Jack in the Box

by Shaw, Michael

  "Okay," I started eating again. "But can you at least answer some questions for me?"

  He wagged his finger. "You know what I say about questions. . ." he said, smiling.

  "Ask the right ones. Right, I know." I said. "If any of these are wrong questions, I don't care. I can't know unless I ask."

  "Okay," he gestured his hand toward me. "Go ahead."

  "First," I leaned forward, "I can sleep."

  "Dreams are part of the test."

  "Why?"

  "Have you seen your dreams, Jack?"

  I raised my eyebrows. ". . . Yeah."

  "The memories of the guilty condemn them. Your dreams? They show you why you deserve it."

  "I deserve it. . ."

  "You deserve to be here."

  I leaned back. I didn't actually remember my dream of the night before until he had said that. The president was under my control. The military was under my control. The world. The world would be under my control. And for what? The machine was going to kill people.I was going to kill people. One day ago Brian said that ninety-nine percent of the population died. Was that because of me? I cringed. Did I really do it? Did I kill everyone? Slowly I started to nod. "Okay. . ."

  "And, next question!" Brian clapped.

  I shook my head. I couldn't handle the thought of what I was going to do. In my dreams, that is. It made me want to never sleep again. Never dream again. I'd learned enough about myself; I didn't want to dream anymore.

  ". . . Jack? Anything else?"

  I rubbed my forehead. "Hang on," I shoved my dream back. Tried to ignore it. But even in the very back of my mind, it was as loud as a scream to me.Come on, Jack, I told myself. The test, you have to focus on the test. I looked up. Tried to remember any other questions I needed to ask. The trash bin randomly caught my eye. Before we ate I had thrown away the gauze from the day before. Suddenly I remembered something. I had completely forgotten about it. The dead man. The dead man and his note to Brian. Everything that had happened in the past few days made me forget about the note. Specifically, what it said about death.

  I tried starving, that didn't work. I tried bleeding to death, that didn't work either.

  I thought about it.I can't die from starvation or bleeding to death. But why?

  I had an idea. A test. To see if Brian would tell the truth. "All right, so, I know I can die. . ." I said, still looking at the trash bin.

  "Yes."

  ". . . Does that include bleeding to death?"

  His eyes followed the direction of mine, and he saw the can of trash. "Well, you wouldn't die fromthat,"

  "I know, but. . ." I looked around, "I don't know, if something crazy happened," I looked at my arm. Ran a finger across its width. "Like if I lost my arm,"

  His eyebrows popped up.

  "Would I die?"

  He put his finger in his ear. scratched it. "Ah, no. . ." he examined his finger. Wiped it on his napkin. "You won't die from that. It's gotta be very specific." He put one hand on his heart, one on his head. "A direct impact on the head or heart is what seems to work."

  Whatseemsto work, I said in my head.

  Brian's hands lowered to rest on the table. He looked at my food. "Can't starve either."

  I nodded. "Okay, so I can only die by something that would directly kill me."

  "Yeah, basically." He was so casual. It was odd. Was he faking nonchalance, or did all this stuff really not faze him? At times Brian seemed so deeply affected by things; at other times it was as if we were talking about the weather. Which I hadn't gotten to experience since life before death.

  "Why?" I asked. "It seems like a weird rule."

  "What is hell?"

  I squinted. "No, I asked if-"

  "-What is hell, Jack?"

  I shook my head. "Why-"

  "-It's torture." he pointed at my body again. "Torture can be physical, which is why bleeding and starving don't bring death. They serve to torture, to agonize." He pointed at my head, "or it can be psychological." he took a sip of water. Smiled. "You've experienced that."

  I tightened my lips.

  Brian capitalized. "I saw it," he grinned wider. "In fact, I still see it," he said quickly. "You give me all your bravado, saying this place isn't so bad." He put his finger on the table. "In your first week here, you put a gun to your head, Jack."

  I held my breath.

  "And you were ready to shoot."

  I shook my head.

  "And all this composure and focus you're trying to show," he pointed to his wrist, as if he had a watch, "It'll rub offreally quickly."

  "No," I said quietly, "just stop."

  Brian pointed his finger in the air and swirled it around. "It's a cycle. Surprise," he held up one finger, "false courage," two fingers, "and. . ." he put is hand, flat palmed, down onto the table. ". . . realization."

  My hands made loose fists. "Realization," I repeated. Gritted my teeth. "Realization of what?"

  He made a smile, as if to say, "You really don't know?"

  I nodded. "Realization of what?" Fists tightened.

  He signaled me forward with his hand. Smirked.

  I leaned in. Kept my jaw clenched.

  He signaled again. Nodding. Smirk still stuck on his face.

  I leaned in further.

  He moved in toward me, put his mouth next to my ear. Inches away. No, centimeters away.

  He whispered one word. It was said so slowly, so confidently, that every syllable rang in my ear. "Futility," he said.

  I leaned back. My jaw started hurting.

  He pointed two fingers to the side of his head, thumb pointed up. Making a fake gun. He bent his thumb down. "I've realized something about humanity, Jack."

  I did not speak. I did not move. I remained seated, upright, gritting my teeth.

  "I've realized," he put his hand down, "that they'll always take the easy way out."

  I tried to loosen my jaw. Massaged my cheeks. I couldn't let myself be affected by him. I couldn't just let him manipulate my emotions. "And so," I said shakily, "the easy way out is to die."

  His answer was a shrug and an innocent smile. He was always like this. Smiling and pretending. Pretending that this was fun for him. I'd seen his feelings before, though. I'd seen him transparent. I couldn't believe that he enjoyed this place, nor that he enjoyed what happened to people that go to it.

  I asked a question. A risky one. "If the easy way out is to die,"

  He froze.

  I considered what I was about to ask. But I had to ask it. "Is that why you want me to kill you?"

  That question was followed by the longest silence I'd ever experienced in a conversation with Brian.

  He shook his head. Sighed. "I never said I wanted you to kill me."

  I rubbed my arms. The room felt colder than usual. "But it seems like you do."

  The hair on Brian's arms stood up. He had goosebumps. "Well, I'll just have to say that's a question I'm not allowed to answer."

  My body shivered. I rubbed my arms more quickly.

  Brian didn't move.

  I was wrong.Now was the longest silence I'd experienced with Brian.

  I knew he'd leave the room soon. We had finished our lunch, we had talked. He would only be there a little while longer.

  "Brian, I need to ask for something else."

  "Okay," he breathed in, shaking from the cold.

  "I need a watch." To know when to be in my room.

  He nodded.

  What else?I analyzed the knowledge about the rooms that I already had.What could I use? What would get me closer to passing? A thought hit me. "And. . . and a marker."

  He sucked in his cheeks. I couldn't tell if he was surprised or impressed. Or both.

  We kept eye contact for about several seconds.

  Finally Brian leaned back and reached into his pockets. From the right he brought out a watch, and from the left he brought out a marker. A red marker.

  He placed both on the table, parallel to each other.


  I grabbed the items. "Thanks." Looked at the watch. It was actually really nice. Just like the compass. Gold back. Leather band. The back was engraved.J. C.For Jack Colson. Me.

  Though the conversation's topic had changed, the mood hadn't. Hell. Torture. And the fact that I deserved it. A fact that, deep down, I was starting to accept. I couldn't just move on to another thing.We couldn't move on.

  But we tried to. Pretended.

  "So," I said, trying to lighten up. "Why's it so cold in here?"

  "It lets you know."

  ". . . What?" tilted my head.

  "That it's time to eat."

  I looked at my wrist. "So," lifted it up, showing the watch, "this is pointless."

  He shrugged, blinking slowly. "Yeah, well, you asked for it."

  I displayed it in front of me. "Pretty nice, and you engraved it?"

  "Well," he put his hand on his chest, "I myself didn't engrave it. . ."

  "You know what I mean," I tilted my head forward.

  "Just think of it as a. . . late birthday gift."

  Birthday? I had forgotten about that. When I woke up in the test. Brian said it was my birthday. My twenty-ninth birthday.

  "Thanks," I said slowly. I could've asked more questions. But the time had come to test again.

  "No prob, Jacky," Brian exhaled. He stood up and left.

  I leaned forward.Futility. That's all this is supposed to lead to. . .I wiped my face.. . . no. He wants me to believe that. He wants me to accept futility. It's part of the test or something. It's. . . it's because I'm passing.

  It made sense. I started passing. So the test cracked down. It was hell, after all.

  Still, though,I thought, I can manage.

  Mid thought, a voice spoke into my ear.

  "Finally," it said.

  I turned and saw nothing.Oh no.

  The referee picked me up by the arms. Carried me backwards away from the table.

  I kicked my feet back into it.

  Its only response was a grunt.

  I jerked my arms away from it and broke free. But in breaking free I fell forward, onto my hands.

  It grabbed my legs.

  "No," I grasped one leg of the table.

  It pulled me backward.

  I fell onto my stomach. Grabbed another table leg. "No," I said louder.

  "It's hard to keep you from passing while you're awake, Jack," it said. Loudly, in a confident voice. It proceeded to drag me and the table towards the door behind me. "Thankfully, though, the test gives me a reason to put you to sleep!"

  It let go of my legs. I put both hands on the floor and started to push myself up.

  The referee grabbed the back of my shirt and jerked me upward. Lifted me into the air. My stomach faced the floor. It spun me around and slammed the top of my head against the door. "Don't worry. These doors aren't very sturdy, they won't kill you," it slammed my head against it again.

  "Stop," I tried to grab at it.

  And again. The shock rang through my head.

  "Stop!"

  And again. The wood cracked more and more with each blow.

  I squirmed. Tried to grip something. Tried to keep my head from hitting the door again.

  Every time it thrust me into the door, my voice let out a noise in pain. I was helpless.

  My head broke through the wood. Part of me was in another room, now. The broken pieces rattled on the floor.

  The ref pulled my head back through and tossed me onto the ground. "You just broke a door with your head," it laughed.

  I breathed out heavily. Groaned and held my head.What just happened? It was so fast. Thirty seconds ago I was sitting in my chair. Next thing I knew my head was pushed through a door.

  It snickered. I heard satisfaction in its voice, "That's against the rules. . ."

  And I fell asleep.

  →

  "So what's this about?" she said impatiently. It was a lady about five years older than me. Maybe more, but she had a young complexion. Brunette hair. Black shirt. We were in the same room the president and I had met in.

  I sighed. "Miss Raze, we are conducting a. . . draft of sorts."

  "Why? You're not the government. I've already served in the military, and I'm not planning on going-"

  I cut her off, "-We know of your service. We also know that you were the CIA's. . ." I grinned. ". . . 'employee of the decade.'" CIA? Military? She had to be at least thirty.

  "Trying to flatter me?" Miss Raze crossed her arms.

  I tapped my foot. Looked down. In front of me was a telephone. I leaned forward and pressed a button, "We need you in here."

  She kept her eyes on me. I could tell she'd rather be anywhere but in this room.

  A few seconds later the president walked into the room. "Hello, Miss Raze."

  Her eyes popped open. She turned in her seat. "Sir, what are you-"

  "-I suggest you listen to what this man has to say," he pointed at me.

  She froze.

  He nodded at her.

  She slowly lowered back into her chair.

  The president gave me a thumbs up and left the room.

  "Weare the government, Miss Raze," I folded my hands.

  She put her hand on her chin.

  I shrugged, "Actually, we are the world."

  Miss Raze shook her head. "What is this?"

  I pointed at her and smiled, "Miss Raze, I'm about to tell you."

  She rolled her eyes.

  "Based on our knowledge, which is very extensive, we are selecting a lucky few people to partake in Project-"

  "-B, Project B, yeah, I've heard about your invention." she put her hands on the table. "But, uh, no one really knows what that is. . ."

  "I will tell you," my hands tightened into fists, "if you let me."

  She slumped back in the chair.

  "We are letting you participate in it with a certain privilege over the rest of the world."

  "Woo-hoo, you shouldn't have."

  "But," I gritted my teeth, "I guess I'll just tell you about that later."

  She scoffed.

  I tried to relax. "Project B, or, its full name, Project Box, is. . ."

  She raised an eyebrow.

  The next few words seemed to come out in slow motion. They were words that would change me forever, even though they came from my own mouth. They were words that I needed to hear, but would wish I never had. I spoke with a steadfast gaze. Because of this dream, I would never be the same again.

  ". . . a test. It's a test, Miss Raze."

  ten

  She leaned forward. Narrowed her eyes a bit. She was interested.

  "A test for the strong-willed," I clenched a fist, "and the efficient thinkers," pointed to her head. "And you have shown that you are both."

  "I'm flattered," she slumped back again. "What if I don't want to?"

  "I suggest you start wanting to," I laughed. Quickly I composed myself and said bluntly, "because you have no choice."

  She breathed out through her nose.

  I breathed a sigh of impatience, "We're going to need you to comply, Miss-"

  "-Okay, enough with the 'Miss' crap," she pushed her index finger down on the table, "What's going on here? And why is the president. . ."

  I leaned to the side and picked up a briefcase.

  Her eyes followed it.

  I plopped it onto the table. It popped as I opened the locks.

  "What's that?" she said suspiciously.

  My lips curled, "Your answers, Miss. . ."

  She raised an eyebrow.

  I cleared my throat."Your answers."

  She picked up the folder after I slid it across to her. Examined it.

  "You are now under United States custody."

  That brought her eyes off the folder. "What?"

  I closed the case. "Tonight, you will be transported to OTB's subject facilities."

  Two men wearing black uniforms walked into the room. One had a bag in his hand.

  "I'
ve heard how you can get out of. . . tight situations," I stood calmly, "but if you want your answers, you will need to comply with what we're doing here."

  She shot a glance at them.

  They approached both sides of her seat.

  She squinted.

  I smirked.

  Eventually, Raze slowly nodded and stood up. "Where are these facilities you mentioned?"

  I adjusted my collar. "Undisclosed."

  One of the men opened the door.

  The other put the bag over her head.

  →

  I woke up screaming. My body was drenched in sweat. I squirmed to get the covers off and fell onto the floor.

  "Whoa there, Jacky," Brian laughed, reclined in his chair. "Need me to turn AC on?"

  I lifted my torso up with my hands, shaking. "It was me," I yelled.

  Brian's eyes shot open wide.

  "It's becauseI did it that I'm here; that's why I'm in hell," I said forcefully.

  He leaned back. Crossed his arms.

  "Isn't it?" I heaved.

  He took a long, deep breath. Pretended to be disinterested. Picked at his teeth. "Punishments always fit the crime, Jack."

  I let my upper half fall back to the floor.

  "Your punishment is the very invention you made the entire world go through: this test."

  I put both hands on the back of my head.No, no,I gripped my skull and squeezed it tightly. Dug my nails in.I killed everyone.My breaths were short and fast.Everyone. . . everyone died from the test except one percent. Everyone I ever knew. . .I squinted my eyes.Everyone. . . My parents. . .

  "You had no apologies about it. Not an ounce of regret," he said with distraught eyes. His gaze was on the table. "No discrimination. Young or old, sick or healthy, it didn't matter to you. Everyone took the test."

  The tears came. I had only cried one other time in hell. It was with a gun in my hand. Ready to blow my brains out. The tears of that day were different than now. They were almost therapeutic. I felt relief of my built up emotions. I cried because of difficulty. Because things weren't going well for me. Those tears that came out of myself were all for myself. But this day's tears were not the same. They were not inward. I didn't cry for strain or futility. I did for my father. For my mother. For every person I ever knew. Every person I never met. The tears were shed when the inevitable truth had become undeniable. I created the very thing that I despised. I was the maker of the hell that I now had to live in. I did not try to compose myself. My teeth were grinding. I wiped my face. Pushed myself up to my feet. Shaking, I put my hands down on the table.