Hell and Gone (9 page)

Barking commands jarred her back to cold reality.

They were here to photograph her again.

She took a deep breath and held it, trying to clear her mind. It was time for her little game. She both looked forward to it and dreaded it. The mechanics were simple—a matter of conjuring the right memory. But the aftereffect was painful.

When they removed her mask, Prisoner Two broke out into the world’s silliest grin, like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Boys had always told her she had a beautiful smile.

And the trick to smiling like she meant it was traveling back in time two decades, back to when she was a teenager and truly
didn’t
have a care in the world, and she’d sit out in the backyard sipping screwdrivers while listening to her drunk friends crack crude jokes. She transported herself back there and smiled, almost feeling the slight chlorine burn in her nose and the warmth on her face and the sweet orange juice and bracing Absolut in her mouth…

“The hell is she doing?” Hardie asked.

“Absolutely
mental,
isn’t she?” Victor said. “I’m telling you. Keep your distance from that one. We call her Fatale, for obvious reasons.”

The smile didn’t last long. Whiskey unclipped something from her belt and sprayed something into Prisoner Two’s face that made her recoil.

The mace.

Yeah, that was the painful part of her little game. It sealed her eyes instantly and went to work on the pores of her skin, burning little trails that felt like they bored all the way to her skull. She choked down a scream; she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. They snapped her photo like that, her face a rictus of pain. That didn’t matter, though.

Her mask was off. And it would stay off for a while. A half victory.

The other half would come later.

Just as there was on the other side, there was an empty cell between the two prisoners. While Two curled up into a ball, hands on her face, Whiskey and Yankee moved down to the last prisoner.

“And there’s Prisoner Three. An absolute nightmare.”

The figure in the cell was a fearsome-looking bruiser type, even with the mask on. Tattoos of black bones ran up his arms and legs, as if he were the Visible Man from biology class. He had biceps enough to easily snap a neck. Thighs, too, for that matter. The inked-up monster was sitting on the floor of his cell, arms crossed, feet flat on the floor, and his knees locked together.

“Christ,” Hardie muttered. “What’s
he
in for?”

“Haven’t you been listening? They don’t tell us. Doesn’t matter. This one’s been trouble from the beginning. We usually have to shock him into submission just to get him to do something simple, like take a dump.”

“Shock him?”

“The metal floors of the cells are electrified, and we carry these bad boys,” Victor said, tapping the baton strapped to his belt.

“Doesn’t this guy have a cute nickname or anything?”

Victor made a sour face. “The word
cute
doesn’t even apply.”

Outside, Yankee and Whiskey prepared their routine. “Prisoner Three. Back against the bars.” Prisoner Three didn’t stir.

“Come on,” Yankee said. “Let’s not do this again. It always ends the same way. You know this.”

No response.

“Oh, so wanker’s being stubborn again, is he?” Victor muttered. “Showing off for the new warden. Well, he wants to play it this way, fine.”

Victor stabbed a blue button. Static popped. “Guards, stand clear.” His voice boomed throughout the facility. Yankee and Whiskey nodded and took three giant steps backward, as if playing a schoolyard game. Victor stabbed the next button in the row—a big red one.

ZZZZZZZZZZAT.

First you heard the shrieks, followed by the jerky movements of their bodies. Hardie could almost could smell the ozone and singed flesh. Prisoner Two had lost her Zen and was screaming in pain. Same with Prisoner Three. They seemed to want to do anything, anything at all, to avoid contact with the floor—which clearly was the source of the electrical shocks. Prisoner Three was shouting something—“All right! All right!”—but it was hard to tell over the screaming of the other prisoners.

“Goddamn it, that’s enough,” Hardie said.

“No, it’s not.”

Hardie balanced his weight on the cane and lunged out for Victor’s hand. He whipped it up and away before contact could be made.

“Don’t ever do that,” Victor said. “
Ever.
All due respect, you don’t know how to handle these monsters. Show of mercy like that will get your shit twisted up down here.”

“You like torturing people? Is that it?”

“Hey, they know the rules, and they know they are expected to follow the rules. All our punishments are nonlethal. If one refuses, all will be punished. Leverage is the only thing that seems to work. They can take almost anything individually. But start in on the others, and their resolve crumbles. Honor among thieves.”

“Right,” Hardie muttered.

“Hey, we’re not the bad guys here,” Victor said.

Out on the floor Prisoner Two crawled over to the corner of her cell and curled up into it. Her body was trembling violently. Prisoner Three, meanwhile, slid over on his ass so that he could place his back against the bars, as requested. Whiskey unclipped the baton from her belt, pressed the end into the back of Three’s neck, and unleashed a harsh jolt while screaming something in French. Three’s body twitched, and he grabbed the bars of his cell to steady himself, but he did not move. Yankee held up a hand to Whiskey, then unlocked the back of Three’s mask.

“Come on,” Victor said. “You’ve got one more prisoner to meet.”

ONE MORE? HAD
Hardie missed something? He’d counted six cells on the floor—three on each side, four occupied, two empty. Where did they hide the fifth prisoner? The break room?

Victor led Hardie through the next room—which belonged to the guard named X-Ray. He was on the bed, oblivious to their presence, plastic goggles covering his eyes and a thin smile on his face. “Hey,” Hardie said, not expecting a response. Victor explained that X-Ray only spoke German, so Hardie shouldn’t expect much in the way of conversation.

The next door led directly into a shower room, which reeked of mildew. The lighting was poor, which was probably a good thing. The ancient crud caked onto the tile looked disgusting even in shadow. They kept to the wall and walked the length of it. Hardie’s cane slipped on the tile floor a few times. He moved slowly, trying to redistribute his body weight.

Victor gestured grandly. “This happy place is where we shower, too. Nothing but the best for us.”

They reached another locked door. Victor used a key to open it, revealing another long space, much like the break room. Only this room was utterly barren, except for a small table and a series of wall-mounted electronic fixtures.

“When we’re done taking the photos of the prisoners, we plug the cameras in here to upload.”

Another possible connection to the outside world. Food and clothes come down one way, photographic images go out another. This could be useful. Hardie wasn’t sure exactly how yet, but he kept it in mind.

Nate, if you want to give me any hints, feel free.

On the other side of the room was a door that looked like it belonged on a submarine, complete with a metal wheel in the center. Victor put his hands on the metal wheel, then paused. “I have to confess, this is the reason I’m glad you’re finally here. Because in the absence of a warden, I’ve had to step in here once a day, and I’m not going to miss it in the least.”

“What is that?”

“Where we keep Prisoner Zero.”

“Zero is the oldest prisoner in this facility,” Victor continued. “In fact, a lot of us think the facility was created specifically for him. We don’t know what he did in the outside world, or where he comes from, his age, what language he speaks…nothing. We don’t even know if he’s fully human, because none of us understands how a human being could survive these conditions for as long as he has. There’s a rumor that he can’t be killed. Which is why he’s down here, away from everything except us.”

Hardie thought about it.
Can’t be killed.
This was going to be like one of those old Universal monster-movie matchups:
Unkillable Chuck versus the Prisoner Who Couldn’t Be Killed.

Victor must have caught the expression on his face because he said, “Look, I know it sounds like complete and utter shit, but believe me. The guards are vastly relieved they almost never have to deal with him. Which is why I’m vastly relieved you arrived. And I don’t want you dead, so please take care with him.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Just check his IV and piss-tube lines.”

“And look for what?”

“Something that looks wrong.”

“Hey, I’m the furthest thing from a doctor. I don’t think I’d know what to look for. And even if I did—”

“If you see anything weird, call for X-Ray. He’s an actual doctor—or at least has some medical training. But the rules are the rules. Only the warden deals with Zero. Better you meet him now while I can stand guard outside. Most of the time you’ll be headed in there alone.”

Victor cranked open the door and stepped out of the way.

“You’re not coming?” Hardie asked.

“Going to stay out here, if it’s just the same to you. And seriously, put on your goggles.”

Hardie ignored him and cane-leg-stepped into the dark room.

“Fine, don’t listen to good advice,” Victor said as the door closed behind Hardie and clanged shut. “Just knock when you’re ready to come out.”

Hardie steadied himself with the cane. The room was shrouded in darkness. Right away he could hear something breathing, lungs chuffing and chortling.

After his vision adjusted Hardie could see that the dark room was a steel octagon. Prisoner Zero was in the center, on a rusty hospital-style bed. He neither reclined nor sat up fully; his body was halfway between the two.
Body:
funny word to use. As Hardie’s eyes adjusted, he could see that Zero had a head, covered with a mask. A torso. An arm—the left. And maybe stumps where legs used to be. That was it. The prisoner was hooked up to a confusing series of tubes and wires. The only signs that he was still alive: the gentle motion of his chest, almost too slight to be considered breathing, and, of course, the sound of the breathing itself—sickly, congested, disgusting.

“Hi,” Hardie said into the darkness.

Zero said nothing, just as Victor warned.

Hardie couldn’t help but think of that old Metallica video, the one that used clips from
Johnny Got His Gun.
Perhaps Zero here would communicate by Morse code, banging his head against the table, tapping out
K-I-L-L-M-E-N-O-W
one dot and dash at a time.

“Can you hear me?” Hardie asked.

Hardie inched closer. Zero’s mask, like the others, had no eye holes. But through the breathing cutout Hardie saw the most perfectly hideous teeth ever.

Smiling.

Without warning, the figure lurched forward and let out a fevered grunt like a sonic blast. As much as he hated to admit it, Hardie flinched. Took a clumsy step back, felt his legs weaken, tried to reposition the cane to support his weight, but the bottom slipped on the metal floor, and all was lost. Hardie stumbled backward, screaming at his own legs to listen to him, don’t do this to me now, for Christ’s sake…and then the cane slipped out of his hand and the base of his spine slammed into something hard and metallic and unforgiving, and then he was landing on his ass on the floor.

A few feet away, Zero started to pulsate and make a strange repeating sound:

“Huh-huh-guh-huh-huh-guh-huh-huh-huh.”

Guy was either laughing or having a seizure.

Hardie used his cane to pull himself back up to a standing position, then hobbled over behind Zero’s head. Victor told him: he had to check the guy’s IV lines, his pee tubes, whatever. Maybe he was a gross bastard, but he could also be hopelessly insane. And ignoring him was just adding to his misery…

“Huh-huh. Huh-huh. HUHHHHHHH.”

 “Shh now, okay? Daddy’s thinking back here.”

Hardie crouched down, but he didn’t know what he was looking at. He settled on looking for an obvious blockage, a sudden change in color in one of the tubes. That would mean a blockage, right? The smell here, up close and personal, was even more hideous. He’d once read that a person’s sense of smell wasn’t ethereal, wasn’t some magical wave like stink lines in a cartoon. Atoms from whatever you were smelling traveled up your nose and adhered themselves to your mucous membranes. Hardie was literally snorting this gross bastard the longer he stayed back here. He worked his way around to the side of Zero’s bed, eager to get out of this room as quickly as possible.

“Huh-HUH. Huh-HUH. Huh-HUHHHHHHHH.”

And then something cold and greasy splattered on Hardie’s face.

Zero had spit on him.

“Son of a—” he began, and then realized that he had opened his mouth, which wasn’t the smartest thing he could have done. Something like phlegm dripped down his forehead, along his cheek, and ran toward his mouth. Hardie fought a gag reflex and turned away from Zero, wiping at his face with his left sleeve. His arm trembled; his aim was imperfect. Hardie didn’t so much clean his face as spread more of the slimy, viscous fluid across it.

“Huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh-huh.”

It took Hardie a few seconds to realize that Prisoner Zero was laughing.

Okay, fuck this.

Hardie recovered his cane and climbed to his feet, his right leg still wobbly and generally useless as support device. His palms were clammy and greasy from whatever grime had collected on the floor of this crazy steel room. God knows what cocktail of filth and human secretions had gathered here. At that moment Hardie’s needs were reduced to two simple items: getting out and taking a hot shower. Were the showers hot in this hellhole? He was eager to find out. Gross bastard could check his own IV bags, flush out his own waste.

Good hand on the cane, Hardie rapped his knuckles on the steel vault door. The resulting sound was impossibly faint, as if he were tapping on the hull of the
Titanic
in hopes that the captain would hear it up in his quarters.

“Come on, Victor.”

“Huh-huh-guh-huh-huh-guh-huh-huh-huh.”

Steadying himself, Hardie banged harder.

“VICTOR!”

“Huh-huh-guh-huh-huh-guh-huh-huh-huh.”

Hardie spun to look at the half-human form in the dim light. The masked head had turned to watch him.

“Don’t you start with me,” Hardie said.

Under the mask came some kind of mumbling.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The thing in the mask didn’t move. He simply waited. Like a puppy expecting his master’s next command.

Hardie banged again. “COME ON, LET ME THE FUCK OUT.”

Across the room, an electric bolt snapped; a door popped open a few inches. Problem was, that wasn’t the way he’d entered…was it? Hardie was disoriented; had he gotten turned around?

Then again, what did it really matter? It was an exit.

Hardie cane-staggered out of Zero’s chamber and used his right sleeve to wipe the shit off the rest of his face. Okay, yeah, fine, Victor was right. He should have kept the damned goggles on. He blinked compulsively, convinced some vile disease was worming its way past his eyes and into his brain.

God, a shower. He’d give anything for a shower right now.

After he was convinced that his face was somewhat phlegm-free, Hardie realized he was trapped.

In a steel room the size of a walk-in closet.

Behind him, the electric bolt snapped, locking the door shut.

Come on. Seriously?

He spun around and picked up his cane to bang on the door that had just closed behind him. But that only threw off his balance. His bad leg buckled and he staggered backward until he slammed into the opposite wall, just behind him. Something sharp stabbed the base of his spine. Goddamn it.

Hardie paused to catch his breath; it was embarrassing to feel so out of control. Heart in a tight knot, guts wound up so tight it felt like they were either going to bind themselves shut forever or explode in a wet hot gush. Neither prospect appealed to him.

Calm down, Charlie.

You’re just stuck in a steel coffin in a secret prison.

Could be worse, right?

Once he was steady again, Hardie smashed his cane against the door.

BANG

And followed it with a shouted

“HEY.”

Nothing.

BANG

BANG

BANG

“HEY, I’M STUCK IN HERE!”

Nothing, except…

…maybe Hardie was imagining this, but he could swear he heard the faint sound of…

Huh-HUH. Huh-HUH. Huh-HUHHHHHHHHH.

“Fuck me,” Hardie muttered.

The cosmic joke was still unfolding, it seemed. Instead of dying up in that waiting room, maybe Hardie was fated to die in this steel closet. Unkillable Chuck, indeed.
And that’s the last anyone ever heard of him…

Breathe, Charlie, breathe.

Remember what Batman said.

Every prison provides its own escape.

Batman, you are so full of shit.

Breathe, Charlie.

Breathe.

BANG

BANG

BANG

“FUUUUUCK!”

Hardie wasn’t sure how long it was before he regained his focus and felt the muscles in his neck finally loosen—for all he knew he’d spent an eternity in that steel coffin/closet, and for some reason, none of the other guards had bothered to come looking for him. Especially that bastard Victor, his tour guide. Hardie told himself to forget Victor and channel his inner Dark Knight. Batman would have been able to see a way out of this, like,
instantly.
Look around you.

Which, of course, is the moment he noticed the metal grate at his feet.

Hardie worked his way down to the floor, steadying himself with his cane, getting his fancy new suit even dirtier, and tugged at the grate, lifting it a fraction of an inch before it settled back down into its groove. But at least it moved. That was something.

Hardie had to sit down on the floor for the leverage he needed. His left arm was almost useless, but with enough grunting and pulling he was able to mostly use his right hand to lift the grate out of its cement groove and slide it out of the way, revealing a small tunnel that ran parallel to the floor. The space would be wide enough to fit his shoulders. Just barely. Was he really considering this? Going down into a hole in the darkness?

Yes. Yes, he was.

Although Batman would have probably sent that skinny-ass Boy Wonder in first.

He tried to stay positive. Tell himself that maybe this was a good thing. See, in every prison flick he’d ever watched—which was a lot—the escape plan depended on secret tunnels and hidden passageways. If he somehow had ended up in the ductwork of this facility, then maybe he could find a way out. Or at least create a better mental map of the place, from the ground up.

So Hardie took a deep clean breath and went down.

There was only just enough room to move his right arm and left leg, pulling himself along the tunnel, a few inches at a time. The farther he crawled, the tighter the crawl space seemed to get. Hardie was beginning to panic now. Rationally, he knew that in the worst case, he could just crawl backward the way he came. But the irrational part of his brain suggested that his feet would bump into some barrier if he did that. And no matter how hard he kicked, the barrier wouldn’t budge. And he’d be stuck, beyond rescue, beyond reach…