The Labyrinth of Souls

Table of Contents

The Labyrinth of Souls

How do I escape impending death? I ask because I see my own coming for me; ravenous, disgusting, and to top it all off, giggling away. I see the same for my people. There is no hope. Or is there?

The seed of our destruction—and by our I mean civilization's and by civilization I’m really referring to those of us comfortable enough on our thrones of picked-clean bones, high enough to not smell the stench of blood and decaying flesh of those upon whom our thrones sit—threatens to lie in our every action wrong.

And so it goes, as that more modern Bard said; as some of us go through the codification of our souls—kicking and screaming, mind you—we try hard not to feel these things, these unsettling matters which tend to obscure our view of the manicured lawns and houses or shiny buildings or place your history here-facades.

But—and allow my imagination to float a little, allow me to change the metaphor here—we still look down, for swimming over such deep waters cannot help but pique our curiosity. Yet even those amongst us who are curious cannot see much but a few snippets of the truth about those below—like the remnants of symbols of an ancient people. And from these cave paintings we must come up with a picture of an entire civilization or culture and judge its interactions at its conscious surface and—with regard to the more tangible interactions with other peoples—its penumbra, all the while exonerating the love for ourselves.

What can one do? What does one do?

The headline reads: X people killed by Y. Sometimes with an accompanying abstract on the method, though this is only if Y actually sent out a social media dispatch. But we rarely get much in terms of details or motivations—assuming we’re even trying to read the news—learn what drives a man to strap on a bomb vest and walk into a marketplace of the perceived enemy, or capture one of them and behead them. If we do learn something, it’s tainted with the visceral qualities of just such action, their consequences—oh my! see the head cut off, the woman and children wailing, the blood flowing down the gutter!—and how barbaric that other just is.

We don’t see, however, the consequences of the actions we carry out—(oh my! see the head cut off, the woman and children wailing, the blood flowing down the gutter)^3—not in a visceral sense, at least. Anyone who presents this is labeled untrustworthy, dissident even. One only has a few matters one must present: logistics and technology (how our great people are able to do so much!). Talk of heroism soon follows.

Me? I know better. I’ve seen outside the cave and so I don’t react. I act. And so it goes, you may say, but provoke the power that is and they will bite. Law and order becomes law for order, then just order.

––––––––

Lights flicker because of electrical interference. I know what that means. Something powerful and electronic this way comes. My heart sinks and I take leave, scurrying like a rat from my abode.

As I make my way to the subway, another fall day descending upon me with dreary grayness, I think about that as I see another's shirt, American flag dead center, about never forget 9-11. The man, overweight with a goatee, seemed to be looking around the Bronx station with a sense of disgust. I walk over a few steps. The platform is warm and fetid. The rails bracket wrappers of sweets and salty foods that serve as testament to the cascading bodies in the Bronx. I stare at the filthy water draining out of the track area.

I feel tired, but I also need to find out what happened. I'd just walked into my apartment to find it empty of everything. Of course my key still works, but to see no evidence of my girlfriend or cat was disconcerting to say the least. Numerous calls to my better half, and the hospital she works in revealed nothing.

I sit down in the over-cooled subway car. The chill of the air, always excessive, seems especially painful today. I wonder what I’m supposed to do about my apartment and my love. I have to start a search. But where? What about that electrical interference? Was I being paranoid? As the subway doors close, I wonder why the hell I am going south to the island. Chatter arises in the car, Spanish, Bengali, and other languages that I can’t quite identify. The world’s living room. The train rumbles. Loud. Aged. I remember the smell of my woman, and my heart drops.

There was no sign of a struggle in the apartment, so I have to assume that she left of her own accord. I had checked Facebook and saw that her feed was wiped clean. Nothing on her wall, though there was plenty from the other people I had somehow collected in my life: my southern friends decrying another gun grab; my liberal friends screaming at perceived insensitivity in any piece of media. But between these calls for attention, not a thing about my love.

I glance through to the other subway car. There’s a man, Latino, most likely Dominican, standing strong, tattooed. Next to him is a grim-jawed man, possibly too white for this stop so far north of Manhattan. The second man looks straight ahead, his ill-fitting suit and the jerks to his movement force the hairs on my neck to stand up. He’s military.

He’s clenching his jaw. Can he see me looking? I try to make out an ear bud, but can’t see. I decide not to stare and look directly in front of me. Another sweep of the train car and I wonder if there’s anyone else who could be after me.

I stand up, giving up my seat to a grateful mother of three. I see the man’s eyes following me. We’re nearing the 125th street station. The train stops, the doors open. There is a slew of people waiting outside the doors. A handful of people step out. The rest file in. I step to one side, spotting a channel between my fellow passengers. I look around and see more eyes on me. Discerning eyes, not the  passive people-staring that one usually experiences on the subway. My heart rate spikes up.

Stand clear of the closing doors.

I move forward. There are two large men in the doorway.  I give a slight nod at the door. They step aside. They’re not the bad guys, whoever they are. Each gives me a questioning look. I move a finger. They look forward, as if to cover my back. They understand. The doors move to close. Sideways, I dart past the men. I feel the brush of the doors as they shut behind me. Then I see the man with the grim jaw staring directly at me from inside the train.

The subway moves off platform, a wind pushing away the fetid air for a brief respite, and I jog up the stairs. Up above, on 125th and Lennox, life seems to be quieter than usual. A mother heads down the stairs, yelling at her four children in Spanish. The oldest one, a girl almost in her teens, seems anxious to help her mother and corrals the young ones. It warms my heart to see such things, but I have no time for contemplating the beauty of life even here on 125th amongst the soda cans and cigarette butts. With skin shining in the sun, now peeking out from behind the clouds, wispy things, still I feel cold because I know I’m alone as if naked. Avoiding the slalom of stares and large well-positioned men who scan from one end of the street to another, I walk to the park. And even though the tension in my mind is loosened when a woman walks by, digging each heel into the sidewalk with a twist, and confidence, a helicopter hovering in the distance reminds me that there are bigger things at hand.

Up the stairs of Morningside Park, I make my way to the more rarified air that is the Columbia University campus. The sidewalks here, save for a few scrapes of dog shit, are cleaner. A gothic tower with bat ears stands guard above. When I finally make my way west, under the cover of the trees of Riverside park, I relax and sit on a bench. The stench of weed is in the air, but I don’t see anyone. It’s still afternoon, on a weekday. It won’t be crowded now. And for a second I think I’m safe. After all, there aren’t any helicopters in the sky here.

No. I need to be smart about this. Drones can’t be seen. Nor would I know if I was wanted; they don’t usually announce such things about the wanted, do they? No, they only do that if they can’t catch the man and they need the public’s help. So they possibly think they have me. I look around. Hard to tell these days; if they’ve been tracking me they must have everything I own geo-tagged.

A man in a suit stumbles out of the brush, his eyes red.

Hi there, he says.

I look around. There’s a slight wisp to his voice, but I’m not certain it means anything. Still my senses, thinking of the men with guns coming for me, parse his every move.

He adjusts the sleeves on his suit.

He’s only a few feet away from me and he stinks of weed. He’s almost teetering. And yet this contrasts with his Wall Street uniform.

Hey, I say. The man’s teetering in front of me, seemingly too confused to even talk. Sit down man. You look like you need it.

He sits, or rather he falls, down next to me. The wooden park bench slats jump at their joints.

So what is it? he says. He’s intelligent. The weed only made standing seem like a chore. It happens.

Something about the reality of my circumstances, my wife gone, hits me wrong and I’m struck with a powerful melancholy.

Well, he says, pausing as a woman comes in running shorts, bouncing chest and shiny skin. She stops to to actively stretch, kicking her toes high, then takes off. There is something asexual about her, but the man stares at her bouncing, ponytailed hair as she turns the corner and disappears.

I’m George, by the way, I say and stick out my hand.

Mathews, he says and sticks out his hand. I shake it. It’s sweaty.

My melancholy dissipates, but in its wake it leaves some stirred up thoughts too strong to keep inside. It’s tough to think on things others tell you to leave be, I say. I’m thinking on the current of compromise.

This is the land of 3/5s, he says. That he’s this in tune with what’s going on in my mind almost scares me, but at least it confirms his intelligence, and I trust him more.

And what about thinking outside the box?

The sheeeple, he says in a zombie voice and giggles.

That does make my words sound odd, but my thoughts are too strong for any filter. I push on. And the word terrorist—

I was there. On 9-11.

This unexpected sentence hits me and sinks in as leaves rustle at my feet. I wonder if I’ve asked the wrong person. He sounds sobered up now. I watch the same girl come running back up the sidewalk. Perhaps she isn’t entirely asexual. She focuses even harder on the ground in front of her as she runs by.

He goes on after watching the same thing. I left when the first building was hit. My boss said not to. He stayed behind.

Sorry, I say, though I know the pause has been too long.

Not to worry, he says. The boss was an asshole.

I don’t know if that means that the boss died.

But ever since that day I was told that terrorists hit those towers. And for the longest time I agreed. Or, I suppose, I never thought about it. So when we went to war, wherever, I cheered. Always.

What made you change?

Nothing.

I wait for more. A couple, black and well dressed, walks by. They tilt their friendly heads at us. I smile. They’re old, connected at the hip.

Only you did, he says. He pushes his hand through his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief.

You mean you never thought about it until now?

No. Have you?

I guess you’re right, I say. I haven’t thought about it. Not well enough.

It’s tough.

The definition? I ask.

No. To go against the Greek Chorus.

I nod.

A helicopter flies low over the buildings about ten blocks away. I freeze, feeling needles in my heart, then realize I’m holding my breath. Looking over, I realize that my new friend is also staring at the helicopter.

Not for you, he says.

You were saying?

Sirens blurt out, and I jerk. Mathews looks at me, then turns to the street from where the wailing sound originated.

We can go to my place, he says. It’ll be safer than here. Why get caught when we’re just about to figure things out?

I hesitate. He’s acting friendly, like an informant would. Should I take this chance?

Just to talk, he mumbles.

We walk up to Riverside road, passing a blocked font graffiti being washed out. The words, all is well, seem juvenile to me. We hail a cab and head to his place. Apparently on 70th street.

The taxi turns into a smaller street. Here in the upper west side life is buzzing, though not as much as near 125th street. It’s a less interesting and a more affluent, a more faked rush.

We enter a posh lobby, where the Hispanic doorman nods at Mathews with respect and gives me a sullen look. Up a quiet elevator, everything still clean and sanitary with polished golden surfaces shining as a frame. We enter a quiet and similarly clean hallway. There should be a tense feeling in my chest; instead I’m relaxed. I’m away from the sky, away from potential watchers. Well, or so I hope. I know that their eyes can reach every corner of this earth, but that’s too depressing to think about.

His place, a large almost house-like apartment, has a view, of other building tops. Everything is spotless. I’m trying hard not to be jealous. I think of my studio in the Bronx. I’ve always held a sort of pride in my ability to suffer for my art, but for some reason, now that that art had forced me to go on the run, I feel absolutely foolish about the whole situation. This is how rebels are forgotten, I think. I cough to decrease my discomfort. I need a drink.

How about a drink? he asks as he walks to a kitchen well-stocked with shiny stainless steel utensils and machines.

I need to keep my mind clear. I’m fine.

He pours himself a cup of water, chugs it down. Opens the expansive fridge—filled with pre-made meals—and pulls out a yogurt. You sure?

Sure, I say. I lean against the counter. I stare at the windows. All open. Ostensibly they can hear me from there, can’t they? Again that constriction in my chest expands. I should steel myself for the fight.

You should sit down, he says and points at the white leather sofa.

I sit down, my legs feeling weak.

A writer, eh? he says as he hops on a love-seat perpendicular to me. There’re lots of those in this city, aren’t there?

I nod even though I take his words as a slight. I look at the roof of the building across the street. What happens when they come for me? I’ll be trapped here. I know all about the tactics that they’ll use. Unless they just choose to send a sniper placed on that roof, or on a helicopter, and, adjusting for the bullet’s refraction off the glass. Pop. My head spins, my brains fly. And maybe Mathews here will get to know how exactly how a man’s head looks once it’s been run through by a bullet. He’ll learn the colors that skin and a head of hair holds in. That white, strawberry red, that pink. That strange beauty.

You’ve got a look... in your eyes, he says, and glances down at his glass.

Where’s the bathroom? I ask. He nods over, then raises his hand to  point down the dark hallway. He turns his back to me and pulls out a tequila bottle from the fridge. As I walk to the bathroom, I feel the softness of the carpet underneath my shoes. I kick off my shoes.

I enter the bathroom. It’s clean, and smells like a woman. I sit down on the porcelain, my legs throbbing with pain. Old age, I’m no where near it, but the future calls us just as the past does and it only adds to the pain.

As I lean forward, allowing the smells of sandal soap to fill me with a comfort only ever attained by my childhood dreams, the mirror starts to vibrate, then shake. I freeze. Soon the air is vibrating, and then the candles, the filament on the lights too, sending a near epileptic shock through my body. My knees hit especially hard, buckle, and I find myself seated back on the toilet—one ass cheek askance.

My heart flies into my mouth, and I hold my breath, like a child hoping to pass out, my mind flashes not my life but a vision of the men coming through the door—full well knowing that they would put a bullet through me rather than deal with a messy trial— with lights and HK MP5s spraying my head into my lap. My thoughts, which tell me to pull up my pants, which tell me that I shouldn’t be found like this, that they’ll parade me through the streets like this, half-naked, like crazed Somalians, don’t make my body move.

The vibrations cease.

It takes a few seconds for me to chew on the air and sit up, stand up, and pull up my pants. In the mirror my face looks haggard, hunted.

You alright? Mathews calls out.

I’m fine, I say, my voice cracking on the last word.

Ha! I’ve got just the cure for you.

I step out, the hallway darker than ever, though the light from near the kitchen is still bright.

Mathews, grinning, hands me a drink. He has the same in his hand.

It could be poisoned. But after my recent weakness, I’m in no mood to turn down a friendly hand.

I grab the cold glass, the condensation absorbed readily by my skin.

To definitions, he says with a smile.

I sip it, the tequila sunrise, and allow the alcohol to cool my throat, then leave a warm sensation. As I look at the hallway, I realize that it is indeed longer than anything in this building or block would indicate. I see a handful of light-lips from the bottom of doors. Some seem half a football field away. And it doesn’t seem to end, it just falling into darkness.

He opens his mouth but sees where my attention is.

You’re more than welcome to explore.

Now I can hear the sounds of tapping. A yell. The sound of someone groaning in pain. I’m taken back to visions of men enclosed in barbed wire, their heads down, traveling to small dark and dank rooms, the smell of blood sweat fear everywhere. My insides lurch. I turn to Mathews.

He sips his drink. But when another yell sounds, even he can’t help but dart his eyes over, though in the end it seems as if he’s still trying to act unconcerned.

My drink’s strong. I make a note not to drink too much as it’ll knock me on my ass. But as the silence between us is punctuated with a handful of screams, I take another sip.

Yet another scream echoes from the hallway. It sends a chill down my body. Immediately a cascade of thoughts tumble forth, and I realize that there might be more to this than I’m thinking. Why is he goading me into such seditious thoughts? Is he recording all this? What am I saying? If he has even a cell phone, someone is listening.

Do you have a cell phone? I ask.

Of course, he says, squinting at me.

In the back of my head I wonder about him being a snitch for the Feds, for the men who want to liquify me.

Another scream, and I turn this time, not even attempting to hide my concern.

What is that?

Mathews seems to have fallen into the shadows, and he nods upwards, as if telling me to go on. Do I trust him? Is all this part of his informant mask? But then, a man alone, what do I have to lose?

I walk up to the first room; the door shakes, as if it’s being punched by air. I push it open. Inside there’s a small lamp shining above a tussled loft. Across a floor littered with needles and glass bottles of some liquid, there’s a slightly overweight man hunching over a desk. There are three keyboards, two tablets for drawing, and ten screens in front of him in rows of three.

I blink as my eyes adjust to the darkness. Everything seems dead quiet, and surprisingly this place doesn’t smell anything like it should. In fact, I smell the sea and perhaps some whiskey. A slight crash sounds off and I look over to see that there’s a window with a view of a dark sea on a rainy day.

The smell is strong enough that I don’t disbelieve it, but my body does, and something in the stem of my brain does too because I start to feel nauseated. The door slams shut behind me. The man doesn’t budge. Then, he pulls back from the desk, his hands tearing at his long and tousled hair, and screams. So it was him.

Hey, I say. The screens in front of him are all different. Some have what looks to be Python programming. Others have a scroll running up and down in binary. I stare at that for a few seconds. Then I turn to the other screens. They have CC TV feeds. Some have news feeds. And others still have what seem to be laptop computer feeds.

They switch, every now and then, to things that seem random.

Hey, I say louder.

He startles, jumps from his chair and turns to face me. He’s chubby, but there’s a very certain and courageous energy to him.

I heard your conversation, he says and sticks out his hand. He’s about my height and has a limp handshake.

Oh? I say.

He sweeps his arm behind him to indicate the screens.

An Empire was spoken to in its own terms. In its detritus, a cog caught its machinary, the bloodlust that its people had always had rose to such levels as was preordained, he says.

Is he mad?

Well? he says. Am I right?

I don’t answer and take a break from his stare by taking in the screens.

Do you know what I do?

No.

He sweeps his arm back towards the screens again. I know all.

Do you know why I’m here? I ask, because a simple search could have told him that.

Ah, he says, wagging a finger at me, giggling. You’re a paranoid one, aren’t you? Well, I suppose that’s why they haven’t caught you yet.

How—

Coincidences do happen, he says.

It’s like one of those games where someone tries to tell you something but you’re thinking that maybe they know you’re going to think the opposite of what they’re saying. So maybe he’s saying this just to assuage my fears when they should be heightened.

See? he says.

Okay, I say. It does seem odd, you have to admit.

It does.

You hack? I ask, now thinking about whether I should try to use him to find out what’s going on in my life. Perhaps turn the tables.

Oh, I do. But I don’t think I can help you, he says. He walks backwards to his desk. I follow him.

Why not? I ask, feeling alone.

Because I can’t. I don’t have the resources to take them on.

Then what do you do?

I try to help a few people, help get out the word.

You mean like Twitter? I say; it comes out more derisively than I wanted it to.

He twitches. In that I see a lifetime of being picked on for his passion in life.

I’m sorry, I say. I didn’t mean it that way.

I know, he says, his voice cracking. You’re under a lot of stress.

What have you heard about me?

He shrugs and points at a book, a single leather-bound book, on the floor.

I lean over and pick it up. The cover is soft, supple, unlike anything I’ve ever touched. What is this? I ask.

It’s human skin, he says.

I drop the book.

Don’t! he yells, then covers his mouth and picks up the book, dusting it off and examining it. This is the writer’s skin. I forget his name. But he wrote his final book and only had one copy ever made. This one. And it’s his skin. He places the book in my hand, only releasing when he knows that I have it in a firm grasp.

He did? My voice cracks.

"Well, I’m sure there are ebooks or digital copies somewhere. But I couldn’t find them.

What’s it about?

I think you’ll find it very interesting. He hands me a small cloth bag.

Is this human skin too? I say jokingly.

He doesn’t answer and instead stares at me like I’m a pitiful man.

A beep goes off on his computer. He nods and sits down, fingers slamming into the keyboards and track pads.

The beeping continues and now one’s coming from out in the hallway. I wonder if the hit men have come for me finally.

What’s that in the hallway?

He waves his hand at me, as if he wants me to leave. And to make his point, he slips on a pair of headphones.

I take one last look at the window. It has to be real.

I step back out, the same hallway with the light on one side and the darkness with the small lights—one now flashing—on the other. I stare, squint, and try to make out the blinking light and the beeping, but nothing. I don’t see Mathews either, so I wonder if perhaps he’s the reason. I take a step toward the darker end, but a slimy feeling comes over me.

Mathews? I yell out. The echo bounces down the hallway before it opens into that highlighted-as-if-by-search lights living room. No reply.

A growl rumbles from the dark end of the hallway. My knees tremble, I try not to notice. This is New York City. I need to find out what this is. I remind myself about the men hunting me. It’s them I should be frightened of, not the monsters in my mind.

I start to walk. I realize that the carpet has ended and now there’s nothing but tile, my footsteps too loud for my tastes, but soon that gives way to something soft. I reach down; it’s moss. I touch the walls: they’re stone. I look back. The living room is a dot that I’m not sure exists. Have I been drugged? I touch my hands and my feet; I’m too grounded with myself to be drugged. And yet, this hallway could not exist in the city. Not in a building this size.

I keep walking, the air turning cooler, and that sea smell returns, though I don’t hear anything that indicates waves. I want that. I want anything because now silence has enveloped me and I can hear my heart beating hard and I can taste blood. Is this a trap?

And as I walk—noticing that there are no more slits from doors, just wall and darkness, with fireflies! lighting my way—I think on the men who are after me. If it’s a team moving in on me and trying to end me, then they would be FBI. So all the men I know in the other units, the Death Star units that work overseas, all of them aren’t involved. But perhaps that’s wishful thinking. I know how these leaders think. They are obsessed with future historians seeing them as tough men who made tough decisions because this is a tough world. So they would do something like send my old friends after me. After all, all they’ll have to do is dump my body in the ocean somewhere and claim I was gallivanting with terrorists, and that would be that. Who’s going to look into it? If I’m lucky a journalist with some integrity may tweet something that says this isn’t the whole story.

A scream, that of a little girl, echoes at me, slaps me. I notice a light underneath a door and I run to it.

I knock on the door—silly I know—and when the screams and the scuffling stop, I burst inside.

What greets me is a horrid stench and the sight of cages, stacked higher than I can see. The stench I’ve smelled before. Shit and urine rise to the top, but there are other tangible smells that one can make out: there is the smell of sweat, body odor, feet that haven’t been washed for too long, and blood. Dried blood and fresh blood. And, lingering behind all this organic decay and ostensibly even life trying to find a way, there’s perfume. I try not to gag.

After taking a few steps, I finally find it in me to look inside a cage. This one is empty. I look at another. There’s food on a plate on the floor, some hay, some feces, but that’s about it. The next cage is splattered with blood. I stand on my toes and try to peer into the others. Nothing. But there must be people somewhere here; after all, I just heard the screams.

And like that, the screams fill the air again. It’s coming from the other end of the room. I feel more empowered, and reaching into the bag I was given, I pull out the book. It’s titled: When you don’t pick sides, the devil smiles. An odd title, this. I’m reminded of a children’s short story that speaks of a people who live happily until a devil shows up and asks, which side are you on, but they didn’t know he was the devil and all but one wise men went with the devil to their ruin. It wasn’t a good story.

Another scream pulls me out of my thoughts. I turn back and face the rows of bars. As I’m thinking about what to do next, I realize that the cages far above me are shaking. And suddenly the entire room, or warehouse is shaking with the rattle of bars. I walk, slow at first, then break out into a jog.

Finally, I see a bright light in front of me. The cages end, and I come out to an open stage. In front of me is a man standing and a woman tied to a chair. There’s a table in front of the woman covered with papers.

The man is tall with a bent back and a bent nose and cheeks so sunken one would think that he were starving. But he’s not, because there’s an unbridled energy in his walk, and his look is wolfish enough for me to understand that I’m on thin ice.

I make the mistake of looking over to the girl. I’m close enough that I smell her perfume—was it her I’ve been smelling this entire time?—and I see cuts on her otherwise plain face. One nostril is ripped apart, and I see a bloody nose ring on the table. I flinch as I feel the man’s eyes caressing my body, and I wonder if he’s one of the hunters from the death star. There is no one else in the room. I stare back at the cages, all still shaking, some cries bursting here and there.

Hi there, George, he says.

How— I stop when the woman gives a slight jerk of her head, as if telling me to shut up. How do you know my name? I ask.

The man, gives me an inquisitive look and walks over to the table strewn with the papers. The papers are spread out haphazardly, and he fishes underneath them before pulling out some pliers. I see more tools underneath the papers. He steps towards the woman.

Hey, I say, but it’s too soft because neither of them react.

Hey! I yell with furious anger.

He spins; the pliers fall to the ground, clanging against the concrete floor. One step and he’s in my face. His skin, smooth and white, his eyes, blue glaciers, his breath, minty. He screws his face up, then smiles.

You need something, George?

I don’t take my eyes off him, though I’m not sure if that’s by choice.

I need you to leave her alone, I say.

Why? Do you know her? he says, feigning concern.

No.

Do you know what she did?

No.

I’m confused, George. You don’t strike me as the kind of man to act foolish. Are you?

He’s reasonable sounding. He has nothing but the best in mind. But there’s something lurking in that smile just begging to break out from the corner of his lips.

I’m not. But I know wrong when I see it.

He mutters what I’ve said, then says, You sound like a child.

I sense that he’s playing with me, yet I flinch. Used to be a saying that states a man who believes in nothing will fall for anything, and I feel like I just might be that man. For why else would a scene so wrong, a scene where a human is suffering, not push me to immediate action?

You don’t know that, he says.

I don’t what? I ask. This man might be mad.

You don’t know that she’s human.

I look her over. What you mean? I ask, wary.

Ahhhh, he says and placing one arm across his waist. He scratches his chin with the other hand and squints one eye, as if trying to size me up.

What? I say.

I know why you’re on her side, he says and wags his finger at me.

I feel my face growing red.

Ohhh, he says. The woman twists her arms trying to break free of her bonds.

What? I say.

You haven’t been good, have you?

I know this game. When you’re being accused of something immediately launch into counter accusations that will throw the accuser off balance. This man is good. Well-trained. I need to be careful.

You need to let her go, I say, almost growling.

But he doesn’t budge, he merely slows the speed with which he wags the finger.

I take a step towards her.

He jumps in my way.

I pause. The woman lets out a small cry.

What’s your name? I ask.

Behemoth.

I nod and stick out my hand.

My pleasure, I say.

He’s still in the study pose of his. I lower my hand when he doesn’t meet mine.

You want to save her. Why?

It’s wrong, I say pointing at her.

Why? You know nothing of what she’s done before this.

That’s irrelevant, I say.

Ohhh, Behemoth says. You’re one of those.

I know what to believe.

He smiles. His teeth are perfect.

Is this why they’re after you? he says.

Maybe.

He scoffs. Again, you sound like a child. If this thinking has turned you into a hunted man, then perhaps you need to think less.

With that logic there would be no progress.

And when they kill you, turn you into fish feed, what will you say?

Won’t be much I can say.

I see they’re probably right, he says, his voice growing colder, lower, as his face darkens.

I’ve had my share of confrontations, but perhaps I’m only a weak person who naturally shies from them, but I step back, and feel a shudder in my chest. I don’t like this. It’s never good to meet someone who knows more about you than you about them. I look away from his eyes, those moral traps, and take in the edges of the room. I see movement, the movement of something inorganic.

What about your family? he asks his voice is soft now, almost caring. What about your wife.

I try. I try really hard not to shrink, but just the reminder of my wife, the one I hope is out of harm’s way, floods my head—there we are, lovers, her pressed up against me, her eyes close up—I go weak-kneed. My wife. Light of my life, fire of my loins. I know these men. They will come after me. They will massacre me, and that includes my wife, my family. I teeter for a second. I sit down.

Oh, he says, his warm minty breath washing my face. Sensitive boy, aren’t you? Well it’s not her we’re after.

I know how this works. They slam you in the face with the truth: that they’ve been watching your every move for months, maybe years now, and when that starts to dawn on you, and then you, who thought this would be a mere matter of pain, realize that it will be much more. They are going to tear you down and they will use everything they have, and they will try their hardest to be God to you. And the things you’ve been doing, possibly in secrecy, possibly with elaborate schemes to keep them secret, now seem like nothing more than a child’s game, because they know. And you’re putty in their hands.

I swallow. I’m thirsty.

I—

I know! I yell, spittle flying out of my lips. This isn’t good, this losing it. This is what they want, for you to expose something true, for then they will pick you apart, even the tough parts.

Oh? he says, this time tilting his head. He can so easily switch between disgust and kindness that I know he’s been interrogating for a long time. Someone’s found their balls? Good. He’s talking about an interrogation and how it plays into the interrogator’s hand when the suspect is tough, talking back. It makes for a more enjoyable break—because trust me, everyone breaks.

A moan reminds me that the woman still needs help.

You were telling me about all the evil this woman has done to deserve this? I say.

He examines me, then looks back to the woman. I take this moment to stand up, steadying myself since I feel dizzy, and walk over to the woman.

In a quick stride he’s beside me, though he doesn’t say anything, he only stares at me, his breathing increasing. He starts to tremble. He must really believe in the good he’s doing.

Well? I say. I notice a scalpel in his hand.

You don’t know shit, he says, this time spittle flying out of his mouth. You—

Then fucking tell me, I say. He doesn’t move, he only sizes me up.

She’s a threat. What else do you need? he says.

With those words, I think on an old riddle: you come across two men. One is in a cage, the other is outside tormenting him. Who do you blame? Of course you don’t get a request for information. Better yet, what do you do next? I grab a hammer.

He laughs and it rattles my chest. So you are against us. He seems to grow. No, he is growing. The scalpel moves towards the woman. For a second I freeze. I see blood trickling down the woman’s face and her screams fill the room. The cages clang. I rush at him with the hammer. The scalpel falls, and he floats, dodging my swings, laughing at each stroke. I now see flesh between his shark teeth, and as he grows I realize I will need something more than a hammer. I make sure to leave the table within arm’s reach. Behemoth floats, changing shapes, changing faces too; at once he’s a teacher I liked from high school, my drill sergeant from basic training, and my mother and my father and my friends from the army. I’m sure this is a trick, part of this hallway of lies. I’ve seen magicians before and they have amazed me, so as much as my guts tell me to flee, I stand my ground.

I swing to keep him at bay. For all try courage, I almost drop the hammer when I see he’s sprouting arms. And at the end of each arm, instead of hands there are spherical cameras. His mouth opens wide, spitting out all the words from all those faces from my life.

No! I yell back and I throw the hammer as hard as I can at his head. Behemoth freezes and for an instant my mind imagines the hammer go through him. But it doesn’t, because he dodges it and opens his mouth wide, a deep black hole. And he smells of death.

I have it all, he says, jiggling the cameras.

And I know he’s right, so I push the papers on the table aside, revealing tools, pick up a wrench, and throw it at him, which he dodges.

It’s only the muffled screams of the woman that pull me away from Behemoth. I pick up the scalpel and cut the bonds that tie her to the chair.  I’m doing good, I tell myself.

Are you okay? I say after all bonds have been cut, but her wide eyes are locked in on Behemoth. I stand her up, but find that she collapses into my arms. She’s soft, and I sense the humanity of her and a warmth comes over me; I know I’ve done good. Even if Behemoth or the hunters should cut my life down, I have done good.

I pick up a large knife from the table and watch as Behemoth comes closer.

Let her go, she’s mine, he says. I throw the knife at him. It misses him by a wide margin. My shoulder moans with pain. With all my might I keep from grimacing. I throw the woman over my shoulder. We’ll get you out, I say. Luckily, she’s light. I pick up a machete from the table and make my way to the aisle with the cages. Behemoth is keeping a respectful distance while still following me. I strain my neck to keep him in view. It’s not easy. The woman starts to squirm.

Easy, I say. But she squirms even more. I put her down, holding her up because her body is like jello. What’s the matter? I ask.

Her eyes, black in this light, take me in. I’m only glancing at her, keeping Behemoth in my periphery, keeping the machete at the ready. With my hands sweaty, the weapon threatens to slip out of my hands.

The woman, still squirming, starts to mumble something. I lean in. Behemoth pretends to hear—cocking his head and nodding—and smiles, moving in. I swing the machete at him. He moves back, cackling, flesh flying out of his mouth, a sewer smell spewing out and forcing me to draw deep breaths through my own mouth.

She continues mumbling.

What? I ask, keeping my eye on this darting enemy of mine.

Her hands claw at my clothes, my chest. Behemoth swoops away. I turn to look at the woman. There’s blood leaking down her chin from her nose. Small bubbles of blood form when she breathes. I stare for a second. Her eyes, half open, flitter from me to the Behemoth. The spark in them begins to dull.

Don’t, I say, though I’m not sure how to finish the sentence. Stay with me.

Behemoth cackles. It’s too late. Your little terrorist is gone.

Are you okay? I say touching her cheek. Talk to me.

She whimpers. I pick her up, and back away from Behemoth. I’m  in the aisle amongst the cages again. A drum roll picks up. And though in each cage I see nothing but darkness, there must be people somewhere because the clamor is like a million fists against the bars.

I keep backing away from Behemoth, glancing over my shoulder, thinking that this can’t be that easy, that I’m walking into a trap. But the door to that original hallway draws closer.

Wait, Behemoth says. The drumming stops. He’s resting his chin on his hand, contemplating something.

What? I ask. A few hands have flashed out from the cages. They’re nowhere near me, but I sense that they’re waiting for something. What was the drumroll for?

You sure you want to do this?

It’s a ploy to buy time. Taking a few steps from him, the woman in hand, I hear the beat start up again. This time it’s accompanied by shrieks and yells.

Behemoth’s face darkens. They were once like you, he says nodding his head towards the cages. And look at them now. A few hands dart out from the cages. When one touches me, it seems friendly.

Just wait. You’ll see, he says.

I step back.

Behemoth turns black. A small explosion blurs my vision. Now he is gone. There are only roaches, thousands of them coming at me. The cages are shaking with the drumroll, the shrieks. I turn and run.

The buzzing or humming sound of roaches nears. In front of me stretches the gauntlet of hands. They’re friendly, I think to myself. If they were once me, they would know. Perhaps they will help to stop Behemoth.

And I run as hard as I can. It’s been a long time—since my infantry days really—since I’ve run this hard with a body over my shoulder. I’m in no shape for this. And soon my lungs and thighs are burning. That doorway to the hallway seems so far. And suddenly I feel light, like I’m being lifted. I feel the hands from the cages on me. They’re helping. I sense, only briefly, a hope for the human spirit, that these humans, after so much horror, can still be full of love.

Except Behemoth knows what he is doing. He knows that a caged bird doesn’t sing. Its spirit dies slowly, leaving only flesh to be molded. I’m lighter because the hands have grasped at her. They have taken her. I turn and look up. She is already out of reach. I lunge at the cages, grabbing the bars to pull myself up to her. The hands fight me. The drumroll has ceased and is replaced with a mournful shriek. The hands prevent me from climbing further up. She is far above now. Several stories high. I see Behemoth re-forming from the roaches. He too stares on.

Looking straight ahead, I see the hollow eyes of the caged man in front of me.

Why are you doing this? I ask. I can hear my own voice crack, sense the sting in my eyes.

He cocks his head and lets go of me. The other hands do the same. You want me to let her go?

The woman’s body ceases to be carried by the hands. She stops, almost hangs, mid air.

Don’t—

Why would we hurt her? 

I read nothing on the street-grid of creases that form on his face.

Why are you taking her?

You can’t outrun him, he says and jerks his head at Behemoth.

Why are you taking her? I ask again.

But the man is gone. The hands return to lifting the woman and soon she is out of sight.

Behemoth, his neck craned, to see the woman turns to me. I see the anger. My heart pounds fear and energy into my muscles. I jump down from the cages and I run. The drumroll resumes. I feel fire on my back. I turn for a split second to see him bearing down on  me. I throw the machete. It misses. I turn, and there is the door. I open and slam it shut.

The quiet of the hallway greets me and I move away from the door. But it doesn’t so much as move. When my breathing has calmed down, I blink until my eyes adjust to the darkness. I still see