Criminal Zoo

by Sean McDaniel

  In the Confinement Center, I had a claustrophobic reaction to the absence of all time. I felt as if I were being suffocated by a total time vacuum. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve felt it, but it was unsettling to the core of my being. It brought horrible awareness that my life wasn’t mine anymore. It doesn’t get any better in the Zoo.

  I have since come to accept a timeless world, terrifying at every turn. Besides, I have far more pressing issues to worry about—like the small drain plumbed into the middle of the room, directly beneath the confinement chair. The drain sits about an inch lower than the rest of the gradually sloping floor. At first, I didn’t appreciate the design. Now, I know all too well its purpose: easy cleaning with a hose.

  An acrylic bubble hangs from the ceiling in the corner of the room closest to the door. The bubble houses a video camera. My keeper informed me on my first day that real-time video runs to a secured control room twenty-four hours a day. If anything should go wrong, the control room officer sounds the alarm and the Regulators are scrambled. I have tried to jump up and smash the bubble, but I can’t even crack it.

  Every room is wired to pick up even the slightest of sounds. Every noise, every conversation is recorded and kept on audio file for the full twelve-month period of Zoo incarceration. If I fart, it’s going to be documented for all to hear. The assholes in the control room can also address me if they want through a tiny speaker installed right beside the camera bubble. But they never talk to me, which is fine. I don’t want to listen to their bullshit.

  An impact-resistant plastic toilet is anchored to the back wall. I’d heard that before this place was the Criminal Zoo, the toilet—along with the sink and bed frame—had been made from molded cement. The cement fixtures were removed for the same reason the walls were padded; another inmate had escaped the Zoo, via death, by repeatedly bashing his head against the cement sink corner. He apparently ruptured a large blood vessel in his brain and died before they could do anything about it. Good for him.

  I know the toilet is impact resistant because I’ve kicked it as hard as I could many times, resulting in nothing more than splashing the half-empty bowl of water. There is no lever to flush it with, only a button to push. I guess they don’t want to chance me breaking anything off the toilet to use as a weapon. The toilet comes with a sensor that automatically shuts off water flow if it is plugged in any way.

  I can’t take a shit in front of people. Now, I’m behind a glass wall on display all day long. Sometimes it is almost impossible to hold it, but I go to the bathroom only after the lights are turned off. I lie to myself, tell myself it’s even too dark for the camera with infrared capabilities to see anything. The female inmates deal with the same humiliating setup, though I’m told there are only three in here. One microwaved her baby, one decapitated her child—throwing the body away and hiding the head under her bed—and the last one raped, murdered, and dismembered a young girl. My keeper told me this last woman kept the girl’s teeth and made a bracelet out of them. And they call me a monster?

  A tiny sink, also shatterproof plastic, is anchored beside the toilet. A pressed button emits cold water only. Sensors shut the water off when the sink is filled halfway to the top; no more water is available until the sink is completely empty again.

  We are allowed a tiny tube of toothpaste, but not a toothbrush, as it could be sharpened into a shank. When I can’t stand the rancid taste in my mouth any longer, I eat the toothpaste.

  There aren’t any showers in the enclosures. No mirrors, either. We don’t get combs or brushes, but that’s not a problem seeing as how we don’t have any hair. We are taken to the cleaning facilities every week. We are stripped of all clothing, secured into a confinement chair, and then our heads—male or female—are shaved. The men’s faces are shaved, our fingernails and toenails clipped, and our bodies hosed down. Like in our sinks, the water is always cold.

  My bed is nothing more than a thin mattress on a hard plastic frame anchored against a side wall. But at least I have a bed. Not the floor, like back in the Confinement Center. We don’t get bed sheets. We might strangle ourselves. They want us to stay alive. So we can be tortured. By people who pay a bunch of money.

  The only other piece of furniture in the cell is the confinement chair. Its sole purpose is for my restraint while enduring a visitor with Level 2 clearance.

  The room is kept at a non-varying temperature. If I had to guess, I’d say maybe seventy degrees. We are given a fresh pair of underwear every day. Every three days we are given a fresh white T-shirt and a pair of orange, Zoo-issue pants. Unless, of course, you have a Level 2 visit. In that case, fresh clothing is issued as you exit the infirmary Repair Shack.

  It didn’t take long for me to understand the white T-shirts. Blood shows up well on them, giving the L2s more satisfaction and the L1s more to get excited about.

  We are fed twice a day, just like dogs. Breakfast is served a short time before visiting hours begin. Dinner is served right after they end. If you just had an L2, however, eating is the last thing you’re thinking about. Breakfast consists of lumpy oatmeal, just like my dad used to make, quite often cold, and a glass of water. Dinner is usually a small, burned hamburger patty on a bed of sticky white rice. I don’t believe it’s real meat. It is served with a side of fruit and vegetables. With that meal, we also get a glass of milk. Because of the injuries I’ve sustained to my tongue, I haven’t been able to eat the traditional dinner for a while. I can get soup down most of the time, though.

  Shortly after I arrived at the Criminal Zoo, I went on a hunger strike, quickly realizing that starving to death was a better option than living here. I should’ve just stayed in the fucking Confinement Center. There, they would’ve let me die. Problem solved. But here I am an attraction. I am a draw. I bring in money. So death is no longer an option.

  After my third day without food, my arms and legs were strapped into the confinement chair and a doctor forced a feeding tube—reminded me of an aquarium air hose—into my nostril and threaded it down to my stomach. No one gave me any sedatives. The tube was forced to curve down my throat, past the gag reflex. I fought the restraints, wanting nothing more than to rip the tube from my nose. I thought I was going to choke to death. I panicked and my entire body jerked against the harnesses. I tried to scream, but because of the tube it sounded more like I was gargling with tomato paste. If it had been possible, I would have cried, puked, yelled, and pulled the tube out all at once. But none of it was possible. The zookeeper held my head still and told me if I screamed again he would light me up with his Zap-stick. Finally, the tube reached my stomach, and some kind of liquid food was pumped into me. My keeper smiled and then squeezed harder, giving me a headache. He said, “We can do this every day if you like, One-Zero-One-Three.”

  Remember, I’m a number. Not a name.

  “I’ve got nothing better to do,” the keeper added.

  Death through starvation would not be an option.

  After the force-feeding, they ripped the tube from my nose and laughed as my eyes filled with tears. I coughed until my face was bright red. I had a sore throat for several days.

  I wish it were only sore throats that plague me now.

  The Same Stupid Questions

  “So, CZ One-Zero-One-Three, what makes you do it?” the zookeeper asks. “What makes you want to mutilate people?”

  He’s a new one. All the new ones stare at me the same way, like I am something unexplainable. And they all ask the same stupid questions, perhaps believing there should be an explanation for everything. How could you? Why would you? Do you feel sorry for what you’ve done? Yet no one ever asks me, How are you holding up in here? Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?

  I am restrained in the confinement chair, enduring the horror that is the wait for another L2. To be strapped down and awaiting yet another sick bastard who will cause me great suffering is a nightm
are beyond description. My heart pounds; I grow sweaty, nauseated, lightheaded.

  Today, the leather straps are a lot tighter than normal, painfully so, around my wrists and ankles. Even the strap around my waist is uncomfortable, hindering my breathing.

  “You put the straps on too tight,” I say with a struggle.

  “Yeah?” the keeper says. “Tough shit.”

  His words confirm that he is just another asshole, like everyone else who works in this hell on earth. It must be one of the job requirements. And to make matters worse, on this day I’m wearing something new. The keeper placed a stupid-looking leather helmet on my head, informing me that it is actually fashioned after a skydiving helmet, but with a modification. There is a buckle attached to the back of the helmet. Once the chinstrap of the helmet is secure around my jaw, the back of my head is pushed against the chair and the helmet is buckled into a newly installed strap. I had noticed the strap after returning from a hygiene day, but had no idea of its purpose. The strap is pulled tight and my head is secured to the chair.

  I am never given a schedule of visits. Each morning I wake up and wonder if I will make it through the day without my blood being spilled. Each night that follows a visitor-less day, I try to get some sleep, pushing from my mind the awareness that no visit today simply doubles my chances of a visit tomorrow. I exist in terror—every hour, every minute, every second of every day in terror.

  When the keeper enters my enclosure during visiting hours with his Zap-stick aimed in my direction, I know an L2 is coming. I am strapped into the chair and the keeper kills time by analyzing me, trying to make sense of my universe by asking his stupid questions. Bile rises into my throat as I await my torturer.

  The Level 2 visitor must first go over the rules of the visit, sign multiple liability-release forms, and get fitted for the stupid Zoo jumpsuit, usually taking what would seem to be about fifteen to twenty minutes. Or I don’t know, maybe it’s only five minutes. I know what’s coming, yet there’s nothing I can do about it.

  “The straps are cutting off my circulation,” I say to the keeper. “They really hurt.”

  “Answer my question and maybe I’ll loosen them,” he replies. “Why do you do it?”

  “Loosen the straps.”

  One at a time, he loosens each restraint a single hole. “Okay, now answer my question. Why do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Ruthlessly murder people, like a savage animal.”

  “I don’t murder people.”

  “Yeah you do. Otherwise all of your victims wouldn’t be dead and you wouldn’t be in here.”

  “Even if I told you why I did what I did, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Why, because I’m not crazy as a loon?” The keeper stares at me.

  “No, because you don’t know what I know.”

  “I know you’re a warped, motherfucking psychopath.”

  “You’re not spiritually evolved enough to talk about this with me.”

  “‘Spiritually evolved enough?’ Oh, so it’s a God thing, right? Let me guess—God told you to do it.” He laughs. “Isn’t that what all the psycho crazy fucks say? ‘God told me to do it’?”

  “No. God didn’t tell me to do anything. He can’t make me do anything. If anything, the Gods probably didn’t want me doing what I was doing. I probably scared Them. Maybe They weren’t ready for another one.”

  “‘Another one?’ Another what?”

  “God.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” the keeper demands.

  “I was shot in the chest and the head at point-blank range. I should have been killed. But I didn’t die. Why not?”

  “You know what they say…cockroaches will be the only creatures still crawling after Armageddon.”

  “I was becoming one of Them.”

  “Becoming a cockroach? I got news for you, pal, you’re already there.”

  “No, asshole. The Gods. I was becoming one of Them and They must not have wanted it to happen. Maybe They were scared I would get stronger than Them. Maybe that’s why I’m in here. To stop my spiritual growth.”

  “Jesus, you’re even crazier than I thought.”

  “Believe what you want. I don’t care.”

  “Yeah, no shit. You don’t care about anything, especially human life. Be thankful I’m not carrying a gun right now. Because if I were, I’d go ahead and test your whole ‘becoming a God’ theory. I’ll bet if I fired off a round or two into your forehead, you’d prove to be extremely mortal.” The keeper smiles. “But I don’t have a gun, so you just sit tight until your L2 comes in here and fucks you up a little bit. I’ll just have to be satisfied with daydreaming about how much fun it’d be to put a hole in your head.”

  “You’re the asshole who doesn’t care about human life. You’re in here talking about shooting people in the head.”

  “Hey, fuckface,” the keeper says. “You deserve this. That’s the difference between you and me. I wouldn’t do it to innocent people. Just shit-eating cockroaches like you.”

  “Put your little Zap-stick down and let me out of this chair. Face me like a man. Then let’s see how tough you are.”

  “Are you kidding me?” The keeper laughs. “You’re awfully small to be talking all big like that. I’d squash you like the fucking bug you are.”

  “All I hear are words.”

  “Oh, believe me, little man, if I could get away with it, I’d show you just how far from a God you really are. They should have finished your sick ass off the night you were caught at your sister’s house.”

  “Yeah? Well, if they had finished me off then, I wouldn’t be in here and you’d be a security guard at Walmart.”

  He hits me, opened handed across the face. Tears form in my eyes, but I will not cry. I’m done with that. I have only one means of survival in here. And that’s to become tougher than everyone else. The keepers, the L1s, the L2s, all of them. To become the toughest bastard they’ve ever seen.

  A Special Visitor

  The horror starts all over again. The Level 2 visitor ducks beneath the doorway and enters the room. He stands up and moves toward me. Despite his stupid jumpsuit, I recognize him immediately. I watched him on a talk show once.

  He looks at me and smiles. “Hello, Exhibit CZ One-Zero-One-Three. My name’s—”

  “Suck me sideways. I know who you are. You’re the governor. The asshole who came up with Criminal Zoo. The creator of a dark shit stain on society.”

  Governor McIntyre stops, tilts his head, and then says, “‘Suck me sideways?’ ‘Shit stain?’ Colorful. I’m already glad I came.”

  I stare at him. “So glad I could entertain you.”

  “And you would be Samuel Bradbury, the infamous Three Monkeys Killer, right before my eyes. I’ve read all about you.”

  “I know who I am.” He called me Samuel. “Why did you just call me Samuel?”

  The keeper, eyes narrowed, stares at the governor. “Sir, I thought we were instructed to—”

  “I’m the creator, right?” Governor McIntyre interrupts. “I can call you Samuel if I like. I know your story inside and out. I have access to all the exhibits’ paperwork and documents. All the files. Name, age, spouse, children, place of birth, family members. Everything.”

  “Isn’t that an invasion of my privacy?”

  “Privacy?” the governor echoes. “Sorry, Samuel. You have no privacy. You’re the Three Monkeys Killer. The star attraction of the Criminal Zoo.”

  “I hate when people call me that. It’s ridiculous.”

  “You think so? I think it’s kind of clever. See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil? Wasn’t that your signature method of killing? But tell me, Samuel, did you kill everyone that way? Or was there one who died in a different manner?”

  “I have no idea what you’re tal
king about,” I respond.

  The governor looks at the keeper standing in the corner and asks, “Can I get a chair?”

  “Sure, Governor,” the keeper says. He turns and spends several seconds unlocking the door he had just locked. He sticks his head and arm through the opening and pulls a chair from the hallway. He closes the door, resets the multiple locks, and slides the chair to the governor.

  Multiple L1s gather outside the viewing wall. It always happens when I have a visitor. But this is a special visitor. There will be an even bigger crowd that usual.

  Governor McIntyre takes a seat, leans back, and crosses one leg over the other. His hands, free of surgical gloves, come to rest on his lap.

  “Where are your gloves?” I ask.

  “Don’t need any.”

  I stare at him. “I watched you on TV. This place, this fucking hell, it’s all because of you.”

  “Actually, it’s the creation of a frustrated nation. A country tired of being preyed upon by sociopathic killers such as yourself. I merely came up with the idea and moved it forward. So it’s more because of you—you and your kind—that this place exists.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You didn’t have to come here, Samuel. You chose to, remember?”

  My name. It feels so good to hear my name.

  “Yeah, right—like that was any kind of choice. You’re sick. Making people choose between losing their mind while they die in a white nightmare, or coming here and getting tortured by complete strangers. That’s warped, man.”

  “Hey, ‘white nightmare’…I like that. Perhaps you’ve just renamed the Confinement Center. Anyway, I simply came up with a solution to a longstanding problem: what to do with people like you.”

  “Are you here to hurt me?” I ask.

  “I make it a point to personally meet every exhibit. Takes a while to get to everyone, but here I am.”