Three A.M.

by Steven John

  “Guys, if we can’t talk, I don’t know how we’re going to get to know each other.” I forced a shit-eating grin.

  The guy on the left, the more stoic one with features shaped by a life of bitterness, rose and took a few steps toward me. He brandished the pole in his hand. It was thin, with a little fork at the business end and a thick handle at the other. He flicked a switch, and little tendrils of blue electricity danced across the tines held toward me.

  “Keep talking, asshole,” he said, his voice low and deadly serious.

  “What should I talk about? I was hoping you jack offs would do the talking.…”

  He took another step closer, raising the rod menacingly before me, and reached into one of the pockets of his trousers. He pulled out a syringe and removed its cap with his teeth.

  “Would you rather a little wake-me-up”—he smiled, nodding toward the electrified rod—“or do you want to take another nap?”

  “I’d really prefer a cigarette,” I said quietly, looking down. It occurred to me then for the first time that I was still wearing my jacket. I patted my chest pockets and found that I still had my lighter and smokes. Incredulously, I realized I still had Heller’s cassette and the pills too. My little knife was gone, though.

  The guard stood there, feeling very tough, I’m sure. I slowly, deliberately drew out my pack of smokes and put a cigarette between my lips.

  “Don’t light that,” the standing guard said. The other stood up behind him.

  I thought about my options for a second, went with the one that made the most sense, given the less-than-ideal circumstances.

  “Well, hey—” I smiled, flicking my lighter. “—fuck both of you.”

  I lit the cigarette. Got one deep drag. Then the closer of the two was on me, that goddamn pole against my chest. I heard the crackle of electric pain before it even registered. Then every muscle twisted in on itself, and I screamed like a wounded animal, writhing in anguish on the floor.

  I’d never experienced more displeasure in so short a time. I convulsed on the cement as they stood, shoulder to shoulder, grinning down at me. My cigarette sat on the ground between their boots. Rolling onto my stomach and then rising unsteadily onto my knees, I reached out and picked up the smoke between two fingers.

  “This asshole doesn’t learn, does he?” The shock-happy guard flicked his pole to life again and very slowly began moving it toward me. Toward my face. I put the cigarette between my lips, rose up into a low crouch, and with everything I had, punched him square in the balls.

  He crumpled like a wet tissue, howling and coughing as he fell. I grabbed the pole from where he’d dropped it and rose, waving it at the other guard, who stood looking nervously from his incapacitated comrade to me, hand on his holstered weapon. His other hand strayed toward the electric pole still clipped to his belt. I held the shock rod’s tip near his chin for a moment, and he froze. Then I sat roughly down on the cot, threw the prod away, and smoked while staring up at him. The man on the floor got to his knees. He stared at me with hatred in his eyes, his face red and drenched with sweat from the pain in his crotch.

  “You motherfucker…,” he growled between clenched teeth. He drew his pistol and leveled it at my chest.

  “Easy guy…,” I said quietly.

  “Rick, hand me your shocker,” he said over his shoulder. The other guard stepped forward to oblige him. “Enjoy that drag.” The kneeling guard smiled sadistically, his lips curling back to reveal mossy, piano key teeth. Then the prod was alive, and it was on my chest, my legs. I was blinded by the pain. The bastard went for my balls with it. My neck. I was racked by spasms, flopping around like a dying fish, smashing my head into the metal bedposts, screaming and nearly nauseated.

  He finally relented and casually walked over to his seat to sit and watch me. The other followed suit. I was shaking and could smell burnt flesh in the air. I’d pissed myself. My coughing was so severe, I could hardly see. Tears stung my eyes, and then through the blur of pain, I realized the iron door had opened. It was him.

  My vision was hazy, but I could make out his blue suit and the line his jaw cut against the bright light spilling past him from the hall.

  “What the hell did you do?” he said in a quiet but angry voice.

  “He punched me in the nuts, sir.”

  “Just like that? He just woke up and hit you in the balls?”

  “Pretty much. We—”

  “Get out. Both of you. Get the hell out of here.”

  The guards exchanged puzzled, chastened looks and then rose to leave. Each had to turn his torso to slide past the man, who did not move an inch as they departed. When they were gone, he hitched up his pants and sat down on one of the concrete stools, sliding it a few feet closer to me.

  “Sorry about that, Tom. Army guys—you know the type, I’m sure. No good without specific orders.” He shook his head, glancing back at the open door. Then he leaned toward me. He reached into his outer jacket pocket and drew forth a bottle. “I brought you some water.”

  “That was…” My voice failed as I tried to speak. I took the bottle and sucked at the tepid water. I coughed and then tried again. “That was sweet of you. Why, you think of everything.”

  He laughed. “That’s my job, Mr. Vale. I’m Anthony Kirk. One of the directors of the Science and Development Research Department.”

  I stared at him, finishing the water.

  “I’m honestly sorry for how everything had to play out—if it could have been different, believe me, it would have. But … it’s not.” He studied me: my battered face, the urine stain on my pants, my damp, pale skin. His deep, intelligent eyes seemed saddened by what he saw, and for just a moment, emotion flickered across his dark complexion and it seemed he was about to say something. Then the fleeting look was replaced by clinical coldness. “I don’t think your injuries are too bad, so we’re going to get moving right away. Tonight, I hope—by morning, certainly. I’ll get you some new clothes, of course. And you can shower if you want to and rest for a while. The cells upstairs are much nicer.”

  He rose and waited patiently as I clumsily did the same. Once on my feet, I eyed the slightly taller man intently and he held my gaze. “Tell me, Anthony. What … what did I do?”

  “It’s not so much about you, Mr. Vale. Or at least you personally. I know it’s all very confusing and I empathize with your plight, but enough of it will make sense soon, I assure you. But we’re very busy, and so please, for now be content to know that knowledge is coming. Let’s get you cleaned up and rested.”

  He turned and stepped out of the cell and then waited for me to follow. The hallway seemed more like that of an office building than a prison, not counting the iron doors along one wall. The floor was covered by a thin, blue green carpet, and the walls were a soft beige. Fluorescent track lighting cast a cold brightness. The corridor was maybe a hundred feet long. At the far end, in the direction we began walking, the two guards from my cell leaned against the wall.

  Anthony Kirk led me down the hall, walking briskly. As we neared the soldiers, he subtly waved his hand, gesturing for them to step to one side. They did, and he opened the door behind them. It was made of plain wood, painted white.

  The guard I’d struck let out a low growl as I passed him, and I made a sudden feint toward him, my fist stopping just short of his stomach. He sucked in air and shrank from the phantom punch, closing his eyes tightly. He quickly reopened them and they filled with loathing as I smiled, looking back as the white door swung shut.

  We were in a lobby. The three elevators before me looked fabulously familiar.

  “We’re in Science, aren’t we?” He nodded. “You have jail cells in the Science and Research Department?”

  “I know it seems odd, Thomas. Space is at a premium in the city.” My mind went to the vacant factories and boarded-up buildings in the north end of town. As if reading my thoughts, he added: “Usable space, anyway. Very few buildings have steady power, water … Science was a
natural fit, really. We use every square inch of this building for something.”

  I stretched my neck from side to side. Kirk stood before me, not looking back. I could have attacked him—could have thrown my arms around his neck or kicked his knee in sideways or just lunged upon him, fists flying. If this really was Science, if I immobilized him, I could very likely take an elevator down, run through the lobby, and be free. But I knew I wouldn’t do it. What would I do then? Run out into the fog? That begged the question of what freedom really meant anymore. How long had they been watching me … Kirk and Lucid Jones and even Rebecca? Had she gone and convinced these guys that I’d killed their scientist, maybe? Then why the cordial treatment from Anthony Kirk?

  The elevator arrived and Kirk ushered me in and then entered himself. He pressed the button for floor ten.

  * * *

  The tenth floor of the Science and Development Research Department was an odd place. The elevators opened into a lavish room. Blue carpets adorned the floors, there were several leather couches and chairs set around finely carved tables, and most striking of all, large, live plants sat in clay urns along the walls. I stood looking around the room in something of a trance until Kirk cleared his throat behind me and I snapped back to the moment. I stepped out onto the soft carpet and he passed me with a knowing nod.

  “We like to make a good impression on some of our first-time visitors.”

  “I doubt I fall into that category.” He shrugged, distracted by a small device he held in his hand. It was a screen flashing with various images and text, none of which I could see clearly. Kirk cocked his head to one side in thought, and then abruptly lowered the device and began walking toward one pair of the large double doors that dominated each wall of the room. The doors were wood paneled and massive. Kirk pulled a keychain from his pocket and worked the two heavy brass locks. Then he tapped a code into a small keypad next to the doorframe and I heard a series of clicks. He pulled the door open. Its back was not wood. It was iron. The hallway it opened onto looked just like the lobby we had come from didn’t: a prison.

  It was a short hall. The floor and one wall were cement. The other wall held four sets of thick steel bars. Inclining his head as if in apology, Kirk bade me to enter with a sweep of his arm.

  I said nothing as we walked down the hallway. The first cell was empty. The second was occupied. A young man—one or two years on either side of thirty, stood expectantly at the bars. He said nothing, but his eyes lit up with a knowing recognition that sent chills down my spine. I had no idea who he was, but he looked very familiar.

  His sandy blond hair, his pale eyes … No way to dismiss the feeling as coincidence. He nodded imperceptibly as I passed. It all lasted maybe three seconds. Kirk looked over his shoulder as he walked ahead of me, and I snapped my head forward. I don’t know if he could tell. The third cell was empty, as was the fourth, which he slid open. Obediently, I entered. I turned to face Kirk.

  He stood by the open doorway, leaning against the bars and looking in at me. “The shower will warm up after a minute or so. There are towels, linens. I’ll have clothing delivered to you. I strongly suggest you clean up and then rest. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow. And maybe a long night, even, if we get things moving fast enough.”

  “Anthony … you’ve got to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  “No.” His voice was harder than before. “I don’t have to. I will, though, when I’m ready to.” He slid home the metal grate and it clicked shut. I heard his rapid footfalls receding and something whispered to the other man. I couldn’t make it out.

  I turned and looked around the austere twelve-by-ten cell. There was indeed a nicer-looking cot. It had a thin mattress on it and neatly folded sheets and a pillow set on one end. There was a bar of soap too. The floor was cement except in the corner, where a showerhead stuck out above an iron grate. A steel toilet and sink were the only other accommodations. With nothing else to do, I turned on the shower and stripped. The air was cold on my tired, naked body, but the water grew hot as Kirk had promised.

  * * *

  I don’t know what woke me. I had no idea what time it was, but I was instantly aware of my surroundings. A dim light from the hall cast striped shadows across the cell’s floor. There was a pile of neatly folded clothing just inside the bars. I rose, naked, and went to the garments. As I sorted through them, a pit formed in my stomach—these were my clothes.

  I raised a shirt to the light, seeing my own possessions as if they were some strange artifact. Slowly, almost sadly, I dressed. An undershirt, socks, shoes, one pair of pants, one button-up shirt … one outfit. Only one.

  “Hey.” I froze, unsure if I had imagined the soft whisper. It was perfectly silent; not even a vent hummed.

  “Hey … you awake?”

  I was scared stiff. My mouth moved, but no sound came out of it. Then, finally, I said quietly, “Yeah.”

  “How are you doing?” he said, his voice louder but still a whisper.

  “Um … I’m not too good, man. Not doing very well.” I thought to ask who he was and why he was here and all that. If he knew why I was here. But as I rose and gripped the bars, pressing my face between them, a thought hit me and was past my lips before I fully comprehended it.

  “Fallon?” I said, my voice full.

  “Yeah,” he said, no longer whispering either. “You’re Tom Vale, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a long pause. “I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry you’re all mixed up in this shit.”

  “What am I mixed up in, Fallon?”

  “I wish I could tell you. I don’t know much, all things considered. I thought I got it, but turns out I don’t really know a damn thing.” He sighed. “I know none of it’s your fault, though. You shouldn’t have to be here. I know they’re going to—” Just then, I heard the locks rattle in the door down the hallway. “Shit,” Fallon muttered.

  I pressed my face as far as I could between the narrow bars, struggling to look down the hallway. In the dim light, I could see shadows dance as the door swung open but nothing more. A man’s voice called out, “No more talking! Don’t. Talk.”

  Then the door slammed shut and it was silent again. The metal was cool against my face, and suddenly I thought of the old woman from the shitshop, spending her life just like this. Her face between the bars staring out into the haze.

  I waited for a long time before venturing a whisper. “Fallon?”

  “No talking!” a man’s voice immediately boomed.

  I stepped back from the bars. “Good night, Fallon,” I said aloud.

  “Good night, Tom,” he called back. I lay down and was wide awake for hours. My thoughts at one point strayed to the new pills Salk had given me, and I rose quickly and flushed them. I wasn’t sure what he had meant about not using them, but no reason to risk it in desperation—Salk had made a point of warning me against them. Back on the cot, I went from angry to scared to confused. Mostly I just wanted to know why. No one had ever taken the slightest interest in my life. Why did the first time I was in such high demand have to come with only one change of underwear?

  * * *

  It felt like morning. The lights were back on in the hallway and in my cell. I didn’t remember falling asleep as I woke groggily from a dream. I had been floating on a river through a barren desert. The sun had shone but the sky was gray. The strange wasteland receded and was replaced by bars and concrete and men’s voices as I came to.

  I recognized Anthony Kirk’s voice and Fallon’s, and there were two more I hadn’t heard before.

  “Vale’s in four,” Kirk said.

  “Okay, I’ll go take a look,” said a new voice. I heard heavy steps coming my way, and I stood up as a short, thick man wearing a white shirt tucked into khaki pants stepped into view. He was maybe sixty years old, with coarse white hair encircling an otherwise bald head. His brows were thick and dark and perched above eyes set deep into a large skull. His wrinkles pointed toward a
life of frowning.

  “Thomas Vale in the flesh, huh,” he said gruffly. I gave no response. “All right, then,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He shook his head as he walked back out of view. He seemed almost disappointed.

  The conversation continued down the hall, but I could not catch any of the words. Then the squat man’s voice barked, “Hold up there, Fallon.”

  His gray eyes wide, Fallon rushed to my cell and gripped the bars. He stuck his hand through, reaching toward me. Numbly, I stepped forward and shook it.

  “I’m sorry, Tom. Rebecca’s sorry too.” Hearing her name, something inside me stirred. I studied his face. “She’s so sorry. She wanted to make sure you knew that. We didn’t want any of it.” Kirk walked up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Let’s go, kid,” he said coldly.

  Fallon held my gaze for long moment, then released my hand.

  “Fallon!” I called as he began walking away. He shrugged off Kirk’s grasp and turned. “What’s your last name?”

  Fallon looked at me incredulously. When he answered, it was in the matter-of-fact way one might tell you the time. “It’s Ayers, Tom.”

  * * *

  Maybe an hour had passed since Fallon Ayers was escorted out of the cell block when I heard the heavy door swing open again. Several pairs of footsteps echoed off the concrete walls, and I rose from where I had been sitting on the bed. I hadn’t known what else to do with myself, so I had folded my dirty garments and made the bed, and then just sat there waiting, smoking a single cigarette—I had only a few left.

  Kirk and the squat man stopped before my cell with the less aggressive guard from the day before. The guard unlocked and slid aside the heavy bars. I picked up my jacket from where it lay next to my soiled but neatly folded clothing and stood in the center of the cell.

  “Come on out, Tom,” Kirk said softly. He was wearing a gray overcoat on top of a pressed black suit. I stepped out into the hall and we walked toward the doors, the guard leading the way and the other two men behind me.