, the last section said.
She knew the other way. She had seen it lying on her son’s bed, a surgical steel conduit driven through the skull. There were no laws that allowed that technique, not anymore. It didn’t matter if you were a homicidal schizophrenic and the punch was the only way to cure you, there were no exceptions.
The needle was part of an outdated technique called computer-aided alternate reality, or CAAR. The results of needle-induced leaping were well-founded, not to mention the well-documented abuse. Foreverland ended the needle’s use.
The needle was a form of alternate reality that was globally banned under all circumstances. Perhaps had the Foreverland incident never happened, the stigma wouldn’t have torpedoed the technology.
But who wants a hole in the head?
A drip of water splashed on the carpet. There wasn’t a stain on the ceiling, no leaks. It wasn’t even raining. But there was a spot on the carpet.
The next blog launched her into the blogosphere of paranoid conspiracy. The Maze was simply a recruitment tool for a much greater purpose. It wasn’t to make money, even though its investors reportedly made trillions. It wasn’t for the thrill of competition. Even though most people were said to pursue it for one of these two reasons, they still weren’t the true purpose of the Maze.
It had to do with new universes and gods.
You’ll receive an invitation in the mail, the blog said. A standard white postcard with very little information. It’s said the symbol varies, but it typically requires some problem-solving skills to see the infamous icon.
There wasn’t a card in Grey’s room. She assumed the dreaded needle arrived via post; maybe the card was thrown away or was in his pocket. But he would’ve received it before the box arrived.
Right?
These were questions for Mrs. Jones. What clues were left behind from her son? How did he get in? Didn’t she say he was tricked?
All Sunny knew was her son was gone. And someone had told her a man named Micah could help. She searched 511, but there was no website. They would have no use advertising to the general public. Their clientele found them.
Just like Sunny did.
Micah, she typed. The computer spun its search.
The ceiling dripped again. She leaned over, put her finger on the dark spot, and sniffed it for some reason. It was pungent. Like something other than water would drip from the ceiling? Another drip. She saw this one disappear into the tight blue carpet.
Something splashed under the nook.
Her feet were soaked. She pushed back. An inch of water was sloshing under her chair. The spots on the carpet disappeared beneath a rippling sheet of water.
The computer nooks behind her were empty.
She jumped up. No one was at the shelves. Papers were floating in a current that swept up debris. She didn’t know whether to run or call for help. She did neither.
Did someone forget me?
A geyser was bubbling up the stairwell, a frothy wellspring of gray, churning liquid that spilled between the s
helves and swallowed the desks. The water had risen to her waist, lifting the chair off the floor. Books bobbed in the current, old covers stained and spread open, the pages swelling as they fled the incoming current.
“Help!” She paddled against the tide. “I’m still up here! Someone help!”
The current dampened her words, pushed up to her chest, and slammed her into the window. She kicked off her shoes, treaded off the floor, and banged her fists on the glass. The streets were flooded, the cars submerged. The ceiling bumped the top of her head.
She punched out, but the window rang against her knuckles. The current pressed her against it. Tiny bubbles streamed up the glass. She was trapped inside. Her lungs burned, sinuses stung—
“Ma’am?”
Sunny yanked around in the chair, gulping. The librarian jumped back, hand to his chest.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
Sunny looked around. No water, no flood. Not a drop on the carpet. Everything was dry; nothing had happened. She had fallen asleep again.
“The library is closing.”
Sunny pushed herself up.
The librarian followed her to the stairwell, where a gurgling geyser did not exist. Her shoes echoed in the large hall. He walked her to the front door. Dusk was less gray than usual. Even slightly cheery.
Homeless men and women were on the front steps, wrapped in sheets of plastic or damp blankets. The yellow flower lady was gone, but Pink Cast was smoking a butt.
She turned in the other direction, feeling his eyes on her. She needed to find a safe place to sleep.
Even waking was beginning to feel like a dream.
13
Sunny
After the Punch
Sunny’s apartment door was locked.
She was searching her pockets for the key when she noticed Mrs. Jones’s door was cracked open. A black, silent gap shrouded the opening. It was closed the last time Sunny had come back. Did the cats escape?
