Armageddon House Page 4

  “What happened to Polly?” Mark shakes his head, trying to clear his vision, struggling to sit up. Everything is too bright, not just the wall and ceiling. All the world is luminous and terrible, full of pain. Things are happening among the four. He can’t see what’s going on, still doesn’t understand what happened. “Where, where did she go?”

  Mark’s eyes adjust. By the time he can see and think, Jenna is glaring at Greyson, who looks down at the ground.

  “She probably went to the bar,” Greyson suggests. “Or maybe down to Utgard.”

  “Utgard?” Confused, Mark looks to Jenna, who shakes her head.

  “She goes there to feel safe.” Greyson exhales, as if anger and tension have left him after the spurt of violence. He crosses to where Mark is still trying to right himself, and helps him stand. “Sorry you made me, you know…”

  Jenna runs over and shoves Greyson away from Mark, who almost falls again.

  Greyson wobbles on the pool’s edge. “Hey, come on, now,” he says.

  “This way you’ve been acting needs to stop.” Jenna breathes heavily through her teeth, still angry. “If you could just stop, for one day, it could change the outcome of this. For all of us.”

  Greyson faces Jenna, fists on hips in a childish superhero pose, grinning broadly in defiance. “Me, stop? I don’t need to stop nothing.”

  “I’m not telling you to worry about Mark or me. We can take care of ourselves. But Polly’s having trouble, more and more lately, in case you haven’t noticed. The way you behave, it’s not fair to Polly.”

  “Fair to Polly?” Greyson asks. “How is anything in this world fair?” Greyson asks, turning to Mark in a menacing way, as if he might assault him again.

  Shaking her head, Jenna grabs Mark’s hand and leads him away from Greyson, toward the door.

  “Let’s go,” Mark says, as if he might have some say in the matter. He wonders if everything’s spinning out of control, as it seems to be, or if it’s actually just the same as always before. “We’re going. Let’s go find Polly.”

  An Interlude

  Bourbon in Lonely Tavern

  On the stairs, climbing, Jenna makes a suggestion that doesn’t seem open to debate.

  “A detour,” she says. “Brief, but crucial.”

  “That’s all we ever do, detour and digress,” Mark observes. “Every plan, always subject to change.”

  Greyson catches up from behind, breathing hard from running. Mark wants to be rid of him, but they need each other, especially if they want to find Polly. Nothing more is said about the scuffle. Jenna leads the trio, since she’s the one with the plan. At the level of the Square Lounge, she veers through the door, crosses the big room and angles toward Lonely Tavern.

  Mark can’t remember whose turn it is to become bartender. Before the question can be debated or even raised, Jenna goes behind the bar.

  The bartender grabs a bottle of bourbon off the shelf and opens the stopper. She lines up four shot glasses and pours. “I make this deal with you.”

  “There are three of us here,” Greyson says, indicating the four glasses. “If Polly wanted one, maybe she shouldn’t have…” He turns to Mark, seeming to expect agreement that no drinks are needed for anyone absent.

  The bartender ignores Greyson, looking at Mark as she finishes pouring. “We make this deal. We all stop briefly for one bourbon, one at least, one at minimum. If after the first you desire no more, we’ll continue as before, seeking the next thing to be sought. But so long as any person asks for another, I’ll keep pouring. That’s what a bartender does. She keeps pouring.”

  “This is a real good idea, Jenna,” Greyson says, artificially friendly. He takes the shot and tosses it back. “Ah, yes, fine. Yeah. I needed this.”

  The bartender shakes her head, and drinks her own shot.

  Mark follows suit, then raps his knuckles on the bar and points at Greyson. “Don’t call her that,” he warns.

  The fourth shot remains untouched.

  “Right, you’re right.” Greyson looks abashed. “Sorry, bartender, I mistook you for a friend, but I see now I don’t recognize you after all. You must be new here.”

  “I am new here,” the bartender says.

  “I’ll have one more, but only one,” Greyson says. “Then we go find Polly.”

  The bartender nods, lips pursed with solemnity of purpose, and refills the three empty glasses. “Just a brief digression into philosophy and poison.” Her voice is strange, deep and uneven. Something in her throat is wrong.

  “Poison?” Mark asks. “I hope this is just good Kentucky bourbon, barkeep, and nothing so sinister as liquid death.” He squints at the amber-brown liquor, then drinks it down.

  The bartender takes her own second shot. “Whiskey is sacred because it’s always safe, no matter what’s in it. But the poison in question, henbane or maybe nightshade, that isn’t for now. In your future, our future, is always another death.”

  “What are you talking about poison for?” Greyson asks, irritated. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “When she says things that doesn’t make any sense,” Mark says, “it’s just words she remembers from old books.”

  “What’s the first thing you remember, when you came here?” the bartender asks. “What I remember is this. One of the four is expert in secret administration of poison. It only remains to be seen whether this will ever come into play.”

  Mark hates when people talk about things from books he hasn’t read. Especially Jenna. He considers having a third drink, but stops himself from asking for it.

  The bartender points to the fourth shot glass, untouched. “One for your friend, when you find her. Somewhere out in this deep, wide world, this way or that, above or below, you might find her. You’ll snatch her back from among the lost, and once she’s found, you’ll come back here. Here she’ll find this waiting for her. If she comes.”

  “Earlier Polly told me something,” Greyson says, a suspicious look coming over his face. “She told me she regrets so often saying things that aren’t true. She gets emotional, and ends up making everyone upset over nothing.”

  Mark wants to know what Jenna thinks of Greyson’s admission, but he can’t look at her to see. She’s still the bartender. “Why would she make up lies?” Mark asks Greyson. What seems more likely is that Greyson wants to cast doubt on what Polly said about someone trying to hurt her.

  “To destroy all this,” Greyson says. “She’s trying to bring about an end.”

  “We don’t need her help,” Mark says.

  The bartender tilts the bottle, trying to get their attention. “Does anyone want a last dose to speed you on your way?”

  “Nah,” Greyson says. “We’d better go.” “

  I hate to exercise after drinking.” Mark says. “It makes me feel sluggish.”

  The bartender corks the bottle and changes her face.

  Jenna steps out from behind the bar. “Didn’t we already work out today? I thought we did.”

  “Yesterday,” Greyson says.

  Jenna sniffs. “I thought we already did.”

  “Yesterday doesn’t count,” Mark says. “We have to treat every day like it’s separate from other days. So we always have to exercise again, even when we already have.”

  “Fine, fine.” Jenna shrugs, fully back to herself again. She leads the men back to the stairs. “Anyway, we’ll sober up before we catch Polly.”

  Mark has a suspicion about Greyson and Polly, a hunch about a secret. “What’s on your wall?” He nudges Greyson. “What do you see every morning?”

  Greyson keeps walking as if he hasn’t heard, looking down at his right hand, flexing it in and out of a fist, like Polly does when she’s trying to rein in her emotions.

  Many times Mark has wondered whether Polly and Greyson might be going through exactly the same disconnection as himself and Jenna, not sharing one room, but residing separately at their end of the long hall.

  “Why are you ask
ing that?” Greyson asks with caution.

  “In all the rooms, there’s a nature image,” Mark clarifies. “I’m asking about the picture in your room, the room you share with Polly.”

  Greyson stops, looking at Mark as if confused, then starts walking again, shaking his head. “I’m surprised you’re asking. You’ve seen it enough times.”

  Mark can’t recall having seen their room, or for that matter having been as far as the opposite end of the hall. He can picture it, but he’s sure he hasn’t been there.

  “Don’t you remember, dummy?” Greyson continues, seeming to sense he has Mark at a disadvantage. “When it was your room?”

  Mark has no idea at all what Greyson means to suggest.

  “Humor me, then,” Mark says. “What do you see when you wake up beside Polly every morning?”

  Greyson looks sick, almost grief-stricken at remembering. “Snow on a mountainside. A giant wolf bound in ropes, surrounded by rough men with beards, and women with braided hair. They’ve captured and tied the wolf, but I don’t know what happens next.”

  This might be something Mark remembers after all. He’s unsure when or where he’s seen it, and can’t very well ask Greyson or Jenna if he once resided in a different room, or shared someone else’s bed. Now he’s feeling defensive and confused, the way he wanted to make Greyson feel. He’s done this to himself.

  Six

  Bottom Cavern, Tunnel and Door

  Mark isn’t sure this place they call Bottom Cavern is truly at the bottom of everything. They use the name because they’re unaware of anything deeper, but it makes sense to imagine there’s always something higher, and always something lower.

  Where every other level feels finished, like an outcome of intentional construction followed through from design to completion, the cavern is rough, dark and damp, like a root cellar beneath an old house. Though the ceiling is high, somehow Mark always feels he should keep his head down.

  The floor and walls vary from polished concrete to natural, broken stone, and back again. The stairway empties onto a concrete landing, from which the floor slopes away, crisscrossed by heavy black pipes and thin silver conduits, which sometimes turn abruptly ninety degrees and shoot upward to penetrate the ceiling, presumably conveying electricity, water or other resources above.

  Mark pauses at the threshold of the landing. Jenna and Greyson go ahead and only stop when they reach a platform against the stone wall, just off-level enough to suggest the floor may be natural. There stands a heavy wood workbench, worn and chipped with use, gray with age. Beyond this stand dozens of upright oak barrels, as might hold wine. Jenna peeks into one.

  “Apples.” She fully removes the lid to reveal the contents. “How long have these been here?”

  Mark approaches, amazed. The apples seem unnaturally red and glossy, more like the ideal conception of apples than the real thing. “They say apples can remain fresh a very long time,” he speculates, though this doesn’t answer Jenna’s question. “At least in cool, dark places.”

  “Polly always talks about her apples,” Greyson says. “Apples keep us young; she always says. Apples are important throughout history. Apples appear in all the old fables. Apples will keep you alive forever.”

  Mark takes one from the barrel, gazing at it in wonder. He can’t believe it’s actually what it appears to be. He takes a bite, and finds it to be a real, crisp apple, surprisingly cold and very sweet. Taste and smell provoke a rush of memories from before he became the person he is now.

  “What are you saying about Polly?” Jenna asks Greyson, before taking an apple for herself.

  “This bench,” Greyson gestures. “She’s been coming down, trying to build these fake things.” He makes a disgusted face and knocks the apple from Mark’s hand. It bounces under the workbench.

  Mark wants another, and almost takes one, but Greyson quickly moves on past the barrels, shouting Polly’s name. The next section of room, Mark can’t remember having seen. The wall to their left is rugged, especially cracked and broken. A fissure opens, almost a narrow canyon, depths lost in shadow. Even within that darkness, Mark is able to see something. He strains to discern the shape, and finally recognizes it. An enormous tree root protrudes from the stone wall, reaching down from somewhere above.

  “Do you see this?” Mark shouts, gently touching the root with a fingertip. He feels a vibration, something alive and shifting within the wood, almost like breathing. It makes him shiver. “Wow.”

  Neither Jenna nor Greyson respond. They seem not to have noticed his exclamation.

  Mark can’t imagine the scale of a tree large enough to extend roots so far below ground. He’s read stories, myths of enormous, world-sized trees, not that such things exist in the natural world. This is a real tree, large enough to send down roots through hundreds or even thousands of feet of bedrock.

  Jenna and Greyson are far ahead of him now, where the walls are once again smooth concrete, unbroken by intrusions. He hurries to catch up, pushing aside the notions that briefly filled his imagination with wonder.

  As they explore deeper, farther from the entrance, the room seems more natural and cave-like. Generally, the sense of designed habitat decreases. The far wall is not visible, beyond reach of the powerful overhead lights near the entrance.

  Here, to Mark’s left, something else grabs his attention. A tunnel shoots off from the room’s rough circle into unfinished rock. He can’t help but be drawn toward the yawning, cave-like opening. This remains one of the great unknowns of this place, despite their efforts, as long as they’ve been here, to relentlessly explore and catalog every room, every level. Mark can imagine no reason for this unfinished tunnel to exist. It lacks any fixtures, hardware, lights, cabling or other signs of civilization found everywhere else. Though nothing of interest has ever been discovered here, Mark finds it impossible that such a way should exist, yet lead to nothing at all. If a trail is made, a road paved, a tunnel cut, that indicates somebody created it for a reason. He’s always felt compelled toward this spot, even if he doesn’t understand why, and feels mostly frustration at being unable to follow the tunnel very far.

  Wouldn’t a tunnel like this attract Polly, especially in her state of confusion?

  “Don’t bother,” Greyson says, apparently seeing the spell being exerted upon Mark. “There’s nothing down there.”

  Mark feels irritated at Greyson’s presumption in telling him where to go. Does Greyson think he knows more? Mark’s the one who possesses knowledge that he can withhold from the others, or dole out in tantalizing hints. Here, Greyson suggests otherwise. What does he think he knows?

  “We should explore everywhere,” Jenna says, joining Mark. “Just in case.”

  Greyson shrugs. “Knock yourself out.” He continues on alone, still looking over his shoulder to see whether Mark and Jenna might follow.

  Mark wants to explore, but also to avoid being drawn into a literal dead end. “Maybe he’s right,” he says with reluctance. “We’ve never found anything down this passage.”

  “Somebody’s got to come with me.” Jenna gives Mark a look both imploring and frustrated. “At least take a look.” She takes a few careful steps into the tunnel, mindful of the uneven floor.

  “Waste of time,” Greyson shouts from a distance.

  “What the hell do you know?” Jenna shouts back, then whispers to Mark, as he joins her. “There’s no way to see how far it extends unless we keep going.”

  “But haven’t we been here before? It doesn’t go anywhere, right?”

  “It didn’t before,” Jenna agrees. “It’s not like I think this is going to emerge on the surface, or lead down to other, new levels, but even if it leads nowhere, she could be down here, hiding in the dark. Couldn’t she?”

  Mark keeps close to Jenna. “That’s the far wall, isn’t it?” He points, indicating a wall he can’t see, but imagines to be only a few feet away.

  Jenna edges forward in tiny, shuffling steps, as if nearing a c
liff’s edge. One hand reaches into darkness, feeling for an invisible limit. She gasps, startled, then turns back, brow knit with worry. “I guess there’s nothing.”

  “We’ll find her,” Greyson shouts from far off. “She always does this.”

  “Since when?” Jenna asks Mark, quietly.

  Mark and Jenna retrace their steps to the main cavern, not eager to rejoin Greyson, but pleased to be back in familiar territory, within reach of lights.

  “She always does this, all the time,” Greyson sputters. “I can’t even count how many times.”

  “No,” Mark says. “Never before this. She just cries. She never runs away.”

  Greyson steps forcefully toward Mark, trying to intimidate. “Look who’s getting sassy. You’re forgetting I can do whatever I want to you.” He bumps Mark, chest to chest. Mark sees him coming and leans in, but Greyson’s weight knocks him back. Mark takes a step back and steadies himself, reaching the wall behind him.

  “Stop, stop it.” Jenna places a hand against Greyson’s chest, without force.

  Greyson appears to push back, but when Jenna doesn’t budge, he backs off.

  “What else is there to look at?” Mark asks. “It’s a huge room, but there’s nothing here, just cables and pipes and fixtures.”

  “Polly comes here because it’s a place the rest of us never go,” Greyson suggests.

  “I come here a lot,” Jenna says.

  “What, when?” Mark asks, surprised. “Why?”

  Greyson scoffs at the pathetic eagerness of Mark’s questions.

  Jenna points to the darkest corner, beyond the reach of their explorations. “The door. I keep checking, in case it opens. I can’t help myself.”

  Mark squints, seeking for some feature or landmark he’s been missing. Is there something he’s forgotten? He hopes Jenna’s kidding.

  She looks at him, flatly surprised he doesn’t understand. “The Utgard door.”

  Mark looks to Greyson, then back at Jenna. “Show me, then.”

  She leads, confident in the path, traversing obstacles, leaping barriers, ducking below hanging cables, going over, under and around horizontal and vertical pipes which range from finger-thin to broad as a tree trunk. Concrete cubes, humming steel cylinders in gleaming silver, painted white, or gone to rust. A row of giant fans spin so fast, the humming blades can be heard and felt, but not seen.