Hell and Gone

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.”