Insylum

by Z. Rider

  “Come the fuck back here!”

  Silence.

  Saliva floods his mouth. He swallows to clear it. He gets himself twisted onto his back, his neck wrenched against the stupid gate. He puts his palms and knees against the ductwork above and pushes, lips drawn, neck taut. Panicked grunts come through his clenched teeth, but the panel doesn’t budge.

  He’s stuck.

  5

  gobackgobackgoback

  A woman’s scream cuts through the ceiling.

  I push away from the door A.J. disappeared through. I mean, I assume that’s where he went.

  Another thump lands somewhere up the hall.

  I don’t want to find out what the thump is or what it’s dragging that makes the scraping sound.

  I start down the corridor in the direction we’d been going, waving my arms in front of me so I don’t walk into anything. Blackness leans on my eyes. It creeps into my ears. The low whispers circle my head like mosquitoes. I want to find a corridor spurring off this one, something brings me around to another door, one that’s not locked, one that lets me get back to A.J.

  I don’t think he’s fucking with me—it’s not actually his style. He likes to be around to enjoy a joke. So that worries me: Where’d they take him? What’d they do to him?

  What will they do to me?

  That’s the question that makes my nerves run hot inside.

  Ssssscrape

  I meet up with a wall and turn the corner—it’s the wrong direction, the wrong fucking direction. Everything’s taking me farther away from where I’m trying to go. Honestly, I care a little less about what might be happening to A.J. than I do the fact that I’m all alone. In the dark. Lost. And I didn’t even want to be here in the first place.

  I hate this.

  Gray smoke hangs heavy along the floor. It’s the only thing I can see in the darkness, its thickness, its sluggish swirling as I push my shins through it.

  My fingers brush along the walls, and they bump over warm metal pipes, one after another, like that organ in Phantom of the Opera.

  The gray fog comes from openings at the bottoms of the pipes, a foot or so off the floor.

  With my hands in front of me again, I walk three steps, and spiderwebs spread over my fingers. I wipe my hands on my shirt, still pushing forward. Threads cling cool on my cheek. I spare a hand to rub them away.

  My brain says spiderwebs, and a new panic jerks through me: spiders. I claw my hair, heart slamming. I stumble into a pipe, still feeling for the fuckers. I don’t have a thing against spiders, but after the maggots, I don’t want shit crawling on me.

  I don’t feel any spiders.

  It doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better.

  Whispers brush my ears in circling snatches. A thump echoes behind me.

  Touching the warm pipes, I start moving again. My breaths are ragged, as loud as my stupid paper slippers.

  I am so tired of the blackness. It tightens my chest. Fear, the unknown, the anticipation. The never-endingness of it. I want to yell until my skull throbs.

  I want to stop, crouch, and cover my ears with my arms.

  I want this to be over.

  Thump

  It can’t be more than a dozen feet away.

  I can’t breathe. I try to suck in air, but my chest doesn’t expand. My legs are like lead.

  I clutch the pipes, the weight of my body heavy, dragging me down. My muscles are like sandbags, heavy and useless.

  I’m dead. I don’t know where the thought comes from, but the whispers seem to agree: dead dead dead. The side of my arm judders down the length of two of the pipes. My hair whispers along the metal; my temple bumps against it. My ass finds the floor, and one of my knees tips over until it leans on the pipes.

  The sssssscrape that follows the thump is so loud I can feel it in my teeth.

  I need to get my ass back up and run before that thing catches up with me.

  Gray fog swirls around my face.

  Dead dead dead, the whispers keep saying. They’re really convincing.

  All I can breathe is that gray smoke from the bottom of the pipes, like I’m leaning against the muffler end of a running car.

  The floor under my ass shakes with another thump.

  I can’t fucking sit here.

  Something’s coming.

  I can’t fucking sit here.

  It smells like the waiting room of the place I get my tires changed, acrid and sickening, and it’s cold. A shiver jerks through me.

  “You can do this.” My lips move weakly, but they’re numb at the same time, and there sure as fuck aren’t any actual words coming out.

  It’s a fucking funhouse. I can do this.

  I don’t want to do this. My head wants to stay right here, resting against the pipes.

  Sleepsleepsleep, the whispers say.

  Get the fuck up. It’s my thought, but A.J.’s voice. Good enough for me. Get the fuck up. I put a hand on the floor. A knee. I pull myself forward, head hanging, gray smoke sucking into my nostrils.

  Get the fuck up, A.J. tells me, and it sounds a little panicked at the edges. That’s what gets my legs moving, A.J.’s panic. Even if it’s not real, even if he’s not here—just that blade along the edge of his imaginary voice is enough to rattle my nerves. I can only remember hearing that cut in his tone once before.

  There’s nothing in the hallway but darkness, not even smoke. One hand in front of the other. My arms weigh a hundred pounds. It’s like moving barbells. I’m breathing air though. Air’s good. There’s fresh air down here.

  Come on, A.J. says in my head, and it’s like he’s pulling me along.

  Sssssscrape

  Come ON.

  My fingers stub into a wall. “Fuck,” I whisper. I run my palm up the wall.

  Not a wall after all.

  I grasp the doorknob, hoping it’s not locked because if it is, I’ve got nowhere to fucking go. This is the end of the line. I drag myself to my feet.

  A thump shakes the floor. The whispers whirl around my head—gobackgobackgoback.

  Jesus Christ, I am not going back.

  My scalp prickles like ants crawling over it.

  The handle turns. The door’s heavy. I grasp its edge to drag it open. Light spills through the crack. Squeezing myself between the door edge and the wall, I blink in the glow of fluorescents, then look over my shoulder where the light casts itself down the hallway. My shadow stretches huge down the middle of it.

  At the edge of the light’s reach, a shape emerges, more shadow than line, dragging itself along the floor, hauling itself out of the gray fog.

  THUMP

  Cherry Bomb Babe’s eyes gleam, her lower lids curving with her mouthless smile. Her head ducks as she heaves forward.

  I squeeze through the gap, my back scraping on the doorframe. Teeth gritting, I yank the door shut. Three bolts rattle on its backside. I slide all three home, fighting with the last against its tight fit.

  Panting, I turn.

  The whispers are gone.

  I’m in a bright corridor lined with plate glass windows on one side, four or five in a row, waist high and rising toward the ceiling. There aren’t any doors in that wall, just windows that don’t open. That’s fine with me. Anything in there’s going to have to go around somehow if it wants to get to me.

  The only way out, aside from the door at my back—I hear a thump through it now—is at the far end of the hall, an exit half open to another corridor.

  Beyond the windows, bulky machines burst with wires and tubes. Movement catches the edge of my vision. I fade back, wiping my damp palms on my pajama bottoms. Thick pleats of gathered drapes lean on the other side of the glass by my shoulder. I put my fingertips against the window and peek around the edge of cloth.

  The ssssscrape hisses through the door.

  I know I threw the bolts, but it doesn’t make me relax about it being right out there on the other side.

  I put more of my weight on the window, le
an another inch or two past the curtains. I need to see if it’s going to be possible to get out that far door without drawing attention to myself.

  First thing I see is a doctor in a white lab coat. I pull back out of sight.

  Hesitantly, I peek again.

  The doctor’s half turned away, saying something to a nurse. Her hair is the color of a bran muffin, and her thick shoulders test the seams of her starched white uniform. Something in her hand flashes silver under the lights. The way she leans forward to pass it to the doctor, there must be something between them, but I don’t see what yet.

  A thump comes, muffled on the other side of the door.

  I peek a little further around the curtain.

  An orderly passes behind the doctor and nurse, a big guy pushing his belly in front of him as he drags a thick cable along the floor.

  Shelves come up higher than the edge of the window I’m at, obscuring some of the view. I take a tentative step past the curtains.

  The whisper of my slippers is like a burst of birds’ wings in the bright hallway.

  I stop, holding my breath—blood throbbing in my ears.

  The doctor’s frown creases the corners of his eyes as he looks at something in his hands. His surgical mask heaves with his breath. The nurse places a stainless steel bowl on something between them. The orderly is on his knees—I can just see the top of his head, bent toward a machine.

  As I push nearer to the window, the operating table between the doctor and nurse comes into view, along with the man that’s strapped to it. The bottoms of his narrow feet are bare. Knobby ankles jut from his inmate pajama bottoms.

  The knob on the door I came through jiggles. I don’t know how. Cherry Bomb Babe’s wrapped in a straitjacket. My forehead goes hot at the thought she might have help out there, and I throw a glance at the three bolts, double-checking.

  Salty copper blossoms over my tongue as I stare at the knob, waiting for it to jiggle again. I realize I’m biting my lip.

  The knob stays still. I keep watching, holding my breath. At the same time, the windows drag at my attention. I want to know what’s going on in there.

  The sssscrape turns away from the door.

  A thump lands farther away.

  Another sssscrape, moving off.

  Slowly, I turn back to where the nurse is swabbing the patient’s forehead. His eyes are wet and wavering. His lips move, pleading. I can’t hear the words, but I recognize the expression.

  The ghost of my reflection grows in the window as I creep closer. I dart a look to the others to see if they notice. The doctor’s fashioning a leather strap into a band, manipulating it with long, thin fingers. A nest of wires leads from it, disappearing over the head of the bed. The orderly straightens from behind a machine dotted with knobs and analog indicators. The back of his neck is all bulges and folds. The man on the table, his lips say, Please, I’ll be good this time. His fingers pluck and pull at the sheets. Please, I’ll be good.

  The nurse drops the swab in the bowl on his chest and lifts it away.

  I can behave. I promise.

  I can just about hear the whisper that goes with the words, the thick vibration of voice that breaks through in promise.

  The orderly hauls a fat cable over the head end of the table.

  A sing-song giggle cascades past the exit at the end of the hall. I turn my eyes in time to see the flagging edge of a nightgown. Goose pimples rise down my arms, and I rub them as I look back into the other room.

  The nurse lifts the patient’s head. A monitor beeps, fast, tracking the man’s panic. White shows around his eyes. His attention darts from doctor to nurse and back, like he hopes one or the other will have a change of mind, a moment of mercy.

  The doctor tightens the leather band over the man’s temples.

  The nurse leans in. When she steps back, the man has a rubber bit in his grimacing mouth. His Adam’s apple bobs like a baby bird.

  The nurse turns her wrist to check her watch.

  The orderly steps a few feet away, drapes his hand on an unused IV pole.

  The doctor throws the lever on a machine. The air shimmies, raising the hairs on my arms. The needles in its indicators jump. The lights dim, even in the hall, turning the sheet on the gurney the color of tobacco stains. The patient’s limbs buck. The restraints whip taut. His fingers stretch. His toes flex. No one moves—the nurse with her head bent, the doctor with his gaze on the patient’s shuddering chest. The orderly stares at a point on the floor.

  I shift, uncomfortable—a little bored, even—but at least standing here in the light I don’t have to worry about anything, just watch the show.

  The seconds tick.

  The patient’s limbs patter the table.

  The orderly’s eyes rise slightly. I find myself watching them—then realize with a snap that he’s watching me. My chest goes heavy as an anvil. His eyes, black from edge to edge.

  I think of a crow suddenly—the stare both intent and aloof.

  Swallowing, with effort, I drag my eyes back to the patient, but I keep the orderly at the corner of my vision, in case he starts to do something more than watch me. I don’t think he will, but his regard is a hot itch on the side of my face.

  The patient’s head and hips and heels beat the table. Thin tendrils of smoke curl from his temples. Foam pools around the rubber bit and slops down the side of his face.

  I push short breaths through my nostrils. My nose wrinkles at the acrid tease of burning flesh.

  The doctor lets go of the contraption’s lever and snaps his arm to raise his sleeve. He tilts his head toward his watch.

  As smoke twists and rises from the patient, the nurse says something to the doctor.

  With a gesture akin to a shrug, he clasps the lever again and stands waiting.

  I’m antsy. It’s hard to keep still. I gulp back a swallow. My fingernails dig in my palms.

  Turn it off.

  An orange flicker dances from one of the electrodes.

  I cover my nose with the back of my arm, fighting a cough.

  Please turn it off.

  The man on the table goes rigid, his legs straining the restraints, his back arched, his neck corded. Then he drops, all at once. Thud.

  The monitor lets out a long, steady beep.

  The orderly looks up, ink-black orbs staring, trapping my eyes.

  With my arm over my nose, I back away.

  The movement catches the nurse’s attention—she turns her head. Her eyes are solid black too, her brow drawn. It’s not me she’s looking at but the orderly, and he pulls himself away to step up to the table, where he starts helping her unbuckle the restraints.

  I take another step back, my heart slamming.

  The doctor has the leather band from the guy’s head in his hand. He’s bundling its wires together. My back brushes the wall behind me, and I jerk at the touch, then let out a huff of relief. The stench of burning flesh hangs in the air. I cover my nose again, sliding my eyes toward the door I came through. When I look at the windows again, the orderly is loosening the chest restraint. The doctor is gone—a door in the far wall hangs open. The nurse scratches notes on a chart.

  The orderly walks away, tossing a leather restraint over his shoulder.

  I’m just about to turn when a sharp gasp cuts through the quiet.

  The man on the gurney sits bolt upright, like his airplane seat just popped out of the reclined position. The nurse’s arms fly up, pen in one hand, clipboard barely hanging on in the other.

  The man’s eyes are black gulfs. His mouth is a dark, moaning tunnel.

  The lights overhead zap and flicker.

  As he sweeps his legs over the edge of the table, I turn sharply. My heart pounds. My chest heaves. The half-open door at the end of the hall is six, then four, then two feet away.

  Instrument trays clatter to the floor. Equipment crashes. There’s yelling, a scream, commotion. I walk faster, straight through the door, shoving it closed without looking bac
k at it. I don’t even stop to pick a direction, just fucking keep walking.

  The place is becoming more like a hospital—vinyl flooring, gray coving skirting the bottoms of pale green walls. I breathe hard. The place smells like bleach and singed flesh.

  My throat is so dry it clicks when I swallow.

  When I come to a swinging door, I shove through to a shadowy corridor.

  It was just a show. They’re actors with contact lenses. It’s no big deal.

  I would have preferred to have watched it with A.J. though. Just to have someone to break the tension with afterward: Did you see that shit? Their eyes, man. Right? And the guy on the gurney?

  Somewhere a girl’s voice yells, “Roger!”

  She’s close, wherever she is, and it makes me think of the girl outside, Kate. She and her boyfriend wouldn’t be too far ahead. I could run across them. Safety in numbers. I’d really like some numbers right now.

  The girl’s voice pleads—“No, no, no. Don’t, please, don’t”—before it falls into sobs.

  I’ve totally lost any sense of how to get to where A.J. might have wound up. My jaw’s tight, my scalp’s tight. I kind of just want this to be over already. I turn at the end of a short hallway, as a “NO!” from the girl cuts through a wall.

  Short bursts of air come through my nostrils.

  I’d really like to be out of here already.

  A door ahead has a window set in it. Not like little shuttered windows in that first area we came to, more like a classroom door. “Please don’t, please don’t” comes through it, the girl’s voice, thick and frightened.

  My fingers twitch. I’m standing in the middle of the hallway, wondering if I should bother to look or just stride on by, head down. Skip this attraction. I think I’ve probably seen enough attractions for the night.

  “Roger, wake up, baby. Roger, please.”

  What if it is Kate and her boyfriend though? What if they’re in trouble? What if something’s gone wrong? Not, like, it turns out the place really does kill people or something, but what if Roger fell and hit his head? Or one of the props malfunctioned and knocked him unconscious?