The Labyrinth of Souls

by Nelson Lowhim

  But how to leave this place? I close my eyes. The screams start. But I keep them closed until the music grows loud enough to drown out my thoughts. So I will become what they want, is that it? No, I remind myself. They merely want to control me. To make me suffer. But I need to find a way out. I stand up. My stomach has shrunk some, so I don’t feel as hungry as the day before.

  I look around trying to pinpoint the camera. I can make them come here. Tracing my hand, I try to find where this camera is, where they know that my eyes are closing.

  It must be from somewhere around the door, after all that’s the direction I was facing as I closed my eyes. I find one possible lens. A pinprick in the corner. But then I find another. I spit on them, as I have nothing else.

  The music starts and grows louder and louder. I stop looking. The music stops. I lean up against he corner and the music starts up. My ears pop and a whining pitch makes its way to the base of my brain.

  I stop looking. Besides, this wasn’t the way to escape. Surely there must be some other way.

  I lean back on my cot. Not even being able to close my eyes is starting to wear. I keep my wife or my ex in mind. The only way out of the cell, it appears, is when one of them comes to fetch me.

  I pretend to grip my stomach and massage it. Then I arch my back in pain, falling down as hard as I can, and writhe on the floor.

  The music starts, but I continue to writhe. Finally, it stops, and the cell door is open.

  “Hands above your head,” screams one of the guards. “Lie down flat.”

  I proceed to listen, thinking about when I should make my move. I flex all my muscles. I know what they want to do. As soon as a boot lands next to my body, I turn and shrimp away.

  The guard, a somewhat husky man with a jaw set square, is moving his knee down into my back. But now it grinds into the ground, and before he can yell, I move up and swing at his jaw, throwing all my weight behind it. I see the roll of his eyes, grab the baton that’s slipping out of his hand. Jumping to my feet, I swing at his partner who seems to raise his hands in surrender.

  I see his holster, press the releaser button and I have his 9mm in hand.

  I’ve never felt better in my life.

  “Lock the door,” I say to him, stepping out of the cell and pulling him with me. I don’t want to hurt either of them, as rough as they’ve been with me. After all, they’re probably only listening to instructions, implied or otherwise, from someone higher up.

  “Listen, bud, you’re making a huge mistake,” says the guard.

  I place the 9mm on my lips, indicating that he should keep quite. He does.

  “Open all the other doors,” I say pushing him in front of me, while being careful of any quick reprisals on his part.

  “Are—“

  “Do it,” I say. And one by one, as we walk to what I hope is the exit, the doors are opened. Men of all shapes and sizes, though of limited and usually darker skin color, step out front their cells slowly.

  “Are these hallways videotaped?” I ask.

  “No,” says the guard.

  “You’re not lying, are you?” I know the cells were being watched, so why wouldn’t these. “If you are, it will get bad.”

  “No, I’m not. They aren’t, not when we’re supposed to be pulling a prisoner out for...”

  “You were going to go to town on me, weren’t you?”

  “That was the plan,” the guard says.

  At least he’s honest. “Don’t want videos of that,” I say.

  We get to the end of the hallway. I turn and see all the orange jumpsuit men, rubbing their eyes. Some start to talk.I hear the rough syllable of Arabic from some, English from others. The hallway, which previously smelled sterile, now smells of old men. There are a couple women, but they seem to be keeping to themselves.

  The guard looks up to the ceiling, as if he expects something.

  “You said there were no cameras,” I say and jab him with the barrel of the gun.

  “Yes, but opening the doors will set off the alarms.”

  A couple of the men, bearded, walk up to me. Their eyes seem crazy, and suddenly I realize that I’ve done something foolish by releasing all these men. For whatever I think of the prison complex, it surely must have a few people who are bad within its walls. And these men are looking at me like they don’t trust me. After all, I’m the only one without a jumpsuit, besides the guard.

  “Who are you?” one of the prisoners, a tall man with a sharp face asks. He seems uncertain, but as his question isn’t met with any direct punishment, he seems to grow in height.

  “I’m a prisoner like you,” I say, hoping that that will buy me some empathy. I remember that a caged dog can be fierce when just released.

  The two men confer. They don’t seem to like me, shooting me glances that are designed to kill.

  I turn to the guard, the other prisoners have grouped behind the two men. They seem to be willing to differ to them. I turn to the guard, hoping to get something from him. I feel that I have the most in common with him, given my past. I point to the door that I want to walk through. “What happens when we walk through?”

  “Then you are fucked. There’s a checkpoint and even with me as a hostage, you’ll be dead in a few seconds.

  “Why is he alive?” It’s the tall man. He now looks like a Bedouin chief.

  “I’m George,” I say immediately and step up to the man, with my hand out. “You?”

  “Khalid,” he says. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “I need to get out of here,” I say. “And if we go through that door, we’re dead meat.”

  He seems to be disgusted with me. “I need a phone,” he says.

  I point my gun at the guard. The guard’s trembling now and he hands over his cell phone. Khalid goes to work, tapping furiously at the phone. When his friend says something he points at the guard. “You finished with him?”

  I nod without meaning to. The guard is whisked away, and he screams as the other prisoners get a hold of him and start to rip his clothes off. I’m thinking that they’ll merely parade him around and taunt him, after all he has put them all through some pain. As Khalid starts to talk through the phone, a silence spreads through the group, and all of them step back from the guard, who is in a daze, and stands up. The silence isn’t friendly. I’ve heard it before. It’s the silence that comes from men clenching their fists and waiting. It’s the silence that is ready to explode. A warmth grows in my chest and I wonder if I should help the guard. The faces of all the men tell me that I can’t just step in. Some start to yell, spittle flying out of their mouth. And no matter how hard I think about the way these men have been tortured and hurt, and there’s even the remnants of pain in my knees, I still can’t think of it viscerally enough to want to tear the guard apart. And a small fear creeps into my heart. The warmth turns into searing heat that spreads.

  I wonder if I’m too soft for this world. Because these men, yelling louder now, aren’t thinking the moments of their weakness, like I’m trying to. No, they’ve realized that they’re back on top and that they need to have some payback while they can. Whenever someone gets back on top, after having their faced pushed in the mud, they lash out as bad as they got it. Usually.

  The guard’s pushed. As he stumbles, someone kicks him and he falls to the ground. The men all move in on him. I see a few kicking at the guard; I see a hand in the air, bloody; screams fill the air, followed by grunts. Then all I see is a blur as arms and legs strike and come out from the center of the circle covered in blood, or else in some indiscernible liquid. The screams go silent.

  I turn slightly, nauseated. I’ve seen war, I’ve seen battles, but the execution of a man, no matter how, is always unnatural to me. The men pull back, they seem dazed as well, most of them; there are a few whose eyes burn with even more lust, and when they look at me it takes some effort to maintain those stares.

  The men pull back and the center of the circle is now a bloody pulp
, hissing in parts, leaking blood, and I can barely tell that it was the source of a soft and nice voice from just a few minutes ago.

  Guilt starts to weigh on my temples. I look down. Then, feeling a stare on my skin, I look up and see Khalid staring at me. He’s talking on the phone, and he grins. His teeth are whiter than I expected. I raise my eyebrows; I’m pretty sure I’m not capable of smiling. There’s a sweet smell in the air. Now something foul mixes in with that.

  The guilt pushes further into my flesh. Why? The guard was part of the torture process, wasn’t he? And I’m not for that. But nor am I for the immediate killing of anyone. Because it appears like these men, tortured as they’ve been, would gladly become torturers. And no matter how good a reason they may have, I’m not for any side, simply against the action itself.

  I find a modicum of solace in this line of thinking.

  “You know the address?”

  It’s Khalid.

  “Sure,” I say. I give him a rough bearing of where I think we are.

  “You sure?” he asks.

  “Yeah. We’re about ten or twenty floors up, though I don’t think I know exactly.”

  He stares at me, and gives me the smile. It’s a very kind smile. For a second I wonder if it’s Behemoth. No, I think, I’m just getting tired.

  Khalid goes back to talking on the phone. And just then the alarms go off and the lights go out.

  All the men are yelling, but I know what’s next. Over the intercom comes a voice, deep. It’s Behemoth. “You are in violation of International Law. You have have five minutes to give up your hostages and come out with your hands in the air. Anyone who doesn’t comply will be shot.” The message repeats over and over.

  Khalid yells in the Arabic, and the men diffuse the message into all the required languages. I wonder if they all know each other. Though I sense the presence of Khalid’s and can tell he’s a leader, I’m not sure how they’re all so willing to listen to him. My Arabic is rusty, but I think he’s told them to shut up and put their hands in the air.

  He’s next to me, smelling of horrid body odor.

  “They will shoot all who move, won’t they?”

  I wonder if he can smell the military off me. Why else would he ask this question? “Yes,” I say.

  “We will go out, then. You speak. They will like your accent.”

  There’s a hint of mockery in his voice. I ignore it. “Yes,” I say, trying to act tough.

  “We’re ready to give up,” I yell. I remember the guard. This will not go so well for any of us. I’m a little angry that the men were so instinctual about their reaction.

  “I said, we’re ready to give up,” I yell again.

  The message repeats over the intercom. I repeat myself, yelling through the door.

  A hissing sound becomes apparent.

  “Gas?” Khalid says and immediately we all start to cough. I fall to the ground, using my shirt to cover my mouth.

  Then metal objects start bouncing on the ground. I think, then remember—flash bangs. Too late. My world goes bright then black, a piercing whine in my ears. The gas hits my eyes, they start to water. Horribly, like chili paste directly applied. I close my eyes, but that only makes the pain worse. Now my mouth is gushing forth with liquids, I can’t breathe, or I can but the pain my lungs, searing now, is pushing up more liquids. I’m certain I’m about to drown in my own fluids.

  I think I hear the sounds of footsteps, of men yelling. I’m not sure though. I can’t see a thing. But when I turn, trying to see through a crack in my eyes, and raising my hands to my face to wipe off the gas, though I know it’s useless, I’m met with a sharp hit to my ribs. I crawl into the fetal position as more cracks meet my ribs. The troops are here and they don’t have any reason to hold back. I’m sure they’ve seen their comrade in the hallway. They’ll blame us all. Perhaps all of us are to blame. They don’t realize that they too are to blame, but I know these door kickers, they only see themselves as right, as people like me, not matter the reasons, as men who deserve their place.

  More kicks. I can’t breathe. I try to draw in air but nothing. My world starts to draw in. I can’t feel the kicks anymore, but I can feel myself being tossed about, kicked probably. I can’t hear anything but the whine.

  My world goes black.

  Then relief pours onto my face. I gasp, drawing in deep gulps of precious air. A few seconds later I realize it’s water hitting gym face, and a few seconds after that, I realize that it’s a strong stream of water that’s now hurting my flesh. I turn, but the water comes at me. I realize that it’s cold, this water and I start to shiver. I open my eyes and, deflecting the water with my hand, throw small handfuls of water into them.

  I open my eyes and my heart drops. I’m in a cylindrical tube that’s filling up with water. I check the top, and the pipes from which the water gushes forth. Nothing. I hold my breath and swim to the bottom, but the water’s too murky, and my hands don’t feel any hinges or weaknesses I can exploit. I come out to the top. There are a few inches left. A few seconds. Surely they can’t allow us to die like this? Surely someone will fin rout? But I know that’s not true. That to find out one must be the winner, and right now I’m not that. I’m alone.

  I take in one more gulp of air and hold it. I’ve done this before, as an exercise, but I can’t do more than a couple minutes. I’ve been told that drowning is a peaceful death, no matter how horrid I may viscerally feel about it.

  So this is their torture for me? A drowned death? Are they watching? I give two middle fingers. There’s always been a teenager in me that I’ve never been rid off. Perhaps this is the death I should have been expecting all along.

  My lungs start to feel like they’ll explode, and I release some air. It’s only a matter of time, so why hold on to any air? I should just accept it, shouldn’t I? But this logical fails me, or I it. And I hold on to my breath.

  I start to grow cold. Spots grow in my vision. I close my eyes.The last of the air leaves my lungs.

  And pushed right back into it. I gasp for air, surprised to find it. The cylinder I’m in is empty. A door in front of me leads to what seems to be an open shower room. Some of the other men I saw in the hallway, Khalid included, step out of their respective cylinders.

  “Everyone on their knees, facing the cylinder,” says a voice, feminine, over the loudspeaker. “Please, now. You must,” she says, cooing.

  I like this better, this voice. Staring at the uncomfortable looking tiles, I get down on my knees, though I rest my ass on my calves.

  The sound of boots echo down the hallway and I look up to see men, all in black military fatigues, entire, with pistols out.

  “On your knees.” Some of them yell. One of the prisoners closest to them gets laid out. I recognize the voice of another one screaming. It’s the mean guard. He’s not here to merely round us up.

  After we’re roughed up some, and the pain in my body chafes from something temporary to something permanent, we’re made to lie on the ground, with our faces in the tiles. I can smell the mold and bleach. I realize that perhaps for years now, prisoners of all sorts have walked here, barefoot, warts and dead skin, and slowly smoothed out the tiles. Perhaps that’s a message of hope. But my mind can’t make that leap. I know of places like Abu Ghraib and Angola and many others. Revolution or Regime change doesn’t change the inherent facts of our humanity. This shower will stay until it is truly not needed. In Germany, in the Army, we used to stay in barracks built by the Nazis. In fact I remember seeing the pictures and being a little more than disgusted that I was living in a place for Nazis. But what else is there to be done? And I also remember that the defeated Nazis didn’t exactly go away in the night. That the men who made it possible lived on. Useful. That’s why they were simply recycled into the next powers. All my life my family members told me to try and learn the skills that would make me at least useful to all those who were powerful. I didn’t, haven’t learned that lesson. So here I am, on the floor of a pris
on shower room. Smelling the dead skin and bleach that tries to eat it away, and staring at the smoothed over parts of the tiles—some parts more so than others, especially where there’s a shower head—wondering when it was that humanity managed to create buildings and things that would far outlast any human or humans—I’m thinking of the wearing down of the tiles and how there was hope that after a million men this place might not be so bad, but I know all it would take is a handful of contractors to put in new tiles, new buildings, and change that whole calculus.

  The boots of a guard walk by my face. It kicks me in the temple. Not painful, but it hurts the pride, even after all this time here. I’m shivering from the cold. Behind me I hear the guards yell at the prisoners to, one at a time, get up. Kicks seem to be delivered to those who listen and those who don’t.

  The guard walks away from me. At least this maltreatment has killed off the guilt I felt earlier for the guard who was ripped apart.

  Soon it’s my turn, and somehow I’m given my own clothes to wear. They’re clean now, though. I nod at the guard in front of me; my way of giving some thanks. He snorts and gives me a look of hate. I dress quickly as I’m cold. Of course, my feet still remain cold, but that’s to be expected.

  Finally I’m taken to a white room with white lights, where the other prisoners are lined up against the edge of the wall. Some of the prisoners who were just helping to rip apart that poor guard are groveling, trying to get on the good side of their masters, and some plead, wondering why, or at least acting very innocent about why they’re being man handled. Some of the leaders of the murder, however, seem to remain absolutely resolute in their anger. I take a few punches to my face. My nose stings, and so does my pride. Again we’re forced to sit on our knees. I take breaks whenever I can.

  The stench of feces overwhelms our newly acquired fresh shower smells. Wails fill the room and I see that one of the guards is kicking a prisoner. As he does this, another pulls out his cock and starts to piss on him. I can see it’s the meaner guard who I locked up earlier in my cell. The whole scene, combined with the earlier one, and further combined with what was done to me, and only further combined with what happened in my life, sickens me. There are no heroes to grasp upon when you see life for what it is. Only one ape or another, and somewhere in there you’ll like the one that appeals to you.