The Rage Room

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “No,” I said, “I can’t untie it and anyway we must stick together. We have to go inside,” I said, but my feet were unwilling to move.

  “It looks haunted,” Shasta whispered. “I bet it was an insane asylum.”

  Neither of us moved for a while. The sky was the underbelly of a highway overpass, low-hanging and dark.

  “It’s going to rain,” Shasta said in a small voice. “I don’t want to get wet on top of everything else.”

  “We have to go inside,” I said. “Come on. We’ll get out of the rain and wait for Sting Ray Bob to rescue us.”

  I paused at the edge of the building’s shadow, a shadow that fell like the delineation between good and evil. I took a step forward, half expecting my foot to fall into an empty hole in the darkness, but the ground was solid and firm and unremarkable. I turned to Shasta and tried to smile. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice betraying the lie . We walked across the black earth and up to the gothic front entrance that reminded me of my first school, the one where Mother had left me all alone.

  We climbed the cracked concrete steps to the open mouth of the mausoleum, and as we did, the sun burst through the thick gloom and three golden rays flowed down from the sky, three pillars of radiant light. “Maybe it’s a sign?” Shasta sounded hopeful.

  “Of what? There’s nothing here.” I looked around.

  The shark-tooth windows were set high up and tiny in the brick walls, and there was nothing inside the warehouse. No offices, rooms, partitions, or old machinery, just a layer of dust and grime.

  Shasta stared beyond me and I turned, but there was just a steady cone of dust swirling in the golden sunlight. Momentarily distracted by the flow and dance of the light, I turned to Shasta, only to find that she had vanished. My arm was free.

  “Shasta?” I was panic-stricken. “Where are you?” How had she got loose, and where could she have gone? There was nowhere for her to go. I shuddered. Being here alone was terrifying. “Shasta?” I swung around in a circle, and as I did, the sun died with a flick of a switch and I was left standing in the thick darkness.

  I swung around to the entrance, to reassure myself that it was still there, and yes, it was. I could run outside any time I chose.

  I was freezing and my skin was clammy. Goosebumps sandpapered my arms and my chest, and I shivered. My body was slick with greasy sweat, soaking my T-shirt. I hugged my arms around me trying to find some semblance of warmth.

  I fell to my knees, crying. Hot tears that turned ice cold. I sobbed until I had nothing left. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and find a way out of there. I stood up, and as I did, the three pillars of light snapped on and I spotted Shasta in the far corner, kneeling, holding something.

  I ran to her. “Shasta! Where did you go? What are you doing? What’s going on?”

  I fired questions at her, but she didn’t acknowledge me.

  I knelt down and looked at her. “Shasta? Please, talk to me.”

  She was holding a child’s shoe. It was Baxter’s shoe, and I snatched it from her. “You loved him more than anything,” Shasta said. “You loved him so much it hurt.”

  “I did,” I said. “Where did you find it?” I asked.

  “Here,” she said vaguely.

  “But there’s nothing here.” I looked around again, desperate to make sense of what was going on.

  “I didn’t want to leave home,” she said. “I didn’t want what happened to my life. I wanted to be somebody. I’ve figured out where we are. Alterna Inferma. My father used to play it all the time, too. He was also obsessed with the General, Janaelle. Sorry to tell you, Sharps, but you weren’t alone in thinking she was hot shit.”

  She was right! Level 5, The Hidden Maze of the Mausoleum. My heart sank. It was one of the toughest levels.

  A zeppelin shadow hovered above us. I sensed it before I saw it. I knew the play: the creature with a thousand flitting eyes would swoop down and suffocate us. I looked up to see it fanning its cape-like fins, preparing to drop and devour, but then it jerked away and dissolved into the high ceiling of the building. Why did it let us live? The zeppelins never let you live. I had wanted to point it out to Shasta, but it vanished too quickly and she was still staring at the shoe. I put my arm around Shasta and pulled her close.

  My vision faded to soft around the edges, and renewed rivers of cold sweat ran down my scalp and my body. My heart was a panicked pulse in my eardrums, and my clothes were sodden. I didn’t want Shasta to feel my weakness. I let go of her and leaned forward with my head on the ground and held my breath. It was as if spiders were crawling under my skin. How else to explain the bites erupting out of nowhere on my arms, legs, belly? Time travel was killing me, but I had to find a way back to save my boy and Sophie. I had to survive. I had to make it through this. The shoe was an omen, a message.

  When I looked up, Shasta was gone and the only thing left was the shoe. What was happening? And why wasn’t Sting Ray Bob saving us? Oh shit. I remembered what he’d told me way back when: “If the device fails, you have to dig it out of your wrist with a scalpel and rinse it off. You’ll need to reset the software and stick it back in. It will hurt like hell.”

  Great. I didn’t have a scalpel. I didn’t have saline solution. All I had was the filth and the cold. I pulled up the sleeve of my coat, wondering if the device was still functional and thinking that getting a tattoo on top of it probably wasn’t the most sensible of ideas. I rubbed my wrist in desperation, petrified that the implant might not be there, but to my relief, my thumb felt a small nub, an inch-long worm under my skin, buried deep. I rubbed at my wrist, hoping to reset the software by vigorous action, but nothing happened. My legs reminded me I was no spring chicken. I unlocked my joints and sat down cross-legged, which was marginally better, although I was shocked by how stiff my hips were. I reminded myself that stiffness and aging were the least of my worries at this point. I tapped the device, hard. Still nothing. Feeling like an idiot, I licked my skin, hoping the warmth of my tongue, such as it was in the ice-cold tomb, would help the device. But no. I sighed. I didn’t have a scalpel. I had nothing. Except my nails. Oh shit. I looked at my fingernails. They were black and grimy. I tested my fingertips, but they were buffed and smooth which was no good. I needed something sharp. Sharps needed something sharp, ha ha, not funny. I laughed anyway, and my breath hung like a lacy curtain in front of my face. I realized that while I had been reflecting on my manicure, the temperature had plummeted. I’d better get a move on. And noticing my breath had done me no favours because it was as if my body suddenly realized how cold it was and I began to shiver like a poisoned dog.

  I gnawed on the thumbnail of my right hand. It was the longest nail and the strongest. I bit off one side, creating a tiny triangle of a weapon, sharp enough, I hoped, to do the job.

  I pushed the nail as hard as I could against my skin, but I only dented it. Shit. This was impossible. I leaned my head back and screamed. I didn’t mean to make a noise and I startled myself, howling like a madman. I guided my thumbnail to the device and, still howling, I rolled onto my side and used the weight of my body to force the thumbnail into my left wrist.

  I sawed the edge of the nail back and forth, and the blood flowed, hot and sticky. I’d done it! But where was the device? I brought my wrist close to my face. I could see it! A tiny glint of silver. I dug it out with my forefinger and my thumb, and I was shaking so hard, I nearly dropped it. I caught it under my fingernail and pressed it to the pad of my thumb. Concentrate. Focus. Don’t swallow it. Rinse it in your mouth. Find the reset button, and stick it back in.

  I hadn’t counted on the blood tasting so vile. I nearly gagged and closed my throat just in time. My reflex was to spit the thing out but I rolled it around in my mouth and tried to rinse it, warm it up, do anything to make it work.

  By now I was shaking so hard that I was convinced I wouldn’t be able to get the
device back in my wrist. I was curled up in the fetal position with my knees locked to my chest. I had to do it. I felt around in my mouth with my fingers and grabbed the device. I squinted closely and saw a tiny raised area like Sting Ray Bob had said. Could they possibly have made this any more difficult? I pressed my nail down hard, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. This had better work or it was all over for me. I didn’t want to die or be stuck in this freezing hell. Trying not to think about what I had to do, I took the silver worm between my thumb and fingernail and pushed it deep back into the tiny wound. Then I passed out, with my thumb still pressed to my wrist.

  42. FOURTH TIME LUCKY

  WHEN I WOKE UP, SHASTA WAS LEANING over me. We were back at St. Drogo’s. The mass of bodies was still the same only it smelled much worse than I remembered.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, and I nodded.

  “But I have to go back,” I said. Instinct kept my thumb pressed to my wrist. “I have to go now. Don’t come with me.”

  “God, no!” she said. “That was horrible. Getting stuck in the ArcadeCrystalChik Mall was a nightmare. I thought I loved the place, but I never want to see it again as long as I live.”

  The mall? Her displaced time, I guess. And mine was Alterna Inferma, Level 5, The Hidden Maze of the Mausoleum.

  “Good luck,” she said and kissed me. “You can do it, champ, I know you can.”

  I wished I had her faith in me. My body wanted to lie down and die; it was worn out, strung out, wrung out. But my mind was made up, and my desire fuelled me one last time. I had to jump now. I had to save the kids from Celeste, and I couldn’t waste a single second. I had to jump before Sting Ray Bob or Jaxen showed up and hauled me away.

  I knew this jump would be my last, even if there was still one left in my allotment. I couldn’t manage any more after this.

  I pointed my wrist at the gate, with my thumb firmly in place over the device. It worked! I landed back in my house. I took quick stock of the situation. I was upstairs in the bedroom. From the sounds of it, Celeste was making smoothies for everyone.

  I looked down at myself. I was covered in blood and dirt.

  “Will you make me a blueberry faux-yoghurt with spinach?” I yelled down the stairs as if nothing had happened the night before, as if I hadn’t hit her. “Please, CeeCee? I’ll be down soon. I’m just going to take a shower.”

  I locked myself in the bathroom and took out the MediKit. I poured disinfectant into the gash in my wrist and winced at the pain, trying not to make a sound. I cleaned the wound thoroughly and rinsed it clean. I wrapped it in a bandage and tied it tightly. I didn’t want the tiny silver grain to get lost when I was in the shower.

  I scrubbed and washed every inch of my body, double soaping and loving the feel of the scalding water.

  Once out the shower, I poked at the wound and recoiled in pain. A stupid move, but I needed to check the device was still there. It was. I bandaged it neatly and cleaned up, making sure all evidence of my first aid administrations were removed. The bathroom looked perfectly normal—a bit untidy for my liking but, nothing out of the ordinary.

  I pulled on my suit and knotted my tie. I bundled my filthy clothes and shoved them to the bottom of the hamper. Time to get this show on the road. I felt surprisingly good; my head was clear and pain free, which was surprising, but I’d take it.

  I flashed a message to Ava.

  Am sick, will be in later if I can, sorry.

  So fire my ass, if you like, bitch.

  She shot back.

  Sure you’re sick. Delaying this won’t change anything. I’ve got evidence that nails you and Williamson. I’m going to be promoted while your ass(es) will be fired! I don’t need you to come in. The lawyers will be in touch. I’m going to rule the fucking world, Sharps.

  I stared at the comm. This was a disconcerting and new development. Ava didn’t need me to come in? That wasn’t supposed to happen. But I didn’t have time to think about it, and I didn’t bother to reply. I rushed over to the pink CrystalMeBooty shoe box. The box was full of drugs just like Shasta had said! Not only Clonazepam but a dozen others, and the names were all Diazepam this, or Sertraline that. I riffled through them quickly. Holy shit, which one to use? My plan was to crush the pills somehow and get them into Celeste’s smoothie or her morning coffee.

  But then, at the bottom of the box I scored a motherload. Nirvana! WTF! Nirvana was a designer drug, stronger than a mix of heroin, cocaine, and fentanyl. Six syringes, all loaded and ready to go. I grabbed two and closed the box.

  “Cee,” I called down, “can you come up? I need to tell you something.”

  She didn’t reply, but I heard her coming up the stairs.

  “What?” She wasn’t happy with me and she stood in the doorway, hands on her hips.

  “Cee,” I said, “I lost it last night. What I did was unforgiveable. But Ava’s accusing me of stealing from the company when it was Jazza, but I can’t prove it yet. Please forgive me. I got the comm from Ava last night—she wants to see me today.”

  “What?” Her eyes widened and she walked towards me, her truculence replaced by clouded confusion. “Does Daddy know? Sharps, what’s wrong with your eyes?”

  I shook my head. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re all red. Have a look.”

  “I was just in the shower and everything was fine.” I tried to brush her off, wondering what the hell she was talking about and thinking that whatever it was, I’d deal with it later. But she led me back into the still-steamy washroom and rubbed the mirror clean with a towel.

  Oh shit. The whites of my eyeballs were a solid Halloween zombie red. It was off-putting to say the least. “Oh shit. I guess I blew a few blood vessels,” I said lamely. “I’ll get it checked out as soon as I’ve dealt with Ava. But listen, Cee, don’t leave me. You and the kids mean everything to me.” Good, so she hadn’t heard about Ava’s allegations and neither had Daddy. That was good, at least.

  “Well,” she said and moved slightly closer to me, “you have been behaving really weirdly lately. I was going to take the kids to Real Life Florida and give you some time to yourself, but your work situation explains a lot. Honey, you aren’t really going to be fired, are you?”

  “I’ve got it all under control.” I sounded so convincing that I even believed myself. “Please, Cee, let me hold you. I know you’ve got no reason to be kind to me but it’s been terrible.”

  She softened slightly but she was still resistant. I moved towards her and put my arms around her. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Cee, haven’t I always provided for you? Understood you like no one else? Loved you? I always have and I always will. Come on, baby, we’re a team, you know that.” She sank into my arms, and I caressed her and pulled her close and murmured in her ear. I brushed the hair away from her neck, as if I was going to kiss her neck, then I plunged the syringe in deep. I held her with all my might as she bucked and tried to get away. She only fought for a second or two, and then she sagged heavily, nearly pulling me down with her.

  I managed to drag her to the bed and arrange her on her side, removing one of her slippers. I took the second syringe and shot it between her toes and replaced the slipper. She turned a weird shade of grey-green purple and started foaming at the mouth, her eyes wide and bulging. She took longer to die than I had expected. She thrashed around, and I hoped the kids couldn’t hear anything.

  She finally lay still. She was twisted and dishevelled, her mouth an open O.

  I flashed a message to Jazza.

  Running late. Don’t do anything stupid. As in, do NOT kill yourself or anyone else. Got it? Wait for me. I’ve got a plan.

  Then I called #Emr. “My wife, I think she’s taken drugs. I came upstairs and she was having a fit, and now she’s not moving at all.” I tried to sound hysterical and infuse my voice with emotion, but I sounded like an awkward kid at a re
cital, worried he’d forget his words. I knew the SSOs used voice stress analysis in homicide cases, and I hoped my inflections would be credible.

  I went downstairs to wait. I did an unheard-of thing, I put on the ChirpyChippiesForWinkles channel, cartoons for the kiddies, something only used by me to entertain them when I was utterly desperate to quiet them or on very special occasions. I put Bax on the sofa with his very own box of Chompy Chocoroos and propped Sophie up in her high chair with a bottle. She was a little old for the bottle, but she still loved it and I needed to keep the peace.

  The officers got there in no time at all.

  “We were all here in the kitchen,” I told one of the guys while the medics worked on Celeste upstairs. “Having breakfast, as you can see. Celeste said she needed to get something from our bedroom before I went to work and that I was to watch the kids for a few minutes. But then she didn’t come down and I went up and found her.”

  I had cleaned the first syringe of my prints, pressed Celeste’s fingers around it, and left it, fallen by the bedside. And I buried the second syringe in a bag of Sophie’s used diapers that I thought was as safe a place as any. “No, I didn’t know my wife was a drug user. It really scares me that I left her alone with the kids all this time.”

  I realized I needed to show more shock and devastation. “I don’t even know what to say,” I told the mullet-haired officer. “I’ll be honest, none of this feels real. I feel absolutely numb.” I ran my fingers through my hair, my eyes wide, unblinking. “To find her like that was such a terrible shock. I had no idea she did drugs. I’ll never forget what she looked like. I feel like she’ll come downstairs at any moment and carry on with breakfast. She loves Christmas—it’s her favourite time of the year. Her parents are in Real Life Florida. Oh man, this will kill them. And the kiddies, look at them. So innocent.” I knew I was babbling.

  A woman officer was chatting to the kids, and they were both looking at her with delighted googly-eyed wonder.