Steve Tem: Ubo

Besides the bunks and basins a rusted‑looking, metallic cube construction stood in the middle of the room where sustenance could be obtained in paste shaped to suggest various categories of food, but more suggestive of lubrication than nourishment. The roaches’ observation windows were similar to the ones in the waiting room, but there were a few more of them, and they were well-staffed by the dark insectoid heads. There were no windows to the outside.

A baroquely‑ornamented door, like something from a church, was embedded in the wall near one corner—a dark toilet sat tucked behind. He rarely had the urge to go—he assumed it was the malnourishment. A larger door at one end was left open so they could go out at any time, the top hinge cracked so that the door tilted from the vertical.

But there was nowhere to go, as far as he knew, other than to more devastated areas of the old factory. The other areas he’d seen were empty of everything but debris and the occasional heavily-mandibled guard, and the floors were partially collapsed, so to wander there seemed pointless. The door to the waiting room remained closed and locked until the roaches decided to open it.

There were more empty bunks in the room than there had been earlier in the week. But some of the residents might be in the scenario rooms, or in the waiting room, transferred, or in the infirmary, or being punished. Daniel tried not to write anyone off too quickly. Sometimes residents died, he believed, as they all talked about. Occasionally there would be evidence of a particularly black smoke coming from one of the factory chimneys.

Falstaff led the way across the barracks. Residents were rousing themselves, sitting up—some from ordinary slumber, some having recently come back from a scenario. Daniel could tell these by the faraway look in their eyes, the pale patches around the forehead and mouth, and the tendency to move lips silently.

One was staring at him coldly. A man in his late twenties, black hair and pasty complexion. A bright red rash covered most of his face. His eyes were scarlet pinpricks in dark hollows, embers that darted constantly about as if seeking something combustible. He’d seen the fellow before—he looked worse every time. His name was Carter, or Clark… no, Collier. Collier had been here a long time.

On the next bed a younger man avoided looking at him. He’d been placed here just before Daniel went on his last scenario. Short dark hair with red highlights, combed straight out from the scalp. Eyes diamond‑shaped. Dark lips. Not red, but he wasn’t sure what the color was. Thin, wiry body that contorted itself in sudden fits. Max—that was the name.

“Dan’l?”

He spun around. The chubby figure squatted Buddha-like on his bunk. Raymond P. Smythe, age fifty‑two, late of Louisville, Kentucky, as the man had told him several times.

“I used to have that problem, myself, with them after‑images, comin out o’ one of them devil’s lives. It’s like a little fire and brimstone hangs on to your coat tails on the way back from Hell.” He shifted his hips and grinned at Daniel impishly. “By the way, you rememberin me now?”

“Vaguely… yes, yes I do.”

“Now that’s mighty fine, Dan’l. Used to, it’d take you days, or whatever passes for days here, just to get the vaguest notion about where you were. But I don’t suppose you member that?”

“No… not at all.”

“Well, as God’s my witness, that’s the truth, if you can count on anything in this upside‑down promised land.” Raymond grinned, and it was as if the sweating red beach ball of a head had split open, a corn cob of gleaming white teeth instantly filling the wound. The beach ball bounced a few times up and down on the neckless trunk, then the corncob appeared to turn sideways a bit. “Hey now, what’s the matter, Dan’l? You look a little peak-ed. Dan’l?”

He’d collapsed to the floor when it hit him. “He knew! The first one he shot—she was at least eight months pregnant, and he knew .”

“Aimed directly at her belly, didn’t he? Shot right through her unborn baby and murdered it. With his skills, no way was it an accident!”

Daniel was vaguely aware of Falstaff’s arm around his shoulder moving him along. He was vaguely aware of how good it felt, vaguely aware of sobbing uncontrollably. It felt so good to lose control. “Did the woman die?”

“She survived,” Falstaff said. “She was eighteen, young and healthy. But she couldn’t bear any more children after all the damage. And that was her fiancé leaning over her who was killed.”

“Oh Jesus Jesus Jesus…”

“Daniel, let’s get to some fresh air.”

“Have you played Whitman, too? Have we all done that ?”

“We’ve all done things, we’ve all been in those roles. We’re all in this same boat together. It’s the roaches.”

“No! It’s us! We couldn’t do those things if we didn’t have that already inside us. Nobody could make you do such things if it weren’t already there!”

Raymond was suddenly standing in front of Daniel and Falstaff blocking their way. “But the point is none of us ever did things like that before. I don’t think any of us could have done those things if them damned roaches hadn’t taken us. That’s what matters, Dan’l. It’s not us. It’s them roaches .”

Daniel wanted to believe this, but how did Raymond know? He didn’t know Daniel. He didn’t know what Daniel was capable of in his heart.

“He doesn’t seem that devastated by it. Not to me.” This from a sleepy-looking bald headed fellow a few bunks away.

“Keep it to yourself, Scott.” Raymond walked back to his cot. “I’m getting tired of listening to that kind of trash from the likes of you.”

Scott looked offended. “I just know how bad I feel after one of these things. And he doesn’t look like he feels that bad.”

“That’s enough, Scott,” Falstaff warned. “No more.”

Scott grimaced, or smiled. Daniel remembered him now. Scott’s eyes suddenly widened. “What was that?” he shouted, then burst into laughter. “Stay away from me, bitch!” he screamed.

“Let’s keep walking,” Falstaff moved him toward another door in the wall by the observation windows. Because of its proximity to the roaches, Daniel had always stayed away from it.

The door opened into a hallway nearly clear of debris. At the end another door and a stair led upwards. “Are you strong enough to climb these steps now?”

“I’m okay,” although he wasn’t actually sure. “What’s up here?”

“You’ll see.”

After a flight Daniel asked, “Did you mean what you said? That we’re not personally responsible?”

“That’s not exactly what I said. But I do believe that just because you do something terrible playing one of these roles doesn’t mean you’d normally do it, under any other circumstances. We’re just inserted into these evil creations to bring our human understanding to the narrative.”

“To figure out why they did what they did?”

“It’s hard to say what the roaches hope to get out of this process. Unless they’re actually the sadistic gods we sometimes think them to be.” Falstaff turned around and sat down. “Let’s take a break. I don’t get the exercise I used to.” He sighed, but Daniel didn’t think he actually looked that tired. He stared at Daniel. “There once was a famous comedian, Louis C.K.? He used to do a routine about how the biggest danger on the planet to women was men, how he couldn’t believe they actually consented to date us, to continue the race because men were, well, so dangerous, I believe that was the gist. Hilarious, hilarious stuff.”

“Sure, I’ve heard the routine, fairly recently, I think. I never thought of him as that famous. What do you mean ‘once’? Did he die recently? How long have I really been away?”