Michael Griffin’s compelling novella centers around Mike (Griffin?) and his thoughts and questions, regarding four people and their isolation in a subterranean facility. Yet, each revelation gives birth to new questions.
Mark and Jenna. Greyson and Polly. Their day begins in separate rooms, each with their own murals on the wall opposite the bed. Mark is wistful of a time when he and Jenna were still a couple, before they began a pantomimed relationship for Greyson and Polly’s benefit. Mark cannot remember when they separated. Indeed, Mark cannot recall much at all. This becomes a theme that grows throughout the novella, for all four of them. “Each of the four has always known, without remembering ever having been told, which bottles they need, and in what dosages. They self-administer shots, or count pills to be swallowed with water...Each sits in their own elegant white leather reclining chair...[b]eside each, a stainless-steel tray organizes the day's medicines...[t]heir remaining supply, sufficient to last years, is kept within glass-fronted coolers along one wall. Further back, a massive freezer stores deep overstock for the longer term, though Mark imagines
none of them want or expect to remain here long enough to deplete the refrigerated supply...He takes this as given...”
Mark, from whose point-of-view the entire story unfolds, is aware that they are all locked in, deep underground. Each has his or her own idea as to the reason why. Is it in order to protect them from the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape above? Is it an experiment, for which each is being handsomely recompensed? Mark hates Greyson for his physical aggression towards him. Is HE the spy? Is the mole Polly, whose craziness is occasionally evident in statements like, "You know actually, I think we aren't the real test, ourselves...We're like a simulation of the big test they'll do later, somewhere farther away. Isn't that right? Like, a test for a test. I mean, humanity is just a trial run anyway. Preliminary, that's the word. Preliminary test. Each test is practice for another test, and that's practice for the next one. Only, how many? Like, which one is this?" It is Polly, whose antics continually send the others running downstairs, or upstairs, trying to find her?
But Mark may have his own agenda.
Their day is rigidly structured: mealtimes, exercise, pill-time in the Medicine Center, and of course, “sunbathing” beside the enormous swimming pool. The facility could serve hundreds. Thousands. Are they all that’s left of the human race? Griffin nimbly interjects hints of just how bizarre the truth may be, when “[t]oday is Mark's turn in the rotation for biological disposal...The others leave without cleaning up after themselves. After they're gone, Mark uses tweezers to gather organic detritus from each work stand into the larger stainless-steel tray atop the roll cart. Tiny of detached skin, unwanted eyelids, lobes and appendages, discarded trimmed nails, hairs and eyelashes pulled out by roots, all the flesh scattered amidst blood smears and spatters. Every day, the shedding of these parts leaves behind more waste than all the days before. This avalanche of decay, a kind of incremental death, is necessary for the renewal it brings. Each morning's birth, nearer and nearer to something new, and possibly final. Usually the mess doesn't bother him, when it's his turn. Today he averts his eyes as much as possible. Imagining a smell, he holds his breath....”
Griffin deftly leads the reader from idea to idea, and ultimately, to action. These characters live and breathe, even the worst of them lovable, their dialogue authentic enough to make the surreal feel commonplace.
If you haven’t read Michael Griffin’s work, ARMAGEDDON HOUSE is certainly as good an introduction to his skills and talent as you’re likely to find.