by TJ Martinell
“I’m glad you asked. The facility has residential rooms for all the patients. Depending on their needs and other considerations, the rooms may be large or small. Their diagnosis also plays a part in their treatment.”
“Ah, I see. And how does this work? I ask because although I am the deputy director, I know little of our facilities and am interested to learn after all these years.”
“Well, you’re speaking to the right person! I can’t tell you how much I love this place. It was everything I wanted when I obtained my license. And I understand you’re confusion. Technically, although the ISA is in control of supervising patients under their care, the Department for Behavioral Rehabilitation actually staffs and runs the facilities. The security, however, is sub-contracted through Malacoda Inc. That is why he wasn’t certain how to respond to your visit.”
“I see,” Cutman said. “I have heard of the DBR several times, though they are never mentioned when discussing the facilities.”
“Yes. Our director prefers we keep a low profile. Our primary concern is treating patients, not engaging in other matters. That’s best left to those who know best, wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course.”
“Anyways, when a patient first arrives they are evaluated based on our five-tier process we have formulated proven to determine the underlying psychological disorder in all but a handful of cases. I believe our rate is ninety five percent.”
“Then what happens?” I asked.
“Depending on the evaluation and diagnosis, the patient is prescribed medication and then provided with their residential space,” Dr. Vurgel said.
“And then what?” I asked.
“It really depends on the patient. Some of them respond immediately to our treatments and are released within weeks. We give them all a final evaluation and diagnosis, and they may be required to take some medication once they leave, but we ensure that they are under control and will no longer be a threat to anyone due to their psychological disorder.”
“How many have remained here indefinitely?”
She stopped and smiled at me in a manner that left me uncomfortable.
“My, my, my, you are an inquisitive person,” she said as she entered the security code for another door. The panel slid back and we walked through.
There were more patients, all held inside small living quarters behind thick glass panels. Some of them were sitting on their bed, looking up at us with their head in their hands. Other were working out or doing pushups and ignored us. But most them rushed at the glass when they saw us and pounded it with their hands and shouted at the top of their lungs, but the soundproof glass left them mute. We remained at a distance, but I regarded them with pity.
Dr. Vurgel stopped and studied one of the men who held his fist out at her, tears streaming down his cheeks as he screamed. His eyes were wide and red. None of it affected her, speaking even as the man inches away from her struck at the glass until his knuckles smeared blood on it.
Tom gestured at the screaming man again. “He doesn’t look like he’s on a drug.”
“He’s not,” Dr. Vurgel said. “He’s a part of a control group. This patient and the others in this section are here to see how a person with the same psychological disorder behaves compared to those who are given a select dosage. We then increase the dosage over time and observe any changes.”
Tom looked at the man behind the glass, his hand in his pocket. The man was panting like a wolf exhausted after a long chase, but still eager to sink its teeth into its prey. He was about to lunge out at the glass again, until he stopped and noticed Tom. There was nothing in his mannerisms that would have had an effect on the prisoner. Nevertheless, the prisoner suddenly he calmed down and returned to his bed, giving Dr. Vurgel one final glare as he put his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes.
Dr. Vurgel approached the glass and placed her hand against it and gasped.
“That is remarkable!” she exclaimed. “I’ve never seen such a dramatic response from a patient! Truly remarkable.”
She kept smiling at Tom until he suggested we keep going and get the prisoner. She took her time nodding and led us down another nondescript, lifeless corridor. The door snapped shut behind us and we came into a room with an elevator. She waved us inside and then told the program to take us to the lowest floor. The floor dropped momentarily beneath our feet and then we felt the tug of gravity as the elevator descended rapidly. We shifted around uncomfortably in our uniforms while Dr. Vurgel continued to admire Tom to the point where he turned away in annoyance.
“We’re going down to the ninth level,” she said. “This is where we keep the patients when they are not allowed to be up here. Some of them are quite dangerous, to themselves and others. We feel it is best not to take any chances.”
Seeing the curiosity in our faces, she sighed quietly and then spoke in a very convoluted fashion about how some patients were more well-spoken than others and possessed great eloquence that may or may not be the result of their psychological disorder and that they could possibly use those talents and skills to persuade other patients to not take their medication or behave in a manner conducive to the type of environment they were trying to create.
“We want them to believe that they have the power to change themselves, as long as they listen to instructions,” she said. “But some are unwilling to cooperate in any way.”
“And this patient is one of them?” I asked.
“I’m not familiar with his records, so I couldn’t say for certain, but I think it is safe to assume his conduct either here or on the outside made it very clear to the powers that be that he poses a real threat to our security. All the patients on the ninth level have been found to suffer from a severe form of anti-social personality disorder. It is somewhat of a tragedy. So many individuals with anti-social personal disorder, so many who could contribute positively to society who instead are constricted and trapped within their own mind. The mind is a very powerful thing. It can control the entire body and make the rest of it either work or not work.”
“Medication doesn’t work on them?” Tom asked curiously.
She took her time responding and by the time the elevator came to a gradually stop and the door opened she stepped out and spoke softly and said that they too were tested with experimental drugs but kept in a separate area when detoxing.
That’s when the cold hit me.
It was a frigid, bone-chilling cold. The air was like ice on our skin. The walls around us glistened with frost as we stopped and rubbed our arms in a feeble attempt to warm ourselves, our breaths now clouds pouring out of our mouths and nostrils. Only Dr. Vurgel remained undeterred by the abrupt drop in temperature, pausing merely to button up her coat.
Through a short hallway we turned and found a small room with large racks on the walls and rifles stacked on them and a crate of ammunition and riot shields. A guard dressed from head to foot in a long overcoat sat at a chair eating on a sandwich when he saw Dr. Vurgel. He snapped to attention.
“Is the prisoner ready for delivery?” Cutman asked.
“Unfortunately, the guard who was supposed to get him called in sick today and his replacement hasn’t shown up,” the man said.
“Can’t you get him?”
The guard shook his head. “Sorry, sir, but that’s not a part of my duties. Mine is to keep this area secure.”
“Does it matter?”
“Afraid so. He was contracted with Malacoda. I’m with Serberus Securities.”
He turned to Dr. Vurgel. “You are free to collect the prisoner, though. I have to remain here.”
She offered him a look that discreetly exhibited her displeasure. “That’s not my duty, either.”
“I can get him,” Cutman said. “You needn’t worry yourself.”
“Oh, not at all! I wouldn’t want you to think we’re being poor hosts!”
Dr. Vurgel collected herself, then approached the t
hick steel door at the end of the room. She looked over at the guard as if to confirm he would not do it for her, and then she opened the door and waited for us to join her on the other side. As I walked through the doorway, still shivering underneath my uniform. I couldn’t believe how cold it was, as bitter as a clear, dark winter’s night.
As Tom and I walked together I whispered in his ear. Anything to take my mind off the cold.
“What did you do to that prisoner back there?” I asked.
“The hell if I know,” he admitted. “Maybe he knew we weren’t one of them. Maybe he knows we’re also just passing through.”
Then we entered a vast, dark room. Dr. Vurgel stopped us near a railing. She held onto it as she looked up at the blackened ceiling. Heavy lights hanging from the ceiling flickered to life, and like a hand throwing back curtains the light exposed the great breadth of the room.
And then we saw the cells.
Thousands of them, stretching beyond sight. They were above me and below me, to my left and to my right, behind me and in front of me. In every single cell a man or woman stood in front of a glass wall, screaming and shouting as if the totality of their grief and hardship and suffering united under a single cry for deliverance. Yet because of the soundproof glass all we heard was the sound of their silence.
But what a silence! It was louder than any roar of thunder, any crash of waves against the shore, any animal cry in the wild. No force of nature could compare. I could not hear them with my ears, but as I gazed at them, I realized I was standing witness to a great and vast testament to mankind’s capacity to do evil. I stared at the living evidence of things which I had been educated, conditioned to believe, we had evolved above committing. I saw the product of a civilization that had moved beyond its civilized state.
Dr. Vurgel viewed the cells with a sense of pride and achievement, as though they were cloisters for the devoted, the noiselessness arising not from suppression of speech but admirable dedication to a vow of silence.
Cutman didn’t move, couldn’t take his eyes away from the cells as he looked into the eyes of the prisoners. Most of them men, and all their faces expressed a profound hatred and bitterness. They all regarded Cutman like a jury condemning the defendant for a crime which they had long ago determined he had committed. It was a trial, I imagined, they had never been given the luxury of enjoying before arriving here. No doubt Cutman had been directly involved in the arrest and imprisonment of many who now stared back at him. They couldn’t touch him, but the passage of time had not dimmed their bitterness or the recollection of who was responsible for their miseries.
Jean stayed at a distance, moving slowly like one would to the gallows or the executioner’s block. Her cheeks were a pale red, the rest of her complexion ashen white.
“What is this place, Roy?” she asked.
“Hell.”
“Hell is for the guilty. Not the innocent.”
Dr. Vurgel scanned the cells on the first of the three floors on the left side. She came to one of the cells and had the door slide back into the wall. She then called us forward. My heart suddenly labored behind my ribs. I found myself breathing fast, uncontrollably fast. A vein in my neck throbbed and a metallic taste in my mouth intensified.
It seemed to take my father forever to emerge from his cell. Each second transpired so slowly I could fit an hour’s worth of thoughts into it, revisiting the thousands of different versions of my reunion with my father and the exact details I had envisioned and how they compared to what was occurring.
I felt Jean’s small hand briefly squeeze mine. Before I could look at her she had already stepped away. I exhaled and brought my chest up and readied myself for when I would look him in the eye for the first time in two years. I kept thinking of what his appearance would be and if he had changed much and what if I didn’t recognize him and what if he didn’t recognize me?
Cutman and Tom entered the cell. They were inside only for a few seconds, yet when they emerged I had half-convinced myself something had happened to them.
They had my father between the two of them. He appeared unconscious, his legs dragging limply across the floor. He wore the prisoner’s scarlet uniform. His appearance was uncannily similar to the night I had last seen him.
Had I not known better, I might have thought he had simply changed clothes in the past year. His face was shaved, his hair trimmed and his complexion no paler than before. He seemed fit and well-fed.
It was a farce of civility, for I knew right away he was not only drugged at that moment, but that had spent most of his time while incarcerated in a coerced stupor. His hazy eyes roamed aimlessly like ships tossed on stormy waves, unable to fix themselves on anything secure. His mouth voicelessly articulated incoherent babble.
Tom struggled to keep him up, forced to bear most of his weight since Cutman lacked the vigor. He looked at me, then over my shoulder in terror.
Before even looking, I knew what I would find.
Straining to see her in the haze of dimmed lights and frigid air, I saw her knelt near the end of the cell block, her head pressed against one of the cells. Her small hands were held up towards the glass as her cries echoed through the room like a multitude of banshees. Dr. Vurgel approached her, but kept a distance, her eyebrows knitted as she scrutinized Jean’s behavior like she was a newly discovered creature to be observed.
Tom’s hands moved towards the bottom of his shirt where he kept his gun. It wasn’t obvious who his intended victim was, Dr. Vurgel or Jean. Shooting Jean wouldn’t change anything, and killing the doctor would make our escape needlessly complicated.
Pushing his hand away from his side, I situated myself between Tom and the two women, then walked towards Jean to see what it was that had caused her to snap. I also realized if she didn’t get a hold of herself Tom might silence her for good. Privately, I thought it was all a bluff, but there was no point in testing his resolve.
Standing above Jean, I crouched down and looked at the man on the other side of glass. He was short, like Jean. The most striking about him was his long flowing beard covering his entire face except for his nose, mouth, and eyes. His solemn frown conveyed a sense of piety. He hands, also small like Jeans, were calloused and stained and marked by clear signs of arthritis. He had them resting on the glass where Jean held hers, still heaving violently. She held her breath, then began calling to him in a loud voice.
“Papa! Papa! I never thought I would see you again!”
One of his hands moved off the glass. All but one of the bony fingers curled as he pointed at her clothes, at the ISA insignia.
Another scream resonated through the room as she ripped off both patches and tossed them aside.
“No, Papa! I am not one of them! I never told them anything!”
The man looked down at her as she wept like a little child. He then turned to me. If his identity was to be determined by the sincerity of her faith in who he was, then it was without question her father. Clawing at the glass until her hands bled, unabashed tears covering her face, there was no room for anything other than total conviction in her heart as to the bond between herself and the man behind the glass.
But it was a misplaced faith.
Other than their similar height, the man shared none of her traits. His high cheekbones and round face sharply contrasted with her defined features and pointed chin. Dark blue eyes looked back at Jean, lacking her sense of familiarity. He reached out to her not as with the affectionate of a father reunited with a long-lost child, but in desperation as a man who perhaps had a daughter of his own and longed to see her as Jean longed to see her father.
Slowly, he mouthed words with his pale, cracked lips.
“Go.”
“I will not leave you!” she insisted. “I will not leave you! I would rather die than leave you!”
Vurgel was coming. I tried to think up an excuse for her behavior, but what could I say or do? I tried to quiet Jean, but she pushe
d me away.
“That is enough,” Dr. Vurgel ordered. “You must step away from the patient now.”
Jean either ignored her or didn’t notice her. She pressed both hands against the glass as her tears silently trickled down her arm.
“Step away from the patient, now!” Dr. Vurgel repeated.
No response.
Breaking out of her calm demeanor, Dr. Vurgel violently grabbed Jean’s uniform and attempted to pull her up. Jean resisted, pushing her away. Hissing, Dr. Vurgel snatched at Jean’s hand and yanked her up. It seemed at first Jean would cooperate, but as she looked down at the man’s blued, bruised hands in his lap, she turned and struck the doctor in the face.
On the ground, she was stunned.
“How dare you hit me!”
Jean stood over her as she took out her small plastic handgun and aimed it at her heart.
“I want my father back!” she said, her face now flushed red. “Let him go, now!”
She didn’t reply, focused on using her Prizm to call for support.
Tom came and struck her in the back of the head. As she recovered, he ripped the Prizm off her head and placed it in a small plastic container and shoved it into his pocket. The immediate threat was gone.
Dr. Vurgel groaned and rubbed the side of her head, stumbling as she rose to her feet.
“Your deputy director will hear of this!” she said.
Tom rolled his eyes and brandished his plastic gun, shoving it against her face. He had had an abrupt change of heart, suddenly sharing Jean’s indignation.
“I said shut it, sister!” he said.
“What about my father?” Jean said. “We have to free him! I will not leave without him!”
Tom looked at me for my opinion. I was against it. It wasn’t her father, and we couldn’t bring one more person along. But if we didn’t she might not leave, or waste more time before she agreed.
Tom reluctantly took out the Prizm and ordered Dr. Vurgel to put it back on and open the cell.
“Do anything else and I’ll blow your head off,” he said.
“I can’t,” she declared. “I don’t have the authority.”
