The Human Zoo

by Kolin Wood

  As predicted, the snarl began to creep over Teddy’s face. “Is that so?” he said, planting his hands firmly on his hips.

  Tanner started to speak, just as his head suddenly lolled heavily over to one side. “Don’t even think…” The room around him started to spin.

  He moved to stand, but his now-rubber legs crumpled disobediently beneath him and he crashed down awkwardly to the floor. Carpet tiles burned his face as it scuffed forwards, and he quickly found that he was unable to move his arms and legs. His mind raced, confused.

  The whiskey.

  The weight of his own body was restricting his breathing and, with all of his effort, he pushed, just managing to roll over onto his back. Above him, Teddy’s face came into view. He was smiling.

  ***

  Teddy stood over him, a double barrel shotgun hanging lazily over one arm. He opened the front of Tanner’s jacket and pushed the barrel of the gun into a bloody wet patch on the man’s side. So, he was injured. Behind him, Sal walked back into the room, flanked by the other two. All three of them were carrying weapons.

  “Sling him in the boiler room and post two of your best on the door,” Teddy said without looking around.

  There was little doubt that he would want him bound as soon as possible—if the rumours were true, that is. Sal nodded, bent over, and gripped Tanner’s arm.

  “And grab one of the Pit nurses to see to it that he is looked at,” Teddy continued, gesturing to the wound on his side. “I want him ready to fight as soon as possible.”

  Sal nodded silently again.

  Teddy watched as Tanner was rolled over onto his front and his wrists were tied tightly behind his back. The two henchmen then began to work at binding his legs. Finally, the three of them lifted the dead weight, panting as they made their way out of the door and down the stairs.

  Teddy, now alone in his office, considered the man. During their brief meeting, he had seen nothing overly impressive, but something inside told him that the whispers were right. There was a confidence there, an intensity that was unlike many that he came across in the New Capital. Most simply fell into line upon arrival, eager to please, naturally accepting the way of things. But not this one; not Tanner.

  When he’s thrown into the Pit with Krane he won’t have any choice anyway, he thought.

  The money for tickets alone would already be record breaking. After the scene in the market block, talk of the fight was already being hyped all around, in every bar and betting hall for miles. Whether or not Tanner had the goods was yet to be seen, but he certainly had some tools and no doubt the mind for it.

  Finally, a fight worthy of the Pit; this is what it was built for. The New Capital won’t know what’s hit it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Doyle scraped the bottom of the huge metal pan, digging for the last of the barely edible muck that passed as food these days, and tapped it carefully into a badly cleaned and chipped ceramic bowl. Nobody had fed the girls today, or even thought to, with most of the boys too busy getting drunk on the booze the General had released to them as a gesture of good will and community spirit. Christmas had come early he had said.

  Carefully, he balanced the four barely-full bowls onto an old, metal tray before backing out through the heavy, inward-swinging, fire door of the kitchen.

  He hated to show favouritism in times like these, but the simple fact of the matter was that there was very little he could do to help anybody, let alone all of them. The General would either kill him or banish him should any of the prison rules be purposefully broken, and that was not something that Doyle was willing to risk; at least, not just yet. The best he could do was to show those that he was capable of a small amount of compassion if and when the timing allowed it. But he knew that it was not enough.

  News of the New Capital had spread through the boys like wild-fire, even after the General had expressly stated that he wanted the information kept quiet until he had decided what the next course of action was to be. Of course, as with everything in this rotten community, any kind of expected loyalty was futile. On this occasion, it was Mitchel who had been the first to brag about some girl he had nearly grabbed, walking along a road lined with ‘fresh pickings’. His descriptions had led to a minor hysteria amongst the boys—some of them believing that there was a tree-lined avenue dotted with beautiful, scantily-clad women leading into the capital.

  But Doyle didn’t care for his rants. More girls was the last thing that the prison needed; it simply meant more mouths to feed and more buckets to empty. However, his interest had been peaked a little. A new society could mean a new beginning away from this place.

  He turned the corner into one wing of the holding cells. These were the older girls, those lesser visited, and as such, the ones kept farther from the bustle of the main prison areas. This particular patch had affectionately become known as ‘mum’s freezer’ on account of the unwanted produce left at the bottom of it. He stopped by a door, set down the bowls and reached in his pocket for the keys.

  This first room was pitch dark; rancid fumes, similar to those found in the main latrine of the boys’ sleeping quarters, hung thick in the air. The bucket in the corner was overflowing and covered by a thin fabric in an obvious attempt to stem the flow a little, but one which had failed, judging by the puddle surrounding it on the floor. There were two beds, one empty, the other cloaked in shadow and piled high with blankets and clothing. Doyle walked over slowly, itching with some trepidation.

  The bed showed no signs of movement. He pulled back a first of layer blankets, and then a second. Nothing. He dug deeper until his fingertips touched soft flesh and he stopped, taking a breath before gently removing the final blanket. It was musty and decorated in a triangular, sharp-lined design.

  A woman’s face looked up at him. In the gloom, it was almost translucent and ghostly white like one of Dracula’s brides.

  “Gloria?” he said softly. “It’s me, Doyle.”

  Prodding carefully, he found an arm and stroked it. The skin prickled with gooseflesh. He breathed with relief at realising she was alive.

  The girl recoiled hard away from him, trying to bury herself deeper into her blanket tomb.

  “Gloria…” He said, adding a touch of authority to his tone. “It’s Doyle. I… I’m not here to hurt you. I brought you food. Sit up… please.”

  Doyle heard a low groan.

  He scrambled in his pocket, took out a fresh candle and a box of cook’s matches, and struck one. It ignited on the first try then, carefully, he lit the candle and set it down on the concrete desk by the head of the bed, allowing some wax to drip and hold it in place. The glow immediately changed the mood of the room, adding warmth which, however slight, made it seem just a little less grim and lonely.

  He stood, returning with the bowl of food, and sat back on the edge of the mattress.

  “Here,” he said.

  First a pair of thin arms appeared, and then a gaunt face with lank hair followed. The hair stuck up at the back and clung to the hollowness of her head at the front. She looked like one of the walking dead.

  “Hi,” he said, trying not to show the shock of what he saw as he held out the bowl.

  Gloria rubbed her eyes and yawned, looking at the food with disinterest.

  “Eat; you need it,” Doyle pushed, setting the bowl down in front of her on a thick fold of blanket.

  Tiredly and with apathy, Gloria took it and pushed the final cover away. Her painfully thin body showed angular through the material of her attire; the same slip-like nightie that was the common dress of the inmates at the prison.

  “Thanks,” she said finally as she scooped some of the cold gruel into her mouth, uncaring as it missed the mark and slopped messily down her chin.

  “You’re welcome,” Doyle replied, unsure of what else to say.

  It took her about five minutes to finish the meal, each mouthful eaten with added gusto as her appetite began to return. Finally, she lifted the bowl up to her face
to drink the final drops from the rim.

  Doyle watched every bite, happy that she was still well enough to ingest and survive.

  Gloria looked up. Some life had returned to her eyes and a little colour had flushed on her cheeks.

  “You have come to take me to him?” she asked, her voice cracked and defeated.

  Doyle reached out and took hold of her bony hand and noticed it was clammy on the palm.

  “No,” he said, giving the hand a gentle squeeze, aware of the frailness of her bones in his big, muscular grip. Gloria began to sob gently.

  Doyle sat awkwardly looking at her and holding her hand. The silence outside of the sobs surrounded him, pressing in from all sides.

  What could he possibly say? It’s ok, Gloria? You’ll be fine? He knew in his heart that it was not the case. She was barely alive now.

  From out of nowhere, and as if possessed, she threw her body forwards. Sharp, under-kept nails, clawed for his face.

  “Then kill me, Doyle!” she screamed, her voice shrill, riding a wailing wave that haunted him to his core.

  Ducking to the side to avoid the wild, clutching hands, Doyle moved quickly and without thinking. He stepped back, gripped her around the waist, and pinned her onto the bed with his body weight.

  “Gloria… don’t!” he shouted at her, but it had no effect; the woman beneath him was now psychotic.

  “Kill me, you son of bitch!” she screamed at him. “Kill me, Doyle! Kill me!”

  The shrieking was now muffled as he pushed her down into the pile of blankets. Her body writhed in his grasp like a dying snake; her thin muscles rippling and sliding on her twig-like bones, almost child-like in his large hands. Trying his hardest not to hurt her, Doyle held on tight.

  “Please, stop,” he said, not loud enough to be heard. “Please, Gloria… stop.”

  The door, slightly ajar, was not more three metres away, and he glanced up at it as he struggled to hold her down. There was nothing he could do here, nothing to appease her torment or pain. What had he thought? That he could bring a bowl of cold food and bring an end to her suffering?

  Without any further thought, he pushed off form the bed and ran for the darkness beyond the door, craving the sanctity it offered. He pulled it closed behind him with a bang, ensuring the click of the lock. From within, the screams intensified, repeating his name over and over, louder and more desperate each time until they suddenly just stopped, once again bringing calm and quiet to the sparsely-inhabited corridor.

  His legs were shaky. He still had two rooms to visit and he was beginning to doubt whether it was a good idea at all. But he fought against it; he had to try. A voice somewhere inside him yelled ‘It’s Christmas’, and the irony made him smile. Christmas, indeed. With a deep breath, he gathered up the tray of remaining food and moved farther into the darkness.

  The next cell, far smaller than the first, was starker and more naturally lit by a large window on the east wall. From the hatch in the door, Doyle could see, even in the dying light, that its inhabitant was no longer present and he set the bowl down by the door. Perhaps somebody would return and see it, perhaps not. If Doc had ordered her to the surgery then… He tried to remove the thought. If that was indeed the case then there was nothing to be done for her.

  At the end of the corridor, a final door loomed out of the darkness. This one belonged to Juliana, the longest serving inmate in the prison. She was tough and resilient, and Doyle liked her. Sarah, her roommate, was prettier but timid and weak by comparison. The place had already done a pretty good job of chewing her up. She was lucky that she had Juliana as a cell mate, or it was debatable whether she would still be here.

  He set the two final bowls on the floor and reached for his keys, unlocking the door as quietly as possible in some small gesture of respect. Inside, the room was rancid like the others, and darker due to the lack of window. The lamp in the corridor allowed him only the faintest light by which to navigate. He moved to the table between the beds, swearing as he bumped his thighs on its edge. From his right pocket, he produced another candle and fumbled for the box of matches, quickly realising that he had left them on the table in Gloria’s room.

  “Balls” he cursed and turned back towards the door.

  “Sorry about this, big guy.” A voice came from the darkness to his left, and Doyle turned to face the source of the sound.

  He reeled back as a sharp pain consumed the side of his face and his vision burst in an explosion of white and red. Something then pushed behind his knees sending him falling backwards. He flailed and grabbed out but found nothing in the darkness. His head, unprotected and heavy, struck the cold, hard floor with a ringing thud that left his body warm. He felt like he was still falling but now he could not move. From somewhere far away, in the point of light on the black horizon, there were voices. He felt pressure on his neck, pushing down, restricting his breathing. Then he knew nothing more.

  ***

  Juliana held her foot down long enough to ensure he was out. She couldn’t be sure that she had not killed him. It had not been her intention, but it had been a risk she was willing to take. Sure, compared to the rest of the evil little fucks, Doyle was a positive gentleman, but he was still part of their twisted, little regime and that made him almost as bad, in her opinion.

  She reached down, grasped Sarah’s thin wrist with one hand and pulled her up from her knees. The plan to trip him over was something out of an old Three Stooges’ movie, but in the dark it had worked, albeit luckily.

  “Is he dead?” Sarah asked, her bottom lip trembling.

  “I don’t think so,” Juliana replied, showing no emotion as she bent down and reached for his head. “But if he is, it serves him right.”

  Her hand touched something tacky and hot, which she was sure was his blood, but she did not mention it. “Tie his legs; I’ll do the arms,” she said, tossing over some of the torn up strips of fabric they had prepared together several evenings before.

  Sitting on Juliana’s bed earlier, talking about overthrowing one the guards, had almost seemed like a suicide pact at the time. But the girls had resigned themselves to trying anyway, come what may. There was very little for them to lose. The fact that Doyle had come in alone and had been unable to see had been optimum conditions for an assault, and a stroke of luck which they were both fully aware of. Now, all of a sudden, there was once again a glimmer of hope.

  Juliana checked Doyle’s pockets, standing dismayed on finding that he had not been carrying any weapons or anything of use for an attack.

  “Shit,” she said quietly.

  “What is it?” Sarah asked, anxious as to the cause of the profanity.

  “Looks like we are gonna have to try and sneak our way out of here.”

  Juliana lit the candle that Doyle had brought in with her own stashed matches. Two bowls, each one half-full of cold food, lay before them on the table. For a brief moment, Juliana felt a pang of regret for having hurt somebody that had come in there with the sole intention of ensuring that they were fed, but she pushed the feeling aside as her stomach grumbled loudly. It had been two days since either of them had eaten anything and, as her adrenaline subsided, she remembered just how hungry she was.

  “Quickly, eat this,” she said, sliding a bowl over to Sarah. “This might be the last thing we get for a while.”

  Juliana picked up her own bowl, sniffing at its contents before shovelling them into her eager mouth with her spiny, filthy fingers. The food was cold and bland, but right then it tasted like an a la carte feast. She tried hard to chew each mouthful, as much to savour it as to benefit from its limited nutritional value, but found herself swallowing wantonly. Sarah followed her lead, and both of them did not stop until their bowls were empty.

  “Sarah, look at me,” Juliana said.

  Tears at the corner of the girl’s eyes glistened like mini jewels in the dim light. Juliana reached over the table and gripped both hands in her own. They were icy cold to the touch.

/>   “We are going to do this; you hear me, love?” She shook the hands, trying to instil a little life into her friend. She would need to find some fight inside her; otherwise both of them would die tonight.

  “We are going to get out of here, but we need to move and we need to think fast. Are you hearing me?”

  Sarah snapped from her trance. She nodded but said nothing, her greasy hair smeared over to one side of her face.

  “And if—WHEN the need calls for it, we’re going to have to fight back, okay?”

  She pulled, forcing Sarah’s face closer to her own so that she could look her dead in the eye.

  “You do not hesitate! Do you understand me lovely? Either you fight, or you die in here, rotting like trash in this room, flat on your back with these fucking animals.”

  Sarah took a deep breath, closing her eyes as if trying to focus some warrior chi.

  “That’s it. Good girl… breathe.”

  One thing Juliana knew for sure was that should they try to escape but ultimately fail, the General would dispose of them—probably on the scalping table in the infirmary with the kid who thought himself a doctor. The thought made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand up and a shiver run from the bottom to the very top of her spine. Failure was not an option. The two of them had to escape or die trying.

  Doyle’s keys lay in a messy bunch at her feet. She picked them up and moved to the doorway; the darkness beyond felt full of unknown terrors and violence. She looked first one way then the other, and then turned back to Sarah, motioning towards the corridor.

  “It’s time, love. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The crease that had become a regular feature of Pock’s forehead was causing it to ache as he walked and thought. The late summer nights had breathed a new life into the halls. Shouts and catcalls echoed in the dark, bouncing off the sparse, undecorated walls from all directions and adding to the feeling of disorientation. Where once he had blindly followed in willing subservience to his new leader, he now found himself questioning everything; something inside him had changed. He rounded a corner.