Scott Nicholson - Liquid fear

“Halcyon isn’t the real issue here. It’s the other stuff we want. The Seethe.”

“Seethe? What’s that?”

“Pray to God you never find out.” The man jogged away in an easy, rolling gait, now just another fitness freak putting in miles.

Mark was pretty sure Alexis wasn’t home, but he headed for the car anyway. He had something tucked away in the back of the closet shelf he might need.

Roland hit Chapel Hill at about four in the afternoon. The city had a population of 55,000, but its sprawling, wooded nature projected a small-town feel, which led many UNC graduates to stay in the area and often end up working at the university. Roland had wanted to leave after the marriage, but Wendy was reluctant to give up her career track in the art department.

It was just one of many conflicts that had led to their split, but Roland knew somewhere deep in his heart that the seeds of their ruin had been planted in the Monkey House.

Monkey House? Why the hell am I thinking of that?

He’d indulged in a Kurt Vonnegut binge in high school, just as he was discovering the mellow escapism of marijuana, and Vonnegut’s story “Welcome to Monkey House” had been one of those mind-altering leaps of consciousness.

The story was based on the old joke of mathematical probability that if you gave a monkey a typewriter and he began pecking at random, eventually he would reproduce the entire works of Shakespeare. In Vonnegut’s rendition, the monkeys immediately began cranking out flawless manuscripts.

But he’d read the story a few years before he met Wendy, and there was no reason to link them now. Except for the inescapable realization that the entire world was a crazy primate zoo, and humans were little more than hairless monkeys, only with more murderous habits.

Sure, I read the Vonnegut story, but I wonder if David Underwood did.

He could feel the vial in his pocket, deliberately jammed by the seatbelt so he was constantly aware of its presence. He glanced at the dashboard clock. He was determined to skip the next dose, no matter how distorted his mind became, but he was nearly due.

As he hit the business district, he passed an ABC package store, and the gleaming rows of bottles beckoned him. He licked his lips. The vodka in there would be real.

Wendy.

Roland didn’t know why her name would be so clear when all else was fog, but he pictured her face and the craving fell away. He knew that was wrong, that he should seek a higher power instead, but it worked, so maybe that was the power he needed.

By the time he pulled into her apartment complex, his hands were shaking on the wheel and the car was weaving. He slowed and willed the sedan into an empty space, then pulled out the vial.

Should I take one now, or wait until I get inside? And what if she doesn’t let me in?

What if I’m David Underwood?

No. Can’t be. If I were David, I wouldn’t be wondering about it.

He had trouble getting out of the car and the Earth tilted on its axis, threatening to spill him on the pavement. It was like being drunk except he didn’t have any of the emotional numbness, the dumb rage, or the thirst for more pain.

A man riding a ten-speed swerved on the sidewalk to avoid him, shouting, “Hey, watch it!” before pedaling away. Roland had to fight an urge to chase the man, drag him from the bicycle, and beat him senseless.

Roland had only been to Wendy’s apartment three times. Once, he’d helped her move. The second time, they’d had a serious replay of the breakup, ending up reminiscing and engaging in awkward lovemaking before a final argument. The third time, he’d personally delivered the signed separation agreement.

They’d bumped into one another occasionally because they still shared some of the same haunts, and the awkwardness lingered, as if something had gone unsaid.

And now here he was, turning to the one person who had the least reason to help him. And he wasn’t even sure why he was there.

She answered on the third knock, but from behind the closed door and with suspicion. “Who is it?”

He hadn’t meant to scare her. He tapped gently this time. “It’s Roland.”

“Roland who?”

He fought off a rush of anger. “Come on, Wendy.”

“Who is this?”

He was about to punch the metal door in frustration, but he couldn’t afford to draw any attention. Someone might report his erratic behavior and then he’d be explaining himself to the cops while his brain was peeling itself like an onion. “It’s your husband, Wendy. It’s important.”

He was just about to knock again when the deadbolt clicked. The door parted a few inches, a thick security chain in place. One of Wendy’s onyx eyes and half her face appeared in the gap.

“My husband?” she said.

Oh, fuck. They got to you, too, didn’t they?

Instead of explaining, he simply held up the orange bottle and showed her the label. “We need to talk.”

Kleingarten peeled off the latex gloves.

Hand rubbers. I hope she wasn’t carrying anything.

He’d left her in the cell in the back of the Monkey House, a few doors down from David Underwood’s hellhole. Anita’s walls were tricked out with the same kind of freakish collages, except hers were more colorful-photographs of autopsies, gaping flesh wounds, and invasive surgeries.

Mixed in with the gore were lewd images of every conceivable kind of coupling, including one that looked like two women and a hairless dog, but Kleingarten hadn’t checked closely enough to be certain.

Anita had felt damned good in his arms, despite her being a slut, but entering the room had sickened him enough that he’d dumped her on the cot and backed away. Briggs must have been watching from the monitors, because he immediately started a syncopated overhead light show of red and orange bulbs.

A soundtrack started, and it took a moment for Kleingarten to recognize it. He’d heard his share of porn voice-overs, where the actors pretended to groan and grunt in pleasure, and this sounded like a dozen of them stacked on top of one another and mixed together into one huge orgy.

Kleingarten hurried through the main alley toward Briggs’s cage, anxious to get paid and get the hell out of there. As he reached the opening of the cage, he was struck by the impression that Briggs was just as much a monkey as the others, except Briggs was in his cage voluntarily.

“That thing about fear,” Kleingarten said. “I’m starting to figure out your game.”

Briggs looked away from the bank of video monitors, which were now divided between images of Anita and images of David Underwood. Briggs seemed annoyed at the intrusion, but like a true egghead, he never passed up a chance for a lecture.

“We each have a greatest fear,” Briggs said. “And in some ways, your fear is also your greatest strength. When you overcome it, then you are ready for a higher purpose.”

“You make people scared with your joy juice, and then you hook them on the pills so they forget they’re afraid. Sort of like crack. The first hit is always free.”

Briggs narrowed his eyes in a gesture of consideration that might have signaled respect. “If you can both induce fear and eliminate fear, you could help people control themselves. But fear is also our friend, a survival mechanism. Take Anita Molkesky here.”

Briggs pointed to the screen that showed Anita sprawled on the cot, undulating in a faint but clearly sensual motion. Her eyes were closed and she seemed lights-out oblivious, and Kleingarten wondered how many brain cells Briggs’s medicine chewed up and spat out in the process.

“Anita is afraid of abandonment,” Briggs said. “It’s so classically Freudian that it’s too easy. Father left when she was seven, mother had a string of bad boyfriends. She wasn’t molested, which was truly a miracle given the opportunities and cast of characters, but she formed an unhealthy need to seek attention and approval from this revolving cast of losers.”