Below is a Recollection–this is not a review, but rather a full spoiler walkthrough of the author’s experience in Nocturnal Fandango’s Ammunition in July of 2018. As this event will not occur again, do not worry about reading spoilers.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was in a freezing hotel room, trying to rest before what promised to be a long day leading up to Ammunition—a Nocturnal Fandango show that concluded a weekend of theatre beginning with a van ride to Visalia, California with an NF ensemble member..It took almost five hours and three different cars for all audience members to arrive at a small bank of hotel rooms, nestled off a road I can’t name, a small respite from an unrelenting summer.
Throughout the night I both went out and visited with several of my friends, all Nocturnal Fandango ensemble members, excited to present Ammunition to me the following night.Was this theatre?It had to be, but it only felt like what it appeared to be: a road trip with friends to either see or perform in an immersive theatre production.This seamless blending of my world and that of Nocturnal Fandango began the moment the van door shut behind me, and wouldn’t end until the following evening, when I would stand in the dark heat and lean against my car, wipe my eyes dry, wipe the blood off my hands and slowly, finally, exhale.
After the aforementioned van ride and hotel stay, after all the group photos and intimate conversations with my cast member friends, and after the mental preparations I tend to make before this kind of performance, I’m trudging up a dirt road in Shaver Lake, California, my shoes making a rhythmic, dusty crunch.I find a lantern and turn to face a lovely cabin home, nestled amongst a smattering of similar getaways.I start up the driveway and it’s as if the world—or the one I’ve been in since the long drive—shifts around me, marking the beginning of the full, visceral experience from the peerless ensemble at Nocturnal Fandango. This is what we came all this way for, this is Ammunition, and true to its name, what follows is ninety minutes of consistent, unrelenting emotion, a barrage of sensations that fire at me, tearing through me and leaving me wounded and raw.
There’s a rustle in the shadows ahead as I approach, and suddenly a musket is pointed directly at my chest; a man in full Revolutionary War dress is pointing a rifle at me as I instinctively raise my hands above my head. Fortunately, in a moment of rare clarity, I recall a secret phrase I’d been given and repeat it to him; he excitedly beckons me towards him, firing questions about what “colony” I’ve journeyed from and my strange garb and slang words, which I answer with delight.He hands me his rifle, intending for me to finally relieve him after a lengthy guard shift, and I remark on its heaviness. War weighs heavy on a man, he says.And suddenly he’s inches from my face, and I’m staring into his dark eyes as he recites a poem almost hypnotically before sending me up a nearby stairwell to the deck of the house. I wonder how much longer he’ll wait for his relief as I depart.
…but I am now pursued by your bloody permanence;
shame shame now but no, it wasn’t my bullet.
At the head of the stairs, I hear the faint sound of typing, the murmurs and busy sounds of an office, and soon a conservatively dressed man bursts out from a nearby tent, pressing a tissue to my face and instructing me to tilt my head back to stop the bleeding.It seems I’ve been struck in the nose by another student after trying to break up a fight; I pull the tissue away from my face—yes, that’s bloody—and take a seat in the Principal’s Office. The Principal of my high school, Mr. Johnson, and the conservative man, Mr. Wilson (one of my teachers), explain to me that they’ve contacted the mother of the young man who’s punched me—she’s on her way.Forced to explain myself and my purpose to these authoritative, intimidating men, we wait in discomfort.
Christopher, my attacker, finally enters and slumps in a chair, the picture of teen angst, though there’s an aura of anger surrounding him that my forgiveness can’t seem to penetrate. As we discuss why we’re here, it becomes clear that time is fluid in this word; Mr. Johnson seems to exist decades ahead of Mr. Wilson, though neither are progressive enough for Sharon, the single mother of my troubled classmate, who arrives last to the meeting, running late; they both recoil, shocked that she’s set on raising her son without a male influence. Sharon bristles at the two men, and leaves in a whirlwind, towing both Christopher and me behind her.
Sharon takes us inside the house, and I stand awkwardly as she tries to connect with her son, receiving an all-too-familiar burst of teenaged venom in response.Her love comes up in waves, but crashes against his walls, dissipating into frustration.Christopher leaves, and she asks me to sit with her; she looks so tired, a long slow ache in her eyes as she shows me baby photos of her little boy. She wants my advice, as if my experiences as a teenager can somehow guide her and Christopher back together.I find myself telling her about my life, my parents, how impossible it must be to toe that line between friendly and familial with a sixteen-year-old, but I’m no help. Her love for her boy is so honest and pure and so clearly not enough to reach him that I impotently smile and assure her it will be alright.She tells me I seem like a kind person and asks me if I’d be kind to Christopher the next time I see him because he needs friends like me.As she walks me to a doorway down the hall, her last request rings like a deep, tolling bell, making my skin feel cold.
I knock on the closed door in front of me and it swings open, hands gripping both of my arms and pulling me into the darkness. A muffled voice tells me to get on the floor, all the way down, and I find myself with my face pressed against one of what seems like hundreds of brass rifle bullets littering the floor.He’s mistaken me for the enemy, quickly realizing his mistake and letting me get to my knees, and as I begin to make out the whooshing jungle sounds around me, and take in his dated fatigues, the elephant mask he wears that covers his voice, I think we must have shifted again, this time to a steamy corner of the Vietnam War.He tells me his name is Zipperhead, which I hope means that his mask will come off at some point and we’ll see each other, but I know must have some darker meaning. He’s been here such a long time and seems desperate for relief from a very different kind of exhaustion than the antiquated soldier I’d met what seems like hours ago.
Zipperhead stands me up, speaking very close, pressing his forehead against mine through the rubber that hides his features, and talks about death.He asks me if I’ve ever wanted to kill—if I want him to kill someone for me.I decline to answer, and he asks if I want to die instead; I have to shout “NO” three times before he grabs at me again, but this time he seems to be steadying himself.And suddenly this man, who’d started our conversation by pinning my arms so tight I could still see where he’d held me the following morning is slumped against me, choking out his words.
I’m going to die
He tells me this, and I find my hands resting on his arms now.
You won’t.You won’t die.
As I tell him this, I’m not sure that I trust my own words, but I don’t know what else he needs from me.It’s quiet for a moment and almost on cue he tears the door back open, pushing me up to and inside another room, whispering that he knows I’ll be back.
The next room is a dim, red landscape.A young man lays on the bed face up, one palm resting on his stomach.He turns his head weakly and says my name, beckoning me the sit on the bed next to him.He gestures for me to take his hand, and I do, realizing only then that the red lights in the room have disguised the fact that he’s completely covered in blood.It glues our hands together, and the wounded man tells me he’s been shot and doesn’t know why.His blood pooling out around him soaking into my clothes, he asks me to tell him a story.Something simple, something that always makes me happy.I tell him about riding in the car with my father as a child, listening to the same oldies songs over and over again, looking out at the river to see how the fishing is, and that taking that drive or hearing those songs always makes me feel safe. The man tells me he loves fishing, that he’s always wanted to go to Lake Michigan, that there are so many things he hasn’t done yet. That this isn’t fair.
Just then, as my eyes have begun to water, a door opens and a man in a koala mask glides into the room.My fellow audience members will know him as Bossman, or Trauma, from previous Nocturnal Fandango installments, but he and I have never met before now.He kneels down next to the young man and tells him he’s going to take him—Trauma substituting as an angel of death.
They’ll be here soon, the bleeding man says.
I whisper, maybe to myself, he’s not going to die.
Bossman speaks slowly, sometimes so quietly I have to lean forward.He has the man’s hand now, and he tells him it’s ok, we’re going to Lake Michigan.I’m silent; anything I have to say is strangled in my throat as Bossman instructs him to look at me and see his lover instead, to tell me what he’d tell her now.He says how lucky he feels to have me in his life, that he doesn’t hold the hard decision to have the abortion against me, and that he’s sorry.We have found each other’s hands again and I think if I just hold him tight enough, he’ll stay, but Bossman knows better.
Bossman says the man’s lover isgoing to keep the baby, now that he’s gone, and that she’ll name him Jesse, after his father.This is where I feel myself break—in this subtle tactic, Bossman using the actor’s real name, an actor I’d spent time this weekend growing so fond of, a friend.I feel my grief spilling out as I blearily meet Jesse’s eyes again.
Jesse says my father sounds like a great guy.
He is, I say.
You love him?, he asks.
Very much, I reply.
Jesse pauses. You should tell him that.
He exhales in a long sigh and I feel his hand relax in mine as Bossman whispers:
Your blood isn’t special, love, it’s just blood
But should you ever fail to forget this;
you must remember the stronghold way of things;
that kind belligerence;
that shared understanding;
or our quiet gazes still unfazed.
The hurt I feel is immense; were it not for the woman in black that enters quietly to take my hand and pull me from the bed, I don’t know that I’d be able to leave. She gently tugs me away, out the door and down the hall.We enter a closet-sized room and I sit as she kneels in front of me.She tells me she’s the Keeper of Memories and asks if I could share one of mine.I am barely composed, but something eventually comes to me, and she has me write it on the wall next to me, where she can keep it safe.I look around then and see countless other memories scribbled around me; a slice of my friends and fellow audience members’ histories kept between these walls.The Keeper says she has a memory for me, but this one I’ll need to see in person, and she walks me out and up the stairs to the top floor. This memory is yours now, she says, and opens the next door for me.
I’m inside a school cafeteria, and a young African American man approaches, handing me a full lunch tray And introducing himself as Joshua.He’s thrilled that I’ll be showing him around school on his first day, even though he knows the principal made me do it.I insist that I’m happy to help, as I notice a banner on the wall behind him, “Welcome Negroes” written in warm yellow paint.It must be 1954 in this room, Brown vs The Board of Education and desegregation in schools, though I notice two other male students seated at the cafeteria table as Joshua and I approach and take a seat.They introduce themselves as Fredrick and Zachary, and they seem to be in a loving, discreet relationship. Zachary is in flannel, a stylish earring in one ear, while Fredrick wears a newsboy cap and vest, almost as if he’s been shot in black and white. It’s clear that all three of my new friends exist in different time periods but are together in this memory—the only time is now.
We discuss desegregation and gay rights over our lunch: Fredrick doesn’t understand why Joshua is suddenly welcome at his school, nor is he willing to be open about his relationship.He says he’ll likely marry one of the girls in their class when the time comes, and Zachary seems to wilt beside him.The conversation threatens to circle endlessly until the door behind us opens and Christopher strides in.I’d met him maybe thirty minutes ago in real time, but it felt like years had passed since the Principal’s office and the weak apology for my bloody nose.He’s different now, as if his anger has deepened with time. That same bell tolls in my head again, and I feel icy pinpricks creeping up my neck as he sits in the empty chair to my left.
As his mother had asked, I’m friendly, all four of us are trying to engage Christopher in our conversation, but he’s agitated and distracted.He sneers and rolls his eyes when we reach out to him. Something is different about him now, as if the wall he’d once erected around himself has been replaced with apathy, allowing the hate he feels to spill out.After an uncomfortable minute, Christopher reaches into the band of his jeans and pull the gun out, setting it with a thud on the table in front of him.The air rushes out of the room, and Christopher takes the weapon up, pointing it casually at each of us as we try to relax him to no avail.Soon, he’s shouting for everyone to get up and stand against the far wall.Joseph is breathing heavily to my right and past him, Fredrick and Zachary take each other’s hand.
Do you even know my name?
Christopher asks as it occurs to me that no, I don’t.Either none of the adults we’d met earlier had mentioned it or, thus proving his point, I’ve forgotten.He’s pointing the gun at me know, asking me, waving it closer as he repeats the question when Fredrick responds out of turn. Christopher is incensed, losing control of the situation, losing himself in his anger; he waves the gun wildly as Joshua suddenly grabs me by the shoulders, yelling for me to get down, and pulls both of us to the floor. There’s gunfire and flashing lights and a sudden, encompassing silence, broken only by the sound of Joshua sobbing next to me. My eyes are squeezed shut and Joshua eventually grows quiet as a sheet is placed over our bodies.I don’t notice that I’ve been shaking until a woman places her hand on my shoulder and begins to whisper.
They all died, but you made it. You’re okay.
She nudges me out from under the sheet and helps me stand, and she and another woman, both all in black, lead me out of the room, down the stairs, and outside to sit on the steps of the deck.They are holding my hands so tightly—I desperately needed the human contact—and the women tell me about what one of my murdered friends would have become, had he lived.It’s not your fault, one interjects, as she tells me what an asset he would have been to society, how close we would remain into our adulthood, the children he would never have. His purpose will not be realized, the women say, but I survived, and what is my purpose?I’m so fractured at this point that it’s hard to answer, but eventually I find words.I think it’s to remind people that they are loved.
The women take me from the steps, each curled around one of my arms, and lead me around the back of the house, where a casually dressed man approaches and relieves them.He introduces himself as Mr. Oliver, my Kindergarten teacher, and tells me how happy he is to have me in class.
We sit down on a blanket outside a tent in the backyard—classrooms make him feel too contained—and he tells me why we’re here.He’s not like regular teachers; in fact, “regular” teachers are a thing of the past because they can no longer keep us safe.He says he’s an android, an advanced machine created for one purpose: to protect the children in his class.He must see the flicker of pity in my eyes because he insists I not feel bad for him, he doesn’t feel anything, he just wants me to make it.He says if kids are raised up feeling safe from weapons and people who would use them against us, they can become anything. I’m only half smiling because while he’s being so comforting I can’t help but wonder: what world have I entered where schools are now war-zones?
Photo by Jenny Hoover
Mr. Oliver and I end our meeting with an arts and crafts project.I press a paint covered hand onto construction paper, writing my name, age, and the year alongside it.It’s 2082, not so far in the future, and I find myself hoping this is a purpose Mr. Oliver never really has to serve.He helps me up, and we walk back towards the driveway of the house, from whence I came.Before he says goodbye he once again reminds me that he’ll protect me and not to worry, and I know his purpose is to keep fear from turning me away from my own purpose.I believe that no one is born bad, he says, and I agree. May there come a day when that belief is shared universally.I smile at him and say goodnight and turn down the driveway.
I am so overwhelmed by this point, so suffused with the extremities of my emotions, that I don’t know how long it takes me to realize that it’s over.Ninety minutes has flown by in a flurry of fear and love and grief and violence, and while I’ve come back out the same way I came, but I’m not the same.
Ammunition left a welcome scar, firing out like hot lead; a bullet headed straight for my heart. This is the gift that Nocturnal Fandango gives its audience members—these ferocious memories of an experience that is painful and beautiful and so uniquely yours thatcomparing it to anything else would do it a disservice. The Keeper of Memories, in that tiny, hot room, said she’d keep my memory safe. And I know it is safe, along with all the other moments, both difficult and soothing, that made up my trip through Ammunition.I can shut my eyes and I’m still in that house, still telling Sharon she’s a good mother even if her love isn’t enough, still squeezing Jesse’s hand desperately even after its gone limp, still feeling the weight of that old rifle in my arms, and still feeling the weight of Joshua’s arms around me as we lay together on the cafeteria floor.I have the pleasure and pain of all of these memories, I get to let them soak into me and reaffirm the person I am, even if that’s difficult, especially if that’s difficult, because these memories are mine and no person is comprised of simplicity.
…lazy lazy fires bring bright rain
And then it’s back to the somersault promises again…
I wander back down to the dusty road, nearly numb with emotion, and the old world slinks back into view.It’s good to feel the ground beneath me again after all that time spent hovering in a liminal space. The poem was right—it wasn’t my bullet. Rather, I was the bullet, fired along a path laid out for me by a group of immersive creators who took the time to craft an evocative experience that felt tailored to my needs far beyond my expectations. Nocturnal Fandango shows a level of care and consideration for their audience that sets a benchmark for any experience seeking to form a lasting connection with its participants.They have developed my journey through Ammunition, and possibly my entire weekend around my individual personality, and those of each attendee; I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so seen.
As I continue walking, listening to that now-familiar crunch as I begin the long trip home, I know it will take me a while to be able to fully discuss my experience.Even then, I think I’ll still leave a few details out; I’ll keep the most personal moments to myself, clutched close to my chest, hiding where the wound still is.
Nocturnal Fandango is currently in the midst of their third season-long program, “Do You Know Jasper?” For more information about the season and upcoming events, and to sign up for the mailing list, sign up here. For the most up-to-date offerings, please follow Nocturnal Fandango on Instagram. For previous reviews and recollections of Nocturnal Fandango shows, look at our archive here.
Cristen has been writing since she was a small, strange child. Her first foray into immersive theatre opened up a new world of possibility for art and exploration for her, and she’s been hooked on the genre ever since. A lifelong horror and theatre fan, she hopes to use her fast fingers to help Haunting and Immersed readers dig deeper into the immersive horror landscape, and learn to love the things that scare us.
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