Hell and Gone ch-2

by Duane Swierczynski

  “You’re all okay with this, right? Good.”

  And with that, he wrapped the fingers of both hands firmly around the edge of the door.

  “Cover me.”

  With almost superhuman strength, Archie wrenched open the door and dove in.

  But the guards were ready for him.

  The Prisonmaster told X-Ray:

  “Under the table. Pull up the tile. Use any key to unlock them. Do it now.”

  X-Ray quickly unlocked two weapons, keeping one for himself and passing the other to Whiskey. Now each of them had a device that resembled an electrified barbecue fork. The two prongs could be inserted deep into tissue and deliver a shock that was beyond any human being’s threshold of pain. Instant bodily shutdown.

  Archie charged straight at them.

  Whiskey and X-Ray braced themselves, weapons behind their backs.

  They did not relish this moment.

  They knew the devices in their hands could potentially kill the prisoners, and they did not consider themselves to be killers.

  In fact, before they were brought to this place, they were considered heroes.

  Whiskey’s real name was Mathilde Aslanides, and she’d made a career out of keeping people from harm. If your name appeared on a hit list, and the authorities failed or refused to protect you, Mathilde would. She knew how to hide, she knew how to fight, and until a team of vengeful assassins cornered her in a nasty Brazilian favela, she had helped save the lives of more than one hundred people. Her life was about preventing death, not becoming its agent.

  In his former life, X-Ray worked on the flip side, helping people after their deaths. Under his real name—Lucas Dabrock—X-Ray was an expert at determining the real cause of any given death—not just what presented on the surface, not what the killers wanted you to think. If he was unable to prevent a death, then at least he could find and help punish those responsible—the ones who thought they could get away with it. Dabrock had been one of the most brilliant and sought-after pathologists in the world…until his enemies had conspired to bring him here, to this place of madness.

  Now X-Ray held his weapon steady, knowing exactly where he needed to stab in order to take down the prisoner who was coming at them full bore.

  At the last moment Archie dropped straight down and executed a kicking spin that knocked both guards off their feet.

  In the confused tangle of bodies Archie stayed focused enough to grab one electrified barbecue fork, and, in a smooth efficient motion, plunge it into X-Ray’s testicles. X-Ray’s mouth made an O. Archie seized the other electrified barbecue fork just as Whiskey was about to plunge it into his heart. Whiskey was smart, determined, and excellent in battle. But she did not have Archie’s upper-arm strength. It was not a matter of skill; this was down to muscle. And Archie was able to turn the fork around and jab it between Whiskey’s breasts.

  He triggered both electrified barbecue forks at the same moment. Both guards screamed, almost in harmony, albeit off-key.

  Archie dropped the forks, scrambled up from the floor, and immediately began jogging toward the elevator vestibule.

  Both X-Ray and Whiskey made a halfhearted effort to scramble after their prisoner, but they were in too much pain to move. Archie slammed the elevator-cage door shut. The guards screamed in terror. They knew what this meant.

  This was death for all of them!

  Archie smiled, gave him them the finger, then began to ascend.

  Hardie heard the creaking, throbbing mechanism of the ancient elevator system reverberate throughout the entire facility, the screams and moans of the guards.

  So this was how it was going to end.

  Who was Hardie kidding? For him, everything had ended three years and God knows how many months ago—when he let Nate Parish and his family die, and when he’d survived by some quirk of medical fate. All this time he’d been a walking dead man.

  A guy like Archie would go out there and punish the wicked better than any of them could.

  Better than he could.

  Archie kind of felt bad about what was about to happen.

  Still, this was the absolute right thing to do. He was their best shot because Archie was a born survivor, extremely good at waiting until the right opportunity presented itself…then seizing it. He’d been waiting for such an opportunity ever since he’d been dropped into this infernal place. Now the chance was here, and he’d taken it. What rational being could blame him?

  Still, innocent people were going to die. They had consented to the sacrifice; there was nothing he could do about it.

  Archie couldn’t remember exactly how long he’d been here. Not as long as the others, certainly. He kept quiet, didn’t let the despair and chatter of the others affect him. That was key. Keeping your mind straight, tuning out the rest of the world’s clutter.

  That was why he was still sane, and why he was getting out.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the elevator ground to a noisy halt. He pulled aside the door, stepped into the vestibule. Archie reached for the knob. A small voice in his head, the one he never listened to, told him: It’s going to be locked. Archie twisted the knob. Unlocked. Archie smiled. The little voice, that annoying ghost of self-doubt, was always wrong. He was glad he hadn’t let the little voice get the best of him during his long stay. That little voice would drive you mad if you weren’t careful.

  The doorway led to the room he dimly remembered from when he was first brought here. Table, chairs. That’s right. He’d woken up handcuffed to a chair. Someone had walked in and explained the deal to him. From that very first moment, Archie started waiting for the right opportunity.

  Archie walked across the room and opened the second door, which led to a small room—another vestibule, only this one was made of steel. A fancy elevator, perhaps? Holding the door, he looked behind it for any possible control panel. No buttons. Maybe this was a safe room, meant to protect the occupant. After all, the person who had explained things to him had to have left this room alive, right? Archie closed the door behind him.

  The little voice inside his head screamed at him: You’re a fool! Archie told the voice to shut up and not bother him anymore.

  But there were no buttons. No secret switches. No options. No nothing. Another few minutes of searching, first calm, then frantic, led him to an unmistakable conclusion. This box led nowhere.

  For the first time in his life, Archie Elder felt true despair.

  Everyone in the facility waited for their deaths. Archie wouldn’t waste time; he would leave as soon as possible. The only questions now were: How would they die? Gas? Electricity? Undetectable poison? A bomb? Hidden guns? And how long before it happened?

  But then a very surprising thing happened.

  Nothing.

  Death did not come down from above. No alarms, no hidden machine guns, no sarin gas, no flooding water…nothing at all. No sound at all.

  Until there was suddenly a loud mechanical POP, a fat spark jumping a circuit.

  The elevator whirred back to life. The cage was coming back down. Hardie didn’t understand until he saw Archie, head hung low, shuffling back into the delivery room.

  “There’s no way out,” he said softly. “Just a dead end, sealed shut.”

  Everyone in the room, prisoners and guards alike, looked at each other, the same realization dawning on them at the same moment.

  There was no death mechanism.

  They were all prisoners here.

  24

  It’s obvious what they’re after—an economy of man-power—or devil-power, if you prefer. The same idea as in the cafeteria, where customers serve themselves.

  —Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit

  THE PRISONMASTER LISTENED…and waited. He had his finger on the trigger, but he didn’t want to deploy the gas until the last possible moment.

  So they’d discovered the truth about the so-called death mechanism. Other groups of prisoners had figured it out, too. But not many. The death mecha
nism was the one lie that every inmate believed at face value. Over the years, some had tried to work their way up the elevator shaft to see if they could disable the nonexistent mechanism, but such efforts were always thwarted by the guards, sworn to uphold their duty.

  Twice before, an inmate had made it up to the waiting room, intent on escape, knowing that he was damning everyone else to death.

  And the result was the same: the confused inmate took the elevator back down to the main floor to report his horrifying discovery:

  There is no way out!

  The first time it happened, the guards reasserted their authority and slipped back into their roles. So did the prisoners, for that matter. After a while the threat of the death mechanism was a nonissue; the idea of no escape was simply their new reality. Later they were all put to death, but that was only because they had all outlived their usefulness, and the site needed to be prepared for new inmates.

  The second time, however, the guards and prisoners refused to accept this, and had to be gassed, their roles reassigned.

  Which would it be this time?

  Yankee recovered his electric baton and stood up. “This changes nothing. We’re bringing you back to your cells. Come on, X-Ray, Whiskey. Let’s go.”

  His fellow guards, however, didn’t move. They were still processing the situation.

  What was wrong with these people?

  All this time they had been sure of one rule: whoever left the facility basically handed everyone else a death sentence. No matter how bad it got, how much the crappy food or isolation or torture drove you out of your skull, there was that one constant: if you leave, innocent people will suffer and die.

  This was still the case…

  …wasn’t it?

  Yankee’s name in the real world had been Jed Ayres, and he’d been a bartender, a soldier, a cop, and finally a mercenary and recovery specialist who loved to right wrongs. He was a man obsessed with law and order, and it was a dark day when official law broke down for him and he swore to uphold a higher law and assist those screwed by the system. For years he’d done just that, first in St. Louis, then throughout the Midwest. Jed had been great at it, too—until the rainy morning they ran his truck off the road, pried him out of the wreckage, and he woke up here as the warden of this friggin’ place.

  The only thing that consoled Jed was that he could still do good, still uphold the law…even in hell.

  It came to Hardie all at once. He flashed back to what Mann had told him in the waiting room:

  I think you’re going to find working with them extremely rewarding. I mean, they’re all truly good people. Heroes, really.

  Yes, she had been fucking with him. Sticking it in and twisting a little. But she’d also been telling him the truth.

  It was the Prisonmaster who’d been lying to them.

  Feeding them bad information.

  Turning them against each other.

  Why?

  Because this was a prison for good guys.

  All of them, played off against each other endlessly. Keeping each other in check. Keeping them from meddling in the affairs of the Accident People in the outside world. One by one they were sent down here. Sorted. You ended up either as a guard or as a prisoner. The lines were drawn; the struggle never ending. Because you couldn’t just have eight or nine good guys holed up in one place. Not without them teaming up and trying to mount an escape. You had to divide them. Push them. Break them. And then, when things settled into a pattern, you could shake the insect jar again and watch them all scramble for safety.

  And somewhere, there was one psychotic kid holding the mayonnaise jar.

  The Prisonmaster.

  He was the only one who told them things, pushed them in certain directions. He’d tried it with Hardie, with his bogus crap about trying to help him escape, and bringing a “moral rectitude” to the facility.

  The Prisonmaster had been playing him; he had been playing all of them.

  And he was probably listening to them right now.

  Hardie recovered his cane from the floor and used it to climb to his feet, pulling himself up the shaft one badly shaking hand at a time until he was standing. None of the guards moved to stop him. They stared at him with faraway expressions in their eyes.

  “My name is Charlie Hardie. I messed with the wrong people, and they sent me down here as punishment. Probably the same for all of you, too. Think about it. Why are we were? What are we guilty of? Cameron and Victor used to be partners in the outside world. What lies has the Prisonmaster been feeding them? Feeding all of us? What proof do we have of anything? We all thought that escaping would kill the rest of us. None of us could bring ourselves to take that exit, because none of us could stand the thought of innocent blood on our hands. It’s a line we refused to cross. And it’s been used against us this whole time. Well, fuck that. There is a way out of here, but the only way we’re going to find it is if we team up and tear this place apart brick by brick.”

  Hardie looked around at his fellow prisoners and realized that he was acting like a leader after all. Channeling his inner Nate Parish.

  Yankee said, “Shut up. You’re going back to your cell.”

  So that’s how it will be this time, the Prisonmaster thought.

  Split decision.

  Well, he supposed he saw it coming. The latest addition to the facility, Charles D. Hardie, was simply too combustible. The connection between Hardie and that missing-persons investigator, Eve Bell, was enough to tip it over the edge. He would have to speak to his employers about that once again. The facility worked best when the subjects did not know each other and had no preexisting history.

  That way, you could convince one man (Archie, the Brit) that another man (Lucas Dabrock, the German doctor known as X-Ray) was actually his archnemesis. And vice versa.

  Or you could convince a good old law-and-order man like Jed Ayres that he’d been charged with keeping an eye on the notorious Charlie Hardie, the man who’d killed beautiful actress Lane Madden, strangling her to death in a dumpy Hollywood hotel one summer evening.

  Dealing with those two Australian subjects—former partners, no less!—had been a true challenge. It had taken much effort to drive a wedge between them, but it was the only choice, really. The facility would break down without constant conflict.

  Well, the Prisonmaster realized it was time to hit the reset button. Rebuild the experiment from the ground up once again.

  Maybe this time he’d demand permission to dispose of one of the Australians. Pin the botched escape attempt on him.

  And perhaps maybe this time he would mix among the population as a guard. Playing the role of a prisoner was always satisfying…right up until the moment it wasn’t.

  He whispered softly into the microphone mounted inside his metal mask:

  “Good-bye.”

  Hardie saw it happening. One by one, a message from the Prisonmaster, delivered individually to the guards’ earbuds. Heads turned quickly; hands went to ears. Yankee, then X-Ray, then finally Whiskey.

  “What is it?” Hardie asked.

  Yankee looked at him. “He said…good-bye?”

  Whiskey nodded. “Oui,” she said. “Au revoir.”

  * * *

  Next came the hissing from every air vent in the facility.

  To Hardie, it was precisely like that moment in a nightmare when you realize that everything is not going to be all right.

  That you are falling toward an unforgiving piece of concrete and you are not going to be rescued.

  Your body is going to hit the ground and your blood will explode out of your useless body.

  There is nothing you can do about it. There is no one to save you.

  Hardie and his fellow inmates—because surely they were all inmates now—scrambled out of the room. No thoughts of fighting now; it was time for flight.

  And the gas—visible as a fine, foglike mist—followed them.

  Hardie nearly tripped over his cane on the w
ay out of the room. He grabbed it, figuring if things got really bad, maybe he could shock himself unconscious to avoid the choking and vomiting and dying.

  Stop it. Keep your head. There’s an escape out of this prison, right, Batman? You’ve just got to come up with it right now. In the next two seconds.

  Or you and everyone in this room will DIE.

  (No pressure.)

  The other inmates began to drop—that is, the ones who weren’t already knocked unconscious. Hardie felt something tug at the back of his jacket. Eve. Pulling him toward her.

  Hardie would have asked Eve what she was doing, but he didn’t dare open his mouth. Instead he stumbled behind her, leg-cane, leg-cane, trying to keep up, feeling like an asshole because she had to practically drag him along the row of cells. There was retching and coughing all around them. Hardie stumbled. Eve slipped her hands under his arms, pulled him back to his feet. He could hear her grunting. He screamed at his legs to work, already. Then they were moving again, across the cement floor. The gas was spreading. Hardie’s brain went woozy. Where was she leading him?

  When Hardie heard the squeaky creaking of the door, he finally got it. The showers.

  He felt the patter of hard water drops against his suit jacket, Eve’s hands over his back, his chest. Hardie did the same, brushing her back, her shoulders, her breasts, feeling strange for touching her, even in this situation.

  You couldn’t consider this adultery—not in a secret prison where you were desperately trying not to die…could you?

  Kendra, I can explain everything.

  Hardie’s head felt dizzy, as if someone were choking him and cutting off the supply of blood to his brain. He started to panic and stopped brushing Eve and started clutching at his chest, then pounding his breastbone, as if he could simply will his heart to continue to pump despite what the poison gas was telling it to do. He dropped to his knees, facing the drain, and some part of his brain that was still firing neurons—

  (Find the way out yet, Batman?)

  —thought it almost funny, staring into a drain as you are circling it…

  And then it happened.

  He thought of the way out.