Remote, p.14
Remote, page 14
***
Eden Fawnsley’s fifteen minutes of fame began on a reality show called Horror House.
The premise was simple: contestants were screened to find the kind of people who shrieked at scary movies, and had very particular fears. Twelve of these people were locked inside a specially-built, very creepy house that was wired to provide everything from blood-spewing faucets to monsters leaping from closets. Whoever lasted longest got a million dollars--and the producers had plenty of surprises in store, tailored to the contestant’s specific phobias. There were animatronic spiders the size of pit bulls, a refrigerator full of rats, snakes that slithered out of toilet bowls. But it was more subtle than that—TV screens had horrific images inserted subliminally and constant low-level music provided a horror movie soundtrack, while an espresso machine and a never-ending supply of Red Bull kept the contestants hyper-alert and on edge. Even their sense of smell was manipulated through the introduction of subtle hints of blood, decay, burning flesh.
The show was a big hit. People tuned in to see people pushed to the very edge, to seem grown men reduced to tears and women shriek. Some of the contestants soiled themselves. One woman had to be hospitalized and sedated, and another man bodily removed from the set when he became completely irrational and threatened another contestant with a broken bottle.
But there was more to the show than simply terrorizing people. There was a mystery, clues, choices to be made and chances to be taken. Competition fought with survival instincts, simple greed versus the basic human trait of banding together against the threat of the unknown.
Eden didn’t win the million dollars. But she did generate one of those stand-alone moments that reality TV producers pray for, an unscripted moment of sheer human emotion as raw and real as seeing a mother run into a burning building. It made her, if not a star, then at least a comet that blazed across the media sky for a season or two.
Reality TV shows liked archetypal characters, the more basic the better, and Eden was chosen to represent the soft-spoken, mostly pure of heart Southern Gal, east of white trash and north of racist, a little bit slutty and a little bit virginal; Britney before the breakdown, with just a touch of Daisy Duke. If she’d been a character in a slasher flick, she would have stood a good chance of making it almost all the way to the end credits.
Not all the way, though. She wasn’t quite smart enough to play the plucky lead who survived—more like the lead’s best friend who was the final, heart-rending victim. Likable, but just not hard-assed enough to come out on top.
One of the prime laws of reality TV was Thou Shalt Not Get Along, which meant personality types were always chosen to maximize conflict. Producers couldn’t always predict who would wind up bitter enemies and who would wind up friends—people had a stubborn habit of defying expectations—but there were certain combinations guaranteed to generate animosity and suspicion. Nobody was surprised when Eden and a contestant named Estrellita Juarez took an instant dislike to each other; Estrellita was a scientist, a hard-headed geneticist from a wealthy family; Eden was a dirt-poor high-school dropout and devout Christian. Eden stridently denied being a bigot, but there was obviously a deeply-ingrained class bias in her attitude toward Latinos, made even more evident by the fact that Estrellita was better educated and better off than she was. They argued on the very first day, almost came to blows on day three, and then—despite themselves, and their circumstances—came to a gradual, grudging respect of each other’s abilities over the course of the next week.
Specific tasks had to be performed to earn clues, which would lead to more tasks. The only reward the contestants ever got was downtime, an hour or more in the Safe Room, the one place they could be guaranteed not to be attacked, frightened, or terrorized. Contestants could even be “killed”, marked with fake blood by a realistic-looking weapon, meaning that any attacker had to be either fought or run away from; three “deaths” would remove you from the game for good.
Only four contestants were left when Estrellita and Eden were paired up for a trip to the basement. Both of them had already been “killed” twice.
Estrellita’s specific fear was lizards, and for a very good reason: She was from Florida, and when she was six years old she’d seen her eight-year old brother dragged into a canal and killed by an alligator. She’d never been comfortable around water, and even a picture of Godzilla was enough to make her hyperventilate.
The monster that attacked them seemed to have leapt directly out of her nightmares, a hulking, scaly brute with a snout full of gaping, razor-sharp teeth. Estrellita had screamed, dropped her flashlight and tried to run; she hadn’t taken more than a step before it grabbed her from behind.
But this monster had been designed with more than Estrellita in mind. Eden’s phobia was more specific; she was terrified of butchers. The sight of any large, sharp knife made her nervous, and an actual meat cleaver provoked a panic attack. A life-long vegetarian, she would cross the street to avoid a deli and had once fainted when she wandered into the meat section of a supermarket.
The reptillian monster, with his bloodstained apron and cleaver, was designed to terrify both of them. Whoever it got first, the producers were sure the other one would run away screaming—but they were in for a surprise.
After eight days of psychological torment, sleep deprivation and fear, Eden Fawnsley physically attacked a monster three times her size while defending one of her competitors. Her cry of “I’M NOT ASCARED OF YOU!” was an instant catchphrase that echoed through the mediasphere, a meme that resonated with anyone who’d ever wished they could face down their worst nightmare. It became a rallying cry for a culture tired of terrorist alerts, fearmongering, and sensationalism; and Eden, after her third “death”, found herself reborn at the center of a marketing whirlwind.
Jack closed the book. He hadn’t read the whole thing, just skimmed it, but he had the salient facts. The question was, what was it about Eden’s story that fascinated Remote so much--was it her courage in the face of intense pressure? Her capitalization on her moment in the spotlight? Something as simple as physical attraction, or more subtle? What was lurking in Remote’s head that drove this particular obsession?
***
Goliath wasn’t fooled.
Things had settled down in his head, but they hadn’t gone back to normal. He could still hear the angry screaming of overamped guitars in the back of his head, the prayers of the Mantises to their new master, and he knew his trials weren’t over. This was another test, to see whether or not he was willing to embrace his new reality or retreat to the safe, sane world he’d been born into.
The division in his head had grown, both sides gaining strength from battling the other, like two wily boxers each learning their opponent’s moves. Goliath sensed that on some deep level something had finally broken inside him, some kind of boundary that he’d been raging against his whole life without ever knowing it was there. On the other side of that barrier was either total freedom or complete destruction, and he wasn’t sure which one he wanted more.
It was funny though, funny enough to make him laugh out loud; part of him knew that he still had a choice, that all he had to do was say to himself this is crazy and it would all fade away; not all at once, not right away, but a few days from now he’d be shaking his head and wondering how he could have believed anything so fucked up.
But another part of his brain was telling him it didn’t have to be that way. That he could choose to believe, choose this new reality, and then it wouldn’t be crazy at all—it would be real. He would be the Godfucker, and all reality would be his to kick the shit out of whenever he wanted.
Right now, one point of view seemed just as valid as the other—in fact, to Goliath they didn’t even seem to contradict each other. Just two guys arguing in a bar over which had the longer dick, that was all.
For now, he was going with the one that promised unlimited power. What the fuck—why not? But that didn’t mean he was done with his sanity, not yet—not when he needed it to convince his captor he could be dealt with in a rational manner. He didn’t need food or clothing or even beer—though some painkillers for his eye would be good, it hurt like a bitch--but he did need her to think those things were important to him. It would give her a lever to move him in whatever direction she wanted . . . until that lever snapped in her hand.
Because the Mantises would never accept a God that would allow himself to be caged. But once Goliath was free, he would be free forever.
So he had growled yes and no and C’mon, I’m freezing my fucking nuts off, even though his body seemed like something far, far away that he was operating like a video game. Even his damaged eye was only a nagging irritation, something that didn’t really seem to matter.
The woman with the gun had relocked the trailer door and gotten back in the truck and driven for another two hours. Now they were in some pissant little tourist town in the foothills, at the very last unit in a strip motel that seemed to have no other customers but them. Goliath was sleeping shackled to the U-shaped pipe under the bathroom sink, on a nest of bedspreads pulled off the two doubles. The woman with the gun slept on one, and some other guy slept on the other. She disconnected the phone from the wall and stashed it in a drawer before cuffing the guy to the bed-frame, which Goliath found very interesting; apparently he wasn’t the only prisoner in her collection.
He studied the pipe he was shackled to. He was pretty sure he could rip it right out of the wall, but not without waking the woman. He could also yell his head off—she hadn’t tried to gag him—but that ran counter to his deepest instincts. Goliath had never asked the cops for any favors, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let them rescue him. He’d never live it down, and after all his brothers were done mocking him the Mantises would devour his soul.
No. He would wait for his chance. He’d rape the woman, then kill her, then rape her a few more times just for fun. Maybe poke her eyes out, first.
The Mantises, howling in the depths of his brain, seemed to like the idea.
***
Jack glanced over at his captive. Still out. He put the book down, then limped over to the bathroom. It was well-stocked with medical supplies, right down to tools to perform minor surgery: scalpels, suturing needles and thread, antibiotics to stave off infection, hypodermics—but no morphine, no local anesthetics. He searched further, but there were no painkillers of any kind, not even aspirin.
He paused, thinking. Recovering substance abusers sometimes avoided drugs or alcohol of all types, not even allowing products like mouthwash in their homes—but he found a bottle of isopropylene alcohol next to a sealed package of sterile swabs.
He used tweezers to pull out some of the wooden splinters the bomb had imbedded in his flesh, smeared on some antibiotic ointment and bandaged up the worse wounds with gauze and tape. A search of Remote’s bedroom turned up some sweatpants and a black T-shirt he could wear, as well as socks and a pair of loafers that were a size too small but would do. Jack cracked open a bottle of water from the fridge and drained it, then did it again. He used the microwave to get some soup in a plastic container up to lukewarm and ate it.
Then he went back to the desk and its wall of monitors. Studying the active ones, Jack learned a few things. One, they seemed to be on an island; two, they were far enough north for a thick layer of snow to have built up on the ground, even this close to water; and three, there was a boat tied up down at the dock that was Jack’s ticket off the island.
If he could get out of the house.
There was one screen slightly different from the rest with their still shots of Eden in mid-attack. It had a small symbol blinking on the bottom of the screen, indicating something running in the background. Jack studied the keyboard, then hit a key at random.
The screen changed, showing him a desktop filled with icons and folders. Jack clicked on one marked GAMES and was surprised to have it open; he’d expected to be completely locked out of the system.
A few minutes of exploration proved him right, or mostly so—the only folders he could access were GAMES, COLLECTION, and ARCHIVE, none of which were terribly revealing. GAMES was exactly that, a library of computer games, and COLLECTION was a detailed list of the clockwork toys displayed in the cases throughout the house. ARCHIVE contained dozens of reality TV shows downloaded from the Internet. Remote had probably kept the files open until the last minute to give himself something to do while waiting for Jack to break in—everything else was locked behind a wall of encryption.
Jack thought about that. A maniac’s trying to break down your door, intent on torturing you. The best weapon you have to hand is a weight-lifting bar. And what do you do while your own imminent destruction is hammering away at the walls of your castle?
You watch television reruns, of course. Maybe play a few video games, or sort through your catalogue of toys.
Jack shook his head, then winced as a bolt of pain lanced along his spine. It didn’t make sense, not unless Remote was so deranged he was incapable of considering his own defeat. That didn’t describe the man that lived in this house—he was highly intelligent, with a scrupulous eye to detail and preparation. No, Jack wasn’t looking at evidence of arrogance.
He was looking at fear.
Jack knew what people under intense pressure did, both from research he’d done and from his own direct experience. They looked for a physical way out, and if that wasn’t available they looked for a mental one. Jack himself had used fiction to relieve some of the pressures of childhood, escaping into a book when he couldn’t actually run away from his problems; when caught in an emotionally stressful situation, he sometimes found his attention searching for text, any text. He could remember one particular nasty fight with his wife during which he read the back of a cereal box over and over without even realizing he was doing it.
The games, the toys, the shows—they were Remote’s escape. Caught inside the fortified confines of his own house, he’d tried to calm himself with what he found the most familiar, the most comforting. It was a way to reinforce his sense of control.
Jack permitted himself a small smile. He’d found an important chink in Remote’s armor—but things still didn’t add up. He was missing something.
He got up and walked around the room, examining the exercise equipment, the desk, the chair—and realized an important fact.
There were no sharp edges.
The desk was all rounded angles. Foam pads capped the ends of the barbells, except for the one Remote had used as a weapon—he’d removed the caps on it and set them aside in a drawer. The drawers themselves didn’t close all the way, some sort of block keeping them open a few inches.
No doors on the rooms, just the single entrance. No cutlery that wasn’t made of plastic. No glass except for the monitors, and that was protected by more shatterproof plastic. Thick carpet on the floor. It was as if the entire panic room had been childproofed.
Jack had assumed the rooms downstairs had been stripped of potential weapons in case a prisoner like himself had gotten loose—but he’d been wrong. The entire house was like that, and it had nothing to do with unexpected visitors—though the precautions were there for Remote’s safety.
Jack blocked the door open, then gagged Remote as a precaution against any possible voice-activated defenses. He ducked carefully under the electrified panel, and made his way downstairs to the library. He scanned the shelf that held medical textbooks until he found what he was looking for, and pulled it out. He didn’t even have to use the index; the section he wanted was well-thumbed and bookmarked with a sticky note.
He took it back upstairs and sat back down. This time he read very carefully, and when he was done he turned back to the start and read it over again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Remote’s eyes flickered and then opened. “Hmmm?”
“Congenital universal analgesia,” Jack said. He sat in the white leather rolling chair, which he’d placed directly in front of Remote’s.
Remote blinked a few times before answering. He had a broad, handsome face, with a square chin and a flattened nose. “Yes,” he said, smiling. He seemed perfectly at ease, not at all disoriented or afraid. “I see you’ve raided my library. Good, that saves me having to explain a few things—though I must admit I was looking forward to seeing the expression on your face when you found out for yourself.”
“Sorry to disappoint you. If it’s any consolation, during our little tussle you surprised the hell out of me.”
Remote chuckled, a friend sharing a joke with an old comrade. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. You know, that’s the first fight I’ve ever been in—I quite enjoyed it. How’d I do?”
“You lost.”
“But not easily, you must admit.” He seemed proud of himself, not at all worried that he was now in the hands of the man he’d tried to beat senseless with a metal bar. Which, Jack considered, made perfect sense in and of itself.
“So you can’t feel pain. Any pain, at all.”
“No, I can’t,” Remote said cheerfully. “Never have and apparently never will. It is a color I cannot see, a sound I cannot hear. And yes, I was born this way.”
Jack nodded. “From what I’ve been reading, you’re not a typical case.”
“Because I still have both my eyes? Or because I’m not an idiot?” For the first time, bitterness crept into Remote’s voice.
“Both,” Jack admitted. Individuals born without the ability to feel pain often irreparably damaged their own eyes when very young, scratching the retinas with a fingernail or some other object. Many also had some degree of mental retardation.
“My mind, as you can tell, operates just fine,” said Remote. “Luck of the genetic draw. I keep my body in matching condition through careful maintenance, including a closely followed exercise regimen and twice-daily inspections of every square inch of myself. You probably noticed the mirrors? And as for my vision—well, let’s just say I had a very closely supervised childhood.”
