Jack in the Box

by Shaw, Michael

  When I felt the cold, I started to return to my room. I had ten minutes before dinner. I was pleased with the day. My success in navigation gave me some encouragement. However, I did still feel like I didn't have a plan. Even if I became perfect at going through the rooms, what would I do then? Knowing how to move was one thing. I would have to anticipate where my father was in order to catch him.

  I realized that I hadn't encountered the referee all day. Where had it gone? More importantly, what would I do when it came back? I couldn't keep running from it. And it wasn't about the dreams anymore. The dreams couldn't get worse. I wasn't afraid of them. It was the set back that the referee always caused. I couldn't afford it if I wanted to pass. It stood in my way when I was figuring out the rooms. It stood in my way when I came closer to passing. It was always to hold me back from progressing. That's why I had to do something about it.

  My conversation with my father played through my head again. He had said something about the referee.

  The referee's just another pawn. Its power goes nowhere past its own strength.

  I stopped walking.The referee's not in control. It's just a monitor. A corrupt one, but it's not above the rules. My father had said it before, but I never considered what that would mean for the ref. If I break a rule, I pass out. If it breaks a rule. . .

  I nodded.Yes, that would work. But I thought that the monster was the one in control of whatever induced me to unconsciousness. Is it always in control of the anesthetic? Or is it only when it's monitoring others? If it were always the inducer, the rules wouldn't be able to restrain it.But the referee had to abide by the same rules. It had to.

  The idea made me hopeful. But I still had doubts. What if the monster always had control of the anesthetic?

  "I don't know if it does. . ." I sighed out loud. "The only way to know would be to try it on the referee itself."

  A door opened from behind me.

  I turned around.

  Nothing.

  "Speak of the devil," the door closed. The referee took a loud step forward. Its low voice rumbled, "Well, speak of me, at least. . ."

  "Not the devil," I said confidently, "Just a demon."

  "Oh, is that what you think?" it snorted.

  "Am I incorrect?"

  A deep grumble.

  I smiled.

  "So, Jack, where will your dreams take you today?" the referee took another step inward.

  I stared in the direction of the demon. "Doesn't matter. I'm not afraid of my dreams anymore."

  Another step forward.

  "And I'm not afraid of you either," I cracked my neck.Make it break a rule. Make it break a rule. How. . .

  "Maybe you don't fear them," the ref popped its neck, too. It sounded like the cracking of multiple whips, "Maybe you don't fear them because you don't know what they'll be." It passed under the light in the ceiling.

  The light. A light in the center of the ceiling.If that goes out. . .

  "And maybe you don't fear me," the ref continued, "because you don't know what I'll do to you."

  I slipped my hand behind my back.

  It thumped forward slowly. "But you're afraid. I can see it."

  I reached underneath my shirt.

  "Well?" it came to a stop. "Are you going to make this easy for me?"

  "So you think I'm afraid." I slowly grabbed my gun. Squeezed the cold handle.

  "I know you are."

  "Do I look afraid to you?" my lip curled upward.

  "Your fake smirk, your pumped out chest. It's all a show. I've seen who you are underneath. We all have."

  I smiled. Nodded. "So you do have eyes."

  The referee hesitated. "What?"

  I ripped out the pistol and aimed at the light. Pulled my index finger down as hard as I could.

  A flash. And then darkness. A loud clash. And then the sound of glass. The shards jingled as they hit the floor.

  I couldn't see a thing.

  But neither could the referee.

  I heard it take one breath, and then there was complete silence. It tried not to make a sound.

  I waited. Listened. I couldn't see, but I could hear perfectly.

  The referee stayed deathly still. It knew what I was doing.

  I took light steps in its direction. Stepped to the side and continued forward, so I'd walk past its side. I held my hand out until I reached the wall. Now, I was behind the referee.

  More silence.

  A long time seemed to pass. It was only about ten seconds, but it felt like forever.

  The referee took a step forward.

  I jumped toward it. A jab to the lower back made it stand up straight, grunting as it did so. I visualized the referee's position in my head. I could see it. Even though I saw nothing, my ears gave me a picture of where the monster was, and in what position. I kept going. A kick to the leg behind the left knee. The demon bent at the legs and staggered. I sidestepped as it went backward. Grabbed its head and punched it several times in the face.

  The referee growled loudly, "This won't work, Jack." It waved its arms out. Tried to get a grasp of me. "I can hear you, too."

  I ducked under the beast's arms and slid between its legs. After jumping back up, I landed quietly and said from behind, "Yeah, but you're ten times louder than I am."

  It turned around and grabbed at me.

  I hit the floor, dodging the referee's arms. I rolled to the side. Holding my hand out, I felt the corner of the room.Okay,I thought,time for it to dream its own dreams.

  The referee turned around, feet thumping loudly. "Do you really think you can win?"

  I stayed crouched and worked my way to the middle of the wall. My hand slid across it as I walked. After a few steps, I felt the door. I turned to the referee. "Do you really think I can't?"

  It took the opportunity and lunged at me.

  I jumped to the side.

  It hit the door. Grunted. Stepped back.

  I pushed it back against the door. It was weird. I took its sight away, and it was weaker. Physically, it was the same monster. The same demon. But when the room went dark, it couldn't brace itself. It lost its ability to fight.

  It moved backwards. Unsteadily. "You can't bring me down, Jack." And then the demon made its biggest mistake. The monster that had once seemed so much stronger, so much more dominant, so much more in control, was stumbling exactly where I had planned for it to stumble.

  What was the mistake? An attempt to escape. The referee grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. Light flooded into the room.

  I jumped into the air and landed on the monster's shoulders. I grabbed its head and covered its eyes.

  It reacted sloppily. Thrashed back and forth. "You can't take me down, Jack," it boomed confidently. "I'm stronger."

  I held on as it tried to toss me off. "I was never stronger. . ." I yelled. And then I let it win. Let go.

  The referee threw me onto the floor. Breathed heavily.

  I felt myself get lifted up by my shirt. Into the air. I stayed suspended.

  "You think," it heaved, "that your futile efforts will do anything for you? Remember where you are, Jack!" it threw me back down. "And now. . ."

  I felt its hand wrap around my neck. But I didn't fight it.

  ". . . Are you ready to dream?"

  I smiled. "I'd ask you the same thing."

  It stopped.

  I shifted my eyes to the side. "Check out that door."

  It was open.

  "Remember whose hand opened that?"

  The demon let out a puzzled grunt. "I didn't. . . I. . ." it let go of my neck. "I left a door open?"

  I heard a long, loud, breath from the referee. Followed by silence.

  I sat up.

  And the loud thud of the demon hitting the floor resounded throughout the room.

  My ears popped. I sat, leaning back with my hands on the floor. I exhaled. "It worked. . ." I breathed slow, deliberate breaths. The ticking of my watch brought a soothing rhythm. I leaned fo
rward, and couldn't help but smile even bigger. "It actually worked."

  I stood up and walked toward the wall. "Man, that took longer than it needed to." Shut the door. "You made me miss dinner."

  →

  It didn't take me long to get back to my room. My father was there. Dinner was, too.

  When I swung the door open, I immediately saw my father, looking at me.

  He put his elbows on the table. Held his palms about a foot apart. And then he clapped them together. And again. And again.

  I walked in as he slowly, oddly, clapped.

  "What?"

  "Well done," he said with a straight face. "Make it break a rule. Not bad. . ." he took the last bite of his meal. "Now eat, you're late."

  I walked swiftly to my seat. "Thought I was late." I sat down. Looked at my meal. Soup and a sandwich.

  My father took a sip of water and cleared his throat.

  I picked up my spoon. Saw my face in its reflection. I think this was the first time that I'd seen myself in the test. I wasn't dreaming, I actually saw my real reflection. It struck me as odd. I didn't look different than I had when I saw myself in my dreams, but something was offsetting. My eyes.They're green?I squinted. It was clear. My eyes were definitely green. I didn't remember them being that way. I thought they were brown. Granted, it was in a dream. But why would I remember my eyes as a different color?

  My father saw me and my confusion. "It's for the soup, you know."

  I put my hand down. Forgot about the eyes. I looked at him. "I know what a spoon is."

  He smiled and rubbed his hands together.

  I took a bite of soup.

  We sat in silence.

  After eating a few more bites, I put the spoon down. Looked at my father again.

  He ignored my glance.

  I exhaled. Felt the ticking of my watch.

  He tapped his foot.

  I wiped my forehead. "So, we're going to pretend it didn't happen? Last night, I find out you're my father. But we're just going to sit here and carry on. Pretend nothing's changed. Is that it?"

  He raised his lip. And his eyebrows. He looked up at me. Then around the room. Back at me. He nodded. "Yeah. . ."

  He said it slowly.

  I breathed out through my nose. I couldn't believe it. But I nodded slowly. "Okay, do what you want."

  He looked back down.

  I watched him. After a few seconds I shook my head. "Okay, you know what? I'm not hungry." I stood up. Threw my napkin down on the table.

  "What are you doing?" he pulled his chair back.

  I pushed mine in. Turned around. Faced my bed.

  "So, you're not going to eat? First you rush in here, now you're already getting up."

  I turned my head to the side. "Your son wants to call you Father again."

  Silence. Other than his slow breaths, and the tick of my watch, there was no sound.

  "You've always been the talker. Now you have nothing to say?"

  No response.

  I took a deep breath.

  Silence.

  "Okay," I walked away from the table, "I'm going to bed. If you would. . ." I motioned toward the door.

  My father raised his head. Opened his mouth. He wanted to object, but there was nothing he could say.

  I sat on my bed.

  He closed his mouth. Nodded reluctantly. Stood up and left.

  I understood. I knew what I'd done. But my wrong shouldn't have removed his love for a son. On earth my father wasn't like this. He always talked to me. He always wanted to know what I thought, what I was doing. Now that I knew he was my father, he couldn't get himself to treat me the same again. He couldn't pretend that he was a stranger, but he tried to, anyway. For everything that had been my fault, I didn't feel like this was. I didn't want him to shrug off what I'd done, I just wanted him to be the same father he had been. But I guess that if I had the privilege to change, he did too.

  I got under the covers. This was the first time I slept without being knocked out or injured. It was after dinner, and I was ready to sleep. So I did. And of course, with sleep comes dreaming. I wasn't worried about what my dream would be. I'd found out everything, now. The worst of my dreams had passed. At least, I thought they had.

  fourteen

  I was walking down the hall. In the underground office. I realized that I was a man that liked gray. The design of the place itself was sleek, modern. But there was no variation in the coloring. I walked by the men's room, and would have kept walking, but I heard a noise. Some muffled sound. I slowed to a stop. Listened. Heard it again. I walked back to the door and put my ear to it. It was sporadic, and painful sounding. Someone was crying in there. I silently opened the door and walked inside.

  Past the urinals, there were three stalls with closed doors. I saw a pair of feet in the middle stall. Black pants, dress shoes. One was untied. I knocked on the door.

  The man inside held his breath.

  I looked up at the ceiling. "Is that you?" I said, annoyed.

  The president unlocked the stall door.

  I slowly pulled it open.

  Face red, eyes drenched. Gun in hand.

  I nodded, "I see."

  He shook his head, "We can't do this, Jack," he whispered.

  I leaned against the door frame. "I'm pretty sure ability is out of the question."

  "No.." he put his head down in his palm. The other hand held his gun pointed toward the ceiling. "I mean it isn't right." He jerked his head back up. "We haven't even started, and we've caused some of the worst turmoil in history."

  I could see the relentless regret that haunted him just by staring into his eyes. As his entire body shook profusely, it was clear that this wasn't just guilt. It was hopelessness. He had no solution. He had gone too deep. Even if he turned back now, what could he do? He was in the latter years of his life, and he spent them to aid in the largest mass murder in history. And he was out of the equation now in terms of operation. He couldn't do anything to stop it. And that is what so shook him. It was set in stone, and he had no way to chisel it out.

  "You shook my hand on this, sir."

  "Yes, but I didn't know!" his voice shook. He made a claw with his hand and ran it across the top of his head.

  "You knew full-well. . ."

  "The death of a man. Of a child. . ." he cupped his hands, as if to hold something, "It didn't cause any conviction in my mind on paper." He pointed out toward the bathroom door. "But when I turned on that TV. Watched the news." He shook his hands. "To see what's already happening rips my very being apart."

  I looked to the side.

  He put his head down again. "We can't kill them. We can't do this."

  I scratched an itch on my cheek. "We can. And it's happening whether you agree with it or not. The entire world is in on this. Every other government has signed, and there's nothing you can do to stop it." I looked to the floor, exhaled. "I've been watching the world's leaders for a long time, sir. And now was the only time that I saw an alliance of perspective among them. That included you."

  "I remember. . ." he groaned.

  "I knew you would all agree, so I had to act and push for Project B. It's all part of the plan. You are not the working force behind this."

  He lifted his eyes. His head shook. He tried to force out more words. He lips just quivered, and nothing came out. He squinted. Finally, he achingly said it. "Jack. We're working against that very thing we thought this would sustain. We're killing humanity."

  I rolled my eyes.

  "You.." he pushed me in the chest. "You really don't care?"

  I flattened my lips. "This," I pointed at him, "is what so holds our kind back."

  "No!" he yelled toward the ground. "We are the ones holding it back. People like me. Like you." He made a fist with his hand.

  I scoffed.

  He shook his fist and sobbed.

  I looked around. The president saw it clearly. I really didn't care. I seemed preoccupied. As if this weren't important
. It was a waste of time to me. I looked down at him when his cries started subsiding. "Sir, you are pathetic."

  The president looked up. "I won't allow for this to happen." He shot his finger toward me. "I forbid you."

  "Please," I laughed, looking up, "you gave up your power the second you shook my hand."

  "I can't let this happen." He lifted the gun toward himself.

  "Really? This is your solution?"

  He stood up. Held the pistol to the side of his forehead.

  "Go ahead. You won't save anyone with your own blood," I put both hands in my pockets.

  The president breathed heavily. His eyebrows sank as agony turned to anger. "I can't let this happen." He dug the pistol in.

  I smiled.

  "Which means I can't let you live." And as the President of the United States said this, he whipped the gun toward me.

  In the second that he moved I jerked out a pistol and shot the president in the chest.

  His eyes flashed open. Mouth hung agape.

  I shot again.

  He fell onto the toilet seat.

  Shot a third time.

  A bit of blood flew onto my face.

  Silence. I stood in absolute silence. The gun stayed aimed on him; my hand shook violently. After a few seconds I lowered the pistol. Put it away. I backed up slowly, turned around, and walked to the counter. Looking in the mirror, I saw my brown eyes. My pupils shone in the light. I lathered my hands with soap and washed my face off. Grabbed a paper towel. Wiped my face dry.

  I walked out of the bathroom and slowly went to my office. Pressed a button on the telephone.

  "Yes, Mr. Colson."

  "Send a janitor to the men's room. There's quite a mess in one of the stalls."

  →

  "Due to natural causes, and to our dismay, our president passed away this morning." I looked down, averting my eyes from the camera. I was in a bleak room. At a large table. Looking back up, I continued to read the words off the teleprompter. "In the direction that this country, and the world, was going, the governments of the earth and I saw it best that we not stop, in spite of this tragedy. Collection for Project B is in two days. It is what the president would have wanted, and with it we will honor his death."