Witch brew, p.13
Witch Brew, page 13
So many thoughts flooded my brain and competed for attention, but the one that dominated was how I knew what insanity looked like, but this man looked more insane than anything I’d ever encountered, like a raving psychopath out of a backwoods horror movie, and as he wrestled me for my gun I couldn’t tell if I’d hit him and didn’t know how wounded I was until everything started to go grey and I realized he didn’t stab me he jabbed me with something and as my brain-light dimmed and time went screwy I hoped my gun was loud enough to wake up Chandler…
CAPTIVE #83 / HARRY
So… that happened.
I woke up and my recall was spotty but not too bad because I did a whole lot of recreational drugs and my tolerance was pretty high.
Don’t judge me. Drugs, like sex and food and drinking and binge-watching BBC crime shows, were a way to enhance life, because life is hard, and painful, and sometimes we need to escape from the everyday grind, like when crazy bartenders roofie your toilet margarita and then bury you alive.
Yeah, I was pretty sure I was buried alive.
Had I been buried alive before? I didn’t think so. I couldn’t be sure, because I had a lousy memory due to having a weird brain.
Or it could have been all the drugs.
Since I’m super cool in emergency situations I examined my situation and used logic and reason to figure out the quickest way to escape.
Kidding. I screamed my throat raw.
Then I sobbed until I had no moisture left, just air coming out of my eyes like tiny tear duct farts.
Then, exhausted by my self-indulgent waste of energy and lack of even a shred of bravery or dignity, I wet my pants.
Don’t judge me. I wet my pants for far less extreme reasons.
I was in some sort of concrete tomb, lying on a bed of rock salt, cold cement blocks on four sides and above me. It was pitch black, and I’d also been positioned in sort of a half-pike position, on my side and bent at the waist with my legs stretched out in an L, barely enough room to wiggle around.
After my totally justified freak-out, I checked my clothing to see if my abductor had left me anything helpful. Like my gun. Which I would use to end my life because being buried alive was super scary and I’d rather eat a bullet and go quick than spend another minute in this concrete hell.
But I had no gun. No wallet. No phone. No keys. Nothing in my front pockets, except urine. I wore expensive Italian leather shoes, which probably had metal in the sole or heel, but I couldn’t reach my feet because of the weird position I was posed in.
I did, however, still have a robotic hand.
So after more screaming and crying, and peeing on myself a little more, I used my prosthetic to begin clawing away at the nearest block.
I smelled something burning—my fake latex skin rubbing off my fingers—but after twenty minutes of focused hard work I finally started screaming again.
When I caught my breath, I used my real hand to feel what damage my fake hand had done to the block.
It had a tiny centimeter chip in it from my robot efforts.
So, after more urinating, I continued the effort.
Best case scenario, I broke out.
Worst case scenario, I died trying, soaked in my own piss.
Mid-case scenario, none of this was really happening. It was a dream. Or a hallucination. Or a memory.
Be great if it was a memory. Because that meant I already had lived through it.
Or would live through it.
Fun physics fact that I learned listening to a book on tape; there is nothing in the laws of the universe that says the arrow of time has to move forward. Newton and Einstein and Hawking, all of their theories still worked fine if time moved backward. Or was non-linear.
Sure, that would be confusing. But sometimes life was confusing.
And maybe jumping around in time would be a better way to deal with trauma. Or hopelessness.
Or dying.
Maybe in extreme cases of pain and stress and fear, when you wanted to be anywhere else, you went anywhere else.
Too metaphysical? I’ll make it simpler.
Can you truly prove what is now?
The present cannot be proven, because as I finish this sentence every word prior to this one is already in the past. Yet I can revisit the sentence, essentially going back in time.
If our lives are stories, we can skip back to the beginning. Or cheat and take a peek at the end. Just like in a book.
Reality was a matter of perspective.
So maybe I could skip ahead in my own timeline.
Or maybe my mind had already snapped.
Either way, I might be able to disappear from here and go somewhere else.
Somewhen else.
JACK
Los Angeles
Are you with me, babe?”
I blinked and Phin came back into focus. “Am I with you?”
My husband nodded. “You looked like you disappeared for a minute. Like you weren’t present.”
“Maybe some PTSD,” I admitted. “A madman drugged me and sealed me in a concrete tomb.”
“Yeah, but that was weeks ago.” Phin winked at me. “Plenty of time to get over it.”
I knew he was kidding. But I felt like I really should have been over it by now. There were still missing pieces, still things that hadn’t been resolved. It felt unfinished.
And, honestly, it had been the most terrifying experience of my life. Maybe I won’t get over it that easily. Maybe I was doomed to relive it, again and again, in my head.
“I’m trying to be in the moment,” I told my husband. “But it’s hard. I still don’t remember how I got out.”
The Crimebago came to a stop, and Harry McGlade announced from the driver’s seat, “We’re here. The Escape Room of Terror. All ashore that’s going ashore.”
We lined up and exited the recreational vehicle, and I got a good look at what I’d agreed to in my moment of weakness.
The facility was located on the north end of a strip mall in Thousand Oaks, ten miles west of LA, with a huge tourist trap marquee in blazing neon lights and an even larger billboard behind the building, advertising to the traffic on Route 101.
Upon entering we were greeted by an overly enthusiastic staff who were likely employed there between acting auditions. After we confirmed our reservation with a human being who used a barcode reader to confirm our tickets in the sparsely decorated lobby, a smiling guy in a lab coat came up to us, acting every bit the medical doctor.
“Welcome to the Pulmonis Clinic,” he said.
“I thought it was the Escape Room of Terror,” said Harry Junior.
“It is. But from this point on we’re going to use our imagination and pretend. Do you ever pretend things?”
“I pretend I like my father,” Harry Junior said.
“And I pretend I’m not going to put him up for adoption,” Harry Senior said.
“Delightful,” said the smiling guy. Then he handed us waivers and consent forms to sign.
“What now?” Phin asked.
“This is an extreme escape room experience, with elements of realistic horror,” the smiling guy explained, not breaking his smile. “While none of the staff will touch you, some of the interactions could be disturbing, and frightening, and The Escape Room of Terror LLC and its parent company, Freelocks Shampoo And Hair Care Products, cannot be held responsible if you injure yourself while panicking.” He winked at Sam. “Adults or legal guardians have to sign for the minors.”
“Why is it asking for my blood type?” I asked.
“The Escape Room of Terror LLC is an Extreme Escape Room Experience. In case you require a blood transfusion, or an organ donation, this simplifies the process.”
My husband shook his head. “I don’t give personal information to the deep state,” he explained.
“It’s voluntary,” said the smiling guy. “Not required to proceed.”
“It’s all for show, Phin,” Harry said. “It’s to set the mood and try to scare us. This whole production is immersive, interactive theater. I read about it in Maxim.”
Smiling guy looked at Sam. “Do you know your blood type, young lady?”
“I’m O negative,” Sam said. “A universal donor.”
“How about you, young man?” smiling guy asked Harry Junior.
“Blood scares me,” Harry Junior told him. “You scare me, too.”
“If you’re easily frightened, maybe this escape room isn’t for you.”
“Eat a bag of dicks,” Harry Junior told him.
“Adorable,” smiling guy said. “How old are you?”
“Nine.”
“That’s colorful language for a nine-year-old. Didn’t anyone teach you about manners?”
“Don’t say dicks,” Harry told his son. “It’s impolite.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
“Tell him to eat a bag of penises,” Harry said.
“Eat a bag of penises,” Harry Junior told the smiling man.
“Adorable.”
“A big fucking bag,” Harry Junior said. “With hairy balls on top.”
“Just precious.”
“I’m Harry,” Harry Junior said. “They’re my balls. Harry balls. Like two grapefruits in a pillow case.”
“You must be so proud,” the smiling man said to his father.
McGlade wiped away a tear. “You have no idea.”
The smiling man collected our waivers and consent forms, not noticing or caring that Phin’s were unsigned, then led us to a room made up to look like a doctor’s office, complete with a medical exam table lined with paper, a lit wall with some X-rays of an upper body, and a hospital-type desk.
“I hope you enjoy your brief stay at the Pulmonis Clinic. Good luck.”
He smiled before closing the door—
—and loudly locking it behind him.
Leaving us to fend for ourselves.
“I guess the game is on,” Phin said. “Let’s look for clues.”
We spread out and began to search. Though it looked like a large examination room, we quickly realized most of the décor was non-functional props. The cabinets and drawers didn’t open. The furniture was bolted down. Certain items, like doctor’s notes and a lamp and a phone on a small desk, were glued in place.
Made sense. Anything real would get stolen.
I sidled up to McGlade and said under my breath, “There are still some things I don’t remember about Lake Flathead. Like how we survived.”
“Same here,” Harry answered. “But we obviously made it. Because here we are. I can’t remember specific details.”
“You don’t think that’s weird?”
“The whole thing was weird. The drugging. The trauma. The panic. It’s all a blur. For all we know, we might have been sexually assaulted by the wendigo. Though, to be fair, you were asking for it, wearing those Uggs. And that awful sweater. What’s with this sweater you’re wearing now?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Did the thrift store have a half-price day? Are you trying to look homeless? Jesus, remember when you used to wear Dior and Versace?”
“My mother’s old roommate, at the retirement home, knitted this sweater.”
“How old is she? A hundred and fifty? Someone needs to keep that broad away from knitting needles.”
I looked down and frowned. “I think it’s cute.”
“I think she’s color blind,” Harry said. “We need to stop her before she commits more fashion crimes.”
“She died last year.”
“Probably not accidental if she kept giving people sweaters like that,” Harry said. “I suspect foul play. Hell, I’m just looking at it for the first time and I want to kill her.”
I chewed my lower lip. “Your flattering fashion critique aside, I want to know how we made it out of Flathead.”
“No idea. But I got a safe guess how we survived.”
“How?”
Harry grinned, his mouth wide as a zebra’s ass. “I saved us.”
I rolled my eyes. “How? With your petty insults and questionable hygiene?”
“I’m heroic. And I buy my clothing at a tailor, not at Goodwill on green sticker day.”
“Maybe I saved us.”
“Bullshit, Jackie. Look at our history. I always come to the rescue. In the nick of time. Usually with a clever comment. It’s become a tired cliché with us.”
“Maybe you can come to the rescue right now and figure out this answer,” I said, pointing to the only obvious riddle in the room.
On a laminated sheet of paper, stuck to the top of the non-functional desk, were some anatomical pencil sketches of human organs, including a heart, a kidney, and a liver. There was also a question written on it.
“Milton Bradley war game?” Harry read aloud.
“Risk,” Phin said. “Risk is a war game. We just played that a few months ago.”
“That’s Parker Brothers, not Milton Bradley,” Sam reminded her father.
“I don’t have any brothers,” Harry Junior said. “Dad said after he had me, he would rather cut off his junk than have more children.”
McGlade patted him on the head. “That’s because you were a huge mistake.”
“Mom says you’re rude, and that’s why no one will ever love you,” Harry Junior told his father.
“Your mom is a gold-digging trash pile who runs through more guys than a game of Grand Theft Auto 5.”
“As heartwarming as your father-son bonding is, how about you cool it and help us get out of this room,” Phin said.
“My mom says you’re super hot, Uncle Phin,” Harry Junior said. “And that Aunt Jack is too old for you.”
“Your mother is the nicest person I’ve ever met in that IQ range,” Phin replied.
We all found that funny. Even Sam.
There were some anatomy books on the desk, which were glued in place and didn’t open. The top had the title, ORGAN DONATION. On the wall above the desk were two small posters, one about the importance of giving blood, the other—incongruously—a Navy recruitment advertisement.
Sam stood next to me and stared at the posters. “Battleship,” she said. “That’s a Milton Bradley war game.”
That made sense. It also provided a good reason for that out-of-place poster to be in an exam room. I reached out and touched the surface, hoping maybe it had a hidden panel behind it.
Nope. Just a poster.
So far the Escape Room of Terror, which Sam had goaded us all into attending, was only terrifying in the complexity of its puzzles.
“There’s a joke written on this fake prescription pad,” Phin said. He was looking at a clipboard at the foot of the exam table. “I went to the chiropractor,” he read. “About a weak back.”
He snorted. No one else did.
“I hate dad jokes,” Sam said.
“That’s because you never heard my dad jokes,” said McGlade.
“My dad jokes are better,” Phin said.
Uh-oh. I didn’t like where this was going.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Harry asked.
“I’m thinking it. The time-honored tradition when middle-aged dads get together.”
“Please no,” I said, unable to hide the wince.
“A dad joke-off,” Harry announced. “Biggest laugh wins.”
“Now I want to escape even more,” Sam declared.
“I’ll start.” Harry cleared his throat. “I was going to go for a walk in the snow without shoes.” He paused. “But I got cold feet.”
No one reacted. Part of the tradition of a dad joke-off, besides the pause before the punch line, was for everyone to keep a perfectly straight face.
With that joke, it wasn’t hard.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about buying a really tight shirt,” Phin said. Pause. “But I don’t know if I could pull it off.”
Silence. Not even any grins.
Harry shook his head. “Really, Phin? I didn’t think you could get into that sort of thing.”
Ouch.
“No reactions,” Sam declared after studying everyone’s face.
“I could tell a bowling joke,” Phin said. Pause. “But I’ll spare you.”
Ugh.
“That’s right, Phin,” Harry told him. “Stay in your lane.”
Wow. They were getting worse.
“I thought it was up my alley,” Phin said.
I shook my head, lamenting the fall of humanity.
“And that’s a strike against you,” countered Harry.
Harry Junior whimpered a little.
“Was that a giggle?” his father asked.
“It was a cry of pain,” said Harry Junior.
“You’re really working on your bowling humor, Harry,” Phin said. Pause. “But you can’t pin it down.”
“You boys should stop,” I said. “Think of the children.”
“You know I went bowling with Harry Junior when he was a baby,” Harry said. Pause. “A ball rolls better.”
Sam smiled at that, and put her hand over her mouth to not laugh.
Phin pretended to be offended. “Oh really? Sam, did I tell you about the time your mother dropped the TV remote control on the floor, and tried to pick it up with her feet?” Phin paused. “I had to hand it to her.”
“I got a funny one about feet,” Harry Junior said. “Why did the little boy in Somalia never wear shoes?”
“Why?” Sam asked.
“Because,” Harry Junior paused, “his feet were blown off in a drone strike.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That’s not really funny, Harry Junior.”
“I know. It’s sad. The drone strike also killed both of his parents.”
“Are you sure this is a joke?” Phin asked.
“The legless boy went into an orphanage, but then he was sold for child sex trafficking.”
“I’m not sure your son understands how dad jokes work,” I said.
“He tried to figure out how to run away,” said Harry Junior. “But he was stumped.”
“He gets it,” McGlade said. “On a semi-related note, that drone later went bowling.” He paused. “Talk about a drone strike.”
