Hell and Gone

14

Now, I can be a good guy, or I can be one real mean sum-bitch.

—Strother Martin, Cool Hand Luke

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…

The only sound was the steady hum of water tapping against some kind of surface; too steady to be a leak, but also too light to be a faucet. Still, it was something to go on. Hardie paused every few feet to make sure he was headed toward the sound, not away from it. The air stank like mold and wet stone. Whoever had built this place hadn’t ever come back to clean it. Ever.

Come on, Hardie told himself, and pressed forward until he emerged into a small, cold, empty room, with a rusty metal ladder leading…up.

After the confinement of the tunnel, the room felt as vast and limitless as a sports arena.

You did it.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Hardie craned his neck around. There wasn’t much in the way of light up there, and the smell of mold and mildew made him want to puke. It wasn’t just a smell, actually. It seemed to float in the air like a living organism, a free-floating apparition made of grime.

But at least he could go up.

Hardie climbed the ladder with his good arm and one good leg, which required a series of half pull-ups that completely drained him. Halfway up the ladder Hardie began to realize the folly of his decision. There was another grate above his head and not much light; fat, greasy drops of water were dive-bombing him from the grate. In addition to the slime and phlegm and filth already covering his hands and clothes.

Either continue up, or admit defeat and go crawling back to that steel room with the grunting, spitting nutcase.

Wasn’t much of a choice, really. Hardie had been force-fed defeat for the past God knows how long, and he refused to take another teaspoon of it. Using his good arm (the right) and good leg (the left), Hardie continued up the ladder until he reached the grate. He wrapped his gimp arm around the ladder, then reached up with his right hand, slipping his fingers through the openings, grabbing hold, and pushing up.

The grate, to his delight and surprise, moved.

See, things were looking up already.

The grate was heavy as hell, though. He pushed it aside until his fingers reached the concrete edge of the opening, then he slipped them out and slid the grate fully out of the way before continuing his ascent. Once he climbed out of the passageway, Hardie had no choice but to roll on the damp floor until he could work himself up into a sitting position, and when he did he was more than a little stunned to see a naked woman not six feet away, showering in the gloom.

Prisoner Two rubbed the bar of soap across the top of her head. The mace had long since worked its way into her skin, and the soap and water didn’t help the burn one bit. The soap itself was a thick chunky white block that reeked of bad perfume. Better than nothing, though.

The shower was the other half of her victory.

She knew they wouldn’t let her stay in her cell with the chemicals soaking into her face. Too dangerous. You could actually die from something like that, and the prisoners were not permitted to die. So a shower almost always followed.

The ability to choose when you clean yourself was a big deal, especially when almost nothing else was under your control.

She only used the cloying soap on her hair during every other shower, which worked out to twice a month, if she was counting the days correctly. Holding back on the soap was a vain attempt to keep her hair from drying out too much after washing. Vanity; she still clung to a tiny shred of it. Though that was difficult when your shower room was a subterranean pit, the tile in which was caked with funk going back to the Middle Ages, and your three-minute shower was lorded over by a cunt in a Nazi uniform who loved to end your shower session with a small but perfectly horrible electric jolt from her magic Dong Juan Stun Wand.

Speaking of, she only had about a minute left, she guessed. Better finish up. Whiskey the guard loved to drag her out when she was still tacky.

But as she bent down to rinse the soap from her legs, she was stunned to see thick fingers reaching up out of the drain in the corner of the room.

Was this a hallucination? Was she still asleep in her cage and dreaming this?

If so, the vision persisted. The fingers pushed aside the grate and a rumpled, trembling man in a dirty suit came scrambling up out of the hole.

Prisoner Two’s first inclination was to scream. But then she remembered where she was and realized the absurdity of such an act. Whiskey would see him soon enough, and she’d come running over to probably shove her electrified dildo wand in his face. And probably hers, for good measure.

“Sorry,” he said, sitting on the edge of the hole. “Really…I didn’t know…”

What was the deal with the suit? Nobody wore a suit down here. Nobody except the warden.

God…this was the new warden, wasn’t it?

And when he looked up at her, and Prisoner Two had a chance to blink some of the chemical residue out of her eyes and focus on the details of his face, she realized something else. The hair was different, and the face definitely more wan and weary than the photo she’d been given.

But she knew this man.

The naked woman said,

“Charlie Hardie?”

Which blew Hardie’s mind so hard he thought his skull would shatter into tiny little bits and pieces. Never mind that nobody used real names down here; never mind that he’d never seen this woman before today—and, yes, Hardie would have remembered; never mind that the last thing he expected was to pop out into the shower room of this freaky secret prison.

But somehow, she knew his name.

How did she know his name?

“Who are you?” Hardie asked.

All at once a yell sounded from the other side of the shower. Though Hardie was no linguist, he would have guessed that the burst of words that followed was profanity, and that it was in French. He tore his eyes away from the mysterious naked lady who knew his name. Squinting in the gloom, he could see Whiskey running toward them.

The naked prisoner whispered: “You don’t know me, but I was sent to look for you.”

Before Hardie had a chance to respond, Whiskey had closed the distance and slammed Prisoner Two into the nearest available wall. The tremor of the blow seemed to spread throughout the tiles of the entire room. Water splattered; Two grunted; Whiskey cursed again, in French. A bar of soap ricocheted off the wall and spun to a stop in the middle of the floor. Whiskey spun her head around and started screaming:

“GO! GO NOW!”

“Let go of her,” Hardie said.

“GO NOW!”

“That’s enough!”

Prisoner Two stared at him, face pressed against the disgusting tile, and said, “Deke sent me.”

“SHUT UP!” the guard cried, then to Hardie: “GO NOW!”

The impasse was broken by a broad yell from the other end of the room. “Whoa ho ho!” Hardie turned to see Victor stepping in the doorway, back from wherever he had gone.

“What’s going on here? You’re not allowed in here. Especially during ladies’ shower time, mate. The fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Just help me up,” Hardie said.

The situation quickly defused. Whiskey dragged Prisoner Two back to her cell; Victor picked up Hardie by the arm and escorted him to the entrance of the shower cell. Hardie stole one last glance, though, and Prisoner Two caught it. She gave him a grim smile in return.

You don’t know me, but I was sent to look for you.

Deke sent me.

Deke Clark?

Hardie wanted to scream for joy. Goddamn it, he’d followed the bread crumbs after all. God bless that ugly stubborn bastard. God bless the FBI. God bless goddamn America.