“Okay, then how about the golden rule. Is that still around?”
The ferret-faced man tapped a finger impatiently on his forehead before wagging it at me. “We know who you are, Mister Deus. And we know what you’ve done.”
“Gimme a break, bro, I was blown up and - I – I’m p-paralyzed,” I stammered.
“Do you know the name of this place?”
“Did you hear what I just said, numb-nuts?!” I shouted. “I’ve lost my friggin’ legs!”
“You’re in prison,” the ferret-faced man said. “A very special one that the guests call ‘The Darkness.’”
I stared daggers at the guy. “That’s the worst name I’ve ever heard for a prison.”
“That may be, but it’s also entirely apropos because once you enter this place, it’s as if you’ve vanished into the shadows.”
The ferret-faced man smiled, flashing a set of brown and yellow teeth that needed a good brushing. “We have precisely one-thousand high-level aliens imprisoned here along with five-hundred humans, including scabs and assorted criminals.”
“Sounds like a fun mix,” I said.
“It’s a recipe for nastiness, especially for a man like you. We know that you’ve stolen materials for years.”
“Define ‘stolen.’”
“Taking things that aren’t yours,” the woman said.
I sucked on my teeth. “Well, sure, if you want to be all technical about it...”
“You’ve misappropriated materials from the aliens … and from us.”
“That last part’s a lie,” I lied.
The ferret-faced man clapped his hands, and a pillar of light appeared in the middle of the room, a data-stream of sorts that contained images of somebody I recognized … me!
The images were of other jobs I’d done with Jezzy and Spence, scenes where we were obviously stealing weapons and other materials. I guess somebody had been watching us the entire time. Realizing they had me dead to rights, I decided to use an old lawyer’s tactic; I’d just deny everything.
“Yeah, that’s not me on there,” I said. “Somebody photo-manipulated that.”
The images changed to a close-up of me. I recognized the scene. It was a former government weapons vault we’d hit outside Philly a few months back. I watched myself smiling, preening, shouting while slapping palms with Spence. “Hells yes, I’m the man! Daniel Simpson Deus rocks like nobody’s business!” (pronouncing it “biz-a-nass”).
Good lord, had I really said that? Was I drunk or high? Had I actually been stupid enough to recite my whole name? Jeez. My face flushed. The images vanished. The ferret-faced man turned his attention back to me. “The jig is up, Mr. Deus. What’s important to recognize is that the other prisoners, including some particularly nasty ones that you’ve trespassed against, don’t know you’re here yet. But think about what would happen if they did.”
“Okay, alright, you made your point. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” I said. “I’m no genius, but I figure there must be a reason you brought me here and showed me these home movies and it ain’t to admire my good looks and extra-large schlong.”
“You’re not as dumb as you look,” the woman said.
“I get that a lot.”
“You have two choices, Mr. Deus,” she replied.
“Is one of them being set free?”
She shook her head. “You can either take your place with the other prisoners or voluntarily put yourself into the custody and care of ‘The Hermitage’ in perpetuity.”
I had no idea what The Hermitage was, and frankly, I didn’t know what perpetuity meant either. “What is it with you jokers and those stupid names?” I replied. “What the hell is ‘The Hermitage’”?
“No further questions will be permitted,” the woman replied. “It’s an ‘either/or’ proposition.”
I was pissed and not thinking clearly. “Okay, if no questions are allowed, how about a little statement?” The men and women took a step toward me and I cobra-spat at them. “Go fuck yourselves.”
* * *
Just say no to drugs.
I swear if it wasn’t for whatever drug or drugs I’d been injected with I would never have chosen going to prison which was, at the time, the dumbest decision I’d ever made in my life. Anyhow, after I rejected the offer of going to The Hermitage, I was roughly strapped into a rickety old wheel-chair and pushed down a buglit corridor with smoked, one-way glass on both sides.
The male nurse pushing me, a no-necked grunt in his thirties, filled me in on some background details, including that I’d been brought to the prison by a law-enforcement team that had been staking out Alpha Timbo’s lair for several weeks. They’d rescued me from the wreckage of the hoversurf and brought me to the prison two weeks earlier. If it hadn’t been for some of the medical technology the aliens had left behind, I would’ve died the nurse said. That notwithstanding, I’d been in a medically-induced coma for eight days, and then I’d been operated on in order to decompress my jacked-up spinal cord.
I asked about Jezzy and Spence, but the nurse didn’t know anything about them. Apparently one of the other prisoners knew me from my work with Buddha Blades and confidentially ratted me out, which is why I was now being kept against my will. I asked what the charges were and the nurse said they didn’t need to come up with charges anymore. It was all discretionary. You were brought in and stayed until somebody decided it was time for you to go. Lovely.
The nurse also related some additional details, including the extent of my injuries and the fact that, because of my paralysis, I’d likely have a reflex bladder for the rest of my life. This meant I’d have to suffer through what the nurse called “accidental and unexpected voiding” which I didn’t like the sounds of at all. I asked whether I’d ever regain the use of my legs and the nurse grunted and shook his head. It was at that moment that the enormity of the situation hit me. I still hadn’t fully processed the fact that I’d likely never walk again. It all seemed like a bad dream, but then I peered down at my useless legs and reality walloped me like an ax handle to the forehead. For a moment I saw the future, and it wasn’t pretty. There I was, long-haired and shaggy, lying in a puddle of my own filth, massaging my legs which, without use, had withered to the size of baseball bats. I’d wanted to make a change in my life, and the change had been made for me. I’d never be able to go back to my old life even I wanted to. The bottom line was, I was stuck inside this crummy prison for as long as someone wanted me to be here.
We soon arrived at my final destination, an enclosed courtyard that was wreathed by prison cells that stretched from the floor several stories to a roof that was centered by an immense skylight. Immediately, I noted the placement of the prison cells, the manner in which they’d been positioned such that the people inside could not see out and in turn could not be seen. I imagined that had to have been done by design, but I didn’t know why.
Footsteps echoed, and I looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered man in a charcoal shirt and cargo pants approaching. He was flanked by a pair of mannish blonde women in blue scrubs who were pushing a metal cart laden with tools that shimmered in the semi-darkness. The tall man stopped and smiled. His face was lumpy and smooth and shiny, like a mass of unfinished wax, and he had no neck. It looked like he’d been doing heavy shrugs in a gym for weeks. “I see you’re up and about, Mr. Deus,” he purred.
I stared down at my wheelchair. “Not exactly.”
“My name is Stryker,” the neckless wonder said. “I’m in charge of the therapy and re-education section of this facility.”
Something about the word “re-education” sent shivers dancing up and down what was left of my spine. I inclined my head in the direction of the two women. “How about Hansel and Gretel over there?”
“Their names are unimportant.”
“What do they do?” I asked.
“Whatever is needed. Mostly they administer psychological tests and dispense meds,” Styker said.
One of the women grabbed a table
t from the cart and held it up. There was an image that resembled an inkblot on the screen. “What do you see when you look at that image?” Stryker asked.
“I see me punching you in the head,” I answered flatly.
The woman swiped a finger on the screen. The image changed to another inkblot with different dimensions.
Stryker pursed his lips. “And now?”
“Ah, this one’s different,” I replied.
Stryker perked up. “How so?”
“In this one I’m punching you in the balls.”
Stryker sucked on his teeth. He flung a look at the woman who powered off the tablet.
“So, it’s going to be like this, Mister Deus?”
“Can’t be any other way,” I said with a shrug.
The other woman lifted a U-shaped device that held two, industrial-sized syringes on either end.
I tensed, locking eyes with the other instruments on the cart, most of which were stainless steel and studded with sharp blades or curved hooks. They looked better suited for torture. “Yeah, I’m good by the way,” I said to the woman with the U-shaped device. “I’ve already had my physical for the year.”
Stryker chuckled. “You’d be surprised how often new guests say that.”
“And what’s your response?”
“That everyone here gets treated equally.”
“If this is more government healthcare, I think I’ll pass.”
One of the women held up a mirror, and I gasped. The crash in the hoversurf had left my face a mask of scratches and welts and bruises. One of my eyebrows was singed, my lip was swollen, and one of my ears was scabbed over. I was just grateful I didn’t appear to be missing any major parts. The other woman placed the U-shaped around my neck, and it contracted until I could barely breathe. My eyes widened, and I could peripherally see the syringes drawing closer to my neck.
“Relax, Mr. Deus,” Stryker said. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
“Won’t hurt you or me?”
Stryker continued to grin. The syringes ratcheted into my neck, and a screamed like an animal at a branding. It hurt like a sonofabitch.
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO?!” I howled.
“Implanted taggants, Mr. Deus. A pseudo-chemical tracking and tagging device.”
“What gives you the right to do that to me, you thick-necked jackwagon?!”
Stryker’s face fell. “We can do anything we want to you. You’re our property now.”
I fought my way out of the wheelchair straps and threw a hellacious punch at Stryker … and missed of course.
My momentum carried me forward, and I tumbled out of the wheelchair and slammed to the ground. I pushed myself up and Stryker, the nasty mother that he was, placed one of his boots between my shoulder blades and pressed down hard. I tried to fight back, but my strength quickly ebbed, and in seconds he was shoving my mouth into a snail of slime on the ground.
“Are you ready to behave?” he asked.
Reluctantly, I nodded, and the pressure on the middle of my back eased up. Not being used to the loss of my legs, I awkwardly planted my elbows and muscled myself onto my back like an overturned turtle. Stryker was straddling me, clutching a black metal baton.
“You’re going to sleep now, Mr. Deus. You’ll need to be at full strength for the upcoming festivities.”
I saw a blue light flash at the end of the baton. Stryker flicked his wrist and the baton distended to reveal what looked like a cattle prod. Stryker slammed the prod into my chest, and my entire upper body seized. I lay there, being jolted by what felt like thousands of volts of electricity and then, after experiencing some of that “accidental voiding” the nurse had warned me about, I passed out.
7
I came to on the floor in one of the prison cells, an iron box with a slotted window that was barely large enough to pass an envelope through. There was a cot in one corner, a metal tray on the ground laden with what looked like cat food, and a bucket in the back where I assumed I was supposed to handle my business.
In the middle of the room was a spiral of violet light that contained holographic images, patriotic stuff about the defeat of the scuds. The images flickered and flashed, giving me a wicked headache. I assumed it was some kind of prison propaganda, a way to break down the residents without leaving any marks, at least none that could be seen.
The bastards had taken the wheelchair away from me, so I was forced to drag myself across the cold cement toward the cot. I threw out my right hand, then my left, pulling myself forward. Somebody started clapping behind me and I peered back to see a bald, muscle-bound goon dressed in urban camouflage.
“You’re almost there,” the bald man said in a sing-songy voice.
“How about a little help,” I replied, glancing back.
“I’m afraid help is not mine to give.”
“Then how ‘bout you kiss my ass?”
The bald man smiled. “Sleep tight, Mr. Deus.”
I didn’t like the sound of that or the guy’s strange smile. I turned back and grabbed the edge of the cot and began torquing myself up onto it. Every muscle in my upper body was on fire as I slumped onto the paper-thin mattress, which felt heavenly given the circumstances. I lay there, utterly exhausted. Even though I’d only crawled a few feet, but it felt like I’d run a marathon. My eyes pinballed off the drab walls of the cell, the place I’d be calling home for who knows how long. I began to feel sorry for myself and then I realized I deserved it. I thought back on every day that had led up to that, horrible day. I remembered how my world had been taken over by an occupying force and I’d barely raised a hand to defend it. When the going got tough, I simply melted away, just as I’d done after the death of my mom and my baby brother Frank.
I thought about Frank a lot that first day in prison. By the time he came along, I was already ten, and my folks had split up. My old man had never really been around anyway. He drove a tow-truck out in Silver Spring, Maryland, and would disappear for months on end, usually returning in April which coincided with opening day for fishing season and baseball. He’d hang around just long enough to show me how to tie a fly on a rod and toss a fastball, and then he’d be gone. Apparently, he’d also hung around long enough to sire Frank.
My first thought when I heard I was going to have a brother is, who the hell names a baby Frank? But when he came out he was perfect. Loud as all get out and a terrible sleeper, but his skin was like marble and his eyes bluer than the upper atmosphere.
Child Protective Services never caught on, but when I wasn’t in school (and mom was working), I was Frank’s de-facto guardian and part-time babysitter. I spent my summers and afternoons down in the basement of our townhouse in Bowie, Maryland, watching old movies and TV shows with the aid of our dad’s Scienta password, which was probably stolen and certainly one of the very few things (aside from names and a dog-eared dictionary) he’d given either of us.
My dad had the password programmed, so we were forced to largely watch the kind of things he enjoyed, World War Two documentaries, westerns, action flicks, horror, and sci-fi movies, but that was cool with us (even if most of the movies weren’t age appropriate for Frank whose eyes and ears I made sure were covered during the naughty parts). Turns out, even though my old man believed Hollywood hadn’t made a decent pic after 2015, which was the year a new “Mad Max” flick came out, he had pretty good taste in movies. With mom working long hours and me having a job taking care of Frank, I had a routine and some stability for the first time in a long time. And wouldn’t you know it, that’s when the aliens came.
We’d heard rumors that something big was going to happen, but most normal folks had no idea how bad it was going to get. You have to remember that truth was a hard thing to come by back in the days before the scuds came. First there were the widespread layoffs and resulting strikes caused by commercial automation, then the confusion sowed by an error-ridden rollout of the government’s long-planned universal basic income, and finally the continued
dissemination of fake news stories on every social media site. The bottom line was, nobody knew what to believe in the days leading up to the invasion.
Anyway, on the day it happened, mom had taken Frank with her to a mother’s day out group at a church called “The Cornerstone.” I have no idea what kind of creatures would target churches and schools and hospitals, but that’s what the aliens did.
They swooped down and firebombed the country so that there was nothing left in many places, but ashes. You never really think about death when you’re a kid, but the worst thing about it is the finality. The idea that somebody’s there, kissing you goodbye, and then they’re gone an hour later, and you’ll never ever see them again. That is an awfully hard thing to get your hands around, especially when you’re just a teenager. I know I still haven’t gotten over it and that’s all I’m gonna say about mom and Frank.
I do regret one thing related to the bombing of the church, however, and it’s the issue of taking revenge. I regret not joining up immediately with the resistance and taking down a scud or two, but I was too messed up after my family vanished to do that. It’s a damned terrible thing to admit that you’re scared, but I was terrified after the aliens came. I could chalk it up to age, but the truth is, I was just scared of dying, and I still am to a certain extent which is funny given all the death and dying I’ve seen. Most of the time I don’t feel like a coward, but I imagine others would probably label me one, and maybe that’s the reason all of these bad things happened to me, because, in a sense, I deserved them. Off in the distance, I heard sounds that I’d come to know well: high-pitched laughter, cries, hushed conversation, and the sound of flesh being slapped. In short, the notes that make up the rhythm of a prison. My hands covered my ears and I willed myself to think good thoughts as I fought for sleep.
* * *
I woke to the sound of alarms and metal slamming against metal.
Wiping crusties from my eyes, I looked down to see that I’d urinated all over the cot which was not a great way to welcome the new day. There was a steroidal, bullet-faced guard rattling a metal cudgel against the bars of my cell. “Daylight in the swamp, sweetheart!” he bellowed with a smile.
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