This place was definitely Abandoned, with a capital A. Dead as a morgue. Half the damn walls were coming down, and it was through one of their gaps that Ray tumbled, daring that bitch to bring it. The front doors were locked, but he wormed his way through holes in the chain-link fences to wander through a field of dead resistors, looming over him like wire mantises, and he eventually found a door that let him into the building. Oh, yeah, he could tell this was the place.
He walked into some sort of access room; he almost stumbled over the pile of boxes sitting just inside the door. Ray lifted the lid on the top one to see what it contained – it was, incongruously, filled with glass bottles. He shrugged and made his way to the gaping hatch on the far side of the room. With the door held open, it looked like the kind of oven a witch would throw a kid into. There was a piece of paper taped to the top of its hungry mouth.
It was like some kind of map. Like a blueprint. He squinted, trying to understand. Then he noticed the innocent-looking device perched in the tunnel's opening. Looked like a phone or something. He stabbed at the button. The bitch spoke:
"Are you prepared to suffer to save your son? Completely fill the tunnel with broken glass. Send pictures. You will receive your reward."
Scott had fallen asleep in his chair again, and he reacted to the phone's loud ring only belatedly as the pictures began to trickle in. There was Dad's determination, Ben's dad's dedication: the thoroughness of the job. It looked like every corner was filled, every dead end, every false turn. A sea of jagged edges.
Scott looked up at the monitor in triumph. "He made it, John. He did the whole thing, and he's still coming to get you out. When he makes it, what he's done won't hurt anyone. No one goes there." I can go paint the butterflies now. And the failure door. Turn the power on. Set the whole thing up.
"I know why you did it, Scottie." John was back now, staring at him through the filtered moonlight. Scott took a deep breath.
"This is hard, John. This is hard to do. I know it's hard to . . . it's hard where you are, too. But that's why I keep trying to save you. Save us." It had always been hard to stick up for himself with John, always. This was too important to back down on. "Okay, he's a little guy who could make it through that tunnel. But he's a fighter, too. He's going to fight his way to you. He's almost halfway there."
John was still staring, quietly. Scott believed he was maybe thinking it over, and he guiltily took another swig of whiskey during the silence.
John's voice finally broke through: "I hope he does. But I still wish you hadn't done it."
"I'm sorry. I promise, I never will again. Do that. Plan for you to not be rescued. Ever. I mean," he added hastily, "It shouldn't matter, because he's coming for you. But even if he doesn't." He knew John had caught his additional slip.
"Don't forget, Scottie." And with that, John was gone again. I think maybe it's going to be okay. But that's what happens when you mess with the rules, Scott. You deserve this.
Still, he was hopeful. Now to wait. The next trial was again set up to notify him at its completion, so he could take simply take the phone to bed with him. He did so, yawning.
Ray pounded the last beers in the car so he wouldn't care so much about how fucked up his hands were. Didn't make the blood-slicked steering wheel any easier to grip, and he just barely made a few corners, but at least his hands weren't screaming at his brain any more. If that bitch didn't think he was tough enough, he hoped she was fucking choking on it. Yeah, okay, after breaking the first few bottles, he'd taken off his shirt and done the rest of the job with his hands wrapped in it. If she thought that made Ray Carver a pussy, he was going to show her how wrong she was when all this shit went down. Especially after she'd made him crawl through the whole fucking mess afterwards, fall through those fucking fun-slide tunnels, to get that damn chip. Card. Thing. Ben didn't look so good on the screen, but it didn't help to think about that. Ray had the new letters now, that was the important thing.
Oh, Jesus, was he dizzy.
When he got home, he pulled up in front of the house and leant his head back for a minute in relief. He was going to have to sleep for a little bit, no question about it. It was the middle of the damn night, now, anyway. It was harder than he'd anticipated to make it inside, and he left swaths of blood on every surface he leaned against on his way in. In the living room, he tried to lie down on the sofa, but fell gracelessly on the floor.
Sue was pinching his chin. "Ray? Hon? What happened? Did you get in a fight? Did you punch a window, Ray?"
He tried to explain. It didn't happen.
"Come on, Ray, get on the couch."
His hands were burning, and he yelled, and Sue said something about antiseptic.
His ma was yelling now, but he was very small, so he hid from her in a glass bottle, and then he woke up.
That popcorn ceiling was familiar, nicotine stains and all, in the early morning light. The keen edge of his impending hangover made the rough fabric of the couch burn against his face. His hands hurt, and they were stiff. Holding them groggily in front of his eyes, he could just make out that some of the stiffness was artificial – they were whitely bandaged. Sue was never the brightest bulb, but she could sure come through when he needed her to. He unsteadily began the process of making his way to his feet, noting that his throne of beer cans had been cleaned away. There were still bloodstains on the carpet, but he supposed she'd need a little time to get them out.
It took him a few tries to get his first beer out of the fridge and opened, because his hands were so uncooperative. The cold can on his face felt like a blessing. Sue came into the kitchen as he took his first swig so he could begin to wake up properly.
"Ray? Are you okay?" She was still in her nightgown. He wished she'd put some clothes on, and some makeup. Make the house a little brighter for when he brought Ben home.
"Yeah, babe. Thanks for fixing me up. That bitch sure did a number on me."
"What bitch? Did you hit some woman?" She sounded worried, and Ray felt his irritation begin to rise.
"No, look, it's a long story. I had to go – listen, let me start at the beginning. That – " he pointed at the kitchen table, which was completely bare. He stared uncomprehendingly.
"What is it, Ray?"
"Where's the box? I left a box there."
"That old shoebox?"
"Yes, dammit." He shot one bandaged hand to her shoulder, only vaguely noticing the pain. "I left a fucking shoebox there. Where is it?"
"I was cleaning. It just had some old paper in it, so I threw it away. It was trash night."
He dropped the beer, and it sprayed across the kitchen. He didn't know he was swaying until Sue caught him.
"Ray, go back to bed. You're hurt." She sounded tired, disinterested, and he was bewildered by the lack of urgency in her voice.
"You . . . you fuckin' . . . you . . ." he pushed himself away from her, lurching back against the kitchen counter, eyes wide.
"Come on, I'll help you," she was saying, but he was already staggering past her and out the front door onto the lawn, into the heavy early rain. The street was peaceful, so early in the morning. The trash collection usually took place at two, three in the morning, and now the neighborhood was a graveyard of upturned bins.
He collapsed to his knees in the wet grass. The box was gone. It had been gone for hours, gone forever while he slept. He stared unbelievingly at the empty can.
"Bitch," he said. "Bitch." It was almost a whisper.
"Ray?" Sue's soft voice came from behind him. "What's wrong? Honey, you're soaking." When he didn't respond, she looked up and down the street, then timidly helped him to his feet and led him inside the house. He came with her, unresisting as a sleepwalker. Once inside, he pulled loose from her with a shudder and dripped his way to the liquor cabinet.
Ray Carver was an uncomplicated man, and so when he put his mind to something, there was very little that could distract him from his purpose.
It took him only a few weeks to drink himself to death.