Jack in the Box (13 page)

I slid the paper to him. His eyes searched through all of the people on the page. Military leaders. US military leaders. He stared at me. "They're. . ."

". . . all in, sir."

He put his hand on his head. Ran it back through his hair. "I had. . . no idea that they knew."

"No one will be able to say no," I said again. "We will disable their phones, disable their internet," I smiled, "withhold their medicine, and if they are still noncompliant," I pointed to the paper, "we will be 'necessary and proper' in our persistence."

Once again, the president nodded slowly.

I started to tap my foot. Watched the president come to terms with everything.

"It's time for Project B, sir."

Another nod.

I reached into my briefcase one final time. I pulled out five more pieces of paper. Like the paper with pictures of US personnel on it, these had military individuals pictured on their fronts. They weren't from the US, though. "And it will be big."

He stared at the pages. His mouth actually hung open."It's. . ." he grabbed the papers. Looked closely at each one. "It's. . ." he put the pages down. Looked into my eyes. ". . . the world?"

I smiled and leaned back. Put my hands behind my head. "The world."

→

Breakfast was good. Brian and I didn't say anything. Of course, he did say "Good morning." I thought about the food in this place. It had always been good. Why, though? If this place were hell, wouldn't the food be bad? Actually, why would I get food in the first place? It didn't make sense. But that was nothing new. Not making sense was the test's forte. The way this place worked definitely qualified it as hell, but it didn't match my expectations of what it was supposed to be.

Finally I spoke up, "So, we're in hell?"

Brian lifted his head. Stopped chewing. His face communicated that I had asked a stupid question.

"Yeah, okay. But, some things don't make it seem that way."

"Like what?" he resumed chewing.

"Like," I said, "we get food."

He nodded, "Yup,"

"And," I continued, "We can sleep. We can dream."

He put his fork down. "Right again."

"And, we can die here, even though we're already dead." I lifted my hands off my plate. "How can it be hell?"

"How do you know what hell is?" he immediately shot back.

"Because. . ." I stopped.

"I've been in this place much longer than you, Jack. Now tell me, what are you basing your knowledge of hell on?"

"Well," I tried to explain, "I just thought that it-"

"-Right." Brian pointed his finger at me. "You just thought." He picked his fork up. "So don't tell the guy who's been here longer than you about hell. How do you know anything about hell? From your memories? But you haven't dreamed a thing about hell. From your reason? You're dead, Jack, things might not jive with your 'reason.'"

I shook my head. "But. . ."

"And if you don't think hell's bad enough for you yet," he pointed behind him. At the door. "There's a referee waitin' for ya out there."

I slumped down. He was right. How would I even be able to know what hell was? The only person I could trust was Brian. But at the same time, he was the one who had to keep me from getting out.

"Okay," I started eating again. "But can you at least answer some questions for me?"

He wagged his finger. "You know what I say about questions. . ." he said, smiling.

"Ask the right ones. Right, I know." I said. "If any of these are wrong questions, I don't care. I can't know unless I ask."

"Okay," he gestured his hand toward me. "Go ahead."

"First," I leaned forward, "I can sleep."

"Dreams are part of the test."

"Why?"

"Have you seen your dreams, Jack?"

I raised my eyebrows. ". . . Yeah."

"The memories of the guilty condemn them. Your dreams? They show you why you deserve it."

"I deserve it. . ."

"You deserve to be here."

I leaned back. I didn't actually remember my dream of the night before until he had said that. The president was under my control. The military was under my control. The world. The world would be under my control. And for what? The machine was going to kill people
.I
was going to kill people. One day ago Brian said that ninety-nine percent of the population died. Was that because of me? I cringed. Did I really do it? Did I kill everyone? Slowly I started to nod. "Okay. . ."

"And, next question!" Brian clapped.

I shook my head. I couldn't handle the thought of what I was going to do. In my dreams, that is. It made me want to never sleep again. Never dream again. I'd learned enough about myself; I didn't want to dream anymore.

". . . Jack? Anything else?"

I rubbed my forehead. "Hang on," I shoved my dream back. Tried to ignore it. But  even in the very back of my mind, it was as loud as a scream to me
.
Come on, Jack, I told myself. The test, you have to focus on the test
.
I looked up. Tried to remember any other questions I needed to ask. The trash bin randomly caught my eye. Before we ate I had thrown away the gauze from the day before. Suddenly I remembered something. I had completely forgotten about it. The dead man. The dead man and his note to Brian. Everything that had happened in the past few days made me forget about the note. Specifically, what it said about death.

I tried starving, that didn't work. I tried bleeding to death, that didn't work either.

I thought about it
.
I can't die from starvation or bleeding to death. But why?

I had an idea. A test. To see if Brian would tell the truth. "All right, so, I know I can die. . ." I said, still looking at the trash bin.

"Yes."

". . . Does that include bleeding to death?"

His eyes followed the direction of mine, and he saw the can of trash. "Well, you wouldn't die fro
m
that
,
"

"I know, but. . ." I looked around, "I don't know, if something crazy happened," I looked at my arm. Ran a finger across its width. "Like if I lost my arm,"

His eyebrows popped up.

"Would I die?"

He put his finger in his ear. scratched it. "Ah, no. . ." he examined his finger. Wiped it on his napkin. "You won't die from that. It's gotta be very specific." He put one hand on his heart, one on his head. "A direct impact on the head or heart is what seems to work."

Wha
t
seem
s
to work
,
I said in my head.

Brian's hands lowered to rest on the table. He looked at my food. "Can't starve either."

I nodded. "Okay, so I can only die by something that would directly kill me."

"Yeah, basically." He was so casual. It was odd. Was he faking nonchalance, or did all this stuff really not faze him? At times Brian seemed so deeply affected by things; at other times it was as if we were talking about the weather. Which I hadn't gotten to experience since life before death.

"Why?" I asked. "It seems like a weird rule."

"What is hell?"

I squinted. "No, I asked if-"

"-What is hell, Jack?"

I shook my head. "Why-"

"-It's torture." he pointed at my body again. "Torture can be physical, which is why bleeding and starving don't bring death. They serve to torture, to agonize." He pointed at my head, "or it can be psychological." he took a sip of water. Smiled. "You've experienced that."

I tightened my lips.

Brian capitalized. "I saw it," he grinned wider. "In fact, I still see it," he said quickly. "You give me all your bravado, saying this place isn't so bad." He put his finger on the table. "In your first week here, you put a gun to your head, Jack."

I held my breath.

"And you were ready to shoot."

I shook my head.

"And all this composure and focus you're trying to show," he pointed to his wrist, as if he had a watch, "It'll rub of
f
reall
y
quickly."

"No," I said quietly, "just stop."

Brian pointed his finger in the air and swirled it around. "It's a cycle. Surprise," he held up one finger, "false courage," two fingers, "and. . ." he put is hand, flat palmed, down onto the table. ". . . realization."

My hands made loose fists. "Realization," I repeated. Gritted my teeth. "Realization of what?"

He made a smile, as if to say, "You really don't know?"

I nodded. "Realization of what?" Fists tightened.

He signaled me forward with his hand. Smirked.

I leaned in. Kept my jaw clenched.

He signaled again. Nodding. Smirk still stuck on his face.

I leaned in further.

He moved in toward me, put his mouth next to my ear. Inches away. No, centimeters away.

He whispered one word. It was said so slowly, so confidently, that every syllable rang in my ear. "Futility," he said.

I leaned back. My jaw started hurting.

He pointed two fingers to the side of his head, thumb pointed up. Making a fake gun. He bent his thumb down. "I've realized something about humanity, Jack."

I did not speak. I did not move. I remained seated, upright, gritting my teeth.

"I've realized," he put his hand down, "that they'll always take the easy way out."

I tried to loosen my jaw. Massaged my cheeks. I couldn't let myself be affected by him. I couldn't just let him manipulate my emotions. "And so," I said shakily, "the easy way out is to die."

His answer was a shrug and an innocent smile. He was always like this. Smiling and pretending. Pretending that this was fun for him. I'd seen his feelings before, though. I'd seen him transparent. I couldn't believe that he enjoyed this place, nor that he enjoyed what happened to people that go to it.

I asked a question. A risky one. "If the easy way out is to die,"

He froze.

I considered what I was about to ask. But I had to ask it. "Is that why you want me to kill you?"

That question was followed by the longest silence I'd ever experienced in a conversation with Brian.

He shook his head. Sighed.  "I never said I wanted you to kill me."

I rubbed my arms. The room felt colder than usual. "But it seems like you do."

The hair on Brian's arms stood up. He had goosebumps. "Well, I'll just have to say that's a question I'm not allowed to answer."

My body shivered. I rubbed my arms more quickly.

Brian didn't move.

I was wrong
.
No
w
was the longest silence I'd experienced with Brian.

I knew he'd leave the room soon. We had finished our lunch, we had talked. He would only be there a little while longer.

"Brian, I need to ask for something else."

"Okay," he breathed in, shaking from the cold.

"I need a watch." To know when to be in my room.

He nodded.

What else
?
I analyzed the knowledge about the rooms that I already had
.
What could I use? What would get me closer to passing
?
A thought hit me. "And. . . and a marker."

He sucked in his cheeks. I couldn't tell if he was surprised or impressed. Or both.

We kept eye contact for about several seconds.

Finally Brian leaned back and reached into his pockets. From the right he brought out a watch, and from the left he brought out a marker. A red marker.

He placed both on the table, parallel to each other.

I grabbed the items. "Thanks." Looked at the watch. It was actually really nice. Just like the compass. Gold back. Leather band. The back was engraved
.
J. C
.
For Jack Colson. Me.

Though the conversation's topic had changed, the mood hadn't. Hell. Torture. And the fact that I deserved it. A fact that, deep down, I was starting to accept. I couldn't just move on to another thing
.
W
e
couldn't move on.

But we tried to. Pretended.

"So," I said, trying to lighten up. "Why's it so cold in here?"

"It lets you know."

". . . What?" tilted my head.

"That it's time to eat."

I looked at my wrist. "So," lifted it up, showing the watch, "this is pointless."

He shrugged, blinking slowly. "Yeah, well, you asked for it."

I displayed it in front of me. "Pretty nice, and you engraved it?"