by Gwynn White
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?
31
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 herself search the room but instead of calling Donny, she grabbed the card and turned it over.
511 South Forest
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 pas
s 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.
Life is such.
“You’ll pay for this.” She leaned over the table. Her breath puffed into his eyes. “When I’m done, I’ll find you and all the other ones who did this. Do you understand me?”
Dova entered the room, sleek and graceful, unperturbed. She stood in the doorway that led to the hall. The man slid his tea between Sunny’s hands splayed on the table. He smelled clean. Nonexistent.
“Mrs. Grimm wishes to find her son,” was all he said.
The man’s ice-blue eyes remained empty. When Dova reached for her, Sunny yanked her arm away. She wanted to flip the table and plant her foot on the impeccable man who remained impassive as her life unraveled.
Dova escorted her out of the room to find her son. The white-haired man stayed at the table to finish his tea. No one could be forced to enter the Maze against their will.
But will could be manipulated.
She dangled like an inflatable doll, one leaking at the seams.
Sunny witnessed the event from the warehouse floor, watching as they hoisted her body over a tank of bubbling goo—a viscous stew of translucent liquid, rank and fermented. Blood trickled from nicks along her legs.
The strangeness of watching her own body was not lost on her, reliving memories they wiped from her, memories that now unfolded in her consciousness. She cringed at the factory-laden effects, mechanical moving parts.
Her body an ingredient.
There was no time to train for the submersion, every second precious. When given options on how to insert her awareness into the Maze, she could punch her way in like Grey had done. But there were risks, they said. The tank was a more inclusive experience, but she would need orientation. She told them to just drop her, she’d figure it out.
Or die trying.
Sunny witnessed her own self hastily shaving the hair from her body. First her head, then her legs and arms and vagina. The razor snagged flesh in the effort. Valuable time was consumed, but it was better than taking the needle.
“Your success is much improved in the tank,” Dova had told her.
A harness was fastened under her arms and around her waist. She dangled nude for the world to see. There was no one in the warehouse, only curtains that hid what she assumed were more tanks. Hanging naked and alone, all sense of dignity shed away.
Her toes were the first in.
Sunny watched the oxygen-rich slime ooze up to her knees. She remembered the sensations—the bathwater temperature, the stinging bite where the razor had cut. A cool sensation passed through her flesh, a mentholated burn permeating her calves, penetrating her shins. A vapor leaked into her femurs.
I’m breathing through my skin, she had thought.
The liquid reached her groin. This was the moment it became very real. The walls of the tank were all around, the buoyancy of the solution releasing the pressure of the harness. Her breasts spattered with bubbles. The pungency filled her head, clinging to the back of her throat in a thick coating she couldn’t swallow.
She lifted her chin and closed her eyes.
“Allow the tank to breathe,” Dova said.
Sunny could feel her final breath beginning to burn. The liquid passed he
r lips, filled her nostrils and popped in her ears. It slid over her freshly shaved scalp.
The harness released her.
Sensation was lost in the floating darkness behind her eyelids. She held her last breath until instinct took over.
The liquid gushed into her mouth.
She opened her eyes, thrashing against the glass wall, the thick fluid slowing her panic, a liquid straitjacket of claustrophobia around her. The blurry world dimmed. Numbness filled her from the inside. Momentarily, she began to sink. Her arms lifted above her head.
A drowning ballerina.
A matrix of thin filaments was imbedded in the walls of the tank, a Faraday cage that would wirelessly hijack her senses. The tendrils reached for her, caressing her softening flesh like fiber-optic seaweed that would complete the connection. As her body succumbed to the oxygen-rich solution, a matrix of her identity was captured.
Her awareness leaped.
She was back home, staring at her son as milk soaked into the carpet. She would call Donny. He would bring over Barry. And the hunt would begin.
Sunny was still in the warehouse, staring at her floating body. The atmosphere began to shift. The curtains billowed; the ceiling darkened. She witnessed in elapsed time the lifetimes she would experience once she had been inserted into the Maze. All of her attempts to find her son passed through the dilated dimension of the Maze, each lifetime respawning at the moment of coming home with groceries. Each lifetime yielding no answers, finding no hope. She would die and live, die and live. The cycle of rebirth.
The snake eating its tail.
The highlights of her incarnations sped around her, the details of multiple deaths that happened in the streets or alleys, in rooms or hospitals. Some passings were more peaceful than others. But she never escaped, never saw the clues.
Never found what she came for.
She lost count of the lives she lived and the deaths she died. All the variations of suffering she endured, all the times she’d kidnapped Barry, the man named Ax. There were times she beat him; times she lost control and stabbed him. There were times he escaped and hurt her.
