The Hollow City

by Dan Wells

  “Don’t listen to him, Michael.” It’s Lucy’s voice, from the backseat, and once again I’m so startled I almost swerve into the side wall of the freeway.

  “Oh, please,” says Vanek, grumbling low in his throat.

  I wrestle the car back under control and glance over my shoulder; Lucy is sitting in the backseat, smiling kindly.

  “I’ll always be here for you, Michael. We can fight him together.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” says Vanek. “You’re a vapid Hollywood fantasy of the worst kind—you’re the most implausible delusion he has, and he thinks his water heater’s trying to kill him!”

  “Don’t listen to him, Michael—I love you!”

  “You’re an adolescent pipe dream,” Vanek snarls, then he points at me: “And you’re a narcissistic idiot, proclaiming love to yourself through your own hallucination. It’s embarrassing.”

  “And what about you?” I say, trying to think of something—anything—to counter him. “What does your existence say about me? That I hate myself? That I’m a fat, tactless jerk like you?”

  He smiles; his teeth gleam wickedly, flashing in and out of view as we speed past giant freeway streetlights. “What do I signify? I’m here because you have potential, Michael. You created Lucy because you wanted to escape your life, but I’m here because you want to change it. I’m a psychiatrist determined to cure you; I’m the unflagging voice of improvement, always urging you to aim higher than you are. I exist because you know you can be more than yourself.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Michael,” says Lucy softly. “He doesn’t want to improve you, he wants to usurp you. A change in his story is just a change in his strategy—a new tactic to make you drop your guard.”

  Vanek laughs. “Oh, she’s good, Michael—she’s very good. Why is it that your hallucinations are so much smarter than you are?”

  “You’re all a part of me,” I say. “You’re only smart because my mind makes you that way.”

  “Then we’re using your mind more effectively than you are,” says Vanek, “and you should just give it over to us and be done with it.”

  “I thought you were going to take it by force?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather do it the easy way?”

  “No,” says Lucy, leaning forward, “you’re right, Michael. He can’t take you by force because he’s trapped, just like I am. He can’t do or know or be anything without you doing it or knowing it first.”

  I glance at Vanek, who shakes his head and smiles wickedly. “In the past few months alone,” he says, “how many times did I shoo away another patient? How many times did I call for a nurse, or ask your doctors a question? Either I have my own body, or I can control yours. Which is more likely, do you think, for a man who can talk on dead phones and appear ex nihilo in the front seat of a moving car?”

  “You can’t control me.”

  “Then how can I do this?” He reaches over and shifts the car into low gear; the engine lurches and roars, slowing abruptly. I swat his hand away and shift back, hitting the gas to get back up to speed. We’re nearing the outskirts of the city.

  Vanek folds his arms. “Was that my hand on the lever, or yours? Do you see now how your perceptions are fooling you?”

  “Dr. Little knew about you,” I say. “He hated you.”

  “He knew you talked to an imaginary man named Dr. Ambrose Vanek,” says Vanek, nodding. “I was exactly what he was trying to cure you of—why wouldn’t he hate me?”

  “You prescribed Klonopin for years,” I say, shaking my head. “You have an office on Cicero Avenue. I’ve talked to your secretary—is she fake too?”

  “Surgically enhanced, maybe, but real in every other sense.” Dr. Vanek sits back in his seat, smugly comfortable. “What you continue to forget, Michael, is that you perceive the world through a schizophrenic filter: every sight, every sound, every smell you experience is a mixture of real stimuli and your own mental constructions. If someone is talking to you, and your brain tells you it’s me, you’ll see me. It’s as simple as that.”

  “That—” I stare at him, then reach into the backseat for my backpack, holding the wheel with one hand. I pull out the bag, open it, and grab a bottle of pills. I squint at the label, holding it close to my eyes, but it’s too dark to read. I glare at Vanek again; he raises his eyebrow. I turn on the ceiling light and read the label: DR. LITTLE.

  I look at Vanek, then back at the label. I feel enraged. “Is this bottle fake too?” I throw it at the windshield, and it bounces down to the floor by Vanek’s feet. “How am I supposed to know anything?”

  “You think you’re the only one with problems?” he asks. “Lucy was right—we’re as trapped by your skewed reality as you are. You think your own delusions are bad, try living in somebody else’s and tell me how much you like it.”

  I stare at him a moment, then look back at the road. I shake my head again. “I don’t have to see you. I don’t have to hear you. You’re not real.”

  Vanek takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Not this, Michael; we don’t have time.”

  “One, two, three, four, five, six—”

  “You think Dr. Jones’s ridiculous methods are going to work?”

  “—seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven—”

  “Is this supposed to be some kind of psychobabble exorcism? You speak the sainted words and banish me into nothingness?”

  “—twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen—”

  There’s a fourth silhouette in the rearview mirror, a flat black outline of a man in a short-brimmed hat. There’s only one thing it could be. I close my eyes, for just a fraction of a second; I glance in the mirror and it’s still there. I stare straight ahead, watching the road. We’re leaving the city behind, now, the highway dropping back to ground level.

  “There’s a man in the backseat,” says Lucy softly.

  “I know.”

  “He doesn’t have a face.”

  I breathe in, long and slow, then puff it back out. “I know.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “THE FACELESS MEN ARE REAL,” says Vanek.

  I ignore him, watching the road.

  “Not this one, of course, and not the brief glimpse of the drug dealer you shot. They’re just as imaginary as Lucy is.”

  “As imaginary as you,” says Lucy fiercely.

  Vanek chuckles. “If that makes you feel better.”

  I ignore him, trying to name the states in alphabetical order. Alabama, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas … California … Connecticut …

  “You forgot Colorado,” says Vanek. “But as I was saying, this one is fake, but the Faceless Men do exist.”

  I try to clear my mind, to make it as empty as I can.

  “They’re following you, Michael,” says Vanek. “They’re trying to help you.” He looks at me firmly. “You are, as I said, one of them.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Ah, so you’re acknowledging me now?”

  I say nothing. I think of nothing. It’s harder than I expected. I should have taken meditation classes or something.

  “I didn’t really figure it out until you killed Nick,” says Vanek. “It was the first time we saw one up close—the blur effect is what did it. You see, no one else saw anything wrong with Nick’s face—he was just another janitor—but you were different. You saw what no one else could.”

  “It’s called schizophrenia,” I hiss. “You’re the one who diagnosed it.”

  “Oh, that certainly accounts for the rest of your visual distortions, but not this one. You were on drugs, and one by one every hallucination dropped away. And yet you still saw a formless blur over Nick’s face.”

  “I saw you the same morning,” I say. “Obviously the drugs weren’t working.”

  “I already told you that I’m real.”

  “I’ve had enough of this,” says Lucy, leaning forward. “Michael, can’t you just … think him away?”

  “I’m trying!”


  “Have you ever tried to not think about something?” asks Vanek. “It’s harder than he expected.” He looks at me. “You should have taken some meditation classes or something.”

  “Just shut up, all of you!” I look in the mirror at the dark silhouette. “What about you—don’t you have anything to say?”

  The figure says nothing, holding up a single finger.

  “One thing? What?”

  It shakes its head, turns its hand, and points toward the back of the car. I look closer and I see it: blue and red lights, far back in the distance.

  “Police.” I speed up. “Are they coming for us?”

  The silhouette nods.

  “They’re getting closer,” says Lucy, calling over her shoulder as she looks out the back window. “They must really be moving fast.”

  “Then we need to move faster,” I say, pressing down on the pedal. I can hear the sirens now. “Can they track us?”

  The silhouette shakes its head.

  “They found us somehow,” says Vanek, gripping the armrest as I swerve around a truck. “Are you sure this car isn’t bugged?”

  “Why would anyone bug my father’s car?” I shake my head, growling in frustration and smacking the steering wheel with my hand. “My father tipped them off. He must have—he only gave me his car because he knew he’d get it right back again. He probably reported it stolen and told the police where to find me.”

  We’ve reached the farmland now, hurtling past fields and fences and long rows of wind-breaking trees. “My father’s been trying to get rid of me for years. Why didn’t I think of that when I took the car?”

  “You’re not paranoid enough,” says Vanek.

  “I’m on anxiety medication!” I shout. “I’m supposed to be less paranoid!”

  “Let me out,” says Lucy, eyes wide. “I’ll distract them.”

  “They can’t see you!”

  “It worked last time.”

  Vanek shakes his head. “It worked last time because the drivers saw Michael looking at something and mirrored his reaction. It’s a social instinct: if one human looks at something, every other human in the area will assume there’s something there to see.”

  “That doesn’t help us now,” I say, “so just shut up and let me think.”

  “Us talking is you thinking,” says Vanek.

  “They’re almost on us,” says Lucy. I look in the window and see three police cars, maybe two hundred yards behind us, lights flashing and sirens blazing. I cock my head, thinking, and start to slow.

  “Do something,” says Vanek, looking at me sternly.

  “There’s always the chance,” I say, “that they’re not real either. The last cops I saw weren’t. I could be having this entire chase inside my own head—for all I know I’m still at Powell, lost in a dreaming coma.”

  “You want to take that chance?” asks Vanek. He grips the armrest tighter.

  “No I don’t,” I say. “That’s why I brought us here.”

  The headlights shine on a small white sign with the single word: CERNY. I see the turnoff just in time—a break in the fence and a narrow dirt road. I shut off the lights and slam on the brakes, slowing down just in time to swerve into the gap. The car skids on the gravel, sliding to the side and spraying rocks back onto the highway, but I straighten out and gun the engine.

  “What are you doing?” Lucy cries.

  “I’m going to the Children of the Earth,” I say, slamming down the gas pedal. “Agent Leonard said they’re still on Cerny’s farm, and Kelly said they’re untouchable. If I can get inside the compound the police can’t follow us in, and I can finally find the truth behind this whole insane mess.”

  “You’re driving too fast.”

  The road is lined with a fence on each side, making it relatively easy to steer down the center, but I can’t see to avoid any pot holes and the car bounces painfully over the dirt road. Red lights flash in the mirror.

  “Shutting off the lights didn’t work,” says Vanek. “They’re still following us.”

  I push the engine harder, listening to the transmission scream as I press the pedal to the floor. The car bounces wildly, shaking itself apart. The police are practically on top of us.

  “I can stop them,” says Vanek.

  “I won’t let you.”

  “I don’t need your permission,” he says coldly, “but this needs to happen right now, right here, and it’s going to hurt a lot more if you fight me.”

  “I’m not giving you control!”

  “Fine,” he says, and closes his eyes. The car is rattling and sliding on the dirt road, corn and fence posts whipping past in a blur on either side. Vanek frowns, furrowing his brow; he grimaces. I feel an intense pain in my head, growing in seconds to a crushing migraine.

  “What are you doing?”

  And then there’s a brilliant flash of light and a speeding ripple of movement, like a heat distortion in the air spreading out in all directions. The engine stops instantly, grinding and catching and wrenching the wheel from my hands; the car spins to the left and slams us through the thin wooden fence on the side of the road. The planks shatter and fly and the momentum flips the car over. I hear a deafening bang and something slams into my face.

  I stare at the darkness, ears ringing. I think I’m right-side up. The car is surrounded by dim shapes, thin bars crowding close around me. Corn stalks. I shake my head, trying to clear it.

  I see other cars around and behind us, strewn through the corn in a chaos of destruction. The lights are gone, the engines are dead. My ears begin to ring, slowly regaining sensation after the shock of the crash, but there’s nothing to hear. The sirens and squealing tires are gone.

  “What did you do?”

  Firm hands grab my arm, unlatch my seatbelt, and pull me from the car; a cop, I assume, but when I look around there’s nobody there. No one is near me, and no one has gotten out of the other cars. It must have been Lucy who pulled me out, or Vanek, but now both are gone.

  For a few brief seconds, I’m alone.

  The nearest cop car is right side up, but the windshield is cracked and bloody. I stumble toward it, peering through the window; the cop behind the wheel is dead, his head smashed and bloody. In the passenger seat is the FBI guy from before, Agent Leonard, his face studded with broken glass and his neck tilted at a horrifying angle. Why didn’t the airbags work? Whatever killed the engines must have killed them as well. It was the flash of light.

  I turn again, looking wildly for Vanek. “What did you do?”

  I hear movement—a click and a cough. One of the overturned cars is trying to open its door. I run into the corn.

  The moonlight is dim, and the corn makes it even darker. I run down the row, away from the cops, then cut across several rows and start running again. A flashlight shines behind me, first one and then another, then another, but I’m too far away to be caught in the beams. I can’t see where I am or where I’m going, but the path is clear and I run as fast as I can, racing to the end of the row. I can see it now, a gap in the corn just slightly lighter than the tunnel I’m running through. I speed up, hearing shouts and cries from behind. I reach the edge and stumble down the steep side of a hill, losing my balance and falling, rolling to the bottom. My leg hits something solid and I cry out in pain. I wince, facedown in the cold mud, and struggle to right myself.

  “Don’t move.”

  I freeze. How did the police get here that fast? It doesn’t make sense—they were too far behind me. I try to stay calm. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the one with the rifle, son. Who are you?”

  A farmer, then. I must be on his property; I look to the side and see a fence—that’s what I hit with my leg. The fence around his crops, or around his home? “I’m not a burglar,” I say. “I’m not here to take anything or hurt anyone. I’m just passing through on my way to another farm.”

  “Passing through with a swarm of police right behind you,” he says. “I swear, meatbag, i
f you’re here to kill us I will put you down right here—”

  “Kill you?” I shake my head, staring down into the mud. “Why would I kill anyone?”

  “We are law-abiding citizens,” he says. “We will not be bullied, and we will turn you over to the police. Now stand up.”

  “‘We?’” I can hear the police getting closer; I rise to my feet, and I can see faint flashes of light from the corn at the top of the hill. They’re almost here. “It’s you, isn’t it? The Children of the Earth?”

  I stop, half-turned, frozen in shock. I can see the farmer now: jeans, a dark coat, and a hat. His face is a blank void.

  He lowers his rifle in surprise. “Is … is it really you?”

  “You recognize me?”

  “It is you! After all this time, you’ve finally come back!”

  I’ve made it. He reaches out, gripping my shoulder, and his touch brings a crackle of electricity, painless and oddly familiar. “You’re finally home again.” He turns his head, and I can see the air around it ripple and distort. “Peter! Call the council together!” He looks back at me. “Tell them Dr. Vanek has returned!”

  I take a step back, my hopes shattered in confusion. “Who?”

  He looks at me sharply. “Ambrose Vanek. It is you, isn’t it?”

  This can’t be possible. I touch my face—it’s still there. The features feel like mine. What will the farmer do if I say I’m someone else? He still has his rifle. I take another step back, but the police are getting closer; their voices are louder now, and their lights are brighter, nearly at the edge of the field. I look back at the faceless farmer. “How do you know me?”

  He leans in closer. “You’re still not … all there? Do you have full control yet?”

  In control? That’s exactly what Vanek said in the car—that he wanted to take over and control my body.

  It’s possible—it’s likely, even—that this is all in my head. That my mind has constructed this entire scenario out of thin air, taking Vanek’s impossible ravings and weaving them together into a senseless yet consistent whole. I can’t tell if it’s real or not because I have no anchor—no outside perspective to give me context. What would I give if this were just a bad dream? If I could just wake up in my room at Powell and eat some more oatmeal and play with Linda’s pretend cash register and go back to the life I had. It was awful, and I hated it, but it was mine, and I understood it, and with enough therapy and drugs it would have been mine forever. A single, consistent reality with no monsters, no murders, and no conspiracy. What I wouldn’t give.