“Good. Follow me.” The other workers in the room paid Zack little attention. One of them was hosing down the van, another was paying attention to the wheels. The vehicle had been parked over a large metal grid and the water was running away through a grate in the floor. Zack watched it flowing like a stream, gushing out from the hand-held nozzles at a rate faster than water could be pumped into Delta Tower. It seemed almost obscene to Zack, to watch it being used so freely.
Another worker was sitting at a desk, inputting data into a computer. At least that's what Zack assumed, but it was unlike any computer that he had ever seen before. It was a pane of clear glass that Zack could see through, the size and shape of a screen that he remembered from the old world. The person sitting at it was pressing a stylus against it. Another stood by his side, and there was a discussion going on, referring to whatever was on the screen. Zack watched the Omega Personnel at the glass computer until he arrived at the far wall.
“Before I can let you pass,” began the non-Guardian, “you must remove the clothes that you are wearing.” The worker reached forwards and to the side, pulled a large glass box that remained connected to the wall at the back via a corrugated tube. The non-Guardian waited, staring at Zack from behind the visor. “Anytime you are ready, Mr. Christian.”
“Here?” Zack asked. His eyes scanned the other workers searching for those smaller in stature, the potential women who might see what a poorly maintained body was hidden beneath the overalls. Suddenly it mattered what he looked like. But why? There was no reason to be shy. “In front of everybody?”
“When you are ready, Mr. Christian.”
Zack drew a deep breath in, steeled himself to reveal his form to the rest of the room. Not one of them was paying attention, but for all he cared they might as well have all been standing at his side, and every one of them a beautiful woman whose touch had become a distant memory. By the time he was naked and had dumped his clothes in the glass box labelled CONTAMINATED, he tried to conceal himself as best he could. He was standing with one arm crossing his chest, one leg edged over the other. His body had become pale and hairy, the muscles soft and weak. He couldn't even bring himself to look at his overgrown, yellowing toenails. He was desperate to hide himself, but at the same time hesitant to look shy. Some feelings it seemed, were ingrained within. Locker room pride. Don't stare. Don't stay naked for too long. Not one of the non-Guardians showed the least bit of interest in his naked form, except for the one in front of him. He pushed the glass box back against the wall, and Zack watched as the clothes disappeared through a hole in the back by means of a foot pedal which the non-Guardian pressed with his covered wellington boot. After the contaminated clothes had been sucked into the intestines of the building, the non-Guardian reached up and pressed a section of the wall. A shot of air squeezed out from the near-silent pneumatics and a door that Zack hadn't noticed slid back into a concealed recess to reveal another white room. This room was tiled and there was a shower head attached to the ceiling. On the left there was a small wooden bench, the kind he remembered from the same health clubs where the rules of the locker room used to apply. It was the type that seemed purposefully made to be uncomfortable, so that you wouldn't linger longer than necessary.
“You will find everything you need in the locker on the wall, Mr. Christian. Take a shower. You will find a box on the bench with some soap in it. Use it to cleanse your skin. It certainly needs it, our good President.” Zack stepped into the room and picked up the box. It was a small metal pot, round, and as he twisted the lid the box sprung open as if it were spring loaded. Inside the bar of soap was bright yellow, and the medicinal smell was as strong as sour milk. “I agree, it doesn’t smell very good,” said the non-Guardian as Zach flinched on account of the odour, “but this is a combination of antibacterial and antifungal medication combined in a hydrating cleansing bar. It is the best protection that we have against skin complaints and we all use it. Daily.”
“Daily?” Zack asked, thinking back to his dirty water pot. It had more potential for spreading germs than it did protecting you from them, complete with a brown rim on the pot side like a garden trough left out in the sun. The idea of the tenfold water rations that he used to pump into Omega Tower daily, and his assumption that Omega therefore must house many more residents than the other towers, suddenly didn't seem so convincing. “Daily showers? For all?”
“Daily, Mr. Christian. You will find the water warm, and in the locker there,” he said, pointing to a small wall mounted door, “you will find a towel and robe. Please dress after your shower.” With that the non-Guardian turned on his heels and prepared to walk away. Only when Zack reached out to stop him did he pause to listen.
“Wait,” he said, rushing towards the open door, his shame of nudity forgotten. “Afterwards? What should I do? Where should I go?”
“Mr. Christian,” said the Guardian, a slightly patronising tone in his voice, as if he had explained something time and time again but yet still Zack didn’t understand. “This is not Delta. You will not hear a bell, and you do not have a water plant to which you must report. There is no requirement for your presence anywhere in the immediate future. Right now your only responsibility is to stay here and take a shower. Dress, and wait. There is a clock on the wall. We will be back for you. Probably within the hour.” He turned again to walk away, leaving Zack with a daft smile on his face. Just before Zack stepped towards the shower the non-Guardian turned back to him. “And if I were you, I would pay particular attention to those fingers of yours.” With that the man reached up and slammed the flat of his gloved palm against the wall and the door slid back into place. Zack dodged it, moving backwards out of the way.
Zack’s eyes trailed from his fingers to the clock. Quarter past three. Morning or afternoon, he wasn't sure, but guessed at afternoon on account of what he thought had been sunlight. He smiled at the realisation that he hadn’t used such terms in the whole time he was stuck in Delta. He looked down at his exposed flesh. The last time he had been naked was a long time ago. There was no such thing as a shower in Delta, and it was usually so cold that he had refrained from ever being completely undressed. But now, standing in nothing but his own skin in the basement of Omega Tower, he wasn’t even cold. There were no goose pimples. No shivering. He inspected himself, fingering at his skin from chest to toe. He concluded that his rough skin appeared weathered and old, in drastic need of care. He gave a poke at his stomach which was an unusual combination of both floppy and concave. He examined his fingers and saw that indeed they were redder than he thought. No wonder the guard had commented on them. Maybe it was the contrast against the white walls and floor that made them seem so bad, because he didn't remember them looking like that in Delta Tower.
The shower head was positioned in the centre of the room, and there was another door on the far wall. No handle. He tested the door by giving it a push, but it didn't budge. The wall was cold, plastic, and his skin contracted away. He reached over to the slatted bench and picked up the soap, and looked around the room for a button to turn on the shower. He found nothing. Based on the fact that the button to get into this room was also hidden, he prodded around the edges of the doors and across the bare walls trying to bring forth the water. Still nothing. He knocked on the door which he had used to enter the room. Nobody came. In fact, he couldn't hear anything. It was as if the other side didn't exist anymore. He walked closer to the shower head, certain that the button must be concealed, and as he stepped onto the tiles underneath, the first drops of ice cold water fell from the shower head and chilled his skin like the fresh rains of April.
“Ah,” he squealed, his whole body contorting, his skin wrinkling as the water fell like tiny blades. He wasn't used to it. He had become sensitive to the slightest touch. After two attempts he managed to tolerate the water as it warmed up. He reached his hands up into it, opened his mouth, swallowed some water, spat some back out in a spout, like a statue of an angel in a fountain. He shook
his flop of brown hair like a dog, spray flying out left and right and circumferentially as he swung his head around. He was laughing out loud, laughing from the pit of his unexercised belly. Rubbing the soap over himself he realised just how loosely his flesh hung to his body, like a suit he had stepped into rather than part of him. But yet in this moment none of that mattered. It couldn't spoil it for him. This was day one. This wasn't just the idea of freedom. It was the smell of it, and the taste.
After twenty seven minutes, an uneven number upon which he had decided in advance in order to enjoy the option of precision, he opened the locker and saw a small note inside. It read Welcome, Mr. Christian. The note was a card that stood up like a tent, the letters capitalised, printed in a crisp serif font. The corners were sharply cut. He lifted it and turned it, but there was nothing else written. It was something else from the old life. The extravagances of the old world. Effort had gone into it, from creating the card, the ink, the idea, the cutting, the folding, the printing, until finally it was placed here in an effort to make him feel important. It was without doubt completely unnecessary. It was the same wastefulness that he had just enjoyed so much. A twenty seven minute shower. He used to enjoy expensive sheets and luxury food. He used to grind the beans for his coffee himself because the stuff from a jar was unacceptable. For the plebs, he used to joke to Samantha. He smiled at the memory and placed the note to the side and grabbed the towel. He wrapped it around his waist after drying his face and hands. There was also a pot of moisturising lotion, medicated the same as the soap, he guessed from the smell, and the fact that it came in the same spring loaded pot. The directions were simple and were engraved on the underside of the lid. Apply liberally. He scooped out huge handfuls of cream and slathered it over his body. Afterwards he dressed in the robe and sat on the edge of the bench seat which was as uncomfortable as he remembered such a seat to be. It felt great.
A little after an hour later, the door with no handle let out a shot of air and slid away into the recess of the wall. Zack sat up, hands on his knees, pulling the robe to cover himself. It was a man, and he could see him. There was no visor or full body suit this time. Instead, the man had a face, and he wore a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck. His hair was neatly cropped and dressed in a side parting. He was carrying a clipboard and an air of disinterest, as if he had many other much more interesting and important things he could have been doing. His cheeks were pink and full, his eyes bright with no dark circles. Zack thought maybe he was about thirty, but then remembered that he lived in Omega Tower and would no doubt look better than Zack's expectations. Perhaps closer to forty.
“Hello, Mr. Christian,” he said, without looking up from the clipboard. “I take it you are feeling a little better than when you arrived. Any more vomiting?” He stopped only a few feet away from Zack, his finger working down the page. He finally stopped reading and looked up as Zack began to speak.
“No, no more. I am feeling better. Thank you.” The man was distracted, yet to make eye contact. Zack imagined that a bird could swoop down, land right on his head and he wouldn't even notice.
“Our good President,” he muttered, looking back at the clipboard. “In which case, if you wouldn't mind following me.”
Zack stood up, the floor cold on his bare feet. The man that Zack assumed to be a doctor, an actual real-life doctor, walked at a pace discordant with his apathetic approach. He marched through the dimly-lit corridors, and after slowing down he opened a door on the right. Zack followed, stepping into the room. It was dark in there too, only a small lamp alight, hanging from the wall on a flexible arm. The doctor dropped the clipboard on a corner desk and clapped his hands together. It seemed to inject a bit of life into him, and he perked up.
“Sorry, it’s a bit dismal in here. Hop up on the couch,” he said adjusting the lighting with a panel next to him. That too was clear glass. “We are still underground.” Zack swung his feet up, realising that they had very different views about the meaning of dismal. He lay back on the couch, assuming the natural doctor/patient position. “My name is Dr. Watson. No joke intended. Obviously not the Dr. Watson,” he laughed as he allowed a Cheshire cat-like grin to break across his face. He strained his eyes over a pair of half-rimmed glasses more suitable for an older face and rubbed his hands together as if he was trying to make fire with a stick and some tinder. “One of the most important things we can do is to give you a good check over and get you treated for any major issues.” He picked up Zack’s right hand, the one with the tattoo, before saying, “Might as well start with the lucky hand,” and threw him a wink.
After Dr. Watson had felt and prodded Zack from ankle to neck through a pair of latex gloves, smoothing his fingers over various lumps and bumps, he reached across for a scalpel and a small glass slide.
“You have a few areas of concern, Mr. Christian,” he said, his tone far too cheery, as if he had just offered him a treat. He held Zack's hand and scraped the edge of the scalpel along the surface of his fingers, the dust from the skin falling onto the glass slide. He selected a fresh blade and did the same to Zack's ribs, concentrating on an area that looked red, and if Zack was honest, was quite itchy. “I'm fairly convinced we have something growing here. The soap will soon get rid of it, together with the cream which I notice you applied. Well done, although I do wish they would listen to me when I tell them not to put it in that room. Taking samples isn't the easiest of tasks afterwards.” He caught the dusty skin flakes on a second glass slide and then handed them to an assistant who had snuck into the room from behind. “I guess that'll have to do,” he said, tapping the scalpel on the slide as he handed it over. The assistant was young, female, and Zack once again became acutely aware of his nakedness, reaching for his open robe. “Mr. Christian,” the doctor chuckled to himself, the same cheeky grin spreading across his lips. “There is no need to be shy. Isobella has seen it all before.” Dr. Watson tugged at the robe and exposed Zack. He pulled and poked at his genitals, left, right, up and down, and Zack clenched his jaw and did his best to avoid eye contact. Zack's refusal to look in the direction of the examination seemed to amuse Dr. Watson. “No need for embarrassment here, Mr. Christian, I too have seen it all before. But I am afraid this is going to smart a little, and therefore I suggest you keep nice and still.” At exactly the wrong moment Zack looked down towards Dr. Watson who was ready with what looked like a long cotton swab. He was advancing it at an alarming speed towards the tip of his penis, which was gripped in the other gloved hand with the same misfortune as a head in a guillotine.
“Wai’, wai’, wait,” Zack said, shuffling up the couch and pulling his robe across his body like a shield of protection in war. “Where are you sticking that?”
“Mr. Christian, I’m sorry. But this is necessary. We know what happens in the other towers, and we know what happens beneath them. We can’t risk you bringing in any diseases. We have to screen you for whatever we have available.” He took hold of the edge of the robe. “This is a very healthy place, and the fungus that is growing in your armpit, and the scabies mites that appear to have made their home between your fingers have got to go. If there is anything growing in there,” he said, using the swab to motion towards his penis, “then we can treat it and get rid of it for you. You remember the old saying?” he asked, tapping the swab like a conductor would tap a baton in mid air. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Remember? In your case, what you catch in Delta stays in Delta. Comprendes?”
Zack closed his eyes and winced as the swab was poked inside a cavity that he had never thought of as penetrable. Then followed the rest of the examination, which included throat, eyes, ears, finger nails, nasal cavity, every orifice he already had, and even new ones created by piercing holes in his veins, which according to Dr. Watson were flat and dehydrated. He also inspected Zack’s hair, which seemed an unnecessary step because the next thing he produced was a razor. When Zack sat up, it was as if he could still feel the swab inside of him, and even t
hough every inch of him had been investigated, that was without doubt the most traumatic part of the last hour. Zack was also convinced that it was unnecessary, based on his vow of abstinence from some of the more dubious pleasures in the sublevels of Delta Tower. Self reproach and punishment, it seemed, had some benefits.
“All that is left is to shave you. Top to toe. You can do it yourself if you like, or we can have Isobella do it for you.”
Dr. Watson held up the electric razor with a glint in his eye. The only thing missing was for him to buzz the razor into life. There was a slight and distant urge, as subtle as the flap of a butterfly’s wings, for Zack to allow Isobella to do it. It was the devil on his shoulder, the one that dares you to do something which you know to be wrong. What harm could it do? How many years had it been? Instead, he took the razor from Dr. Watson before saying, “No, it’s all right. I’ll do it myself.”
“Suit yourself,” Dr. Watson said, letting go of the razor. “Remember, head to toe,” he said, wagging his finger with every syllable of his words. “Even your face.” The doctor and Isobella left the room, leaving Zack alone. Just as he was about to drop the robe, Dr. Watson poked his head back round the door and said, “And there is a mirror there for you to see properly, and a set of clothes on top of the desk. Once you are done, dress and come through, got it?”
Zack nodded, and once the door was closed he took the razor to his left leg. His hair was dense and forest-like, and the head of the electric razor easily clogged up with the curly wire-like hairs. He had to stop several times to clean the blade before he had even finished the first leg. He stared at himself in the mirror, finding it strange at how easy it was to see himself here. He hadn’t seen his own body in full like this since the day of the bombing. He had seen fragments of himself in reflective surfaces; in the shard of broken mirror that hung by his washing pot, the dirty glass of the office cubicles, and the dimpled metal of the tables, which gave him an elephant man reflection. The mental image he had of himself was old, and seeing himself in full was like looking at a character he didn’t recognise. It was as if he was a member of an Amazonian tribe infiltrated by man, seeing himself in a mirror for the first time. He remembered a documentary in which an anthropologist had spent days sitting on the edge of such a tribe, garnering their trust. He had produced all manner of items from a world they didn't understand. Items like a fork and a comb. The fork had ended up in the hair, the comb used to scratch at their skin. But nothing had caused more concern than the mirror. To see themselves for the first time, the only thing in their world that they had never seen properly or in full. To them it seemed much like a magic trick, voodoo from another world. In many respects, that's exactly what it was. The anthropologist watched them jump back in horror at the image of themselves, a replica person appearing from nowhere. For Zack there was no shock or fear. Rather, a gentle recognition that the person before him had become an alien. In Delta he had lost track of himself, to the point that when he was presented with his own image he didn’t really recognise it. Shaving the hair and eyebrows away completed the process of dehumanisation.
The Dawn: Omnibus edition (box set books 1-5) Page 15
