Criminal Zoo

by Sean McDaniel

  Push the button! One year! You can survive one fucking year!

  Could I? Could I survive one year in the Criminal Zoo? Being tortured daily? But if I was being tortured, then it would be a living person in front of me doing it. A living person talking to me. Touching me. And even if they were intent on harming me, they were still there because of me. Showing me attention. Proving I existed. And their very presence, there in front of me, for me, because of me—I am the reason for the season—would bring me back to life. In my pain there would be life!

  Push the button, survive the Zoo, and become a God in prison.

  The governor was smart. So very fucking smart. He made you disappear, and the only way back was through pain. He made you choose pain instead of nothingness.

  “Brilliant, Mr. Gov!” I cried out. “Bravo, you sick fuck!”

  Push the damn button!

  “Fuck!” I screamed as loud as I could.

  I stood up, swayed, slid toward the button. Reached out. Pulled my hand back.

  You want to exist! Push the button!

  “No! I don’t want to hurt!”

  To hurt is to feel! To feel is to live! Push the button to live!

  I screamed. Screamed with everything I had. Screamed until I couldn’t scream anymore. And then, vision blurred by tears, I reached for the button.

  I pushed it.

  Exhibit CZ1013

  The governor’s crusade for the most ruthless method of punishment resulted in the Criminal Zoo. Of which I am an exhibit. That’s what we’re called in here, “exhibits.” Not “inmates,” like we’re people, but exhibits, like we’re animals. I don’t have a name anymore—not according to these guys, anyway. I speak my name out loud to keep it alive. To hear the sound of it. But I am the only one. I do not remember the last time I heard my name spoken by another. It was before the Confinement Center. Probably as I was being sentenced by the judge.

  Samuel Bradbury is gone. Dead and buried under six feet of hate. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Exhibit CZ1013.

  But, whether man or animal, I exist. I feel. I am alive. My first day in the Zoo, I saw people. I heard their voices. I was surrounded by sounds, by smells. I was no longer nothing. I was something. I had re-entered the known world. For a few beautiful minutes, everything was fantastic. And then the guards, wearing their stupid maroon jumpsuits and referring to themselves as “zookeepers,” took me through “orientation.”

  The keepers are mean sons of bitches assigned to our enclosures to keep an eye on us. They know everything about us. We know nothing about them. Who they are. Where they come from. I can only guess, but I’m going to say maybe former military. Or cops. Or hell, mafia hitmen would be more fitting. They are serious assholes with no regard for our well-being.

  Orientation is just another word for Hell on Earth. Every new exhibit is required to take a hit from the standard weapon used by the keepers. The weapon reminds me of a cattle prod.

  “What we got here, One-Zero-One-Three, is a Zap-stick, with a capital Z!” My keeper held up a three-foot-long rod. To him, I wasn’t even an exhibit. I was nothing more than a four-digit number.

  The Zap-stick had a black rubber handle at one end and two rounded silver probes at the other. The shaft of the weapon was orange.

  “That’s Z for zinger, baby! As in, it delivers one hell of a zing!” He laughed. “Hell, if I wanted to burn your balls off, I could do it with this!”

  When the probes were pressed against the flesh—it also worked just fine through clothes—and a bright red button on the handle was pushed, the results were horrifying. It ensured the keeper had complete control of his exhibit, while his exhibit lost all control of his bladder and colon.

  “Your average stun gun,” the keeper said, “starts at around twenty to thirty thousand volts. The Zap-stick delivers one hundred fifty thousand volts, making the stun gun look like a child’s toy. But the amperage—that’s what kills ya, buddy—is pretty low. So, no, it ain’t gonna make you dead, but I guarantee it’ll knock your dick into the dirt for quite some time!” He followed with a laugh.

  I was restrained in what they called a “confinement chair.” The chair—a solid piece of hard plastic furniture bolted to the floor—featured thick leather straps fastened to the armrests, the front legs, and the back rest. It looked to be inspired by an electric chair, only without the metal skullcap. The chair’s sole purpose was to eliminate all movement on my part. It served its purpose well.

  The keeper pushed the probed end of the stick against my stomach. “When I press this little red button, you’re going to wish you were never born.”

  I was really starting to regret pushing the little red button back in the Confinement Center.

  “Wait! Please don’t!”

  He flinched. I squeezed my eyes shut.

  Nothing happened. After a few seconds, I opened my eyes and looked at him.

  “Gotcha!” He laughed. “You thought I was going to push the button, didn’t you? Oh, man, you shoulda seen the look on your face. Classic!”

  I stared at him a second. Relaxed slightly. “Yeah, I thought—”

  He pushed the button.

  The knockout punch hit me like a runaway truck. I woke up, unsure of how long I was out, my body wracked with excruciating spasms, every muscle knotted and fighting against the restraints, my underwear soiled. I’d never been in such pain.

  I struggled to speak. “Why…why’d you do that?”

  “I know, I know, that wasn’t fair, right? You didn’t do anything and I’m just being a bully,” the zookeeper said. “That’s what they all say. But you know what? I did it so you’d have the utmost respect for the Zap-stick. This bitch is for real, baby. Now, when I tell you to do something, you’ll do it, won’t you?”

  I guess I didn’t answer fast enough, because he hit me with a grin and then pressed the button again.

  The feeling of every muscle tearing away from my bones erased all other reality. I couldn’t move and could barely breathe. I tried to scream, but couldn’t push enough air from my lungs. I truly thought I was going to die right then and there.

  I wish I had.

  Father Calhoun’s Demise

  The zookeepers have to follow a “no firearms” rule inside our enclosures. The assholes in charge believe that if one of us ever overpowers a keeper and gets hold of a gun, we will kill as many people as possible while trying to escape. They’re right.

  But if we can only get hold of a Zap-stick, we can easily be stopped by the heavily armed security force, called the “Regulators,” that patrols the corridors, keeping the staff and visitors safe. They walk around in their black cargo pants, black army boots, and black T-shirts like their shit doesn’t stink. Each member of this terrorist hit team is armed with an assault rifle, a sidearm, a Taser, and a radio.

  Not long ago, they killed an exhibit during an attempted escape. I didn’t have a visitor that day and was trying to sleep—the only way to pass the time in here—when the ear-piercing sirens shattered the silence. I jump every time that Goddamned alarm sounds. Was the silence of the Confinement Center really so bad?

  My keeper told me about the event shortly after. He had a look of envy in his eyes as he detailed how the Regulators blew the old man away. “Had to be two dozen holes in that old bastard by the time they were done with him. Fuck, why do they get to have all the fun?”

  His name was Father Calhoun. He had molested numerous boys during three decades of service in the Pope’s pedophile brigade. From what I was told, the church had relocated him several times, trying to keep him out of trouble—or ahead of it. They were obviously trying like hell to keep him out of the headlines, too. They didn’t accomplish shit. A predator will stalk its prey, eventually acting on instinct and going for the kill. The scorpion will sting the frog, no matter how far across the river it is. Or where the church relocat
es it.

  The priest should have known that one day he would be held accountable for his actions. And that day finally came. He panicked when one of the children, his final victim, tried to run for help. The priest chased him down and struck him in the back of the head with a candleholder. Who needs Professor Plum? The priest, in the choir room, with the candlestick. The child died and the old man ended up here. The priest claimed he hadn’t meant to hurt the child. He only wanted to slow the lad down so he could comfort him.

  I was told of the old man’s presence in the Criminal Zoo several times. I was compared to him, to his wickedness. They tried to make me believe I was nothing better than a child-killing psycho. It made me sick to my stomach to even think about comparisons between me and the priest. I don’t touch little boy penises.

  The Blue-Hair’s Tears

  Today, I sit shackled to my confinement chair in front of yet another Level 2 visitor. Level 1 visitors, or “L1s,” are merely spectators, no threat to us. They come here to observe us like we’re zoo animals. But this zoo doesn’t allow cameras or recording devices of any kind. Still pictures and video are strictly prohibited. No cell phones, nothing. My keeper told me all visitors pass through full-body scanners like those at the airports. All electronic devices are immediately confiscated. The outside world en masse has never seen the horrors within these walls. Only those who pay to view us in person are privy to what goes on. This ensures that ticket prices stay high—ninety-nine dollars a head, says my keeper—and kills the possibility of public outrage upon footage of a Level 2 visit going viral.

  The people who pay Level 1 admittance don’t concern me. It’s the sick fucks paying the $299 ticket price, the ones who want personal interactions with us, the assholes who want to hurt us. The Level 2 visitors, or “L2s”—those are the ones who make me sick. They’re the ones feeding my nightmares.

  Right before my L2 entered the room, my keeper placed a pair of clear plastic goggles over my eyes. Look just like swim goggles. But these goggles aren’t meant to keep water out of my eyes. They’re meant to keep blood out.

  “Stupid, I know,” the keeper said while putting on the goggles. “If it were up to me, I’d let them cut out your fucking eyes.”

  The greatest contradiction in here is the concern for my protection while being tortured. Seriously? Eye goggles to protect my eyes while they carve into the flesh of my face?

  An L2 once complained to me that he had to read a Zoo-issued pamphlet detailing “proper protocol, techniques, and risk management while engaged in a Level two visit.”

  “They made me read the damn thing before I could come in here,” he said. “I had to sign a waiver stating that I read, understood, and accepted the rules applying to all Level two visits.” He first had to read the menu of available torture techniques, then had to declare his method of choice. Afterward, Zoo officials issued an educational booklet for that specific method. He laughed when he told me the booklet stated, “All possible safeguards have been put in place for you, the Level two visitor, and for your participating exhibit.”

  If this isn’t evidence that Zoo policy is strictly dictated by government oversight, nothing is. Bureaucratic bullshit at its finest.

  And get this: right after the goggles are put on, a mouth dam is inserted. I am not allowed to talk to the L2. Unless the L2 pays another fifty dollars for “conversational privileges” with the exhibit. Apparently the Zoo knows what it’s doing, because most of my L2s pay the fifty bucks. They want to hear how much pain I’m in.

  The L2 standing before me now is a frail old woman and, not counting the dark green coveralls, resembles an everyday grandma ready to bake some sugar cookies. But reality is warped in this place. In here, the church helper doesn’t pass around the collection tray, patiently waiting for donations; he comes to collect blood. The accountant doesn’t arrive to answer year-end questions; he comes to tax me in pain. And Grandma doesn’t come to bake cookies; she comes to carve into my flesh.

  The blue-hair is here to bury her pain underneath mine. That’s why they all come. She stares at me, gripping a small pocketknife. I can’t see the handle of the knife but I know what it looks like. Black plastic with tiny white print running down each side. The print reads Criminal Zoo. It’s the same knife they all bring. Though the stainless-steel blade is only one inch long, it might as well be a foot. It hurts just the same.

  The zookeeper stands behind Grandma. He is also dressed in coveralls—his are always the same ugly maroon. He wears white surgical gloves but nothing covers his all-black sneakers. He watches a moment, turns his eyes to his wristwatch. “Ma’am, you should get started. You have a time limit.” He reaches into a front pocket and pulls out a pair of latex gloves. He hands them to her. She pulls them on.

  Grandma turns to me. “So, Exhibit CZ One-Zero-One-Three, what’s it like in here?”

  “My name’s Samuel.” I don’t know her name. I never know any of their names or anything about them. She doesn’t know my name until I tell her. And even after I tell her, like all of them, she will refer to me only by my number. As she was instructed upon entrance to the Zoo.

  They come in, cause me harm—like it’s going to somehow ease their own misery—and then I usually never see them again. Once in a while, however, I have return visitors. They are the people I fear more than Satan himself.

  Hatred burns in this woman’s eyes. She stands before me in her stupid jumpsuit, booties, and surgical gloves as if the Zoo-issue apparel will shield her from the bad things she’s about to do. She’s just like every other warped L2.

  My wrists and ankles are firmly secured to the arms and legs of the confinement chair. I can do nothing, go nowhere. My keeper stands in the corner of the room, behind Grandma. The high-voltage Zap-stick leans against the wall beside the keeper, within quick reach if needed. I hate that Goddamned thing almost as much as I hate my keeper.

  “It’s always the same with you people,” I tell her. “Someone did something to you, or to someone you love. But I didn’t do it. Don’t become a part of the evil that exists in here. Go home and forget you ever paid money to get in here.”

  “Go home?” Grandma responds. “Sorry, dear, but I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. I paid way too much. I even had to skimp on my church tithing this month.”

  “It won’t take your pain away.”

  “How do you know?” she asks. Her eyes narrow. They are blue, probably sparkle in the sunlight. They don’t sparkle now. “I lost my daughter to a sick bastard like you.”

  “I’m a sick bastard? I’m not the one paying money to torture another human being.” I try to stay calm; try to use reason. “You’re the one holding the knife.”

  “I have a knife because you’re a monster.”

  “If you do this, you become the monster.” I stare at her, unblinking.

  “You want to know how it happened?” she asks.

  “No.” They all tell me their story. It’s always the same. Just replace the name and cause of death.

  “My daughter went through a painful divorce,” she begins. “There were two beautiful children involved, twin boys. It took her a while to get over it. Finally, a year later, she agreed to have dinner with a coworker. She was hesitant to accept. She asked me if she should do it and I said yes.” Tears form in Grandma’s eyes. “I told her to do it. And I never saw her alive again.” The tears spill down her sagging cheeks. “Her body was found in an irrigation canal a week later. He strangled her to death. Can you imagine the terror she experienced as she died?”

  The blue-hair’s tears don’t fool me. I know there is no softness in her heart. “Yeah, terror that I didn’t cause.”

  She wipes her eyes. “Maybe I just want someone else to suffer, too.”

  “In Job 36:15, it says, ‘But those who suffer He delivers in their suffering; He speaks to them in their affliction.’”

  “D
on’t quote the Bible to me, you monster!” Grandma slaps me across the face with a bony hand.

  “Don’t hit me!” I scream. My cheek stings, just like when my dad used to hit me. “Go visit the asshole who killed your daughter! Go hurt him!”

  Grandma looks at me and shakes her head. “I can’t. It happened before the Criminal Zoo. The murderous bastard went to prison. That makes you the lucky one. The people you murdered, they were someone’s loved one. My actions today aren’t only for me—they’re for all the victims out there.”

  Grandma moves the knife toward my face. My heartbeat accelerates. I try to pull away, but the leather straps hold. With the blade, she gently circles the goggle lens around my left eye, teasing my skin.

  “I didn’t do anything to you, you fucking bitch! Leave me alone!”

  “Did your victims beg for mercy?” Her upper lip pulls into a snarl, revealing thin, yellowed teeth. She pushes the blade into my flesh, her hand trembling, and begins cutting around the goggles. She makes a complete lap around the lens.

  Searing pain flashes across my face. My hands clench into fists, pulling against the restraints. “Fuck you!”

  Grandma pulls the knife back and smiles. “That actually felt pretty good.”

  “Stop!” I shout. “This makes you just like all the other monsters in here!”

  She moves the blade to my right side. Taps it against my cheek. Stares at me, smiling like a demented bitch. And then she stabs the blade into my cheek.

  My entire face burns like a hot fireplace poker has just been dragged around it. Blood runs down each cheek and tears fill up the inside of the goggles, burning my eyes. Grandma pulls the blade out and then, laughing, sticks it back in.

  “Stop cutting me, you fucking whore!” I scream.